Friday, February 26, 2010

We're nowhere near the end...oh wait. It's the end.

Okay, so Boner is dead. That’s pretty tragic and I’m not trying to be a snide gen x blogger/pundit type using irony by-way-of-genuine-emotion-in-order-to- seem-appropriately-disaffected-but-appropriately-concerned-or-at-least-ambivalent. No, this is a real tragedy. Well, okay, I’m speaking a little dramatically, for sure. I mean, there are millions of people out there who die every day and I can’t be getting all misty about every single one of them, especially the ones I don’t know, but Boner held a special place in my heart and I’m gonna tell you all why.
Let me set the scene. It’s the 80’s. Most of your dads were just getting around to blowing the unfettered loads in your moms that would eventually congeal and become you, but I was already existing happily. The millionaire-widower family sitcom craze (Diff’rent Strokes/Silver Spoons/Webster) was ending and the Psychologist dad and the “hey! There’s a wacky non-relative family type family member in the house” family sitcom era was in full bloom. At any given hour of any evening, people like me (kids) could be treated to episodes of Family Ties, Who’s the Boss, Alf, Mr. Belvedere and of course Growing Pains.
Growing Pains was my personal favorite and here’s why: Great cast. Ben, (Jeremy Miller) the youngest kid was hideously ugly. Way too ugly to really be on television. Carol, (Tracey Gold) the sister was, in my young mind, extremely hot (turns out she had an eating disorder and always smelled like barf on the set, but hey, it was working for her, so whatever, right? Wait, what? No…No! Hey, I’m kidding. Seriously. She was much hotter when she no longer smelled of barf and looked of visible vertebrae. Sheesh…Okay, moving on) Maggie, (Joanna Kerns) the mom, was also pretty hot and Jason Sever, played by Alan Thicke oozed that kind of laid back sensitive charm that would eventually inspire me to become a stay at home father (of course) (oh, and he also wrote and SANG [no shit!] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song. Look it up if you doubt me). The GP theme song (also penned by Thicke), “show me that smile” was pretty unimpeachable and once, in a Subway, while waiting for my Veggie Delight, I heard the entire thing, complete with three verses and a sax solo. But the real star of the show was Mike, played by Crazy ol’ Jesus’s right hand man, Kirk Cameron.
Kirk played Mike, a troublemaker. Mike was not really a good kid, as far as I remember. His grades were bad and he didn’t really try and he loved stirring up shit and when he wasn’t grounded he kind of coasted on charm. He wasn’t Theo Huxtable, who was kind of a good kid who got into dumb situations because he really didn’t know what he was getting into. Mike was a delinquent all the way. And his best friend was named Boner.
No shit, man. The dude’s name was fucking BONER. How cool is that?
Boner was dumb and awesome and at least as down for trouble as Mike. In fact, it seemed to my young mind that Boner had no sense of consequences at all, and he was far and away my favorite character on television. There was an episode that really sticks out to me where they were performing a play (this was one of those episodes where Mike really shined…”Oh, he’s a talented kid. He just doesn’t apply himself,” the grownups all whispered. “It’s a shame that all that creative energy goes into making fart bombs and shit like that.” Anyway, this wasn’t the “Our Town’ one, I don’t think, which was later, once Kirk Cameron started executive producing and forcing his own goofy brand of Christian dogma into the plotlines of the show, but I could be wrong. Maybe it was the Our Town one…anyway,) and Boner was playing some kind of lawyer. He was worried about memorizing his lines (due, I think to always being super high, and I’m not kidding. Boner was known to smoke weed) so he decided to mic up his walkman (look it up) and pre record his lines and lip synch them during the performance. Well, wouldn’t you know, at the moment he’s supposed to deliver his lines, the tape flips and heavy metal starts blasting and Boner? Well, Boner just starts air guitaring right there on stage. Fuck it. May as well rock, right? Pretty dope moment, Growing Pains.
Now, everyone in Growing Pains went on to do something awesome. Uh…Ben grew up to continue to be gross looking, Kirk Cameron is fighting satan with a midget Australian that looks like Dirty Harry (the porn guy, not the Clint Eastwood character), Carol is probably still hot, and presumably no longer smells like barf, Maggie is also probably still hot (but old as shit) and Jason, well, he disturbed me to no end when I was about ten and saw the cover of playgirl at the airport and the caption on the cover said “Inside: Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and all I could think of was him popping some kind of extra long, painful boner and it’s haunted me to this day. He also hosted some gameshows and provided the jizz that made Robin Thicke. Who else? Oh, the teen bum that they brought in once Mike found jesus and Ben became unbearable to look at wound up being Leonardo DiCaprio. And Boner, well Boner went to the Olympics in Vancouver and killed himself in the woods this past week. Bummer.
This one’s for you, Boner (You can’t see it, but I’m popping a single-boner salute right now. Hold it….Hold it…and done.) Have a good weekend folks, and take care of each other. Depression is serious shit. So’s barfing up your food. Neither one is cool, folks.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

i'm sick of this place

I’ve been writing songs for a long time, and I’m pretty much of the mindframe that anything goes as long as it winds up sounding cool. I mean, if you can put a keytar and a tuba into a funk metal song and it’s got scat jazz vocals and it all ends up sounding awesome, well, that’s the result. It’s awesome. There should be no reductivity when it comes to music. You’d be an idiot to dislike something simply because a component of it was a style or instrument or style you’ve decided that you don’t like. Case in point, Kna’an’s song “If Rap Gets Jealous” features Kirk Hammet on guitar and is a full on rap/metal fusion song. That’s not something I generally get behind, but in the case of this song, it’s awesome, and I’d be a fool to not like it simply because of some preconceived idea about what should or shouldn’t be paired with rap or metal.
Similarly, there’s room to like parts of songs that are otherwise terrible. Take the song “last resort” by Papa Roach. The song is dumb, the band is dumb, the lyrics are stupid, the production is the sonic equivalent of a cheap plastic sports car covered in spoilers and decals, but fuck me if that main guitar riff isn’t totally FACE MELTINGLY KICK ASS. There’s just no way to deny it.
It’s finding shit like this that will ultimately make you an interesting songwriter. You should never be dismissive of something because it’s not cool. I mean, so, for example, you find that riff in Last Resort. It’s an amazing riff surrounded by poop. Well, here’s what you do, rip off that riff and put it into a song that you think is cool. That’s the fucking secret of success. To once again paraphrase Picasso, “brilliant minds create, geniuses steal.” Look at Willie Nelson, one of the greatest singer songwriters of all time. His entire vocal delivery and even guitar playing style is stolen. The way he waits, lilts until the very last possible minute, kind of singing almost slower than the beat of the music, being very, very cavalier with the idea of rhythm, that’s all stolen from Billie Holiday. He’s admitted it in interviews, and once you know that, it’s shocking how obvious it is, but the amazing thing is that since he recapitulated smooth parlor room crooning into fireside singalong/guitar soloing, it becomes its own cool thing. That’s pretty much the most important thing about making anything, songs or not. There’s really nothing that hasn’t been done, and there’s a zillion things out there that are awesome, but they definitely haven’t all been applied to whatever you’re trying to do, be it a computer game or a new way of delivering gasoline or a funk song. So yeah.
There is, in fact, only one thing in music that I can’t stand, and that’s a certain lyric that is for some dumb reason pretty pervasive in popular music. That lyric is “I don’t care.”
I think it’s fucking stupid on a lot of levels. Firstly, I deplore the idea of creative expression based on a lack of passion. That’s ridiculous. If you don’t care, songwriter, why did you write a song about it, and more to the point, why should I care? What impetus is there for me to empathize with the idea that you can’t be bothered to feel one way or the other about something? It’s stupid, it’s lazy and it’s, in general, a phrase that people constantly misuse. People say “I don’t care” when they mean “I don’t like that” all the time, and people say “I don’t care” when they mean “I’m desperately empty inside” both of which are GREAT hooks for an emotional response to a song, but “I don’t care?” fuck you, man. I don’t care either. Get out of here with your lazy gen-y songwriting bullshit.
Okay, so full disclosure, I definitely sing a song that’s out there for public consumption that prominently features the line “I don’t care.” It’s called “Sick of this Place” and it was performed by my old band, Slapstick. Here’s the thing, firstly: those lyrics were not written by me, and secondly, I was 18 when we recorded that song and it was, in fact, that very song that made me realize how much I despised that lyrical choice. I don’t know, man. I just think it’s terrible. That’s the one place where I reserve prejudice, is for songs that feature the phrase “I don’t care”. Pretty funny that I care so much about apathy, eh?
Is that galactic poetry?
Nah…grumpy old man wanna-be talk. And with that, I’m off to serve sandwiches to assholes.
Later!

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Sport!

Okay, first things first. This is awesome and this is the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in a while. The first one was reader submitted. The second, well, that was just a google image search gone bad. Yipes.
Okay, so what’s going on here? How did my, and so many other people’s hero get his dick so thoroughly dragged through the dust? Of course I’m talking about speed skating living legend, Sven Kramer and his devastating turn to the inside track. I mean, shit, man! Just last week this guy is calling journalists idiots for not knowing who he is (or, more to the point, for daring to suggest that American spectators may not know who he is), and that’s the true measure of a world class superstar, if I’m not mistaken. When you get fucking outraged that people don’t know who you are, well, you’ve arrived. Do you think Tom Cruise puts his name in with the maitre d? Fuck no. He walks up and says something like “hey, Carl.” And Carl says “Good evening, Mr. Cruise. How many this evening, sir?” that’s how shit is supposed to go when you’re WORLD FAMOUS, man.
Can you imagine if Carl had said something as completely barbaric as ‘very good sir, what’s the name?’ Well, I can imagine that Tom would turn around, flash a winning smile and say something to the effect of “who’s this guy? What’s my name…Ha!” but that’s because Cruise is old. He’s worked out all his youthful aggression pretending his wife is his husband while he pummels her from behind. But Kramer? Hey, slow down, bitch! That’s THE Sven Kramer you’re daring to ask the name of, honey!
Well, anyway, you get the idea. Yesterday, he was obviously still so flummoxed by this complete affront that he made the grievous error of listening to his coach as his coach made a grievous error and shepherded him into the wrong lane and disqualifying him from the men’s ten thousand.

Hell, it seems, has frozen, ladies and gentlemen.

Okay, now let’s just get some things straight right away. America is, by nature a xenophobic and isolated spot, and it makes us dumb. It’s such a big and sequestered nation that there’s no experiential way to learn world geography from over here. Add to that the fact that we’re the only superpower in the world and an economic powerhouse (at least for now…I’m watching you, China) and you’ll see why most people in America don’t know shit about other places in the world. It’s far away. It’s irrelevant. There’s NO practical reason to know that Darfur is a region and not a nation, because that shit doesn’t come up, because we’ve got plenty of geography and different culture and all that right here in the good old US of A.
Now, that doesn’t explain why most Americans can’t locate California, Canada or Mexico on a map…I think you’ve gotta chalk that up to all the idiots and anti-intellectuals a-rearing their kids to be the next generation of global tards, combined with a world of technology and cushiness that’s rendered natural selection powerless. But anyway, I’m rambling.
The thing is, there’s an explanation why Americans don’t know about the world. I think it’s pretty pathetic, personally. But it’s not completely baffling. I mean, set out from Paris heading east. Do the same thing from Omaha. After 8 hours, the guy who started in Paris will have traveled through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and into the Ukraine. The guy who started in Omaha will have traveled through Iowa. See my point? It doesn’t make it right, by any means, but I can see WHY people over here are so isolated and self centered. We’re the only-children of the globe. Well, we’ve got Canada and Mexico, and we ignore those too…Look, I’m not trying to figure it all out today, and I’m not defending ugly-americanism, I’m just saying is all.
The thing is, the Netherlands is a small, quirky very cool little country that doesn’t have a lot of cultural exports besides Heineken. I love the Netherlands. It’s beautiful, the laws and political climate is just my style, what with the hookers and the drugs and all that, but there’s one thing about the Netherlands that I find to be uh…hilarious, I guess is the word.
They LOVE speed skating. It’s a big, multimillion dollar sport there. These dudes, dudes like Sven Kramer, are HUGE stars in the Netherlands and they skate for stadiums full of people. That’s funny. Know why? Because speed skating is incredibly lame. Sorry. It is. No, YOU’RE wrong. It’s lame. It is. The idea that this kind of sport garners enthusiasm speaks very strongly to the notion that when weed becomes legal, the national consciousness will suddenly just sit down on the couch with some Doodlemunch and watch whatever crap is on tv.
Okay, so there’s that. Now let’s touch on the winter Olympics. Sure there’s shit like hockey and snowboarding and figure skating and okay, for the stoners and the lovers of the ironic, there’s curling. But that’s really it, man. The sports are all so bizarre and marginalized and goofy and man, nobody cares except for a few weirdos from a few countries that border the arctic circle who otherwise don’t get much recognition on the global level. I’m looking at you Scandinavia and Canada. I mean, the winter Olympics is basically tossing these poor frozen fuckers a bone in the spirit of global diplomacy, because let me promise you something. There was no speed skating going on in Greece back in the day. Which brings me to my point.
Hey Sven Kramer! You’re not famous! Look, maybe they know who you are back where you’re from, but everywhere else you are just a guy from a country that most people don’t know how to find on a map, and were they asked, couldn’t even tell you what the people from the Netherlands are called (they’re the Dutch, dummy). Don’t believe me? Okay, go into any city or any small town in the US, Canada, India, China, Japan, Mexico, Russia, all of South America, all of Africa, or anywhere in Australia and have someone point out where the Dutch live on a map. See how good they do. Oh, while you’re at it, ask them what speed skating is. You’re not famous.
Hey, everyone who lives in my house knows my name and what I do too, doesn’t mean I expect it from the guy at Dunkin Donuts.
Next, if you really ARE such an amazing phenom (and let’s be fair, he is. He was winning this race by the unbelievable margin of seven and a half seconds) and you’re really such a global household name, don’t you think it’s really not too much to ask to keep track of WHICH FUCKING LANE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN DURING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT RACES OF YOUR LIFE, EH?
Sure. Blame the fucking coach, but you know the truth. You fucked up your uh…whatever your race is called, you big baby.
In closing, in order to write this, I had to look this dudes name up on Yahoo, and I even watched this whole thing unfold on the news, so suck it.
I promise never to write about the Olympics again. Gotta go string my guitar. Peace.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

they're GRRRRREEEEEAT!

Good morning various dipshits and dipshittalinas, welcome to Tuesday, Bad Sandwich number 367. I’m waiting for the cable guy to come and look at my phone. It’s never worked and these lazy fuckers always seem to double talk their way out of fixing it properly. I don’t like the pressure of dealing with the cable guy if we’re being honest. Sounds pretty wimpy, right? Well, here’s the thing. I’m out of my element in that I know nothing about cable and phone installation and this guy, when he shows up is gonna be, and this is a guarantee, lazy as shit and not interested in doing anything. That puts us at odds right away. Now, add to the mix that I’ve got a pregnant wife with nesting syndrome who is also very easily riled to anger when dealing with bureaucracy and with my ineptitude and you’ve got a recipe for a sweaty man sitting there while the cable guy does nothing, worrying about what he’s gonna say to placate his wife who only wants the fucking phone to work. “Come on! Don’t be such a fucking pussy!” I scream to myself, but it’s no use. I’m lost in this world of fiber optics, man. Lost.
Well, sorry. My thing is a whole other thing, brah. I’ll stand in front of a thousand people and just start talking and have no idea what I’m gonna say and just kind of hope I stick the landing. That’s my talent here on this earth. Hell, that’s what I’m doing right now, man, just in print form. Handling housecalls though, not my forte.
Well, it’s too late. I’m stuck here, just waiting for this guy to come in, look around, say “hey, nothing I can do here” and then when I try to call his supervisor or whatever, my phone will cut out. that’s the twisted genius of these fucks at Comcast. I can’t even call to bitch because they won’t fix my phone. That’s some fucking M Night Shyamalan shit man. Well, I’m feeling doomed. That’s all there is to it. Any of you install phone jacks? Wanna help a brother out? Come on! This is three hundred and sixty six pages of free content I’ve given you. The least you can do is come over here and install some phone jacks and run a bunch of cable through my place, right? Right. See you soon.

Now, briefly let’s talk Tiger Woods, kay? I mean, I wouldn’t be an irresponsible media pundit if I didn’t weigh in on the public apology, right? Of course not. Okay, here’s how I see it. He’s a total pussy and for whatever reason, he needs to keep those millions of dollars coming in. I guess I get it. It’s hard to scale back. If you’re playing stadiums and then suddenly you’re reduced to playing theaters, it stings, even though playing theaters is still a real benchmark of great success. So, yeah. Tiger was getting kind of shined by his endorsements due to his moral slumming, so he had to announce his deep regret and stuff so they’d keep him on the wheaties boxes and on the shoes and shit, right?
I know! He’s already got millions and billions. Who cares if the cash train stops? Well, let me throw another analogy at you. Let’s say, arbitrarily that Tiger Woods has fourteen endorsements, right? Each one of these endorsements he puts in a little time with and they each satisfy him in his own little way, not unlike if he was, let’s say, fucking fourteen different women, right? Okay, you with me? Good. So, when you’re fucking fourteen different women, that’s great. And SURE, you only need three or four women to be totally satisfied, but man, fourteen is GREAT! And when they all stop fucking you at once, well, you’ll probably do whatever you can to get them back, because that’s what you’re used to, not because it’s what you need. You follow? We’re talking about endorsements here.
Anyway, point being, here’s what I think he should have said:

“Hey hey! It’s me, tiger. I’ve been in the news a lot lately. Yeah, I know. You all know all about it. Now listen up. Let me ask you all something? Ever been the best at something? At anything at all? No? Hmmm…Okay, ever been the best EVER at something? No? Okay, let me ask you all this, then: ever have fourteen women want to fuck you at the same time? How about two? No? Didn’t think so. So leave me alone. You have no fucking idea what my life is like or the pressure I face. Suck a dick, everyone. I’ve got plenty of money. Oh, and leave my wife and kids alone you parasitic assholes. I’m sorry you’re untalented, and you have to take pictures of me for a living but get off my neighbor’s lawn, kay? Thanks Adnan.”

I don’t know. I think a little honesty would have been refreshing, but hey, who am I to talk. I can’t even stand up to the fucking cable guy. Maybe I would have done the tears and mom hug too…I guess Tiger’s right. I have no idea what kind of pressure he’s under.

Okay, I’m out. One final question: Hey! Girl from NY! Did you get laid or what? Jesus.

Monday, February 22, 2010

it's been a long day

How was y’alls weekend? I played a show with the Smoking Popes and I witnessed the greatest single feat of human endurance I’ve ever seen. Okay, I’ve got a kid. He’s not quite two. The thing that’s really the life changer that comes with having kids is the hours. They wake up early. They’re morning people. All of them. There’s never a day where they decide to just sleep in because they can. It’s 715? They’re awake.
Now, my kid is a late sleeper by kid standards. He sleeps in until between 730 and 8 most days. Lots of kids always wake up at 530 or 6, so we’re lucky. Sunday morning, however, my kid slept in until 1130!!!!!!!!
Now, I know most of you don’t give two shits about the ins and outs of child rearing as you’re a bunch of coked up highschool kids who are more worried about contracting crabs than big dull issues like health care reform, and that’s fine. I’m not here to usher you into the world of dull adult subjects. I’m just pointing out that my one year old slept in until 1130. Ask someone you know with kids. That shit is FREAKISH, man. It was great, because it was my day to get up with him. Ha! Take that, pregnant wife. How cool is that? I also made some delicious peanut butter cookies last night. I’m a regular Paula Dean, y’all.
Okay, enough domesticity. I want to know if our homegirl with the query about fucking the guy in the band this weekend was able to seal the deal (and I kind of want to know what band the dude’s from too…just for gossip purposes). I want to discuss the single biggest event of my lifetime, which happened on Friday, but first, a wee bit of advice for a dude with a pretty simple, but sticky problem,

Q
The background: Some buddies and I have been playing in a "poker league" for a couple years now, which basically involves us getting together once a month to fart and eat pizza and drink a beer or two while debating what new girl we'd like to hypothetically nail. (I know, cliche, but it really is fun) At the beginning of this year, we invited a few new guys into the 'league' in order to expand and share the joy, however one of the new members is, to put it bluntly, annoying as sin. I can't figure out if he's got the absolute worst case of ADD that ever existed, or if it's just his personality, either way, he has to go. We can't really kick him out this season, because we each throw a bit of money into a "pool" for the end of the year, but at the beginning of next season it just has to be done. I was the dolt that invited him in, so I believe it's going to be up to me to deliver the bad news. Is there a tactful way to do this? Is it wrong to lie to him? I'm not so coldhearted that I can tell him, "dude, no one likes you," but I feel like lying is the cheap way out.
I know this isn't your regular "i'm jamming a 40 y/o who wants me to toss her salad after anal," but I still need some advice!

A
Okay, every human relationship involves compromise and this one is no different. I understand your reluctance to get down there and potentially eat your own jizz out of some distended old asshole, but she obviously craves the oral-anal stimulation, and it’s kind of shitty (no pun intended) to just withhold something someone wants in bed. It’s a recipe for resentment and it can quickly become a deal breaker. That being said, you’ve got a good case for not going down there, too, so that’s where compromise comes into play. Perhaps offer to bang her ass for a little while, stop for a little salad tossing and THEN get back in there to finish the job, OR maybe you warm her ass up with a little salad tossing and THEN bang her ass. That could work, right?
I mean, as a good partner it’s up to both of you to indulge each other, but not at the expense of something that makes you uncomfortable. If this sort of compromise won’t work, hey, maybe you guys just have different ideas about what’s okay and fun in bed and maybe you’re not meant to be. Right? Sure. Of course. Let me know how everything turns….OH, wait. Okay, I wasn’t reading your letter properly (I usually start at the bottom and read backwards just to save time). Starting over.
Okay, so you’ve got an annoying buddy and you want him out of your poker league after the big final game, but you don’t want to be a dick and you don’t want to lie. Okay, easy. You guys meet once a month, right? And this is his first ‘season?’ So just at the end of the last game, make a deal about how you’ll figure out when the next season’s gonna start and you’ll let everyone know. Then you all leave, then you don’t call dude and tell him when you’re starting again. Done.
You’ll probably have to change when the game is, but it’s one night a month, it’s not like you’re doing this every couple days, so if it’s the third Friday, make it the second Friday or something like that. Look, those details aren’t important. What is important is that you make the last game of the season final. Say, “okay, great. Skippy won this season and I can’t wait to see what the next one holds. I’m going to (do something totally lame with my mom/girlfriend/job) next month, so I’ll call all yall and we’ll figure out when to get the next season started. Then you just don’t call the guy. When he inevitably asks about when shit’s gonna start up again, you’ll have no choice but to be honest, but you can say something that’s not specific about him. You can say “we decided to shrink it back down. It was too many people” or “we’re keeping it low key this time.” And those things, my friend, aren’t lies. You ARE shrinking the league back down (by one guy) and you are keeping it more low key (by eliminating this annoying douche) so you aren’t REALLY lying.
Now, if you don’t like this advice, there’s really only one decent thing to do, and that’s level with the dude. “Buddy, I like you, but you’re too much to deal with at these poker games and frankly, it’s not the vibe we’re trying to cultivate over there, so we’re gonna keep going but without you. Sorry. I know it’s kind of shitty, but hey, you should have been cooler. What can I tell you?” BUT, you’re probably not gonna say this, right? So go with the first option. It’s a lot less shitty.

Okay, on to the most important event of my lifetime: Tiger Woods little speech! Actually, you know what? I’ve already taken up a lot of space here, and I think I could write on tiger’s speech and the subsequent reaction for quite a while, so I’m gonna save it for tomorrow. Um, tonight I’m making cheese from scratch. Watch out Martha Stewart, you fucking dishonest cunt! I’m gunning for you!

Friday, February 19, 2010

Litter is my most treacherous foe. I would like to eat its children

That guy crashed his plane into the IRS building in Austin, eh? That’s fucked up, man. He didn’t even get to live in the world without taxes that he created. That’s kind of beautiful and sad, like when a award winning showdog gets fucked in its dogpussy by a highschool all-state gymnast. Beautiful and tragic, all at once.
The world is going to hell in a sack. I should know, I’m on the side of satan and it’s my duty to bring down as many of you turds as I can before the rapture hits and it’s nothing but Growing Pains reruns, Twighlight films and Daughtry and Smoking Popes albums for the rest of eternity.
Hey! Speaking of, I’m playing with the Smoking Popes tonight! I think my unique take on irreverent antitheism should really blend nicely with their whole ‘that guy singing is born again, but the rest of us like to get high and receive blowjobs’ vibe that they like to project. Who knows? Maybe it’ll suck. I dunno anymore. I’ve been thinking about making shirts. Would you guys wear a shirt that said “Brendan Kelly isn’t someone to be fuckin with.” ? I would. But, well, if I’m wearing it, that’s one of those through the looking glass moments that borders on galactic poetry, like when Michael Jackson held the Bubbles impersonator while the Michael Jackson impersonator held Bubbles. Oh, you’re too young to remember that (assuming that’s something that ever actually happened)? Well, this is like that was.
Okay, so that’s all just minor league rambling. I’ve got a topic. We’ve touched on this before, but in the spirit of the guy flying his plane into the IRS building, it bears repeating.
It’s completely insane, fucked up people who are somehow just wandering around like everything’s cool and no one seems to say anything about it. Here’s an example, that we’ve discussed here at BSC before: Chuck Sheen. He’s a serial prostitute customer. Now, that’s no crime (well, it’s a crime…so I guess that’s ENTIRELY inaccurate, but what I mean is, that’s fine. Fuck whores if you want to. Someone’s gotta fuck ‘em. I mean, at the end of the day, a whore can come home and say “wow. What a lousy day at work. I hate being a whore, but look at all this money! Let’s call Sergio and get some blow” or she can say “wow, I hate being a whore and no one even fucked me today so now I’m suffering the triple whammy of A) being a whore B) not making any money and C) not having any cocaine and thereby really, really being even more bummed about A and B. In conclusion, fucking whores isn’t traveling to Haiti and making sure people have clean drinking water, but it’s not cutting people’s dicks off and storing them in the fridge either) BUT, Chuck Sheen is also a serial wife beater. That’s fucked, man. He hits chicks. Yeah. Okay, let’s back up, even. He hits PEOPLE. That’s fucked up enough. I’ve never hit anyone except for when they’ve been hitting me and there’s no way out but to punch a hole in the situation (not the guy from Jersey Shore, but rather the improper noun version of ‘situation’). This guy (Sheen, or Carlos Estevez, which is what it says on his birth certificate) not only has hit people, he’s hit women. He’s not just hitting women. He’s hitting the women he supposedly LOVES. And he’s hit them enough times that he’s been arrested for it SEVERAL TIMES. That makes him a fucking psychopath.
I’ve got buddies that are sketchy, not beating women sketchy, mind you, but sketchy just the same. I won’t let them into my house. CBS is hanging a fucking network on this nutcase. That’s fucked. I mean, doesn’t John Cryer, or the mom of that tubby little butterball on the show get a little nervous with Sheen just walking around un-Lechtered? It’s fucked. I mean, he’s just cruising around. Never mind that he’s a dangerous, fucked up, proven to be completely not-safe-to-be-around individual. Motherfuckers just don’t care. It’s fine. But you know who’s worse?
Mike fucking Tyson. That dude not only pushed Robin Givens down the stairs and served time in jail for being a fucking rapist, but he also BIT OFF A DUDE’S EAR RIGHT ON TELEVISION!!!!!!!!!! The other day, the Hangover won a golden globe and my good buddy Ed Helms and all the rest of those dipshits in that movie got up there and accepted the award with mike Tyson. Hey, yeah. Heh. Ha. Heh. It’s….uh, well. It’s sure nostalgia and it’s funny and it’s schadenfreude and all that, but dude, come here. Let me whisper something to you. Ready? Okay. Here goes: that dude, yeah. That one there. Right next to you. Yeah. Okay, that dude’s a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!!!!!! What the fuck are you thinking? Get the fuck away from that guy. He could, at any moment, just decide to snap off your arm and beat your dumb, tubby buddy to death with it just because the notion pleases him. I mean this is a dude that spent his millions on a flock of harrier pigeons. For Real! Fuck.
What’s with us in this country and specifically in the world of entertainment? Oh, that dude made some money once so his behavior, (the same behavior that, were it perpetrated by my own BROTHER would be cause for me never speaking to him again) is forgivable, quirky even. I mean fuck. Michael Vick fought some dogs and he’s never gonna forget it, but hey, he's done his time. Whatever. Lesson learned. don't tell the white people you fight dogs, apparently. Chuck Sheen fights one chick every couple months with his own hands and knives and he’s got Denny’s knocking on his door the next day trying to get him to promote the newest scram slam or whatever. Tyson's more unstable than a grocery bag full of plutonium and kiddy porn and he's up on stage with his tattooed face just giggling along with a bunch of goofs in tuxedos and getting prestigious awards just because he was able to put the face eating on hold long enough to air drum to some fucking Phil Collins. Wowzers.
Fucked up, America. This is why we’re losing the space race. No morals. Just ask what’s his name. Pat Robertson. He’ll tell you all about the deals we make with the devil.
Okay, come see me tonight at Reggies. 8 pm. I gotta go to work.
Peaches.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

fuck it. We're doing six blades.

I have a hairy chest. It’s been hairy since I was about seventeen. Oh, relax. It’s not gross and it’s not thick and brillo-y but it’s definitely an even covering. I’m no sellick, or Reynolds, but I’m definitely no Zac Effron or Nick Lachey either. I’ve never shaved it, because, hey, what the fuck, right? I’m not a fucking woman/backup dancer/Olympic swimmer and I don’t really care enough to navigate a fucking razorblade around my nipples. There’s a time and a place for that, and that time and place is when you were unfortunate enough to have hairy tits but still be a woman and you can’t get to the waxer so you shave your unfortunately hairy tits. Wow, that’s a bummer of a concept. Not hating, you hairy titted ladies, just saying, I feel your pain. Ah, to grow up in a world that doesn’t understand…
Sigh.
Anyhoo. Here’s what I do. About twice a year, I take a clipper at about a two guard and even everything out. that’s because while most of the hairs just stop growing on their own, some just keep on keeping on, and about every six months or so, it starts to get weird. So I tirm the shit up. It’s been going on for years. It’s not really something I give a terrible amount of thought to, it’s just something that I bust out, usually if I’m really sprucing things up for a special evening; you know, generally some time when I think I’m about to get laid and I really want to make sure all the I’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed, etc. Whatever. Not important at all. Just throwing out a bit of my personal grooming habits, because, well, hmmmm….okay.
Not long ago, I went to trim my chest hair. Now, usually when I take the clipper and run it across my chest, there’s not really a noticeable difference. It’s just a little maintenance that is probably only appreciated by me…but this time, and I’m forgetting what the occasion was, there was a clear line where I’d drawn the clipper across my sternum. The hair was noticeably shorter. “Hmmm. That’s odd. Must have really been a long time since I’ve done this” I thought to myself, and then continued on as though everything was normal, until, about three or four passes in, I realized that I didn’t have the fucking guard on the clipper. So, there I am, presumably sprucing myself up for what’s gonna maybe be some boning, and I’ve got this hole shaved in the middle of my chest like some sort of fucking pre surgery heart patient.
What’s a boy to do, right?
I shaved the whole thing. I mean, what else is there? I can’t walk around with the hole. And I can’t just go get a sharpie and draw the shit back in. I was fucked. Rock and a hard place style. I shaved my chest. Not with a blade, mind you. I finished with the clippers. So at the end of it all, my chest looked like george michael’s face in the Faith video.
It was a little stubbly. It looked WAY stupid. I looked like one of those dipshits that somehow comes to the conclusion that shaving your chest is the right move, and lord knows, I’m not one of those dipshits. Of course, I’m speaking from a fairly blessed perspective. If I had one of those thick pelts that completely submerged the skin, well, maybe I’d be whistling a different tune. I know some dudes like that and, well…ew. Anyhow, not the point. The point is, as I pointed out yesterday, yesterday I had to go to tot swimming, where I stood in the pool (as per usual on Wednesdays) with a bunch of moms and babies and tried to pretend that I wasn’t the only man in the pool or the only person with a large portion of his body tattooed or the person with the child with the longest hair of any child in the pool, male or female. I mean, fuck. We’re sore thumbs as it is, and it’s a real scene as a general rule, but yesterday was even better, because I suddenly had this stubbly shaved chest. And sure, these ladies are all saggy and granny style one pieces and “flattering’ sarongs and all that, but uh…I’m the only guy in there and suddenly I’m rocking a shaved chest? They must think I just got back from france or something…So lame. Maybe they thought I was trying to impress ‘em, thinks I. So I fucked a few of them in the family locker room afterwards and everything turned out fine.
It was the last day of class, after all.
Oh, and I met tommy Wiseau the other day. Just saw him on the street and got a picture. No shit. Promise. If I knew how to do pictures on this bad boy I’d post it. Hell, let’s give it a try, right?

Okay, you know what? It’s not working. Oh man! This must be the first time EVER that tommy wiseau has been photographed and the results have seemed half assed and unpresentable. I’m ashamed.
Oh, google him already! Jesus.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Ann Landers is a boring old biddy!

Well, well. It’s Wednesday. It’s tot swimming day over here, which is pretty exciting. Also, it’s uh…what? Um, well, fuck. That’s about it. I suppose I’m playing at Reggies with the Smoking Popes this Friday, which should be cool. I’ve always wanted to meet those guys, so that’s exciting.
What’s in the news? The Olympics? That’s cool. Uh. I like the Olympics. Look. I’m just stalling, okay. I got two advice questions this week (one that’s pretty rough) and I’m trying to figure out how to answer them. I think I’m just gonna go for it.
First up, the guy with the…uh, well, here’s the query:

Q:
So, this past Friday, my grandfather, a man of 81 years of age, attempted to shoot himself in the head. My father ending up getting there in time to wrangle the gun away from him, but in the end, they had to send him to the Veteran's Affair's equivalent of an institution for observation. I'm living in New York now, so I had to catch a flight back home to Chicago just to 'show solidarity' as my step-mother would say. My grandmother, his wife of 50 years, died two years ago and he has understandably, been unable to get over it. Now we're having the uncomfortable 'What do we do with grandpa?' talk. I'm 26 and have a rather pregnant girlfriend back in New York whom I can't really uproot (the whole finding a job back home thing, I could care less about- I miss Chicago). My father lives a good hour and a half from my grandfather, and we really don't want to ask one of my grandfather's brothers to put him up. Couple that with the fact that he's stated very flatly that he intends to try it again. I feel like I'm in that episode of South Park where Stan's grandfather keeps trying to kill himself. So, I think the question is, how the hell can anyone address this sort of thing? If someone wants to die, I feel they have the right to do just that. It's sort of selfish, but your life is your life. I know this is a bit of a ways off of your normal sex/dick joke advice mailbag, but another set of eyes would be cool.

A:
Uh, well. Hmmmm. Uh, well you nailed it. This is a pretty far cry from the usual dick joke mailbag, but let’s see if I can’t squeeze one in anyhow. Not that it’s appropriate, but hey, that little pun was a nice start, right? Okay, down to business. There doesn’t seem to be any nice way around this. Your grandpa wants out. there’s no one around to keep him company and make him feel like life’s worth living (and let’s be honest, that’s nobody’s fault. When your life partner dies, sons and grandsons stopping by here and there are little to no comfort, so I wouldn’t beat myself up about that, were I you, your dad or your great uncles.)
Obviously, I can’t tell you what to do with a member of your family, but the advice I can offer is this: You’ve got extremely limited time with this man, one way or the other. Do you feel at peace with the idea of him being gone? If not, make some peace. If so, hey, you’re right. Mofos want to die, mofos should be allowed to die. He’s 81, he’s been around and he’s done. I leave parties before everyone else all the time. No shame in it. What you do with him is really something that only your family and his care providers can really determine (though if I was old and ready to die and I wanted to kill myself, I’d be pretty stoked if someone just set me up in a cabin somewhere) but you can be a catalyst for your family to make sure that they’re all on the same page in terms of recognizing your grandfather’s wishes, rooting out selfish wishes that aren’t in his best interest (often, children keep their parents alive against the parent’s will because, for a variety of reasons they can’t bear to have the parent die. I think we can all agree that’s not a very cool move, even if it does prolong life) and generally keeping the lines of communication in your family open. You seem to have a good handle on this, so shepherd the people in your family who maybe don’t. Not very good advice, maybe, but this right to die shit is sticky business, man. Um…hope that helps. Jeez. Oh, and uh…did you hear about the guy with five dicks? Oh, you did? Fuck. Next time, duder. Good luck.

Okay, up next, a recent divorcee is finally sticking her clam back in the dating pool and she doesn’t know how to go about properly wrangling the dong of the dude she’s flying across the country to see. Well, in fairness, she’s flying for business and she hopes to see this dude while she’s on her trip. She was married ten years and is understandably out of practice. What else can I tell you about her? Her emails are extremely long (hence this summary) and she’s apparently pretty hot. Dude’s in a band. She’s gonna go see his band play one of the three nights she’s out there, and she wants some dong out of the deal. The guy makes her nervous and makes her drink too fast and she ends up wasted. She’s smitten! It’s been so long! She’s nervous! What to do????

Well, okay. This is MUCH easier than the last one. Fuck. Here’s what you do. First, send me some pictures of yourself. I gotta know what I’m working with here. Preferably topless. Okay. That’s step one. Step two: You call the dude. Do you have his number? Oh, but you can get it? Good. Then call him, or email him or whatever and let him know that you’re gonna be in town and see if he wants to get dinner or get a beer on a day that’s NOT the day of his show. Say something dumb like “I’m just gonna be dicking around and I really don’t have any friends/plans. You wanna get a beer or a burger or something?” Here’s what this does: it innocently puts out there that you’re interested in seeing HIM specifically. Now, the day of the show is probably a bad time for your one-shot-at-schlong. Here’s why: He is gonna have a shit ton of friends around, he’s probably gonna have to go back to his practice space and unload his gear, he’s gonna have after parties and shit all planned out and if, in the past, you’ve been wasted together at shows and it hasn’t all worked out well, WELL, this isn’t gonna be a very different situation. Now, I’m not saying that you can’t make it happen that day. Hell, listen, if you’re good looking and want to bone and this guy is single and you get along and you live on opposite sides of the country, he’ll bone you. That’s a fucking promise. All you have to do is make sure that you get some time when he’s not just dicking around with his friends/ in the same room with the girl from his immediate circle that he likes that he doesn’t want to seem like a skeez in front of etc. (and if such a girl exists, she’ll be at the show, so keep that in mind. He may be less receptive at the show because he’s got his sights on some local tang. That’s no problem for you, just a temporary roadblock.)
I’m rambling a little, but here’s the advice in a nutshell: diversify your options. The show is NOT the place to go all-in, because you don’t know the myriad situations that could be preventing him from being able to devote the attention to you he may like to. Send him an email, or call him. This clearly, CLEARLY will say “I’d like to bone, please” and he’ll respond appropriately. As for when you’re face to face…um, I dunno, get drunk and whisper to him a lot. That seems to work. I mean, fuck. Keep the conversation light and don’t do shots. Nothing kills excitement like talk of an ex or sudden barfing. And nervous girls tend to pound shots way faster than they should. SO, I think we’re good here. Make your intentions ‘innocently’ known beforehand, don’t bank on the show, and stick to cocktails and beer. Whisper. Uh…dress kind of sexy. Dicks are easy devices to work. They’re like garage doors. They go up and down and pretty much anyone can master the controls in like, fifteen seconds.
Um, good luck? Let us know how it goes!

Okay,
I’m out of here. Swim time. Later dildos!

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

evacuate the dancefloor!

Gentlemen: It’s night. You’re at some dumb bar/club. You’ve been drinking. You want to get laid, or perhaps you just want a blowjob. You begin to notice that all the girls that feature the kind of external indicators that get you in the mood for blowjob receiving are on the dance floor. “But I don’t dance.” You think to yourself. You look out onto the dance floor. There are dipshit dudes dancing around. Some are great dancers, most look kind of stupid. You think to yourself “hey, fuck it. I’m drunk. I don’t really dance, but I can’t possibly be as bad of a dancer as that greasy dipshit with the sweatstains and the three hundred dollar jeans over there” and you decide to get out there and go for it. I mean, fuck. Check out that guy! He’s dancing with two hot chicks! They seem into him. Again, fuck it. You gulp down the last of your beer, grab a new one and hit the floor, bobbing up and down like a flailing mongo, holding your beer over your head and kind of smiling/raising your eyebrows at girls that you happen to be in the proximity of.
And it begins.
You’ve just painted the scarlet letter of the total loser on your own forehead, my friend. Sorry. We’ve pretty much all tried this, and I can safely say that the success rate of this plan is pretty close to zero percent (I’m only counting the entire history of biped mammals here, though). This is like trying to get to the moon by reinforcing the springs on your trampoline or trying to get high smoking banana peels. It’s a nice little try, but you’re ignoring some empirical and immutable data that’s just not gonna change, no matter how hard you try to believe.
See, women go out to dance. They call up their girlfriends and they go out to dance. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about those clubs in Miami or wherever when dudes just happen to end up dancing with hot chicks, then they sit down, they’re all hot from the sensual magnetism of their shared love of dance and all that and next thing you know: boom! Pussy town!
Well, no. That’s not how it works. Women go out dancing in groups and the first rule to picking up chicks is there’s almost no way to separate one girl from a group of girls under any circumstances. Women rely SO much on what their friends think of their choices. That’s why you’ll constantly hear women mention that they dress sexy for other girls, not guys (which, frankly is obvious, because if they dressed sexy for guys it would be pretty simple: tits out, minimal beav coverage. Boom! Guys are impressed. [oh, and any guy that says that they think that is disgusting is JUST saying that as part of a more advanced ploy to get laid, by the way. Sure, it may be disgusting. Hell, it’s USUALLY kind of disgusting. But dicks speak loudly, and when shit’s out there, it can be both disgusting and bangable, so don’t let him fool you, ladies.]) Now, back to the situation (heyooo!). You’re trying to lure one girl away from a group of girls, well, chances are you have some fundamental flaws in the eyes of at least one of the girls in the group, and therefore, in the eyes of the girl you’re trying to impress, EVEN IF SHE LIKES YOU, you equal a potential bad decision, frumpy bag or ugly pair of shoes in the eyes of her friends. No chick is just gonna walk away from her group of friends and bone you. Sorry, you’re not Robert Pattinson, bro. And that’s just in ANY situation. Okay, back to dancing.
The girls go out dancing together. First clue that they aren’t looking to get laid. Women that go out to get laid go out to places where they can be approached, and go in either pairs, mixed groups or alone. Period. Sure, there’s a wayward drunk slut here and there, but that’s not something you can bank on, and in my experience, she ends up barfing or getting too stupid to deal with before deal-sealing time anyhow. So anyway…
Know why I’ve never had a girlfriend of mine ever ask me if I wanted to go dancing? She knows the answer. SURE, she’ll say shit like, “well, I wish you’d come dancing with us” but that’s doublespeak-jive-talk, man. She wants a Man. That’s why she’s interested in me. If she wanted a guy that would go dancing, she would have picked a VASTLY different dude, and she knows this. Look at all her friends. They don’t like dudes who dance either. Know why? Because dudes that dance fall into three categories: Gay, Jersey Shore, and Creepy Loner Who Still Hasn’t Figured Out That Groping A Stranger’s Ass Is Still Totally Unacceptable, Even On A Dance Floor. Which one are you? Okay, then. You’re not getting laid. No one’s ever gotten laid on the dancefloor, don’t let the Pussycat dolls fool you. Just let those ladies enjoy their girls night out. If you really, truly think you can fuck em, go to the Ihop at 4am, because that’s where they’ll all wind up. Drunk and messy and shoveling pancakes in their mouths and farting up a storm. Good luck.

Monday, February 15, 2010

down in the dumps

Okay, so I’ve got this billion dollar idea and I figured, what smarter thing to do than to just broadcast it over the internet, right? Right. Okay, so here goes: As some of you may know, I’ve got a kid. He’s almost two, pretty cool and generally, besides his early schedule, his constant throwing of things and his pants-shittery, he’s pretty all right to be around. Hell, I’d even say it’s some of my favorite times I’ve ever had, just hanging with the little dude. Now, I’ve got another kid on the way. That too is pretty cool. I’m sure I’m gonna like her at least as much as I like this old one, and well, that’s why we do it, right? That’s the whole instinct-to-propagate-the-species thing. You trade in your dignity and your late mornings and your hangovers and your friends and your sense of being ‘with it’ for some sort of nebulous joy-like feeling that you can only truly access as a memory. Nice.
Well, here’s the other thing about kids: they’ll scare the shit out of you. Oh, it’s not just child molesters, safes falling from the sky and swine flu either. There’s all sorts of shit that will absolutely TERRIFY you about having a kid. Is she too stupid? Too smart? A biter? A pussy? A bully? Retarded? An asshole? Gonna grow up to do interracial gangbang porn? Are we gonna be friends? Will we have a rapport? Is he gonna get into (the) drugs? The list goes on and on.
Now, the very intelligent people who puppeteer the western world vis a vis corporate globalism have picked up on this crazy fear that parents have and they’ve made products to combat them all. And this shit sells, boy. Go to Babies R Us (actually, don’t. It’s a horrible place) and you’ll see sheets that are marketed essentially as “the only sheets that WON’T kill your baby!!!!” and crib bumpers that are ‘the choice of non-negligent parents everywhere.’ It’s the kind of marketing that most sectors can only dream of employing. They’re capitalizing on an irrational and all consuming fear and pushing products on (by and large) people who have NEVER dealt with this shit before.
It’s brilliant.
So, I’m sitting here on day three of my five-day weekend and I’m thinking, “how can I maximize my earning potential, eh?” Of course, marketing something to parents comes instantly to mind. I mean, just from where I sit, I see some baby wipes, a truck, a changing pad, a face-down panda, some of those fucking things that keep babies out from under the sink and plug guards, and we’re generally pretty relaxed as far as panicking/buying unnecessary shit. So, that’s settled. If I’m gonna get rich quick, I’m marketing some shit that will purport to improve or otherwise save your baby.
Okay, what’s the biggest problem that kids and parents seem to have? That’s easy: messy room. I mean, watch any sitcom or any kids show or ANYTHING at all and you’ll quickly notice that the messy room is the lynchpin of child-parent skirmishing. There we go. Problem identified. Next: Solution.
I was thinking, well, you need to get the child to WANT to keep their room clean, right? Obviously, our worn out tactics of nagging and hiding the xbox aren’t doing shit. We need to reprogram them. So a little Freud later, I’ve got the solution:
My new book, entitled “Nobody Poops But You!” is guaranteed to keep your child’s room (and the rest of your house, probably) absolutely spotless until they go away to college. Just read “Nobody Poops But You” to your child from about eight months until they’re about nine after every bowel movement and you’ll be on your way to a fastidious, tidy child, and hey, what could be better than that? Am I right? Of course I am. Best part about it? No drugs, no surgery, no yelling. Just a simple reprogramming that makes your child feel like the most filthy, anal retentive being on the planet. That’s right. Send your check for 49.95 to….ah fuck. I just went to nobodypoopsbutyou.com and apparently there’s already some wise ass out there using my idea. And it doesn’t even seem to be properly marketed as a child improvement device. Total bullshit if you ask me. Fuck.

Did I mention that playing that show that benefited the darfurian refugees was really fun? It was. The kids in the audience were all about seventeen and I’ve never felt so ancient. I mispronounced the name of “medina lake” I made the first word rhyme with vagina, instead of subpoena. But what the fuck? I can’t keep up with this nu metal bush league bullshit. I’ve got last year’s unimportant punk rock to study. Um, what else? I was drinking tea on stage and my kid was there. It was a real old-ass man kind of feeling up there. Except for the fact that I cursed like a sailor, only to be notified afterwards that cursing was strictly forbidden. Oh well. Not like they all got brutally rounded up and executed or anything. I’m sure these kids will get over the occasional ‘go fuck yourself’ just fine.
Okay, I got shit to do. I gotta get a new scheme in place, and fast.
Peace.

Friday, February 12, 2010

something and vicodin...you're talking shit again -or- Huh huh huh huh!

Okay, before we get started here, I’m playing at the metro in Chicago this Sunday, which is Valentines day. The show is a benefit for Darfurian refugee children, which is a pretty good cause. I go on a little after four, so it’s the perfect prelude to the great valentines day date you’ve got set up where you give your old lady a bottle of schnapps and get her drunk before you sloppily finger her in the shotgun seat of your dads car in the parking lot at the forest preserve. Okay. That’s that. Hope to see you all there.
Moving on.

Man oh man. The world is going to hell. The truth of the matter is that I don’t even know what to be most bummed about. Kendra is on the cover of OK magazine (which, by the way shouldn’t even fucking exist) showing off her new baby body. This shit is so fucking tired, man. It’s also odd that a baby is now this promotional tool to use just to propagate the fame of your own life. Why? Because you just had a baby, lady. You aren’t supposed to be working or promoting anything else. There’s LAWS in place in this country (this same country that barely gives a shit about its people and calls it laissez-faire capitalism) that specifically detail that for three months, no woman with a full time job can be fired for staying home. Sure, she doesn’t have to get paid, but they have to keep her job for her. Yeah, tell me all about how shitty employers get around this one. I know the score. People can figure out a way to fire you for anything.
That’s because people are dicks and people are selfish and people around here have their eyes on the bottom line, and on saving their own dumb, underqualified asses, not any sense of community or the future of our culture (don’t believe me? Check out the public school system). The fact is, maternity law exists for a reason.
In lots of other developed countries, new moms get six months, a year, two years PAID to stay home and raise their kids. Hell, even the fucking DADS get paid time off in lots of places. Know why? Because raising kids is important and if you don’t do it, in twenty years, your kid is robbing old ladies and shooting motherfuckers out behind the jack-shack and going to jail where he’ll wind up becoming a further burden on society. And THAT, Kendra, is why people don’t go to work right after they have a baby.
Oh, yeah, I know. She’s not working. She’s just getting back in shape and promoting her new baby body. Everyone in Hollywood does it, dude. Well, I think that’s strange. No. I think it’s FUCKED UP. These dumb magazines pay these women for these pictures and put them on the cover, but why? I mean, I get the basics. They sell. Why not do it? What a great motivator for myself (says Kendra through a mouthful of drool) and for other poor, unfamous slob moms too?
Well, no. That’s not how promotion really works. You promote THINGS. Not your life. Know why the Killers aren’t on any magazines right now? Because they don’t have a record out. Know why you aren’t seeing Brad Pitt on Letterman? Because he doesn’t have a movie to promote. That’s how this shit works, people. How fucking great is it gonna be when all the magazines are just people getting paid to take pictures of themselves just standing there, not doing anything, not promoting anything, just standing there? Short answer, great. Long answer, terrible.
I mean, fuck. Who even is gonna remember what Kendra’s famous for, huh? Oh, that’s right. I’m all wrong. She’s got her own show now, and there’s a new season coming out, so she IS promoting something for a reason.
See, I told you there was always a reason for this shit. She’s doing promotional photos and tours for her show. Well, good. That’s nice. The machine can’t stop just cuz she shit out a kid, right? Right. Now, go back to the top and read again why this is so fucking gross and wrong. Oh, and Kendra, you’re still a disgusting pig. And borderline retarded. So there’s that.

Also, John Mayer admitted he sucked a dick, I guess, then he said some racist shit in Playboy and started throwing N bombs around all the while bragging that the black race (all of ‘em) loves him.
Man, John Mayer, you are cultural gold. And I don’t mean that in some dumb “whatever you say is so great” kind of way. I mean that you’re like gold in the way that it’s valuable anywhere. That’s you. You’re just like the cultural equivalent of carrying a secret stash of gold along on your circling-the-globe excursion in case you get into trouble, man.
You’re so down with the gays, you just totally GO there and put their dicks up in your mouth, you’re down with the brothers, just hangin out talking about how black people this, and white people that, saying whatever the fuck you feel like in the paper, slingin the N word like it’s crack and you’re working Crenshaw. Cool. What else you got? You call the migra on your Mexican chums? That’s gold too, Mayer. Cultural gold.
I mean, sheeeit. This dude is the guy that everyone can agree on? Fuck off. Really? REALLY? Your Body is a Wonderland? And he’s telling me that I DON’T get that because I’m NOT black? I mean I think of John Mayer as the whitest guy around, all hemp necklaces and docksiders and hanging out with the cast of Friends. I mean, that’s some white boy shit, man. And yeah, he hangs out with Kanye, Common and Dave Chappelle and he’s funny but really, does that make him any less of a total honky? No way dude. He’s wearing pants with pleats and he’s got pennies in his shoes. AND HE’S PLAYING THAT WACKASS MOM MUSIC AND HE’S DOING GUITAR SOLOS ON A STRAT while making that FUCKING FACE.
And yes, thanks asshole. I have heard of Jimi Hendrix. Doesn’t change anything at all. It’s all just ridiculous. John Oscar Mayer really, truly did say some pretty goofy shit out there in that playboy interview. I think there’s gonna be some brothers coming to use his body (specifically his face and spine) as a wonderland pretty soon.
Eh, probably not. Most people probably would need to successfully navigate John’s security team (jesus fucking Christ!) and Kanye is a pussy and Common’s already sympathetic to hateful gaffes since his whole oft repeated thing about not liking gays. So, no fighting. Hell, maybe Common was just throwing people off the trail, and maybe they all bone. Maybe those are the dicks that John Mayer has had in his mouth. Maybe that explains everything.
Okay, let’s say that. I like that and it makes sense. Kanye and Common and John Mayer have sloppy blowjob exchanges and just buttfuck and felch til the cows come home.
It’s settled….
Wait, what’d you say?
Hey, leave Chappelle out of this.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

hey now!

Holy shit, man. Yesterday’s sock drawer contained the best comment ever. From a german guy talking about their version of American Idol. Here it is.

“man.... as i'm a german i don't know that much about howard stern. but what i know about him and the german version of american idol makes me think we would need someone like him as well... i mean most people here watch that shit cause the judges are really offensive to the people and talk shit all the time.”

Now, you know why this is funny? I’ve mentioned the German compliment before, where, if you’re in Germany doing pretty much anything that could possibly warrant praise, you’ll be told something that’s horribly wrong with you along with any compliment you may receive. So, therefore “you are my favorite band” becomes “wow, you are my favorite band but I did not realize you were so fat” and “That was a good show” becomes “You know, I loved that show. Too bad the album is so terrible” and “I’d like a tshirt” becomes “do you know why no one wants a tshirt from you? Because you were terrible tonight. But I will take one anyway.”
You get the idea. This is not me making something up. It’s true. Serious. Everyone who’s played a show in germany will attest to this, and THAT my friends is what makes this whole comment up above so fucking funny.
Okay, in this country, the reason they want howard stern to replace Simon is because Simon is honest. He’s not actually mean. He’s just honest. He’s not cruel. He’s also not cool. He’s not clever. He’s just honest. And that’s fine. Howard is also honest. That’s why the show wants him. He’s also clever and smart, and that’s why the mongos of the land DON’T want him.
But, see. The point is, Simon, as the honest one, fills a role. The role of ‘the only one who is willing to say someone sucks’. Everyone else just gives this old “you did the best you could” kind of bullshit ‘everybody pitches, everybody hits everybody wins’ crap that’s turning America into a land of litigious, entitled, talentless, spoiled pussies. Simon is THE ONLY person on that panel who doesn’t do that. That’s because he’s British. He’s not indoctrinated into the cult of mass-perfection that arises by treating failure like the ideal and rewarding mediocrity as the pinnacle of success because it’s nice and middle of the road and doesn’t ruffle any feathers. And howard isn’t like that either.
The thing IS, that, as we discussed before, Germans are already famous for insulting along with their compliments. OF COURSE they’re gonna be extra harsh when they don’t like something. I mean, guess I never thought of Germans as stern or mean or heartless and calculating before, but now that you mention it, I can see where someone would maybe get that impression. Hilarious.
Oh man.
Speaking of sweeping cultural stereotypes, I’ve recently been turned onto this thing. Apparently, black people think that white people, by and large, smell like wet dogs, but they don’t mention it. From what I’ve heard, it’s some kind of massive, race-wide secret. They will even deny it when you ask. My friend in Richmond has been asking his black friends and coworkers if he smells like wet dogs and he’s gotten somewhere in the neighborhood of 100% “you aren’t supposed to know about that” replies. How’s that for strange? I’ve asked a few of my buddies, but they just went “huh? Right now? I don’t really think so. You smell like laundry.” So maybe it’s a southern thing. I dunno. It’s pretty strange though. Have you heard of this? Black folk? Care to weigh in?
I mean, if this is true, and word of this secret gets out, the next thing you know, we white folks are gonna have to tell black people about our dog/white people shared baths that we all take all the time.
And that would be pretty weird too.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Man, I wasn't really feelin that, dog.

I’m in my car like some sort of new age hobo, typing a blog from outside a place where middle eastern guys make breakfast sandwiches. I’m waiting for my wife. We just had a parent teacher conference and now we’re going to an ultrasound. I’m like a real big time family man. How wonderful. Last night we had a blizzard. I’ve been excavating my cars from gigantic piles all morning like Indiana Jones does with ancient skulls. For some reason, I now have a chest pain. Maybe it has to do with the most exciting news I’ve recently heard, namely that Howard Stern is being bandied about to be the host of American Idol. Here’s why that would be great:
(Actually, guess what? Now I’m on a train, headed home. There are those who would argue that writing on your laptop on the train is a stupid idea, but frankly, I think that my phone is worth more than this computer at this juncture. Anyway, where was I, back before the ultrasound and all that coffee? Ah yes!)
It would be great because howard is fascinating. That’s the obvious answer. He’s a master of making people listen to him, and his show is the definition of compelling broadcasting. But that’s not the real reason that it would be so amazing. The REAL reason is because everyone is SO infuriated and almost no one that sees this potential move as a bad idea really has any idea who Howard Stern is. I liken it to modern politics.
Right now, as we’ve discussed, the vast majority of Americans are not getting their news from primary sources (like actually WATCHING cspan [cuz, well, that sucks] or the State of the Union address, because it’s too long and it’s not convenient. People wait for their pop culture avatars (in the Hindu sense, not the James Cameron or Second Life sense [ew!]) to distill the information into soundbytes that resonate with their prepackaged world view, and they’re done with it. No messy decision making or uncomfortable slopping onto the left or right for issues that may not seem like bad ideas but are espoused by your theoretical enemies.
Similarly, people don’t take the time to listen to Howard Stern. They overhear someone call him crass or a pig and they ascribe their own ideas about what constitutes a crass pig to the Stern show without ever having heard it.
This mental rewriting and subsequent outrage is not limited to priggish moms and people who were around when Howard was getting a ton of media attention for battling the FCC either. My friend, Buttcheeks (not his real name) is an otherwise erudite and cultured young man. He plays in a good band and he’s been all around the world, and when I mention Stern, he calls him an idiot and asks how I could possibly listen to that ‘crap.’
Now, I know butcheeks pretty well (I’m referring to the guy, though I’m also pretty familiar with the body parts) and I know that if he’d EVER listened, he’d be shocked and disappointed at how quickly he wrote off something that’s really quite refreshing and intelligent in its irreverence, but he never will. He’s already done without ever really beginning, the way lots of people write off great bands and vow never to listen to them, even though they’ve never heard them, despite the fact that their buddies have recommended the bands based on their similar musical tastes.
This shit has happened to me a lot. I found out about a lot of great bands that I missed out on while they were around, simply because I sort of arbitrarily decided that I thought I didn’t like them before I’d ever heard a song.
Likewise with Stern. People that call him “deplorable” and “stupid” and “immoral” or otherwise don’t appreciate at least a FACET of his show simply haven’t listened enough (or they’re dimwits that reduce everything to the bible [not to be confused with regular religious folks, so relax out there {though, let’s be honest…you’re not a fundamentalist, but you think this guy in the sky is guiding you and there’s some sort of place you go, and your dog and your grandma will be there, and you can all sit around and spy on your offspring while eating cookies and never gaining a pound ? And you base this on three books written over two thousand years ago, which have since edited by pretty much anyone that wanted to? Hmmmm. You could probably stand to wake up a little bit, yourself}]). Howard’s not in any way immoral, nor is he stupid. But lots of people throw those two words at him. Why? Because he’s challenging and compelling and creates an emotional response. And THAT would make for great television, just as it makes for great radio.
AND, there’s nothing that a (legitimately) stupid, crappy plastic show like American Idol could use like a dose of actual human opinion. I mean, Simon Cowell doesn’t seem all that human, or even lifelike to me. Even off the show, in the tabloids and stuff, he’s all black shirts and huge tits and odd hair, smirks and scowls and a little praise parsed out with the “truth” He’s never seemed as human as, let’s say, Britney Spears or Nick Lachey, and that’s really saying something.
I mean, that show’s just completely staffed with plastic humanoid smile-bot 3000’s as is (and now they’re bringing in middle-aged-teenaged-boy-dance-machine-peter-pan-impersonator Ellen to add some humanity? Fuck me. That’s like cutting down trees to help close the hole in the ozone layer. That’s like fucking someone in the ass to keep them a virgin. That’s like…oh, right. That’s like lots of misguided policies that people have actually already thought up and applied to things.) I mean, look at these people. Paula? Randy? SEACREST? That one irritating bitch that’s about to go back to her job at Blimpies? They’re a line of products from Tokyo’s Robo-con in the year 2151, not a group of living people that take dumps and cry (though Paula does cry and randy definitely has taken a dump or two).
Look, I’m stoked on the IDEA of howard on that show. I don’t know if it’s gonna happen, but if it did, I’d be running back to American Idol faster than Nikki McKibben at a plate of Oxycontin topped donuts.
And that’s the truth.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

uuuuuugh! the pain and the suffering!

My mom and axl rose both had birthdays last week. That’s pretty cool. I wanted to get together, the three of us and just have a joint celebration, but it wasn’t in the cards. Axl can be a real bitch when he wants to, you know?
Anyway, today I’m exhausted. All week I’ve been out late shooting this project, and while it’s been tons of fun, I’m no longer used to being up until one in the morning every day, and I’m old and well…holy crap. I feel like I’m through the ringer. I need some jasmine tea and a ball massage.
I’m also dealing with a potentially broken laundry machine and a child who continues to flout authority and devour innocent people. It’s making me a little sweaty, frankly. You know what I need? A yacht. I need a yacht out in the middle of the sea with a comfortable bed and some sun and a lot of good, healthy food and a ton of butlers and cooks and ball masseuses and some private daycare specialists and what else? Since we’re just wishing for things, the yacht should probably have an arctic terrarium/aquarium full of penguins inside it. I love penguins almost as much as penguins love ice cream. Trust me.
I dunno…I’d probably just be seasick today. Don’t ever get old, kids. Your body just can’t hang with old world living. I mean, shit. I’d be going on my second nap of the day if I just threw prudence to the wind and did what I’d really like to do. That’s grandpa style. And not electric rapping grandpa style either. Just traditional.
I’m frustrated with this biting thing with my kid. I don’t know how to get through to him that it’s really not nice and it totally fucks up everyone’s day when he just gnaws on whoever. It’s ruining my day, honestly. Yesterday he had six (SIX!!!) incident reports. That’s craziness. I just absolutely don’t know what to do. This flummoxed helpless feeling, I’m learning, is how parents constantly feel and it’s exactly why they’re just nervous uncool wrecks of human beings who stop going to movies and stop knowing if it’s Robert Pattinson that’s Harry Potter or if what anyone could enjoy about sound of a vocoder. All they want is for the kid to stop biting. But he won’t. He’s a petulant shit who refuses to listen and refuses to understand and it makes you nuts.
And my kid is nice. He’s sweet and he’s a good sleeper and he’s well behaved, besides his taste for human flesh. I mean, my friend Nick used to lock his nanny in the basement. He used to flush rabbits down the toilet at school. Ultimately, he turned out pretty well, but uh…what do you say to that? That’s borderline sociopath shit.
God, listen to me. Here I am crying like Ryan Seacrest at the last scene of Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, and I’ve just got a kid doing regular toddler shit. Nick’s mom had to be going fucking nuts, hiding her hydrochloric acid and making sure all the lamps in his room were just upholstered with regular fabric and shit. Thank god they weren’t from Wisconsin.
Those are Jeff Dahmer jokes, folks. And just to bring this full circle, I’d like to point out that our stupid twenty four hour news cycle has created a universe where miserable anorexic dildos in fake tans camp outside the parents of our nation’s crazy sociopaths houses and when they go get their mail, they all bum rush them and say “Your son is a monster! Do you still love him, knowing what you know now?” I mean, that’s what they did to Dahmer’s parents. And sure, those parents probably fucked him up pretty good. But man, what kind of a question is that? That shit’s brutal. Innit? I mean that’s the kind of shit that…
Oh wait a sec. BRB.
Okay, actually, I just got the call of the day. For the last 2 years we’ve been getting calls from the Chicago Public Schools. Four a day. No shit. Today, they FINALLY got me on the line, and you know what they asked? If Brendan Kelly’s parents were there. When I started to explain that my parents live in Missouri and that my kid is two and that they’ve been calling me for the last two years and so on and so forth, they fucking hung up on me! Not only is there some kid out there who’s been ditching school four times a day for the last two years, but there’s also no way that I can even know if they took my number off the list.
I’m outraged. In fact, this is the worst outrage in the history of humanity. Fuuuuck. I need a yacht and a nap, folks. It’s all downhill from here, right Pudnik? Right. Sigh.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Come see my godddamn show you fucks!

Hey dicks! I’m playing a show tonight at the mutiny on western just north of fullerton in Chicago. I’m getting there around ten. Joe from smoke or fire is playing first, then I’m gonna unleash on you turds like a griffon or a dragon or something equally fruity. It’ll be cool. Please come down and buy joe and myself whiskey shots. Actually, don’t get joe whiskey. Last time he did a shot of whiskey (Monday night at the town hall pub) he barfed on me. I mean, I cooked him chicken, delicious chicken, mind you, and how does he repay me? Barfing shreds of delicious chicken all over my hoodie. Suhweet, bro. It was most gnarly in that it smelled like a gas station that serves food. Anyhow, moving on.
I got this problem. I want to do a rap record. I’m a pretty good MC, I think. I love freestyling. However, I’m a white guy and I’ve got a rock and roll history and that’s a bad fucking combo. Rockers should never rap and vice versa. It’s kind of like the way that actors shouldn’t sing and singers shouldn’t really act. It’s never great. I mean, yeah, Tom Waits is pretty good in Stranger than Paradise and Marky Mark is great, (though a very real argument could be made that he should have never EVER dipped into being a musician in the first place) but for the most part, it’s simple math. You’re good at what you love for a reason. You’re drawn to it because you think that way and you see the genre from an interesting and expandable point of view. The second you move out of your zone, you suddenly become just another dipshit that’s no good at something that they don’t have the vision and wherewithal to conquer.
Oh, you want examples? How bout Tommy Lee? That dude was a great rock drummer. It pains me to say that, by the way, because I hate the shit out of tommy lee. Why? Because he’s a dumb dildo that every single woman on earth, if pressured, sullenly admits to wanting to fuck. I’m terribly jealous of how much he gets away with, frankly. However, one thing he couldn’t get away with was his juggalo side project, Methods of Mayhem. He doesn’t bring any noise, man. Not even close. He’s a dorky white scarecrow jumping around bragging about fucking pam Anderson as though that’s not the only thing we know about him already. He doesn’t have the sack to be a rapper. It’s posturing and it’s super phony and it just sucks.
Likewise, Lil Wayne just made a rock album and it’s something in the neighborhood of the worst thing I’ve ever heard. It makes Puddle of Mudd look like erudite and compelling songsmiths. And you know why it sucks? Because Weezy is a rapper and he knows the tropes and pitfalls of the hip hop game. He knows how to construct a verse. He knows how to expand the genre and dominate in what’s established but he has no fucking clue about rock and roll. He didn’t grow up rocking, if you’ll excuse the lame expression. Regardless of what he listened to as a kid, he grew up grooming himself to be a rapper, and he did a hell of a job. However, once he stepped into rock and roll, he’s like Tyson stepping in to the ring with the Undertaker. There’s a tiny little bit of understanding of the format, but in general, it’s a whole new set of rules. It’s something that you can’t just translate easily. That’s why there aren’t more (or any) great musicians with rock AND rap records. They’re different frameworks, man. If Lil Wayne can’t rock, and Tommy Lee can’t rap, what hope is there for the rest of us? Right?
Well, those guys both seem like massive dildos and maybe I can buck the odds by being my own awesome self. However, I’m 33 and I’d be surprised if anyone my age has put out a decent rap ablum, excepting Jay Z. Rap is youth music in its inception, that’s the nature of the beast with MCing.
So, screw it. Maybe I’ll just stick to rock and roll. Come see me tonight at the Mutiny. The show’s free you cheap fuck!

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

I'm too fucking rich and too fucking famous!

Okay, so first things first. Someone stole my fucking phone last night. It’s an iphone and I’m PISSED OFF. Stupid hip hop night at subterranean. I’ve changed my email and facebook passwords. What else do I need to do to protect myself against whoever it is that has my phone? What a fucking kick in the dick. This is something like my fourth iphone. I’m gonna have to start buying these fuckers in bulk. Dumb thieves.
So, while I was looking in vain for my phone, I found some girl’s little coin purse/wallet situation. I tried to drive it over to her house this morning, but she wasn’t there, so I left a note. I mean, she’s gonna get that shit hand delivered by a gorgeous semi notorious rambler (with all the money still in it by the way) and I’m getting constantly punched in the ball-pump by this whole situation. I should get into heaven for this. I mean, right? This should really make up for almost everything I’ve done.
Okay, last night I saw a band that’s so awesome, I’ve gotta share it with you. They’re from Chicago and they’re called Pet Peeve. They’re fucking SICK. The main dude is Romanian and he sings in Romanian sometimes, and last night, his band had all these crazy euro dudes hugging and dancing in circles and it was absolutely fucking awesome. Go to their myspace page http://www.myspace.com/mypetpeeve and check it out. The recordings are lo-fi for sure, but hey man, they’re a brand new band. Leave em a comment and tell them I sent you. I got nothing but insane high hopes for these guys. AND, they’re a bunch of super nice dudes, so there’s that. Okay, enough of my night last night. I had some big interesting shit that I wanted to share with y’all today. What was it?
Well, this isn’t it, but can we talk about heidi montag for a sec? Okay, she’s all surgeried up now, right? And people are going nuts about it. I guess I don’t really see why. I mean, sure, cosmetic surgery is one of those things that’s big in Hollywood that everyone in Kansas kind of pooh-poohs as something they’d never consider. “It’s only for those terribly insecure Hollywood types” they say to each other over bacon cheeseburgers served on glazed donuts. However, I think that’s oversimplifying things. I liken this dismissal to dudes that are quick to condemn other dudes for cheating on their old ladies and just judge and judge and swear up and down that they’d never ever do that kind of thing and that it’s SO reprehensible (which, I mean, most of the time, it is, I’m not endorsing cheating here, folks), but you know why they say that shit? Because they are slobs or they’re dipshits or they contain whatever the personality defect is that prevents them from ever getting laid by strange women. They’ve found one girl that will put up with their pimply back and disgusting breath and they’re clinging onto her pussy for dear life like Cubans cling to tires south of florida. No man that’s ever had a woman legitimately try to bang them while they’re in a relationship will be too judgmental when it comes to that stuff. Because, they’ve got dicks. And those dicks talk, boy. They talk fast and make a lot of sense when some good looking girl you aren’t supposed to bang is giving you the eye. And I’m not implying that men are all cheaters by any means. I’m just saying, it’s like quitting smoking. Once you see how fucking hard it is to resist that temptation, you’re not so quick to call someone a sniveling pussy for succumbing, even if you, yourself don’t succumb.
That’s how I feel about this cosmetic surgery thing. These bitches in Michigan don’t see themselves (and their jiggly guts) on tv all the time or live in a permissive spot where surgery is somewhat normal. Now, like with the cheating analogy, I’m not suggesting that all these heartland ladies and dudes would suddenly be getting tit tucks and shit if they moved to LA, but I AM saying that the idea of that shit’s not even really on the table in Michigan. In LA they have walk in augmentation clinics. AND tons of people have procedures done all the time. That makes shit much easier to consider.
Put it this way: maybe you don’t really smoke weed or drink but then you go away to college, or you go on a backpacking trip across south America or something and all of a sudden you see all these people just drinking and partying and having a good time. Suddenly, you’re back home saying something like “Yeah, and I never really drink, but the culture was so different and everyone was drinking all the time and before I knew it, I was having beers with lunch just like Javier.” I think it’s not a great leap to imagine someone who constantly sees their body scrutinized in the media, constantly sees distorted images of themselves in magazines and on tv and in movies, and sees the way that surgery has helped other people deal with the same mounting self doubt that they’re facing, deciding that it’s not a totally stupid thing to do. But of course no one in your office would ever get surgery. That’s because nobody is wasting their time putting those people on tv or in magazines or comparing them to other surgically enhanced celebs. No one’s trying to fuck them, to borrow from my earlier analogy, so they can flap their gums all they want about moral high ground, but they’ve never been in the position, and they never will, so they’ll never be called on their harsh judgments.

Now, getting back to Heidi, let’s not mince words, kay? She was fucking ugly before. And sure, she looks odd now too, but she’s a ton more fuckable, I’d say. AND, it’s not like she’s cool or anything. I mean, she’s a vacuous cunt that’s married to one ot the crown prince dildos of all of dildodom. What the fuck? Why cant some horrible cunt of a talentless woman cut up her body and stuff it full of various viscous liquids as she sees fit? Who fucking cares? She’s not really even famous for anything. She can’t act or sing or dance or fuck on film. She’s not smart or athletic or cool or on the cutting edge of anything. She’s famous for standing there, and frankly, I didn’t really like the way she was standing there before all this surgery. I’m not crazy about it now either, but sheeeit. I’m definitely not ‘concerned for her’ or anything. And neither are you and neither is people magazine. In fact, they would LOVE for her to get more surgery and fuck her face up even more so they can put her on more covers and watch her slow, painful descent into madness, drugs, death, all that, then all the journalists can sell magazines and marvel at the wonderful work they’ve done for their bottom line over skinny margaritas or whatever’s all the rage right now.
So yeah. I still don’t remember what I was gonna write about today, but I gotta get some lunch.
Peace.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

that's huuuuuuge

When I was a kid, my mom traveled a lot for her job. She’d bring me back various crap from her destinations and as such, I became something of a collector. Smurfs. Oh, I used to own some smurfs, boy. Let me tell you. For those of you who are too young to remember, the smurfs were little blue figments of Gargamel’s imagination that dressed like Dutch painters on their break, lived in mushrooms and were, supposedly, according to Gargamel, delicious and also a key ingredient in making gold.
Now, that explanation obviously begs the question, ‘well then, who the fuck is gargamel?’ That, my friends is not so easy to address. Who indeed was gargamel? Old wizard? Reclusive shut in? Toby Jeg in the future? All of these answers hint at the character of the man who tormented the smurfs, but none really, concisely drum up the appropriate image. Okay, he’s an old, bald grump of an asshole who wears a brown bag and talks to his cat. He also sees tiny blue things everywhere which he’s constantly trying to capture (for gold and/or food, as we discussed earlier) and that’s probably a bit of a circular narrative, because no one that chases blue mushroom dwellers around and constantly screams at his cat about being foiled is gonna be able to get audience with too many good homies that aren’t feline, if you dig. And THAT perverse loneliness has to be exactly what probably manifests itself in Gargamel’s hallucinogenically induced rages. I mean, right? Sure.
Okay, so that’s that. We’re not gonna figure everything out about gargamel today, and that’s fine. Back to the point.
The other thing my mom would bring me was mesh hats. She worked in the agricultural industry and the style of the time was to put your logo for your saw and blade company, or your cotton concern or your slaughterhouse on a mesh hat. I have about a zillion mesh hats and I love them.
Now, Ashton Kutcher came along and kind of fucked up the mesh hat for a while. So did Britney spears and paris Hilton and everyone. Now, you can’t go into a dumb dance club/fern bar/dildo emporium without seeing some choach in a party shirt and a rhinestone studded mesh hat.
They started calling them ‘trucker hats’ which is irritating to me for reasons to nebulous to explain here and well, they generally reduced my awesome, twenty-years-in-the-making collection of hats to a pile of garbage.
It’s okay though. Because now that whole trend is kind of gone, and I could maybe start wearing those hats again if I wanted to, BUT there’s nothing stupider looking than a grown man in a mesh hat. Between the ages of about 28 and 65 you really shouldn’t be wearing that shit. You probably shouldn’t be talking about smurfs either, I guess. It’s kind of, uh…windowless van at the playground style, innit?
Okay, so, those are a few of the things I used to collect. I also collected license plates and uh..what else? Records and cds and tapes. And comics. I used to collect some comics, man. I have x men number twelve. I’ve got all the original odd sized first printings of all the tick comics. I have all the orginial Akiras. And yet, I’ve still managed to have sex with a human woman (of legal age!). Not bad for a smurf collecting, trucker hat wearing comic enthusiast, right? Am I right folks?

Look, I’m just putting off the inevitable discussion of how John Mayer has descended so deeply into horrible dildodom. It’s becoming impossible to ignore. No, actually, he’s symptomatic of a bigger issue, namely that these celebrities and their dumb relationships are swamping the fucking news and the discussion about John Mayer beating off and checking out buttholes before he gets around to making coffee is just…well, why is there a forum for that kind of thing? Eh? Because he used to pump Jen? Is that all you need now? I know he’s hugely popular and man, I can’t really figure out why. I guess he was kind of funny before he became all sweet on himself, but that music…really? That’s popular? That’s like the shit that the nerd with the Stratocaster in your highschool gets on stage and plays at the talent show, bro. That’s not hugely popular, revenue generating music, is it? That shit’s Dave Matthews without the commitment to genre, which is essentially the Dead filtered through the terrible musical ideas of the nineties and with their dusty balls removed and replaced with violins and dreadlocks. All those bands and musicians make the music that moms put on before masturbating. And that, friends, is not cool. AND!!!! I’m not talking hot moms here. I’m talking YOUR moms. Yup.
No, I’m not a fan of John Mayer, or the Dead or Dave Matthews for that matter. And I really, really don’t care who he bangs or what his favorite body part to beat off to is or when he does it (spoiler alert-it’s assholes and first thing in the morning.)
Oh, and I guess brad pitt is single again, eh? Who fucking cares. Christ. Get me off this dumb ride. I’d rather chase smurfs for fucks sake. At least you can maybe get some gold out of the whole thing. Right?
Fuck this. I’m out.

Monday, February 1, 2010

yawn...

Hey dildos! It’s Monday and you know what that means, right? That’s right! It’s time to talk about the grammys! Now, I know that grammy is short for gramophone, which is appropriate, as the gramophone is an out dated dinosaur of a machine, and what better synecdochic metaphor is there for the music industry, am I right? Woot. That’s galactic poetry again, folks. Anyway, I was gonna make a joke about how the grammys could be named thusly because it was nothing but out of touch grandmothers and shit up there, but well, a few things happened. First, I realized that the gramophone thing was better, then I didn’t watch the grammys, so, well, this is what you call post modern, utilitarian, formalist comedy by way of essay. This is the future. The grammys, and music in general, is the past, man. Quit living in the past, kay?
I don’t really have a lot to talk about today. I’m tired. I was up late and I got up early to take my kid to his new school where all he seems to want to do is cry and reach for me and really put the screws to me in the whole daddying game. Wow. That’s not interesting. Uh, what else?
I have a show this Friday at the Mutiny. It’s free. I’m playing with Joe from Smoke or Fire, in honor of our cool new acoustic split record that’s coming out. Also, I guess punknews and some other fine folks are doing some auctioning for the people of Haiti, and one of the items you can bid on will be the test pressing of said record. Pretty exciting. It’s an analog leak. How future primitive.
Okay, I just ate a cheeseburger the size of my face, and I lost my atm card and I think I may need to take a nap. Also, I need to know where a good spot for hip hop in Chicago is. Like a bar, or a club or even a store or something. Any ideas? You’d be helping me out immensely.
I feel like there’s something else big going on right now that I’m just leaving out of this, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like thinking, so I’m gonna go rub cocoa butter all over my body and fall asleep on the bathroom floor like I usually do on Mondays.
Toodlooo hoes!