The Plane! The Plane!

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