Just got home from my writing class. I’m tired. Class was okay. There’s a mongolidic (is that the word, mongolidic? It sounds better than mongoloidic or mongoloidian. Perhaps mongolidian? Anyway) dipshit in the class who never shuts up and it’s kind of irritating. His speech is like a nervous tic. He can’t stop talking and it’s kind of a drag, but it’s kind of fascinating. Like, you know how sometimes you start to watch a movie, and it’s so just nauseating that there’s nothing about it you’d ever enjoy (Spanglish, perhaps) but for whatever reason, you keep watching? THEN, once you’ve gotten through the whole thing, you’ve kind of been vaccinated against it or something…so next time your friends are all over and you’re all getting high on the couch and you see that Spanglish is on, you make everyone sit through it, and even though it still sucks just as bad, it’s kind of not that bad for you, and all you’re doing is sitting there enjoying how much your friends are hating it/you?
That’s kind of what it’s like when this Henri dipshit talks. Yeah, his name is Henri. That’s pronounced ahn-REE, by the way. He’s such a nerd and a time gobbler that to talk about him here is simply to somehow feed his dark powers, so I’ll keep it brief. Lemme tell you though, dude’s a real sack of crap. Oh, and he’s not funny and his writing stinks. So there’s that.
I’m off to Florida in the morning. It’s gonna be a whirlwind of a trip. We get in tomorrow and the five of us are all staying in a single hotel room in the official hotel of this Festival. SO, that means no space, no sleep, no rest, no voices when we play our show. Also, there’s gonna be roving herds of drunks everywhere. This thing is pretty hilarious. It’s thousands of bearded punks from all over the world converging on a small college town in Florida to drink all its pabst, eat all its pizza and sleep in every last bit of its shrubbery.
I’m already so sore and tired and I’m still home. Fuck.
I’m missing my baby’s first Halloween. This is a HUGE bummer for me. He’s going as a tiger, and his grandma is accompanying him on his daycare’s Halloween parade. The whole thing sounds so cute that it makes me want to barf. I honestly don’t think I would have booked these shows if I had realized that I was missing this. That being said, it’s nice to get away for a while, and I’m looking forward to seeing some friends, acquaintances, frenimies (are you listening Heidi?) and of course douchebag punishers and assorted fools. This afternoon, (Oh, I went to bed, and I’m finishing this in the morning) I’ll be spending some time in the Atlanta airport. That’s usually a good time. They’ve got the best strip club of any airport. I love it when they touch the ground.
The best part about this whole thing, and I’m not even kidding when I say this, is that I don’t have to go to my crappy job. The idea that I’m not punching in this morning, and that I won’t have to ask anyone what kind of cheese they want on that or if they want a lemon or a lime or “did you say Ciroc or Syrah?” just makes my day. AND I don’t work tomorrow, or Sunday. Nope, instead, I’ll be sitting on the other side of the bar. Or, who knows, maybe I’ll take in Gainesville’s local culture instead…hmmm.
A few years ago I was in Gainesville and some buddies and I all decided to get tattoos of drunk pelicans hanging themselves. When I went to the ATM to pay dude (uh…Polish Dave, I believe, and he’s great if you’re looking for some tattoos in north central florida [god, what if that’s not his name…eh, whatever]) I had 22 bucks in there. This would have been fine if I wasn’t you know, a grown man with a finished tattoo already on me that cost well above 22 bucks. Fuck, the tip should have been 22 bucks. Okay, so anyway, long story short, cuz I gotta go to the airport, I sucked his dick and it was all cool. Strangely, my friend Jason, who also has the tattoo, had money, but opted to pay for it with a blowjob too. What’s that say?
Okay turds! See you Monday. Pray for my soul.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
did you see the toe on that camel?
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Tuesday, October 28, 2008
I got ants in my pants. I'm jumpy.
Last night I was going back through the old posts on this blog to try and figure out when my baby started sleeping through the night. Turns out it was about the second week of August. Anyway, I was struck by the notion that perhaps this thing is just getting shittier and shittier with each passing day. Now, this is one of the most patently ridiculous things to worry about as A) this is a blog…so who cares B) A lot like point A, this thing is supposed to be a reflection of my thoughts, which means it can really only be measured empirically, and C) Are you fucking crazy? This shit’s better than ever, yo!
BUT, this moment of panic on my quest for self actualization, or whatever you want to call it, really highlights something that I think is important in the world of making shit, call it ‘art’ if you must (though I hardly think dick jokes and entreaties to not be such pussies about what you drink at the bar could ever qualify as art…maybe in the south). Namely, the fear that everything you’re making is subpar. This is a funny thing, because usually, you start off a project (for this example, we’ll use a blog, but this could just as easily be a book, a band, a screenplay a series of paintings or an interracial gangbang video serial…really anything that taps into your creative mind) and there are no expectations, so the first blog entry (in this case, a little number I did back in July 08 entitled ‘hello blogosphere’) isn’t burdened with having to really do anything. If, by the creator’s standards, it succeeds then a second one follows. If it sucks, then it’s abandoned and well, no one’s any wiser or worse either way. BUT, if it’s successful, and continues to be, then there’s a moment where you, as a creative heavy lifter, start to look back to those carefree days when there were no expectations and wish you could recapture that magic. Why? Because the stakes are higher now, you’re ostensibly better at what you do, and so you’ve got all sorts of new expectations to deal with, and as such the freedom to just kind of let shit roar (which is usually when the best shit is made) becomes compromised. So, what do you do? Oh, what do you do?
Usually, between these moments, the moment of initial conception, when, let’s say, the band gets together and writes that first song or you first film that first Japanese girl taking a dump on that other girl, you get a period where you’re still unburdened, but you’re heady with the success of kind of effortlessly succeeding. This is absolutely the best place to be creatively. The, “man, these people are gonna be fucking amazed when they see the shit I’m pulling off next!” mentality definitely makes for the most effortless and therefore highest caliber output.
But whatever, I’m talking about what happens once you’ve crested that and you’re just sitting there in your underpants looking at your computer going “fuck. Can I still do this shit? I don’t even remember why I liked interracial gangbangs in the first place.” What do you do? Well, you take comfort in the fact that your creative mind is jolting you with fear as a method of inspiration, for one thing. One thing you should never ever do though, is look to your own output from the past as inspiration. That’s the artistic (just for lack of a better word) equivalent of eating your own shit for nutrition. It kind of works, but it doesn’t work nearly as well as eating the stuff that the shit was made from.
Man, so, in my first entry I laid out what this thing was gonna be about, a bit of a mission statement, and I said it was gonna be self reflexive (dude…check.) and advice oriented (seems like I solved everyone’s problems, because I haven’t got any good advice queries in a while…except for the guy who wants to know how to get his old lady to wax her asshole and beav…Okay, here’s what you do. You wait until things are relaxed and you’re just kind of having a good, fun conversation. Maybe you’re drinking wine and sitting on the porch or maybe you’re watching tv in bed or maybe you’re driving somewhere…get the idea, somewhere conversational. Anyway, casually bring up something you’ve seen regarding waxing, like say, that scene in the forty year old virgin. You mention how funny that shit is, or how disturbing it is, and as every conversation about waxing has ever done, it will eventually turn to how much pain the waxee feels during the process. At this point you say something like “yeah, for sure, but I gotta tell you, I think that girls that are all waxed look super hot.” Then, you see what the reaction is. If it’s something like ‘WHAT? REALLY? EW!” then it doesn’t seem to me like you’re with a girl who’s ever gonna drip hot wax onto her asshole and pull out the hairs…sorry. Pretty much any other reaction, and you’ve planted the seed. And really, that’s the most you can do, because talking to people about their grooming habits is like talking to people about their kids…they get defensive real fast, and if you want someone to do what you want, the last mindframe you want them in is defensive. SO, then you change the subject and wait for your birthday.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so we’ve got self reflexive, advice oriented, and finally celeb and pop culture driven, so, like when I say that I can’t believe that LC and Heidi are talking again, I fulfill this part of the mission statement. Good. Done. Hmmmm….I don’t know though. I used to do lots of lists. I haven’t done a good list in a while. How about this? Here’s a list of things that if you’re holding when someone walks by you on the street, you’re guaranteed to get a strange, judgmental look.
A baby that’s absolutely freaking out.
Your penis.
A large pizza (the ‘you’re already fat’ category)
A hypodermic syringe
Lotto tickets and a welfare check
A bucket full of gasoline
A bucket full of chicken heads
A map of the town you’re in
A swastika flag
An autographed picture of OJ
A balloon (the ‘you already look like a pedophile’ category)
A kid on a leash
-this one really pisses me off. Kids learn to walk before they learn to comprehend things like how it feels to get hit by a car or what it’s gonna take to find mommy in this gigantic parking lot, and yet assholes just blithely comment on this like it’s their right. “Don’t put that kid on a leash. He’s not a dog!” Hey, guess what asshole? He’s not a dog, but I’ve got kind of a lot to keep track of over here, firstly, and secondly, go fuck yourself. You know what’s dangerous? Coming up to strangers and telling them how to raise their kids, ESPECIALLY if they’re just doing something harmless that protects said kid. You know what? You should maybe get that tubby wife of yours to put YOU on a leash so you don’t wind up getting punched in the face for sticking your nose in other people’s business. Anyway, my kid can’t even walk, and as such, he’s never been on a leash, so this isn’t a gripe from personal experience. It’s just one of those things I’ve seen happen and it’s fucking infuriating. That person is a parent, their life is over and they’re trying to navigate this drunk midget with no grasp of English or the physical world through the fucking Macy’s. give ‘em a fucking break, man. Christ.
Back to the list:
Anything that implies that you’re a hippy (you’re dressed like a stupid hippy category)
This includes:
-a flower
-a cup for change
-keys to an SUV
-a lid of grass
-some Quaaludes
(At this juncture, I’d like to point out that there’s absolutely nothing judgmental about hating hippies. It’s perfectly natural)
A large dildo
A small dildo
Any sort of double dildo
Sheep carcass
Okay, that’s pretty good. I have a friend who sometimes eats his mcdonalds cheeseburgers on the toilet while he takes dumps. He says something about evening out the amount of food inside you or something like that. It’s gross. But he also shits for half an hour at a time and gets really sweaty, so maybe he needs the snack. I bring this up only because my baby is currently eating and attempting to poo at the same time. Today it’s peas. I just tried em. They’re actually not bad. Off to the farmers market. Last chance of the harvest season, people. I gots to get my fuji apples and deer steaks before winter sets in.
xoxoxo
BUT, this moment of panic on my quest for self actualization, or whatever you want to call it, really highlights something that I think is important in the world of making shit, call it ‘art’ if you must (though I hardly think dick jokes and entreaties to not be such pussies about what you drink at the bar could ever qualify as art…maybe in the south). Namely, the fear that everything you’re making is subpar. This is a funny thing, because usually, you start off a project (for this example, we’ll use a blog, but this could just as easily be a book, a band, a screenplay a series of paintings or an interracial gangbang video serial…really anything that taps into your creative mind) and there are no expectations, so the first blog entry (in this case, a little number I did back in July 08 entitled ‘hello blogosphere’) isn’t burdened with having to really do anything. If, by the creator’s standards, it succeeds then a second one follows. If it sucks, then it’s abandoned and well, no one’s any wiser or worse either way. BUT, if it’s successful, and continues to be, then there’s a moment where you, as a creative heavy lifter, start to look back to those carefree days when there were no expectations and wish you could recapture that magic. Why? Because the stakes are higher now, you’re ostensibly better at what you do, and so you’ve got all sorts of new expectations to deal with, and as such the freedom to just kind of let shit roar (which is usually when the best shit is made) becomes compromised. So, what do you do? Oh, what do you do?
Usually, between these moments, the moment of initial conception, when, let’s say, the band gets together and writes that first song or you first film that first Japanese girl taking a dump on that other girl, you get a period where you’re still unburdened, but you’re heady with the success of kind of effortlessly succeeding. This is absolutely the best place to be creatively. The, “man, these people are gonna be fucking amazed when they see the shit I’m pulling off next!” mentality definitely makes for the most effortless and therefore highest caliber output.
But whatever, I’m talking about what happens once you’ve crested that and you’re just sitting there in your underpants looking at your computer going “fuck. Can I still do this shit? I don’t even remember why I liked interracial gangbangs in the first place.” What do you do? Well, you take comfort in the fact that your creative mind is jolting you with fear as a method of inspiration, for one thing. One thing you should never ever do though, is look to your own output from the past as inspiration. That’s the artistic (just for lack of a better word) equivalent of eating your own shit for nutrition. It kind of works, but it doesn’t work nearly as well as eating the stuff that the shit was made from.
Man, so, in my first entry I laid out what this thing was gonna be about, a bit of a mission statement, and I said it was gonna be self reflexive (dude…check.) and advice oriented (seems like I solved everyone’s problems, because I haven’t got any good advice queries in a while…except for the guy who wants to know how to get his old lady to wax her asshole and beav…Okay, here’s what you do. You wait until things are relaxed and you’re just kind of having a good, fun conversation. Maybe you’re drinking wine and sitting on the porch or maybe you’re watching tv in bed or maybe you’re driving somewhere…get the idea, somewhere conversational. Anyway, casually bring up something you’ve seen regarding waxing, like say, that scene in the forty year old virgin. You mention how funny that shit is, or how disturbing it is, and as every conversation about waxing has ever done, it will eventually turn to how much pain the waxee feels during the process. At this point you say something like “yeah, for sure, but I gotta tell you, I think that girls that are all waxed look super hot.” Then, you see what the reaction is. If it’s something like ‘WHAT? REALLY? EW!” then it doesn’t seem to me like you’re with a girl who’s ever gonna drip hot wax onto her asshole and pull out the hairs…sorry. Pretty much any other reaction, and you’ve planted the seed. And really, that’s the most you can do, because talking to people about their grooming habits is like talking to people about their kids…they get defensive real fast, and if you want someone to do what you want, the last mindframe you want them in is defensive. SO, then you change the subject and wait for your birthday.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so we’ve got self reflexive, advice oriented, and finally celeb and pop culture driven, so, like when I say that I can’t believe that LC and Heidi are talking again, I fulfill this part of the mission statement. Good. Done. Hmmmm….I don’t know though. I used to do lots of lists. I haven’t done a good list in a while. How about this? Here’s a list of things that if you’re holding when someone walks by you on the street, you’re guaranteed to get a strange, judgmental look.
A baby that’s absolutely freaking out.
Your penis.
A large pizza (the ‘you’re already fat’ category)
A hypodermic syringe
Lotto tickets and a welfare check
A bucket full of gasoline
A bucket full of chicken heads
A map of the town you’re in
A swastika flag
An autographed picture of OJ
A balloon (the ‘you already look like a pedophile’ category)
A kid on a leash
-this one really pisses me off. Kids learn to walk before they learn to comprehend things like how it feels to get hit by a car or what it’s gonna take to find mommy in this gigantic parking lot, and yet assholes just blithely comment on this like it’s their right. “Don’t put that kid on a leash. He’s not a dog!” Hey, guess what asshole? He’s not a dog, but I’ve got kind of a lot to keep track of over here, firstly, and secondly, go fuck yourself. You know what’s dangerous? Coming up to strangers and telling them how to raise their kids, ESPECIALLY if they’re just doing something harmless that protects said kid. You know what? You should maybe get that tubby wife of yours to put YOU on a leash so you don’t wind up getting punched in the face for sticking your nose in other people’s business. Anyway, my kid can’t even walk, and as such, he’s never been on a leash, so this isn’t a gripe from personal experience. It’s just one of those things I’ve seen happen and it’s fucking infuriating. That person is a parent, their life is over and they’re trying to navigate this drunk midget with no grasp of English or the physical world through the fucking Macy’s. give ‘em a fucking break, man. Christ.
Back to the list:
Anything that implies that you’re a hippy (you’re dressed like a stupid hippy category)
This includes:
-a flower
-a cup for change
-keys to an SUV
-a lid of grass
-some Quaaludes
(At this juncture, I’d like to point out that there’s absolutely nothing judgmental about hating hippies. It’s perfectly natural)
A large dildo
A small dildo
Any sort of double dildo
Sheep carcass
Okay, that’s pretty good. I have a friend who sometimes eats his mcdonalds cheeseburgers on the toilet while he takes dumps. He says something about evening out the amount of food inside you or something like that. It’s gross. But he also shits for half an hour at a time and gets really sweaty, so maybe he needs the snack. I bring this up only because my baby is currently eating and attempting to poo at the same time. Today it’s peas. I just tried em. They’re actually not bad. Off to the farmers market. Last chance of the harvest season, people. I gots to get my fuji apples and deer steaks before winter sets in.
xoxoxo
Monday, October 27, 2008
Up next, the Octopus man!
Welcome to Monday. The longest possible time before you get work off again. This week I’m going to Florida. It’s going to be a gas. Interestingly, I farted right as I wrote the word ‘gas’ back there. It was a sublime moment that I’m sure doesn’t translate well to print, but just know that somewhere out there a man is smiling at the way the universe comes together sometimes, and sitting in the putrescent yellow fog of his farts.
I don’t have anything good to say this morning. I’m aggravated. I have band practice in a few minutes and we’re going to have to figure out how to get our stupid t shirts and shit down to stupid Florida. Yay!
My baby and I spent the weekend alone and it was fun. It was a little like Weekend at Bernies, with the baby playing Bernie. Not that he’s dead, but more because he just kind of sits there with a smug look on his face all the time, and if you want him to wave, you pretty much have to do it for him. I guess the metaphor really falls apart after that, except for that I’m pretty much the spitting image of what Andrew McCarthy and Johnathan Silverman’s baby would look like, just to take it all the way through the looking glass.
Last night these two old chicks came into the bar. They were pretty hot and they’d just been to the Madonna show and they were starving for wangs. The one girl came in, looked down the bar at the four guys sitting there and said “Hey! You boys want some Patron shots?!” It was great. More women need to be upfront like that. Dudes do that kind of crap all the time. It’s really not odd to think of, say, James Gandolfini coming into a bar and seeing four chicks sitting together and just buying them all shots. Ladies, the ball’s in your court now. You want the schlongs? Buy the next round.
Okay, so what’s really going on today? No…I don’t know. I’m just distracted. I was going to tell the story of this guy I used to play hockey with who sold mushrooms out of the locker room, but it just kind of fell flat as I was re-telling it to myself. Fuck, I pretty much just told you guys the whole thing right there, except for that one time, he mistakenly thought one of the members of Poison was a hot chick. Honest mistake, although, we still mocked his gayness. It was a hockey locker room, people.
Drug dealers in general are funny. I like the idea of a black market economy. It’s kind of the same reason that I like graffiti. Illegal art? How cool is that? Fuck, I should move to China. I hear all sorts of art is illegal there. Good one. Anyway, you know what I mean? There’s something great about a whole infrastructure of economy that operates in the shadows. That’s why people like ninjas right? They’re super organized and disciplined but it’s all shrouded in mystery. Okay, so I think, as per the laws of ninth grade geometry, I’ve proved the theorem that drug dealers=ninjas. Nice.
At the risk of sounding like I’m coked up or something (since I seem to be switching topics every two sentences) I’m gonna go ahead and throw this out there. Ninjas aren’t real. Man, does this ever piss people off. Mostly because they want ninjas to be real so fucking bad. I know, I know, I watch Sasuke as often as you do, and yes, there are some very compelling films out there. But seriously? Man, back in ancient times it had to be fucking EXPENSIVE to make a throwing star. I mean, they cost like nineteen bucks these days. There’s no way those fuckers just tossed those things out, never to be seen again while they hopped from roof to roof. The whole thing just doesn’t add up to me. All the vanishing and the masks and silence and all that. It’s cool, don’t get me wrong. But you’re telling me that people actually did that shit? Nope. Don’t buy it. ALSO, it seems a little odd to me that ninjas are kind of new in the west. I mean, my dad probably knew what a samurai was when he was a kid, but he sure as hell wasn’t playing ninja. That’s shit from my generation. Why’s that? The existence of ninjas only recently got declassified? All the Japanese people in the world kept ninjas under wraps until the seventies when they got together and decided “man, we’ve been keeping this ninja shit to ourselves for a while now. Those white people could probably make some pretty cool movies and toys and plastic crap. Let’s let ‘em in on it.” Okay, whatever. I don’t need to convince you people. They’re all a marketing scheme. That’s the end of it. Oh, look. You’re all pissed off and googling and shit. Seriously, it’s the best. I don’t know why that makes people so angry. Ninjas are fake! They’re like Santa and Jesus! They’re not real. They’re not real. Haahahahahahahaha. Nerds.
In Chicago, there’s this thing where you’re not supposed to put ketchup on a hotdog. The whole idea of ketchup on a hotdog is so frowned upon in Chicago, you’d be better off smearing bloody dog shit on your hotdog than ketchup. You’d get less snide comments and offended looks. Why is this? Who knows. I will say though, it’s probably in some small way connected to the same part of the brain that gets pissed about ninjas not existing. It all kind of seems the same to me. Yikes. Whatever. I’m out.
I don’t have anything good to say this morning. I’m aggravated. I have band practice in a few minutes and we’re going to have to figure out how to get our stupid t shirts and shit down to stupid Florida. Yay!
My baby and I spent the weekend alone and it was fun. It was a little like Weekend at Bernies, with the baby playing Bernie. Not that he’s dead, but more because he just kind of sits there with a smug look on his face all the time, and if you want him to wave, you pretty much have to do it for him. I guess the metaphor really falls apart after that, except for that I’m pretty much the spitting image of what Andrew McCarthy and Johnathan Silverman’s baby would look like, just to take it all the way through the looking glass.
Last night these two old chicks came into the bar. They were pretty hot and they’d just been to the Madonna show and they were starving for wangs. The one girl came in, looked down the bar at the four guys sitting there and said “Hey! You boys want some Patron shots?!” It was great. More women need to be upfront like that. Dudes do that kind of crap all the time. It’s really not odd to think of, say, James Gandolfini coming into a bar and seeing four chicks sitting together and just buying them all shots. Ladies, the ball’s in your court now. You want the schlongs? Buy the next round.
Okay, so what’s really going on today? No…I don’t know. I’m just distracted. I was going to tell the story of this guy I used to play hockey with who sold mushrooms out of the locker room, but it just kind of fell flat as I was re-telling it to myself. Fuck, I pretty much just told you guys the whole thing right there, except for that one time, he mistakenly thought one of the members of Poison was a hot chick. Honest mistake, although, we still mocked his gayness. It was a hockey locker room, people.
Drug dealers in general are funny. I like the idea of a black market economy. It’s kind of the same reason that I like graffiti. Illegal art? How cool is that? Fuck, I should move to China. I hear all sorts of art is illegal there. Good one. Anyway, you know what I mean? There’s something great about a whole infrastructure of economy that operates in the shadows. That’s why people like ninjas right? They’re super organized and disciplined but it’s all shrouded in mystery. Okay, so I think, as per the laws of ninth grade geometry, I’ve proved the theorem that drug dealers=ninjas. Nice.
At the risk of sounding like I’m coked up or something (since I seem to be switching topics every two sentences) I’m gonna go ahead and throw this out there. Ninjas aren’t real. Man, does this ever piss people off. Mostly because they want ninjas to be real so fucking bad. I know, I know, I watch Sasuke as often as you do, and yes, there are some very compelling films out there. But seriously? Man, back in ancient times it had to be fucking EXPENSIVE to make a throwing star. I mean, they cost like nineteen bucks these days. There’s no way those fuckers just tossed those things out, never to be seen again while they hopped from roof to roof. The whole thing just doesn’t add up to me. All the vanishing and the masks and silence and all that. It’s cool, don’t get me wrong. But you’re telling me that people actually did that shit? Nope. Don’t buy it. ALSO, it seems a little odd to me that ninjas are kind of new in the west. I mean, my dad probably knew what a samurai was when he was a kid, but he sure as hell wasn’t playing ninja. That’s shit from my generation. Why’s that? The existence of ninjas only recently got declassified? All the Japanese people in the world kept ninjas under wraps until the seventies when they got together and decided “man, we’ve been keeping this ninja shit to ourselves for a while now. Those white people could probably make some pretty cool movies and toys and plastic crap. Let’s let ‘em in on it.” Okay, whatever. I don’t need to convince you people. They’re all a marketing scheme. That’s the end of it. Oh, look. You’re all pissed off and googling and shit. Seriously, it’s the best. I don’t know why that makes people so angry. Ninjas are fake! They’re like Santa and Jesus! They’re not real. They’re not real. Haahahahahahahaha. Nerds.
In Chicago, there’s this thing where you’re not supposed to put ketchup on a hotdog. The whole idea of ketchup on a hotdog is so frowned upon in Chicago, you’d be better off smearing bloody dog shit on your hotdog than ketchup. You’d get less snide comments and offended looks. Why is this? Who knows. I will say though, it’s probably in some small way connected to the same part of the brain that gets pissed about ninjas not existing. It all kind of seems the same to me. Yikes. Whatever. I’m out.
Friday, October 24, 2008
You know what to do, so I won't say please -or- Welcome to my lovely new color scheme.
So yeah, I spruced the place up a bit. I kind of figured that this page is like a virtual rec room, you know, where you go to hear your crass uncle expound on how shitty his job/kids/wives/friends are while he pounds a high life or two before heading to work. So, I used the colors that to me most represent a basment in the 70’s. There’s beer in the fridge. Oh, that? That’s a picture of me backstage at Subterranean last week. The old lady actually took it. Yeah, I think it turned out pretty good down here.
Funnily enough, as I’ve learned bartending, playing music, being a husband, being a dad, doing a limited amount of design and illustration work, that old maxim ‘no one is ever satisfied’ is truly, truly always fulfilled. People love to bitch. People hate the taste of Coke, it changes, they hate the new taste and demand the original that they hated in the first place. It’s like a wife. You hate her guts and you talk shit and write songs about how she should die and you undermine her confidence with shitty remarks about her ass in that dress and all that, but the second she blows her tennis pro, you’re all weepy. Everyone hated Russia, then we got the Taliban, now everyone seems to want Russia back. Everyone hates the old colors, everyone hates the new ones. No one will be truly satisfied until their own crappy tastes get justified by a graphic designer/chef/production crew/five star general and they can sit back there and languish in the stench of their own turds.
Don’t believe me? Everyone loves the smell of their own farts. My friend Mike scoops his farts from his ass right to his nose. It’s gross. He also chews up one Triscuit, spits it onto another and eats it like some sort of gnarly appetizer, so there’s that. Maybe he’s just a little nasty. Nonetheless.
Fuck, man. My baby is crying, my dogs are barking at a helium balloon, my wife is trying to pack and get me to help her do laundry as she’s going to Texas in a few hours for a wedding. Our house looks like someone got chased through it by a huge rapist (in that shit’s all scattered everywhere, it’s not like it’s all covered in Vaseline or blood…do rapists carry Vaseline? I guess the conscientious ones do) and I’m about to go to my shitty job and hang out with the rainy-Friday crowd, which means just enough douchebags blabbing at me that I can’t relax, but not enough to make money.
Tonight my friend Chris is picking my boy up from daycare and putting him down (a parental parlance that means put to bed), since my wife is gonna be eating jerky and shooting at satellites down in the Great Republic of Texas, and I’m gonna be stuck late at work. It’s going to be funny. I picture a rather charming little montage set to a tune by Alan Thicke (dad from Growing Pains. He also wrote and performed [get ready to have your minds blown] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song [“Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum…”] Yeah, for real. That’s him. He’s also dad of pop sensation Robin Thicke, and he’s Canadian. AND once when I was about 8 and in an airport, I saw, in that part of the airport newsstand where they have the porn [a classy move, by the way, reading Juggs or Shaved Snizz right there on the plane] an issue of Playgirl with Alan Thicke on the cover. The bumper headline, or whatever it’s called, said “Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and I was forced to picture his penis, and it grossed me out so completely that I’m still a little queasy, not from the memory, but actually from that moment. It’s lasted twenty four years. No shit)…okay, that was quite an aside. Back to Chris and the baby, I picture a charming little montage in which baby powder poofs thickly into Chris’s surprised face, the baby giggles while Chris gets tangled in the coat hangers in his closet…it’s gonna be like three men and a baby with only one man and a baby. Where are my Hollywood friends when I need them?
“Okay, it’s like Three Men and a Baby”
“okay, good. So far me likey”
“except for with ONE man.”
“Kelly, you’ve done it again! Have some money!”
Don’t steal that shit, okay? You can’t copyright ideas. I found that out the hard way when I told the wrong person about how I wanted to get, like Barbies, but dress them up as whores and sell ‘em to little girls. They’re doing that now, and I’m not in on it. ALSO, the Pussycat Dolls? That was my idea. I was like “yo, you know what we need? Some sluts singing about getting fucked. Here’s the beauty! They don’t even have to be good looking OR talented. We’re not selling the steak, we’re selling the snizzle!”
Fucked, right?
What else have I created, only to be thwarted by conniving dicks? Oh, you know when you say something and then you say NOT! At the end of it, and it like, totally negates it? I made that up. It was also me who first said that I didn’t want to be told what to do by anyone smarter than me. I also called for lax regulation regarding property appraisals and encouraged irresponsible lending in hopes that everyone could someday afford to own valuable homes. AND, I was like the first, maybe second guy to say that John Kerry was no hero. OH, and I coined the term “nibble on my dick like a rat does cheese” before the 2 Live Crew was even a fucking thought.
So, as you may have guessed, I’m pretty pissed. I’m gonna sit here and stew in my baby tears, barking dogs, piles of laundry, absentia wives, messy home, new barf colored blog and general malaise that comes every Friday morning and just kind of think about all the fucking money I should be counting right now. And Alan Thicke’s gross penis. That’s still just burned in there.
Funnily enough, as I’ve learned bartending, playing music, being a husband, being a dad, doing a limited amount of design and illustration work, that old maxim ‘no one is ever satisfied’ is truly, truly always fulfilled. People love to bitch. People hate the taste of Coke, it changes, they hate the new taste and demand the original that they hated in the first place. It’s like a wife. You hate her guts and you talk shit and write songs about how she should die and you undermine her confidence with shitty remarks about her ass in that dress and all that, but the second she blows her tennis pro, you’re all weepy. Everyone hated Russia, then we got the Taliban, now everyone seems to want Russia back. Everyone hates the old colors, everyone hates the new ones. No one will be truly satisfied until their own crappy tastes get justified by a graphic designer/chef/production crew/five star general and they can sit back there and languish in the stench of their own turds.
Don’t believe me? Everyone loves the smell of their own farts. My friend Mike scoops his farts from his ass right to his nose. It’s gross. He also chews up one Triscuit, spits it onto another and eats it like some sort of gnarly appetizer, so there’s that. Maybe he’s just a little nasty. Nonetheless.
Fuck, man. My baby is crying, my dogs are barking at a helium balloon, my wife is trying to pack and get me to help her do laundry as she’s going to Texas in a few hours for a wedding. Our house looks like someone got chased through it by a huge rapist (in that shit’s all scattered everywhere, it’s not like it’s all covered in Vaseline or blood…do rapists carry Vaseline? I guess the conscientious ones do) and I’m about to go to my shitty job and hang out with the rainy-Friday crowd, which means just enough douchebags blabbing at me that I can’t relax, but not enough to make money.
Tonight my friend Chris is picking my boy up from daycare and putting him down (a parental parlance that means put to bed), since my wife is gonna be eating jerky and shooting at satellites down in the Great Republic of Texas, and I’m gonna be stuck late at work. It’s going to be funny. I picture a rather charming little montage set to a tune by Alan Thicke (dad from Growing Pains. He also wrote and performed [get ready to have your minds blown] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song [“Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum…”] Yeah, for real. That’s him. He’s also dad of pop sensation Robin Thicke, and he’s Canadian. AND once when I was about 8 and in an airport, I saw, in that part of the airport newsstand where they have the porn [a classy move, by the way, reading Juggs or Shaved Snizz right there on the plane] an issue of Playgirl with Alan Thicke on the cover. The bumper headline, or whatever it’s called, said “Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and I was forced to picture his penis, and it grossed me out so completely that I’m still a little queasy, not from the memory, but actually from that moment. It’s lasted twenty four years. No shit)…okay, that was quite an aside. Back to Chris and the baby, I picture a charming little montage in which baby powder poofs thickly into Chris’s surprised face, the baby giggles while Chris gets tangled in the coat hangers in his closet…it’s gonna be like three men and a baby with only one man and a baby. Where are my Hollywood friends when I need them?
“Okay, it’s like Three Men and a Baby”
“okay, good. So far me likey”
“except for with ONE man.”
“Kelly, you’ve done it again! Have some money!”
Don’t steal that shit, okay? You can’t copyright ideas. I found that out the hard way when I told the wrong person about how I wanted to get, like Barbies, but dress them up as whores and sell ‘em to little girls. They’re doing that now, and I’m not in on it. ALSO, the Pussycat Dolls? That was my idea. I was like “yo, you know what we need? Some sluts singing about getting fucked. Here’s the beauty! They don’t even have to be good looking OR talented. We’re not selling the steak, we’re selling the snizzle!”
Fucked, right?
What else have I created, only to be thwarted by conniving dicks? Oh, you know when you say something and then you say NOT! At the end of it, and it like, totally negates it? I made that up. It was also me who first said that I didn’t want to be told what to do by anyone smarter than me. I also called for lax regulation regarding property appraisals and encouraged irresponsible lending in hopes that everyone could someday afford to own valuable homes. AND, I was like the first, maybe second guy to say that John Kerry was no hero. OH, and I coined the term “nibble on my dick like a rat does cheese” before the 2 Live Crew was even a fucking thought.
So, as you may have guessed, I’m pretty pissed. I’m gonna sit here and stew in my baby tears, barking dogs, piles of laundry, absentia wives, messy home, new barf colored blog and general malaise that comes every Friday morning and just kind of think about all the fucking money I should be counting right now. And Alan Thicke’s gross penis. That’s still just burned in there.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
There's no crying in baseball!
I just read the following (and this is a paraphrase) “Tom Hanks’s Blog! Find out how the world’s coolest actor spent his summer vacation.”
Dude. Seriously. Tom. Hanks.
Okay, so he was in Bosom Buddies, sure. He did Joe vs. The Volcano and Bachelor Party and more recently (but still, like ten years ago) he made a movie with a beachball and grew some dreads. I personally think white guys with dreads are, um, what’s the word I’m looking for…I don’t know. Is there a word for when you go out of your way to do something that makes you look stupid/blissfully unaware of who you are/annoying/gross/ pathetic and greasy all at once? Damn this limited vocabulary! I mean, having dreads is one of those things that you can use as the ONLY description of a person and it usually suffices:
“Okay, so we’re at the theater, all ready to leave and all of a sudden Melanie is talking to this absolute douchebag and I’m like ‘lets go!’ and she actually decided to stay and go to some bar with him.”
“What was the guy like?”
“Oh, you know. He was one of those white guys with dreadlocks.”
“WHAT?!!! Seriously?!”
See? It’s a bad scene. But whatever, man. Some people think that’s cool, I guess. (Actually, I’m personally not too impressed by the whole ‘physical transformation to play the role’ school of hardcore method acting or whatever it’s called either, speaking of old ‘Castaway’. Wow. You got fat. Wow. You got skinny. You got TEN MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS to do it. Give me thirty grand and I’ll pack on a hundred pounds quicker than you can say ‘Oprah’ and I won’t even go around to talk shows talking about my bravery in the name of my craft…sheesh. Actors, what a bunch of self important dongs.) Okay, so back on track here. Tom Hanks is not the coolest actor alive. I don’t know who is, but I know who ain’t. Here’s a quick summary of some actors who aren’t the coolest actors alive, no matter what their publicists tell you.
Tom Hanks- Not to belabor the point, but no, dude. The Terminal is the last movie I can even think of that he was in. That was what? A serious take on Borat but confined to an airport? Wow. Good idea, studio executive! It appeals to everyone who went to Borat for the love story, but got a little unnerved by the rampant dick flailing/gay sex. Tom’s New Englander accent in ‘catch me if you can’ was so embarrassing that Leonardo Decaprio’s Irish brogue from Gangs of New York was laughing at him, and that’s saying something, cuz leo’s no fucking master of accents.
Robin Williams- God, I’m so sick of this guy and his bullshit. He’s the classic example of someone who lost it, and then rather than looking forward for inspiration he turned to his old work. When he does his “Robin Williams thing” he’s essentially eating his twenty year old poo and shitting an even less nutrient rich version of the poo back out for us to kind of try to enjoy in that ‘oh-I-used-to-like-something-kind-of-like-this-years-ago’ sort of way. And god help you if he’s not doing his ‘every-reference-under-the-sun-coked-out-just-kidding” thing…then he’s doing something so laughably heartfelt and contrived that it verges on being funnier than his crappy stand up….ugh. It’s enough to…
Okay, I can’t do this. I don’t care about old actors who desperately cling to their faded glory days…Sometimes I can laugh at or along with the morality play/cautionary tale that is Hollywood and sometimes it just bums me out. That place is seriously like a work camp where we send our most desperately insecure and untalented individuals to fuck and suck their way through the smartest/slimiest/grossest/most conniving human beings on the planet, and as a reward, we go through their trash, examine every aspect of their lives, feel smugly superior as we worship them, and then give them a few million to blow on coke before they either get dragged, kicking and screaming into obscurity or they die, or, in the rare case, they just take the money and run.
I never understood why more people didn’t pick this last option. I tell you what man, if I got ten million dollars for a job, I don’t care if it’s putting out a record, selling tons of books, painting a picture, acting in a movie, whatever…that’s fucking it, man. I’m done. You won’t be seeing me again. I’m moving somewhere nice and I’m gonna kick it. No more fighting all these assholes to stay relevant. What’s relevant about being a multi millionaire? NOTHING! As SOON as you’re that rich, you’re no longer someone who easily relates to anything approaching real life.
Oh, sure, Deniro and Billy Joe Armstrong still do great work, and good for them. They’re talented. I’m not saying they shoudn’t work. I’m saying, imagine how hard it is for them to put aside the fact that they can’t even take a dump in the airport without someone poking their head under the stall door and asking for an autograph, putting aside that they have their own chefs in their homes, putting aside that it’s been so long since they even hung out in public anywhere without being harassed, and putting themselves into the mindset of making something that dirty plebes like us find to be relatable? That’s some nigh-impossible shit right there.
Fuck man, I barely remember what it’s like to not be married, and that was only five years ago. I barely remember what it’s like to not be a dad, and this little dude is only six months old. We’re talking about being so desperate that you completely deconstruct yourself just to somehow figure out how to make yet another album/film/statement, because all the accolades and accomplishments you have suddenly seem not that shiny, not that important. For fucks sakes! It’s been fifteen years since ‘Dookie’ came out! No fucking thanks. That’s too much work. Give me my millions, and I’ll be out of your way. Thanks.
Dude. Seriously. Tom. Hanks.
Okay, so he was in Bosom Buddies, sure. He did Joe vs. The Volcano and Bachelor Party and more recently (but still, like ten years ago) he made a movie with a beachball and grew some dreads. I personally think white guys with dreads are, um, what’s the word I’m looking for…I don’t know. Is there a word for when you go out of your way to do something that makes you look stupid/blissfully unaware of who you are/annoying/gross/ pathetic and greasy all at once? Damn this limited vocabulary! I mean, having dreads is one of those things that you can use as the ONLY description of a person and it usually suffices:
“Okay, so we’re at the theater, all ready to leave and all of a sudden Melanie is talking to this absolute douchebag and I’m like ‘lets go!’ and she actually decided to stay and go to some bar with him.”
“What was the guy like?”
“Oh, you know. He was one of those white guys with dreadlocks.”
“WHAT?!!! Seriously?!”
See? It’s a bad scene. But whatever, man. Some people think that’s cool, I guess. (Actually, I’m personally not too impressed by the whole ‘physical transformation to play the role’ school of hardcore method acting or whatever it’s called either, speaking of old ‘Castaway’. Wow. You got fat. Wow. You got skinny. You got TEN MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS to do it. Give me thirty grand and I’ll pack on a hundred pounds quicker than you can say ‘Oprah’ and I won’t even go around to talk shows talking about my bravery in the name of my craft…sheesh. Actors, what a bunch of self important dongs.) Okay, so back on track here. Tom Hanks is not the coolest actor alive. I don’t know who is, but I know who ain’t. Here’s a quick summary of some actors who aren’t the coolest actors alive, no matter what their publicists tell you.
Tom Hanks- Not to belabor the point, but no, dude. The Terminal is the last movie I can even think of that he was in. That was what? A serious take on Borat but confined to an airport? Wow. Good idea, studio executive! It appeals to everyone who went to Borat for the love story, but got a little unnerved by the rampant dick flailing/gay sex. Tom’s New Englander accent in ‘catch me if you can’ was so embarrassing that Leonardo Decaprio’s Irish brogue from Gangs of New York was laughing at him, and that’s saying something, cuz leo’s no fucking master of accents.
Robin Williams- God, I’m so sick of this guy and his bullshit. He’s the classic example of someone who lost it, and then rather than looking forward for inspiration he turned to his old work. When he does his “Robin Williams thing” he’s essentially eating his twenty year old poo and shitting an even less nutrient rich version of the poo back out for us to kind of try to enjoy in that ‘oh-I-used-to-like-something-kind-of-like-this-years-ago’ sort of way. And god help you if he’s not doing his ‘every-reference-under-the-sun-coked-out-just-kidding” thing…then he’s doing something so laughably heartfelt and contrived that it verges on being funnier than his crappy stand up….ugh. It’s enough to…
Okay, I can’t do this. I don’t care about old actors who desperately cling to their faded glory days…Sometimes I can laugh at or along with the morality play/cautionary tale that is Hollywood and sometimes it just bums me out. That place is seriously like a work camp where we send our most desperately insecure and untalented individuals to fuck and suck their way through the smartest/slimiest/grossest/most conniving human beings on the planet, and as a reward, we go through their trash, examine every aspect of their lives, feel smugly superior as we worship them, and then give them a few million to blow on coke before they either get dragged, kicking and screaming into obscurity or they die, or, in the rare case, they just take the money and run.
I never understood why more people didn’t pick this last option. I tell you what man, if I got ten million dollars for a job, I don’t care if it’s putting out a record, selling tons of books, painting a picture, acting in a movie, whatever…that’s fucking it, man. I’m done. You won’t be seeing me again. I’m moving somewhere nice and I’m gonna kick it. No more fighting all these assholes to stay relevant. What’s relevant about being a multi millionaire? NOTHING! As SOON as you’re that rich, you’re no longer someone who easily relates to anything approaching real life.
Oh, sure, Deniro and Billy Joe Armstrong still do great work, and good for them. They’re talented. I’m not saying they shoudn’t work. I’m saying, imagine how hard it is for them to put aside the fact that they can’t even take a dump in the airport without someone poking their head under the stall door and asking for an autograph, putting aside that they have their own chefs in their homes, putting aside that it’s been so long since they even hung out in public anywhere without being harassed, and putting themselves into the mindset of making something that dirty plebes like us find to be relatable? That’s some nigh-impossible shit right there.
Fuck man, I barely remember what it’s like to not be married, and that was only five years ago. I barely remember what it’s like to not be a dad, and this little dude is only six months old. We’re talking about being so desperate that you completely deconstruct yourself just to somehow figure out how to make yet another album/film/statement, because all the accolades and accomplishments you have suddenly seem not that shiny, not that important. For fucks sakes! It’s been fifteen years since ‘Dookie’ came out! No fucking thanks. That’s too much work. Give me my millions, and I’ll be out of your way. Thanks.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Life is crazy, candy baby.
Babies throw up. That’s what they have in common with old drunks and rock stars. Also, they’re blissfully unaware of themselves, usually they’re kind of lacking in muscle tone (except that baby Hercules thing, and iggy pop, respectively) and pissing their pants isn’t so much out of the question as it’s a given that it’s gonna happen.
My baby likes to barf. This morning, he had already barfed on my chest twice by six thirty. He’s previously barfed on my face and into my mouth. It’s one of the more shocking things, in that it instantly makes you wide awake, but it’s not as gross as it sounds. Okay, if it’s your baby. I don’t want YOUR baby barfing into my mouth. That’s just fucking disgusting. No offense to your baby.
I have tons of dumb shit to do today. I have to take my dog to get his nails cut. I have to get some printer ink. I have to vacate the house for three hours while it gets cleaned (fucking A right, everyone) and I have to teach my friend Chris the basics of picking my baby up from daycare and putting him to bed. Not that it’s difficult.
My wife’s gonna be out of town this weekend. It’s serious Mister Mom action, Friday to Sunday. I’m home on Saturday, but otherwise, I work, so it’s gonna be a somewhat grueling weekend. Well, actually, I plan on doing a lot of writing and reading and getting some sleep. Bedtime for BK? Seven thirty, Friday and Saturday. Nice.
Next weekend (Halloween) I’m going to Gainesville to play a few rock shows. It should be cool, and quite the opposite of my baby weekend. That’s also when Daylight Savings Time shuts off, so the baby will suddenly be waking up between 430 and 530, which is a bit of a drag. BUT HEY! I’m gonna be in Florida. That’s really more my wife’s problem. I’ll have my own issues to contend with in Florida. That’s for sure. Like where the fuck I’m gonna sleep, or how I’m going to get a bunch of hooded sweatshirts down there. God. The business of rock and roll is so boring. It’s all shipping and invoices and contracts and negotiating and stupid fucking truce arrangements that involve doing favors for some shady asshole so he’ll fuck someone over on your behalf later on. I mean, if all I had to do was crack a beer and go on stage, I’d be pretty happy, but unfortunately, I deal with all this other bullshit too. It’s dumb. Oh! That reminds me. I also have to go to the bank. Good thing I put that in there right? That’s interesting. Jesus Christ.
I can tell you all, without a doubt, what the most insane day of my life was. Is that strange? Do most people know off the tops of their heads the day that stands out the most as the craziest one they ever lived? I mean, for me, it’s not even a contest. Some day I’ll tell you guys about it. I don’t have the energy today, but let me just say that it heavily features my toothless German dwarf friend from most of my good stories.
People, if you ask them, will probably usually say the day they saw their kids get born is the most insane day of their lives. Actually, you know what? No. they say that’s the happiest day of their lives, which to me is fucking crazy. I mean, there is a lot of joy at a birth, but it’s also SCARY AS SHIT, MAN! For every iota of joy I was feeling on my dude’s birthday, there was a contemporaneous iota of terror, uncertainty and newfound unknowable responsibility, each. I think that the happiest day of your life would probably be one where there’s no pressure, right? Like, that day you woke up, got a blowjob, had a bloody mary, saw some friends, maybe another blowjob, and a great dinner. That’s like a perfect day. I understand it doesn’t have the dizzying highs of birth, but it also doesn’t have that terror factor, which, if you see the pictures taken of me on the day of my kid’s birth, was clearly in play, at least for me. Sure, it becomes less scary, but that first day, boy. Woo-hoo. Talk about having to use some expensive equipment without having a manual. You know how much a baby goes for out there? Me either, but I’m pretty sure this dude on my lap is worth more than my iPod.
Honestly, and this is so cheesy that I hesitate to write it, but I think my wedding day was the happiest day of my life. All my friends and family at a party that I had at least some say in making sure was cool…I knew I was going to Mexico for a week right afterwards. I was pretty confident in my spouse choice. Yeah, that was a great day. We also rolled through the Taco Bell drive through at 1 am and ordered 60 bean burritos. That was a nice capper.
Nah, but I’m not talking about happy days, or exciting days, I’m talking about insane days. Days where you maybe (in my case for sure) pray a little bit and say “hey god, I know we don’t really get along, but if you get me out of here alive to tell this story, I promise I won’t embellish it or anything, and I’ll never, ever, ever let a war photographer talk me into driving sixty miles and walking two miles into a French forest in a snowstorm again. So what if it’s the only place where I’ve ever seen someone ask cops for heroin, or seen a camper on fire. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Today, office max and the dog groomers. That’s pretty exciting too, right? Stay tuned! Today may just usurp that day in France as the most insane day of my life. I kind of hope not though, I’ve got a weekend of parenting and bartending ahead of me, and I need my rest.
My baby likes to barf. This morning, he had already barfed on my chest twice by six thirty. He’s previously barfed on my face and into my mouth. It’s one of the more shocking things, in that it instantly makes you wide awake, but it’s not as gross as it sounds. Okay, if it’s your baby. I don’t want YOUR baby barfing into my mouth. That’s just fucking disgusting. No offense to your baby.
I have tons of dumb shit to do today. I have to take my dog to get his nails cut. I have to get some printer ink. I have to vacate the house for three hours while it gets cleaned (fucking A right, everyone) and I have to teach my friend Chris the basics of picking my baby up from daycare and putting him to bed. Not that it’s difficult.
My wife’s gonna be out of town this weekend. It’s serious Mister Mom action, Friday to Sunday. I’m home on Saturday, but otherwise, I work, so it’s gonna be a somewhat grueling weekend. Well, actually, I plan on doing a lot of writing and reading and getting some sleep. Bedtime for BK? Seven thirty, Friday and Saturday. Nice.
Next weekend (Halloween) I’m going to Gainesville to play a few rock shows. It should be cool, and quite the opposite of my baby weekend. That’s also when Daylight Savings Time shuts off, so the baby will suddenly be waking up between 430 and 530, which is a bit of a drag. BUT HEY! I’m gonna be in Florida. That’s really more my wife’s problem. I’ll have my own issues to contend with in Florida. That’s for sure. Like where the fuck I’m gonna sleep, or how I’m going to get a bunch of hooded sweatshirts down there. God. The business of rock and roll is so boring. It’s all shipping and invoices and contracts and negotiating and stupid fucking truce arrangements that involve doing favors for some shady asshole so he’ll fuck someone over on your behalf later on. I mean, if all I had to do was crack a beer and go on stage, I’d be pretty happy, but unfortunately, I deal with all this other bullshit too. It’s dumb. Oh! That reminds me. I also have to go to the bank. Good thing I put that in there right? That’s interesting. Jesus Christ.
I can tell you all, without a doubt, what the most insane day of my life was. Is that strange? Do most people know off the tops of their heads the day that stands out the most as the craziest one they ever lived? I mean, for me, it’s not even a contest. Some day I’ll tell you guys about it. I don’t have the energy today, but let me just say that it heavily features my toothless German dwarf friend from most of my good stories.
People, if you ask them, will probably usually say the day they saw their kids get born is the most insane day of their lives. Actually, you know what? No. they say that’s the happiest day of their lives, which to me is fucking crazy. I mean, there is a lot of joy at a birth, but it’s also SCARY AS SHIT, MAN! For every iota of joy I was feeling on my dude’s birthday, there was a contemporaneous iota of terror, uncertainty and newfound unknowable responsibility, each. I think that the happiest day of your life would probably be one where there’s no pressure, right? Like, that day you woke up, got a blowjob, had a bloody mary, saw some friends, maybe another blowjob, and a great dinner. That’s like a perfect day. I understand it doesn’t have the dizzying highs of birth, but it also doesn’t have that terror factor, which, if you see the pictures taken of me on the day of my kid’s birth, was clearly in play, at least for me. Sure, it becomes less scary, but that first day, boy. Woo-hoo. Talk about having to use some expensive equipment without having a manual. You know how much a baby goes for out there? Me either, but I’m pretty sure this dude on my lap is worth more than my iPod.
Honestly, and this is so cheesy that I hesitate to write it, but I think my wedding day was the happiest day of my life. All my friends and family at a party that I had at least some say in making sure was cool…I knew I was going to Mexico for a week right afterwards. I was pretty confident in my spouse choice. Yeah, that was a great day. We also rolled through the Taco Bell drive through at 1 am and ordered 60 bean burritos. That was a nice capper.
Nah, but I’m not talking about happy days, or exciting days, I’m talking about insane days. Days where you maybe (in my case for sure) pray a little bit and say “hey god, I know we don’t really get along, but if you get me out of here alive to tell this story, I promise I won’t embellish it or anything, and I’ll never, ever, ever let a war photographer talk me into driving sixty miles and walking two miles into a French forest in a snowstorm again. So what if it’s the only place where I’ve ever seen someone ask cops for heroin, or seen a camper on fire. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Today, office max and the dog groomers. That’s pretty exciting too, right? Stay tuned! Today may just usurp that day in France as the most insane day of my life. I kind of hope not though, I’ve got a weekend of parenting and bartending ahead of me, and I need my rest.
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