Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Xana-don't-mind-if-I-du
Upon recent viewing of the 1980 film Xanadu, "A Spectacular Entertainment" as the incredibly Caucasian sounding announcer says in the film's trailer, I feel that it is my duty to write a bit about it and make December official "Xanadu Awareness Month". Hey - there's only a day left of December, so stop your damned bitching!
I've watched this movie every 5 or so years since its release on home video in the 80s, and like pungent cheese, not too many people like it but it keeps getting better with age. Many would think my fondness for this neon turd in the form of film is due to my relentless obsession with Olivia Newton-John that I never really grew out of (reeeeeOW!). Well, I'm sure that has something to do with it, but that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Long story short, this movie is basically about a rollerskating muse that comes in and out of a hunky record cover painter's life and advises him and Gene Kelly to start a nightclub called, you guessed it, Xanadu. She falls in love with hunky record cover painter, vice versa, and the rest you just have to see for yourself.
For the 2% of you that are still with me at this point, let's take a look at the many stunning ingredients that went into Xanadu, shall we?
- A giggly, mysterious, perplexing Olivia Newton-John
- Olivia's 800 mysterious, perplexing costume changes
- Michael Beck: the poor man's Andy Gibb (at least when the camera catches him at the right angle - otherwise, he looks like the garbage man)
- Gene Kelly: the main question on my mind (and probably a lot of other people's) - How the Hell did he get into this mess?
- Roller skates and lots of rollerskate acrobatics.
- Lots of spandex and legwarmer-clad dancers with hard nipples and huge inappropriate buldges.
- Top notch *ahem* special effects involving a lot of glowing neon auras and comet trails behind Olivia, er, I mean Kira and her muses traveling at light speed.
- Softcore punk rockers
- 1 Solid Gold dancer: this one (I'm sure there were more buried in there somewhere)
- Breakdancer extraordinaire Ozone from the movie "Breakin" (which is next on the Netflix queue, so watch out)
- A breathtaking dual between heavy metal and big band music where both bands take turns playing, and suddenly decide to join together as one, playing both genres of music simultaneously. It is as heavenly of a marriage as that of chocolate and peanut butter.
- The Tubes, with some nice cheekbone makeup and Sit-N-Spin style keyboard stand
- The music of ELO.. actually the entire soundtrack is worth giving a listen to.
- Several instances of poor looping (when you see the person's mouth moving but the overdubbed audio doesn't match up at ALL)
- More song and dance on rollerskates than a person could ever wish for
- The token 80's "trying on clothes" montage in which non-stop zaniness and shenanigans ensue.
- A storyline with more holes than a 50 lb brick of Swiss cheese. Cinematic continuity was evidently no major concern, either.
- A bombastic, spectacular musical finale that doesn't make much sense. Actually it makes no sense whatsoever. I'm guessing they just sort of slapped it together because they were tired of working on the movie and said "ah, fuck it - let's just get this thing over with before the studio changes their mind!"
If you are a connoisseur of extremely cheesy, low-brow, B quality movies that most other people can't stand like I am, it's time to go rent or buy this sucker, make some popcorn, and buckle your seatbelts for the ride of your life. It is, as they say, "a spectacular entertainment."
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Welcome to The Eggnog Experiment.
I am "a fan of the nog" as it is so often said at the coffee shop. When this time of the year rolls around, I drink eggnog with an added element of suspense and uncertainty, treating every sip of nog as if it were my last one until next Thanksgiving. It is removed from store shelves sometime after New Years, ripping it out of my grasp without warning like some sort of cruel joke.I got to thinking a few minutes ago: What if I froze some nog? Like an entire container of it, and then thawed the eggnogcicle out when I wanted some in a few months. Hmm.
It would probably develop that icky freezer taste in time if I just left it in the carton, which is why I'm going to take matters a step further. I have access to a vacuum sealing contraption called a Foodsaver, which allows you to put whatever you want preserved in a plastic bag, sucks all the air out, and heat seals the bag shut. This is gonna be awesome. I already foresee one problem in my way, which is the Foodsaver's vacuuming feature "drinking" some of the nog once all of the air is sucked out of the bag. But if I wear safety goggles (like Mr. Wizard always did) and watch closely, I can cut off the suction and hit the seal button and hopefully have a nice, vacuum sealed pouch of eggnog to stow away in the freezer until I'm feeling like I need the cheer that only a nice, frosty glass of nog can deliver.
I assume that will be sometime in February or March, so be sure to check back then to see how it pans out. If it does work, I'll sell you a bag, but I can tell you right now that it's not going to be cheap.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Yes, they have peanut brittle.
The bakery next to the coffee shop has a sign in the window that says "YES, WE HAVE PEANUT BRITTLE" It is handwritten on an 8.5 x 11 sheet in thin colored marker. I let out a huge sigh of relief upon reading that sign.. You don't see peanut brittle too much these days and I was starting to get worried that it was going out of style. Who wants to eat gummy bears or chocolate when you can have something rock hard that if it doesn't first break your teeth, will get lodged in every possible crevice your teeth have to offer and remind you of where all of your cavities are with nice sharp, cold jolts of pain?
Aaah, the holidays are over. For me, at least. Never really celebrated New Years Eve in our family - it's quite a silly thing to celebrate, no? Everyone gets drunk, more drunk, and more drunk, and then 11:59 comes. Suddenly everyone is making a bunch of noise, and you wonder "Why is everyone making so much noise? What's wrong...?" and then it dawns on you: "Oh yeah, I've had too much to drink and it must officially be 2005. Woo hoo! I need to be festive now because the numbers changed!"
To me, New Years means only one thing: I need to try and remember to write 05 on my checks instead of 04. However, this time around I'm not writing checks anymore because I don't have money to cover them, nor do I have a checking account. Worse yet, last I heard, Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years Eve isn't even being hosted by Dick because he's 200 years old and recently had a stroke or broke a hip... or one of his limbs fell off because he's 200 years old and is turning into a fossil. Regis Philbin is filling in and he's cool, but no spring chicken either - what if he falls apart before then? Then they'd probably get some limp weiner like Al Roker or Ryan Seacrest for the gig. I think they should have someone like Howard Stern, Courtney Love, or Anna Nicole host the thing.. it would at least be entertaining, because you'd never know what was going to come next. They still call Dick America's Oldest Teenager. I think Dick should get into hippety hop music to try and appeal to today's teenagers.. start playing Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, wearing Sean Jean apparel, drinking Pimp Juice and all that good stuff.
With that in mind, I need to find a reason to be excited about the year changing over. Find a New Years resolution and stick to it. Umm... I know! My New Years resolution will be this: I hope that somewhere in the 365 days that will be 2005, I will get another tattoo. I saw Dr. Phil on a talk show and he said to stick to your New Years resolution, you need to convince yourself that New Years resolutions are not fun and they're a lot of work if you really want to fulfill them. If you fall off the horse, you need to get right back on and keep going.
Man, I better live up to that one - I wouldn't want to disappoint myself. I better start thinking about a design and price range. This is some pretty serious, high priority, important stuff.
Aaah, the holidays are over. For me, at least. Never really celebrated New Years Eve in our family - it's quite a silly thing to celebrate, no? Everyone gets drunk, more drunk, and more drunk, and then 11:59 comes. Suddenly everyone is making a bunch of noise, and you wonder "Why is everyone making so much noise? What's wrong...?" and then it dawns on you: "Oh yeah, I've had too much to drink and it must officially be 2005. Woo hoo! I need to be festive now because the numbers changed!"
To me, New Years means only one thing: I need to try and remember to write 05 on my checks instead of 04. However, this time around I'm not writing checks anymore because I don't have money to cover them, nor do I have a checking account. Worse yet, last I heard, Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years Eve isn't even being hosted by Dick because he's 200 years old and recently had a stroke or broke a hip... or one of his limbs fell off because he's 200 years old and is turning into a fossil. Regis Philbin is filling in and he's cool, but no spring chicken either - what if he falls apart before then? Then they'd probably get some limp weiner like Al Roker or Ryan Seacrest for the gig. I think they should have someone like Howard Stern, Courtney Love, or Anna Nicole host the thing.. it would at least be entertaining, because you'd never know what was going to come next. They still call Dick America's Oldest Teenager. I think Dick should get into hippety hop music to try and appeal to today's teenagers.. start playing Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, wearing Sean Jean apparel, drinking Pimp Juice and all that good stuff.
With that in mind, I need to find a reason to be excited about the year changing over. Find a New Years resolution and stick to it. Umm... I know! My New Years resolution will be this: I hope that somewhere in the 365 days that will be 2005, I will get another tattoo. I saw Dr. Phil on a talk show and he said to stick to your New Years resolution, you need to convince yourself that New Years resolutions are not fun and they're a lot of work if you really want to fulfill them. If you fall off the horse, you need to get right back on and keep going.
Man, I better live up to that one - I wouldn't want to disappoint myself. I better start thinking about a design and price range. This is some pretty serious, high priority, important stuff.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Holiday music disgruntlement
Upon recent absorption of Christmas music via local radio stations, I have come to the conclusion that any Christmas song recorded after 1977 (the year Bowie and Bing Crosby rocked out together in "Peace on Earth" to the delight of television audiences across the nation), is completely unnecessary. Ludicrous. Painful. Well, maybe I can let a Harry Connick Jr. recording or two slip by... but I just heard Rod Stewart and Dolly Parton sing "Baby it's Cold Outside" and nearly regurgitated eggnog through my nostrils. Even the newer Johnny Mathis Christmas recordings are digital, dull, and lifeless - and he's one of the ambassadors of the golden age of recorded Christmas music.We need to gather every single piece of Mariah Carey, Trans Siberian Orchestra, Mannheim Steamroller, Amy Grant, Rod Stewart, Gloria Estefan, Kenny G., etc, musical Christmas renderings out there, especially in radio station archives, and have a cd smashing party.
Everyone with me? There is a great abundance of this feces disguised as holiday music out there, so we need to get an early start on gathering it in order to make next Christmas safe to turn on the radio again.
I'll get a hold of everyone in the spring.
Next year instead of turning your radio on and letting Clear Channel turn your brain into a mushy programmed holiday music robot, check these CDs out:
Ultralounge Christmas Cocktails
The Ventures Christmas Album
A Charlie Brown Christmas
Friday, December 24, 2004
Christmas Mammaries
Er... I mean, memories.
In "A Christmas Story", quite possibly the best holiday movie ever, Ralphie wanted an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time.
When I was 7, I had desires of my own like that (didn't we all?) Three of them, to be exact. And Santa, ol' buddy ol' pal, delivered the goods: Paul, Ace, and Peter to complete my KISS solo album collection. For those of you not cool enough to know the KISS member names (hee hee), that means the purple, blue and green guys.
I received Gene Simmons, aka the red one, for my birthday 5 months prior (thanks again for that, Cookie!) It was the very first LP I ever owned - what a way to break a 7 year old kid in! It was also the very reason I ended up picking up a guitar. As I like to tell people, had it not been for those "4 happy-go-lucky guys wearing makeup" as Gene Simmons once put it, I'd probably never have thought 2wice about playing any sort of instrument. I'd also probably have some dull dead-end decent paying office job.
I also scored Spiderman and Star Trek stories on vinyl that Christmas. Salivating with delight, I took my pile of records up to my dirty white shag-carpeted room and spent the majority of that day listening to my new stash and drawing pictures. Every so often I'd take a break to look at my new KISS View Master reels, also courtesy of Santa, which I still have to this day (along with all of those records, which are now in frames and on my wall.)
Records were the best... people that have never had the experience of peeling the cellophane off of a new record and taking that giant, clean disc out of its sleeve for the first time don't know what they're missing. KISS records were especially fun, because they came with cool inserts and giant posters... and some had fancy gatefold covers. CDs are great, but there was a lot more charm to the listening experience back in the days of vinyl... you could fit a lot more eye candy on an album cover than you can on CD covers. Krikey - I'm starting to sound like an old fart with all of this "things were better when I was a kid" yammering.
Next Christmas memory brings me back to my grandpa's house - the Pinto Grandpa. I was probably 5 or 6, methinks, sitting atop a black swirly chair in his tiny, cluttered, dark kitchen drinking eggnog out of a small plastic blue cup. I was looking at the little red ceramic airplane hanging from his kitchen light and wondering why his house had such a peculiar aroma. As I got older and became more observant, I discovered the recipe of that aroma the more I visited his house: moth balls, dust, and dog fur. Yummy!
The only other one that stands out is my 7th grade Christmas Eve. My brother and mom were puking their guts out with a flu bug... aaah, good times. My parents gave me a light up globe, a telescope, and a kickass Radio Shack electronics lab kit. I was convinced I was going to build some sort of nuclear weapon out of the thing, but never got around to it. That was also the year I received yet another historical piece of vinyl that changed my life: Leo Kottke's "The Best".
It's finally the 24th. 1 more day of listening to horrendous holiday music on the local oldie station which started playing it non-stop sometime shortly after July 4th. Time to head out to Lunds and fight the masses for a tiny container of cream of tartar please kill me now. Then: off to Mom and Dad's for what is going to be a very entertaining evening of gift giving. Homemade gifts are the theme this year, and my siblings are in for something very... interesting. Something that if I gave to a stranger, it wouldn't take too much convincing to make them think it came from somebody in a mental asylum. I'm not the crazy one; it's everybody else that's crazy.
In a feeble attempt to not offend or leave out anyone of a non-Christmas celebrating descent: Happy Everything from yours truly.
In "A Christmas Story", quite possibly the best holiday movie ever, Ralphie wanted an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time.
When I was 7, I had desires of my own like that (didn't we all?) Three of them, to be exact. And Santa, ol' buddy ol' pal, delivered the goods: Paul, Ace, and Peter to complete my KISS solo album collection. For those of you not cool enough to know the KISS member names (hee hee), that means the purple, blue and green guys.
I received Gene Simmons, aka the red one, for my birthday 5 months prior (thanks again for that, Cookie!) It was the very first LP I ever owned - what a way to break a 7 year old kid in! It was also the very reason I ended up picking up a guitar. As I like to tell people, had it not been for those "4 happy-go-lucky guys wearing makeup" as Gene Simmons once put it, I'd probably never have thought 2wice about playing any sort of instrument. I'd also probably have some dull dead-end decent paying office job.
I also scored Spiderman and Star Trek stories on vinyl that Christmas. Salivating with delight, I took my pile of records up to my dirty white shag-carpeted room and spent the majority of that day listening to my new stash and drawing pictures. Every so often I'd take a break to look at my new KISS View Master reels, also courtesy of Santa, which I still have to this day (along with all of those records, which are now in frames and on my wall.)
Records were the best... people that have never had the experience of peeling the cellophane off of a new record and taking that giant, clean disc out of its sleeve for the first time don't know what they're missing. KISS records were especially fun, because they came with cool inserts and giant posters... and some had fancy gatefold covers. CDs are great, but there was a lot more charm to the listening experience back in the days of vinyl... you could fit a lot more eye candy on an album cover than you can on CD covers. Krikey - I'm starting to sound like an old fart with all of this "things were better when I was a kid" yammering.
Next Christmas memory brings me back to my grandpa's house - the Pinto Grandpa. I was probably 5 or 6, methinks, sitting atop a black swirly chair in his tiny, cluttered, dark kitchen drinking eggnog out of a small plastic blue cup. I was looking at the little red ceramic airplane hanging from his kitchen light and wondering why his house had such a peculiar aroma. As I got older and became more observant, I discovered the recipe of that aroma the more I visited his house: moth balls, dust, and dog fur. Yummy!
The only other one that stands out is my 7th grade Christmas Eve. My brother and mom were puking their guts out with a flu bug... aaah, good times. My parents gave me a light up globe, a telescope, and a kickass Radio Shack electronics lab kit. I was convinced I was going to build some sort of nuclear weapon out of the thing, but never got around to it. That was also the year I received yet another historical piece of vinyl that changed my life: Leo Kottke's "The Best".
It's finally the 24th. 1 more day of listening to horrendous holiday music on the local oldie station which started playing it non-stop sometime shortly after July 4th. Time to head out to Lunds and fight the masses for a tiny container of cream of tartar please kill me now. Then: off to Mom and Dad's for what is going to be a very entertaining evening of gift giving. Homemade gifts are the theme this year, and my siblings are in for something very... interesting. Something that if I gave to a stranger, it wouldn't take too much convincing to make them think it came from somebody in a mental asylum. I'm not the crazy one; it's everybody else that's crazy.
In a feeble attempt to not offend or leave out anyone of a non-Christmas celebrating descent: Happy Everything from yours truly.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Holiday artwork for you to poop on.
Many of you know I like to draw pictures and always have ever since I was old enough to hold a permanent marker and scribble all over my mom's antique dining room chairs (sorry about that, by the way).
Seeing that I might not have too much time to kill writing my usual Blogger poot over the next few days, I will share a couple of my holiday themed artistic renderings with you as a cheap ass token of my appreciation for you stopping by here to read as frequently as some of you do.
Without further ado -
This one I did for an Iced Ink flyer:
And this one I did while screwing around at my cushy office job when I was supposed to be working (which I did about 99% of the time). I had to do it in MSPaint, which sucks - but if you're bored enough, you do the best with what you've got.
And here's a shot of me snow tubing on a recent vacation in the Swiss Alps.
Hope you enjoyed. May your Christmas gravy not be lumpy. I hope everybody has a great one with friends, family, pets, and other microscopic organisms that live in your homes whose presence you likely neglect to acknowledge the other 364 days of the year... like dust mites.
Ho Ho Ho!
Seeing that I might not have too much time to kill writing my usual Blogger poot over the next few days, I will share a couple of my holiday themed artistic renderings with you as a cheap ass token of my appreciation for you stopping by here to read as frequently as some of you do.
Without further ado -
This one I did for an Iced Ink flyer:
And this one I did while screwing around at my cushy office job when I was supposed to be working (which I did about 99% of the time). I had to do it in MSPaint, which sucks - but if you're bored enough, you do the best with what you've got.
And here's a shot of me snow tubing on a recent vacation in the Swiss Alps.
Hope you enjoyed. May your Christmas gravy not be lumpy. I hope everybody has a great one with friends, family, pets, and other microscopic organisms that live in your homes whose presence you likely neglect to acknowledge the other 364 days of the year... like dust mites.
Ho Ho Ho!
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Caca who?
Last night after watching Bill Murray's hilarious appearance on Letterman where he was talking about how he was convinced he was poisoned, I had my index finger on the power button of the TV to turn it off. At that precise moment, Dave said "Ladies and gentlemen, Kaki King!"
Caca who? The camera zoomed in to a young girl alone onstage holding an electric acoustic Ovation 6 string. Ugh, I thought, here we go with another "I'm so sad, he doesn't want me, waa waaa..." poet-disguised-with-a-guitar Jewel-is-my-hero performer.
The second her fingers touched the strings, I knew I was dead wrong and was sucked into watching for the next 3 minutes like it was an intense guitar lesson... I was literally hypnotized. She was tapping, strumming, knocking, and doing just about every other thing to that guitar to make it sound like 2-3 guitarists and a percussionist playing, all by herself. She never sang or spoke a word. When she hit the last note, I heard myself saying out loud "Holy SHIT!"
Wha??? An amazing solo acoustic instrumentalist on national TV? And very easy on the eyes, no less? I was certain that Hell had frozen over or someone that worked for the network lost a poker game. "Sorry, James - I know you wanted Barenaked Ladies on the show, but you lost the game - so we'll pick someone nobody has heard of that doesn't sing. You might lose your job because of it; you know we only do top 40."
Last time I was this taken aback by music on TV was probably 1985(?) when I saw Leo Kottke on PBS. It was like standing there watching someone reinvent the wheel... hats off to whomever books the talent at Letterman for introducing me and a million other Late Night viewers to this girl and her unorthodox playing - I hope it's not another 20 years before the next person blows me away on national television.
She's on tour - watch the f*&k out, acoustic guitar fans, you're about to get your asses handed to you. If she was playing in MN on a night other than New Years Eve and the tickets weren't so expensive (she's opening for Marc Cohn), I'd be there faster than you can say "a".
Buy this girl's music - she deserves to make a living off what she's doing. http://www.kakiking.com/ FYI - the composition she played was "Playing With Pink Noise". Ms. King, when you're in town, let's hook up. I'll treat you to the finest dining experience White Castle on Lake Street has to offer.
See also: Michael Hedges, Minnesota's own Preston Reed and Billy McLaughlin
Caca who? The camera zoomed in to a young girl alone onstage holding an electric acoustic Ovation 6 string. Ugh, I thought, here we go with another "I'm so sad, he doesn't want me, waa waaa..." poet-disguised-with-a-guitar Jewel-is-my-hero performer.
The second her fingers touched the strings, I knew I was dead wrong and was sucked into watching for the next 3 minutes like it was an intense guitar lesson... I was literally hypnotized. She was tapping, strumming, knocking, and doing just about every other thing to that guitar to make it sound like 2-3 guitarists and a percussionist playing, all by herself. She never sang or spoke a word. When she hit the last note, I heard myself saying out loud "Holy SHIT!"
Wha??? An amazing solo acoustic instrumentalist on national TV? And very easy on the eyes, no less? I was certain that Hell had frozen over or someone that worked for the network lost a poker game. "Sorry, James - I know you wanted Barenaked Ladies on the show, but you lost the game - so we'll pick someone nobody has heard of that doesn't sing. You might lose your job because of it; you know we only do top 40."Last time I was this taken aback by music on TV was probably 1985(?) when I saw Leo Kottke on PBS. It was like standing there watching someone reinvent the wheel... hats off to whomever books the talent at Letterman for introducing me and a million other Late Night viewers to this girl and her unorthodox playing - I hope it's not another 20 years before the next person blows me away on national television.
She's on tour - watch the f*&k out, acoustic guitar fans, you're about to get your asses handed to you. If she was playing in MN on a night other than New Years Eve and the tickets weren't so expensive (she's opening for Marc Cohn), I'd be there faster than you can say "a".
Buy this girl's music - she deserves to make a living off what she's doing. http://www.kakiking.com/ FYI - the composition she played was "Playing With Pink Noise". Ms. King, when you're in town, let's hook up. I'll treat you to the finest dining experience White Castle on Lake Street has to offer.
See also: Michael Hedges, Minnesota's own Preston Reed and Billy McLaughlin
Monday, December 20, 2004
Hear that sound?
Christmas is coming a few days early for me. The sound you hear is the sound of me becoming a loser tomorrow morning when I rush out to buy a copy of the newly released Napoleon Dynamite DVD and go home to watch it until I'm blue in the face and can't feel my legs anymore. This is by far my favorite movie to come out this year... probably my favorite since seeing Ghost World a few years ago. I went to see Napoleon multiple times in the theaters I liked it so much (I never do that!) It is the crème de la crème of nerd movies.
If you're looking for top notch bizarre humor and the most pathetic cast of losers out there, do yourself a favor and view this film at your earliest possible convenience... I command thee! In the mean time, why don't you go "make yourself a dang kayza dilla"?
Ack... there I go quoting the movie already. Anyone that knows me is doomed.
If you're looking for top notch bizarre humor and the most pathetic cast of losers out there, do yourself a favor and view this film at your earliest possible convenience... I command thee! In the mean time, why don't you go "make yourself a dang kayza dilla"?
Ack... there I go quoting the movie already. Anyone that knows me is doomed.
Friday, December 17, 2004
This is the most counterintuitive mouse I've ever used.
Dear Logitech,
I've been doing a lot of graphic work on my computing device as of late and decided now is the time to test out one of your TrackMan® Wheel mice.
I got home and got everything all plugged in, but can't seem to figure out how the TrackMan® is supposed to make graphics or controlling the cursor any easier.
I don't want to sound like some sort of idiot that isn't capable of using an elaborate mouse such as the TrackMan® - I use computers all the time, and know darn well that using a mouse isn't rocket science.
Not the case with the TrackMan®. Here's the problem: look at the photo and you'll see what I'm getting at. The mouse ball is freakin' huge, and it's on the side of the mouse - not the bottom, like every other mouse out there. When I put it down on the mouse pad to navigate, the whole mouse rocks back and forth because the ball is so big. And to make matters worse, if you look at my hand in the picture, the buttons are not in the most convenient location. How the hell am I to keep this damned thing from rolling all over my desk when I don't have my hand on it, much less be able to press the buttons? Maybe you need to sell a stand for it or something. All it's good for now is sitting on my desk looking like a futuristic sculpture of a melted stick of roll-on anti perspirant.
I can't imagine this isn't the first complaint you've ever received in regards to the TrackMan's® counterintuitive design. I am enlosing my receipt, the package, and the mouse for a full refund. I'm sorry the mouse and cord have become separated, but I became so frustrated trying to use it that I ripped it out of my computer. Evidently the USB port had a better grip on the cord than the mouse chassis itself. So not only do we have a design problem, but a durability problem as well.
For future reference, you might want to steer clear from putting a product on store shelves such as the TrackMan® at least without including an instructional video with it to show people how the hell they're supposed to use the damned thing.
Thank you very much and good day.
I've been doing a lot of graphic work on my computing device as of late and decided now is the time to test out one of your TrackMan® Wheel mice.I got home and got everything all plugged in, but can't seem to figure out how the TrackMan® is supposed to make graphics or controlling the cursor any easier.
I don't want to sound like some sort of idiot that isn't capable of using an elaborate mouse such as the TrackMan® - I use computers all the time, and know darn well that using a mouse isn't rocket science.
Not the case with the TrackMan®. Here's the problem: look at the photo and you'll see what I'm getting at. The mouse ball is freakin' huge, and it's on the side of the mouse - not the bottom, like every other mouse out there. When I put it down on the mouse pad to navigate, the whole mouse rocks back and forth because the ball is so big. And to make matters worse, if you look at my hand in the picture, the buttons are not in the most convenient location. How the hell am I to keep this damned thing from rolling all over my desk when I don't have my hand on it, much less be able to press the buttons? Maybe you need to sell a stand for it or something. All it's good for now is sitting on my desk looking like a futuristic sculpture of a melted stick of roll-on anti perspirant.I can't imagine this isn't the first complaint you've ever received in regards to the TrackMan's® counterintuitive design. I am enlosing my receipt, the package, and the mouse for a full refund. I'm sorry the mouse and cord have become separated, but I became so frustrated trying to use it that I ripped it out of my computer. Evidently the USB port had a better grip on the cord than the mouse chassis itself. So not only do we have a design problem, but a durability problem as well.
For future reference, you might want to steer clear from putting a product on store shelves such as the TrackMan® at least without including an instructional video with it to show people how the hell they're supposed to use the damned thing.
Thank you very much and good day.
A waffle iron that actually irons waffles
I have a tortilla press kind of like this one
and got to thinking, hey - this would probably work a lot better than my real waffle iron does.. next time I want my waffles flattened, I'm using this thing instead.
and got to thinking, hey - this would probably work a lot better than my real waffle iron does.. next time I want my waffles flattened, I'm using this thing instead.
Huge Blind Spot on Board
Yesterday while driving through Highland Park I saw a pickup truck with a sign that took up the entire back window that said something about seat belt safety. Did it occur to the driver that their entire rear windshield is covered, thus rendering another rather important safety device, the rearview mirror, completely useless?
I'm sure the sign bearer's intentions were all good ones, but maybe they should change it to display this important safety message:
I'm sure the sign bearer's intentions were all good ones, but maybe they should change it to display this important safety message:
CAUTION: I MAY ACCIDENTALLY CUT YOU OFF
BECAUSE I CAN'T SEE YOU THROUGH
THIS BIG FUCKING SIGN IN MY WINDOW
BECAUSE I CAN'T SEE YOU THROUGH
THIS BIG FUCKING SIGN IN MY WINDOW
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Thought for the Day: Cheese food = food for cheese.
I recently came to the conclusion that fake cheese that is not in conventional brick cheese form, a.k.a. "Cheese Food" as it is commonly referred to on many spreadable/aerosol cheese package labels, exists for the sole purpose of being fed to real cheese to help it grow.
So, with that in mind, go about your lives as usual... but don't forget to feed the cheese.
So, with that in mind, go about your lives as usual... but don't forget to feed the cheese.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Yeah... my band is pretty awesome.
I am usually the last person to ever get up like a bird chested mama's boy and gloat or toot my own horn, but I stumbled across a show review thread of sorts on a local message board in regards to a recent set my band Iced Ink played that made me a proud papa. Screw modesty for the next few minutes... here's what the peeps are saying:
"OMG.....It's monday...I'm at work...and my cocentration today is fer shit! I cant think straight...i do stuff out of order....why??? I think it's residual Iced Ink circulating in my crainial matter. Serious....this band had the most AMAZING and CONFUSING performance of the evening. I mean..i listen to some jazz and some progressive rock...but this was...I dont even know??!?!? Prog/acid jazz/fusion/???? You have to give it to these folks...to make music that messed up..you have to be REALLY GOOD!! I can't fathom how to assemble such pieces of music..much less imagine how they remember to play it the EXACT same way every time! All hail Iced Ink! PLUS!!! IMHO, they get "Album title of the year"..hands down! "There's a bee in here" It just struck me as funny as hell. Mucho props folks"
--
"I've said it once and I'll say it again. Iced Ink makes you wants to lay down your instruments, smash them to bits and pieces, turn in a circle 3 times chanting "I'm not worthy" and do it all over again."
--
"I'll be posting pics of this soon, but for now I have to agree. Every musician in that band kicks ass! Their timing is digital, the energy is like being in a paint shaker. A lot of percussionists don't really add much, but that girl stood out all by herself. Hard to do when your drummer is a fucking madman with a metronome for a brain. Mike changes the tone and effects on his guitar every four measures or so, and I just can't follow it. It made me insane with jealousy. Those guys smoked the place. I would have hated to be in one of the bands that followed. And what Paul said was soooo true. You can just tell that every note is the same every time they play. That kind of consistency is inhuman."
--
"It took me a good half dozen times seeing them to really "get" what they were doing. Since then they've been one of the few bands that I consistently get out to see as often as possible. Astounding!"
--
"I'm a fool for missing this, but I was totally incapacitated. I will say though that I have seen this band before, and they make my testes tickle. They rool."
--
"I've never really liked any instrumental bands. When I saw Iced Ink I had to buy the CD immediately. They are F'ing awesome."
--
Wow. Now if only we could get a few hundred more people in this town to even know we exist and come close to having similar opinions, life would be grand. I am very grateful for the kind commentary and gratuitous ego massages from everyone on that board and anyone else that ever comes up to us after a set and gives a thumbs up. It makes all of those shows where no one is listening and we make $8 strangely seem worthwhile.
"OMG.....It's monday...I'm at work...and my cocentration today is fer shit! I cant think straight...i do stuff out of order....why??? I think it's residual Iced Ink circulating in my crainial matter. Serious....this band had the most AMAZING and CONFUSING performance of the evening. I mean..i listen to some jazz and some progressive rock...but this was...I dont even know??!?!? Prog/acid jazz/fusion/???? You have to give it to these folks...to make music that messed up..you have to be REALLY GOOD!! I can't fathom how to assemble such pieces of music..much less imagine how they remember to play it the EXACT same way every time! All hail Iced Ink! PLUS!!! IMHO, they get "Album title of the year"..hands down! "There's a bee in here" It just struck me as funny as hell. Mucho props folks"
--
"I've said it once and I'll say it again. Iced Ink makes you wants to lay down your instruments, smash them to bits and pieces, turn in a circle 3 times chanting "I'm not worthy" and do it all over again."
--
"I'll be posting pics of this soon, but for now I have to agree. Every musician in that band kicks ass! Their timing is digital, the energy is like being in a paint shaker. A lot of percussionists don't really add much, but that girl stood out all by herself. Hard to do when your drummer is a fucking madman with a metronome for a brain. Mike changes the tone and effects on his guitar every four measures or so, and I just can't follow it. It made me insane with jealousy. Those guys smoked the place. I would have hated to be in one of the bands that followed. And what Paul said was soooo true. You can just tell that every note is the same every time they play. That kind of consistency is inhuman."
--
"It took me a good half dozen times seeing them to really "get" what they were doing. Since then they've been one of the few bands that I consistently get out to see as often as possible. Astounding!"
--
"I'm a fool for missing this, but I was totally incapacitated. I will say though that I have seen this band before, and they make my testes tickle. They rool."
--
"I've never really liked any instrumental bands. When I saw Iced Ink I had to buy the CD immediately. They are F'ing awesome."
--
Wow. Now if only we could get a few hundred more people in this town to even know we exist and come close to having similar opinions, life would be grand. I am very grateful for the kind commentary and gratuitous ego massages from everyone on that board and anyone else that ever comes up to us after a set and gives a thumbs up. It makes all of those shows where no one is listening and we make $8 strangely seem worthwhile.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
My love affair Olivia Newton-John
When I was in 3rd grade, I had a very special lady in my life who I was certain I was going to marry: Olivia Newton-John. There was only one thing in our way, and that was my 3rd grade teacher Mrs. Hauser. If it weren't for her, Olivia and I would be skipping through the grassy fields of Australia hand in hand with the koala bears and kangaroos to this day, methinks.
You see, what happened is I had a picture I clipped out of People Magazine that I carried around with me. It was this picture (thank you, internet):
Hoo haaa! Anyways, one day I decided I couldn't make it through the school day without her, so I folded Olivia up and took her to school with me. I placed her in my desk where she sat until after lunch break when I decided to take a peek. I lifted up my desk lid and said hello, how do you do, what would you like to do after school today, and whatever impurities were racing through my 3rd grade mind at that time. I had never wanted to be a dead tree so badly in my life. I wondered what she was looking at when that picture was taken. Probably me sipping a chocolate milk. Yeah, she was looking at me.. and ... next thing I knew...
"Michael, what are you looking at?"
dooooooooooooh no. It was my teacher Mrs. Hauser snapping my ass back into the real world. Her voice was like a cold splash of water to the nether regions, if you know what I'm sayin'. I was busted. She snatched the picture out of my hands, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage. My one and only Olivia picture other than my sister's Grease LP cover which I certainly couldn't take, because she'd notice it was missing. Olivia was gone for good, but not forgotten.
I spent the last hour or two of the day thinking maybe I'd try to go rescue it. The garbage was right beneath the pencil sharpener, and I could easily fake going up there to sharpen a pencil and try to intercept my People Porn. Maybe as we put our coats on at the end of the day I could grab it when no one was looking. Hmm...
It didn't happen. I chickened out. When you're a kid, a mean old biddy like a school teacher is not someone you want to piss off. That was that - I never saw that picture again up until I remembered that incident this morning. It put a damper on the whole Olivia thing for me, and because of that I never ended up with her.
Thanks for ruining my life, Mrs. Hauser.
You see, what happened is I had a picture I clipped out of People Magazine that I carried around with me. It was this picture (thank you, internet):
Hoo haaa! Anyways, one day I decided I couldn't make it through the school day without her, so I folded Olivia up and took her to school with me. I placed her in my desk where she sat until after lunch break when I decided to take a peek. I lifted up my desk lid and said hello, how do you do, what would you like to do after school today, and whatever impurities were racing through my 3rd grade mind at that time. I had never wanted to be a dead tree so badly in my life. I wondered what she was looking at when that picture was taken. Probably me sipping a chocolate milk. Yeah, she was looking at me.. and ... next thing I knew...
"Michael, what are you looking at?"
dooooooooooooh no. It was my teacher Mrs. Hauser snapping my ass back into the real world. Her voice was like a cold splash of water to the nether regions, if you know what I'm sayin'. I was busted. She snatched the picture out of my hands, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage. My one and only Olivia picture other than my sister's Grease LP cover which I certainly couldn't take, because she'd notice it was missing. Olivia was gone for good, but not forgotten.
I spent the last hour or two of the day thinking maybe I'd try to go rescue it. The garbage was right beneath the pencil sharpener, and I could easily fake going up there to sharpen a pencil and try to intercept my People Porn. Maybe as we put our coats on at the end of the day I could grab it when no one was looking. Hmm...
It didn't happen. I chickened out. When you're a kid, a mean old biddy like a school teacher is not someone you want to piss off. That was that - I never saw that picture again up until I remembered that incident this morning. It put a damper on the whole Olivia thing for me, and because of that I never ended up with her.
Thanks for ruining my life, Mrs. Hauser.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Pardon me, do you know where The Wienery is?
A customer just came into the coffee shop and asked me if I knew where The Wienery is. Me? Never been. However, I've heard The Wienery is evidently a restaurant of sorts that serves - you guessed it - wieners. Wait... I can't call him a customer, because I had never seen him before and he did not purchase anything. He was a wiener eater in peril.
A person doesn't expect to be greeted by another person with an inquiry such as this: "Hey, man, do you know where the Wienery is?" If your brain is like mine, when you hear a word like "wiener" and don't see it coming, it's funny. 'Funny' like when you're walking by someone at the grocery store and you hear them gas. You want to laugh so bad, but you can't.
The lost wiener-craving gentleman sported a beard and looked like the wiener eating type. It was hard for me to withhold myself from making some sort of Beavis & Butthead comment. So hard. No pun intended. Something along the lines of "sorry, Buttlick, but I'm not that kind of person," or "so, what are you gonna eat when you get there?"
Thanks to the internet, I was able to assist His Wienerness in finding his destination via Mapquest and he was soon on his way to wiener-eating heaven.
FYI: to properly locate The Wienery, head north on Cedar and it's somewhere just before Washington. It's safe to assume it is a building that has a sign on it that says "The Wienery". It will more than likely be the only place on the block with a lot of people stuffing big fat wieners into their mouths. So - when you see a building with a 'Wienery' sign on it full of people stuffing big wieners into their mouths, yup, that's probably The Wienery. If you're hungry for a wiener, I bet they'll hook your ass up. And you best not be asking for none of that B-grade processed Oscar Meyer caca lest you want to be thrown out and told to go to Superamerica and never come back. I have a feeling with a name like "The Wienery", you get the real tasty 'freshly slaughtered by Farmer Ted lips & assholes tightly secured in a natural casing' deal.
When you get there, yell out loud and clear that you want the biggest, hottest wiener they've got, see what happens, and get back to me.
A person doesn't expect to be greeted by another person with an inquiry such as this: "Hey, man, do you know where the Wienery is?" If your brain is like mine, when you hear a word like "wiener" and don't see it coming, it's funny. 'Funny' like when you're walking by someone at the grocery store and you hear them gas. You want to laugh so bad, but you can't.
The lost wiener-craving gentleman sported a beard and looked like the wiener eating type. It was hard for me to withhold myself from making some sort of Beavis & Butthead comment. So hard. No pun intended. Something along the lines of "sorry, Buttlick, but I'm not that kind of person," or "so, what are you gonna eat when you get there?"
Thanks to the internet, I was able to assist His Wienerness in finding his destination via Mapquest and he was soon on his way to wiener-eating heaven.
FYI: to properly locate The Wienery, head north on Cedar and it's somewhere just before Washington. It's safe to assume it is a building that has a sign on it that says "The Wienery". It will more than likely be the only place on the block with a lot of people stuffing big fat wieners into their mouths. So - when you see a building with a 'Wienery' sign on it full of people stuffing big wieners into their mouths, yup, that's probably The Wienery. If you're hungry for a wiener, I bet they'll hook your ass up. And you best not be asking for none of that B-grade processed Oscar Meyer caca lest you want to be thrown out and told to go to Superamerica and never come back. I have a feeling with a name like "The Wienery", you get the real tasty 'freshly slaughtered by Farmer Ted lips & assholes tightly secured in a natural casing' deal.
When you get there, yell out loud and clear that you want the biggest, hottest wiener they've got, see what happens, and get back to me.
A letter to my superball, from Devo the cat
Dear Superball:
A few weeks ago we were running on the stairs together and you hit me in the nose. Mike threw you for me, and as you were bouncing around, next thing I knew I had a sharp sensation in my face from you bouncing into me. After that, Mike would try to throw you, but I refused to run after and retrieve you. The flashbacks... the pain... it was all just too much.
Since then, we haven't talked much. The whole thing scared me off a little bit, made me think that maybe it was time to start focusing on playing with Q Tips and string a bit more rather than you. They are much more fun to be hit in the face with.
I'd just like to say that it was nothing personal. I just can't be getting hurt like that when I'm trying to have a good time frolicking with my toys. There was no other toy as fun as you, especially after I bit that chunk out of you that one time. That made your bounces completely unpredictable - dude, chasing after you was such a rush.
Now that I get to thinking about it, maybe it's time we make up. I miss you, superball. Q Tips are great, but when Mike throws them, they don't do anything but land like a dead fish. Plus all of that cotton gets stuck to my tongue when I'm carrying them back to Mike to throw again. Cotton tastes bad and makes me thirsty.
Yeah, I'm gonna go hunt you down and bring you to Mike so he can throw you and I can chase after you. I'll be a little apprehensive at first, but after 5-6 throws if I'm not hurt, maybe we can talk about getting serious again.
I love you, superball.. here I come.
Devo
A few weeks ago we were running on the stairs together and you hit me in the nose. Mike threw you for me, and as you were bouncing around, next thing I knew I had a sharp sensation in my face from you bouncing into me. After that, Mike would try to throw you, but I refused to run after and retrieve you. The flashbacks... the pain... it was all just too much.
Since then, we haven't talked much. The whole thing scared me off a little bit, made me think that maybe it was time to start focusing on playing with Q Tips and string a bit more rather than you. They are much more fun to be hit in the face with.
I'd just like to say that it was nothing personal. I just can't be getting hurt like that when I'm trying to have a good time frolicking with my toys. There was no other toy as fun as you, especially after I bit that chunk out of you that one time. That made your bounces completely unpredictable - dude, chasing after you was such a rush.
Now that I get to thinking about it, maybe it's time we make up. I miss you, superball. Q Tips are great, but when Mike throws them, they don't do anything but land like a dead fish. Plus all of that cotton gets stuck to my tongue when I'm carrying them back to Mike to throw again. Cotton tastes bad and makes me thirsty.
Yeah, I'm gonna go hunt you down and bring you to Mike so he can throw you and I can chase after you. I'll be a little apprehensive at first, but after 5-6 throws if I'm not hurt, maybe we can talk about getting serious again.
I love you, superball.. here I come.
Devo
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Tonight my band plays at a Musicians Co-op.
Area 52 is the name of the place. I suppose anything can be a co-op if you want it to and have the means... the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word Co-op is organic food retailers. In Minneapplesauce, we have 2 major food co-ops: Whole Foods and The Wedge - both of which I've been to numerous times to get my $6/gallon of organic milk with high hopes that I score one of the gallons that is laced with rocket fuel. No dice yet on that one.
With the knowledge I posses about organic food co-ops, my imagination starts to fill the gaps for me as I ponder what exactly goes on at a musician's co-op. I've never heard of such a thing, but glad to hear they exist.
My imagination tells me this: it's allll organic all the way, man. Guitar strings and drum sticks are recycled. It is safe to assume there are beer bottles and cans aplenty there (it's a musician's co-op.. DUH!), which are also recycled. New guitar strings and drum sticks are likely available for purchase there, but they're make out of recycled pop cans and wood computer desks. And they come with a price tag at an average of 40% above the retail price at other music stores, or if you pay $1,000 a year and are a co-op member, you save an extra 10%. I say this because every co-op I've been to is f*&king outlandishly expensive. Not that there's anything wrong with that, other than when you buy stuff.
The co-op "oppers" all probably smell like patchouli mixed with unshaven armpit B.O. and have pale complexions like the oppers in the food stores. Hey, I'm not ripping on them, just calling it as I see it. I happen to have unshaven stinky pits myself.
There are big bins of guitar picks that you bring your own reused brown bags in to fill up with as many as you need. $8 a pound sounds about right for those.
Okay... so this isn't getting anywhere and was way more amusing in my head than when I read it typed out, but you catch my drift. I must take off to get ready for the show... anyone seen my natural baking soda toothpaste and aluminum-free deodorant? Ah - there they are, over by the $40 2 pound bag of spelt noodles.
12.13.04 - UPDATE:
We played the show and it was a great time. Turns out that a Musician's Co Op is like a very large, cool living room that is very hard to find. So hard to find that a few band members and their guests ended up being very tardy.
It's a place for people to go, drink beer, eat summer sausage, and secrete or absorb music in every way, shape, or form. There were lots of keen folks there - it was really fun to play in such a small room.
Thanks, Area 52! We'll be back soon, I hope.
Joe, VomitGod, me looking all blurry and shit, & Sara T. (hidden by her pots and pans)
With the knowledge I posses about organic food co-ops, my imagination starts to fill the gaps for me as I ponder what exactly goes on at a musician's co-op. I've never heard of such a thing, but glad to hear they exist.
My imagination tells me this: it's allll organic all the way, man. Guitar strings and drum sticks are recycled. It is safe to assume there are beer bottles and cans aplenty there (it's a musician's co-op.. DUH!), which are also recycled. New guitar strings and drum sticks are likely available for purchase there, but they're make out of recycled pop cans and wood computer desks. And they come with a price tag at an average of 40% above the retail price at other music stores, or if you pay $1,000 a year and are a co-op member, you save an extra 10%. I say this because every co-op I've been to is f*&king outlandishly expensive. Not that there's anything wrong with that, other than when you buy stuff.
The co-op "oppers" all probably smell like patchouli mixed with unshaven armpit B.O. and have pale complexions like the oppers in the food stores. Hey, I'm not ripping on them, just calling it as I see it. I happen to have unshaven stinky pits myself.
There are big bins of guitar picks that you bring your own reused brown bags in to fill up with as many as you need. $8 a pound sounds about right for those.
Okay... so this isn't getting anywhere and was way more amusing in my head than when I read it typed out, but you catch my drift. I must take off to get ready for the show... anyone seen my natural baking soda toothpaste and aluminum-free deodorant? Ah - there they are, over by the $40 2 pound bag of spelt noodles.
12.13.04 - UPDATE:
We played the show and it was a great time. Turns out that a Musician's Co Op is like a very large, cool living room that is very hard to find. So hard to find that a few band members and their guests ended up being very tardy.
It's a place for people to go, drink beer, eat summer sausage, and secrete or absorb music in every way, shape, or form. There were lots of keen folks there - it was really fun to play in such a small room.
Thanks, Area 52! We'll be back soon, I hope.
Joe, VomitGod, me looking all blurry and shit, & Sara T. (hidden by her pots and pans)
Friday, December 10, 2004
It never fails.
I'll be working at the shop listening to a CD. It's all good clean family fun, but the second an old lady or person who we know is very religious comes in, it will be the 2 seconds on the CD where there's cussing or inappropriate lyrics.
This happens nearly every time - Ben Folds Five "Whatever and Ever Amen" is a perfect example. The usual happy-go-lucky delightful Ben Folds music fills the air, but in walks Granny Higgins and her 2 grandkids right during "FUCK YOU TOO - GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK... GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK, YOU BITCH!"
I can't even listen to the radio without this happening. This morning I had the morning show on and a regular devoted church-going customer came in with her daughter. 3 seconds later when it was dead silent, I was making their drinkies and one of the talk show hosts said something like "he was probably busy wiping his pubic hairs off of the computer keyboard!" It cut through the silence like a stanky fart in an elevator full of people. The radio crew, needless to say, weren't talking about anything like that before aforementioned customer and daughter came in - that's just what happens. And the radio/cd player is in the back room, an area far out of reach at moments like that, so I either turn the espresso grinder on, try and make small talk, or drop something to mask the untimely profanity.
Maybe from now on, I'll just listen to whatever the hell I want to and cut to the chase when someone walks in. From now on, I'll greet them like this: "Good morning, what fuck fuck fuck penis penis erectile disfunction coitus ass belly button earwax fart can I get for you today?"
This happens nearly every time - Ben Folds Five "Whatever and Ever Amen" is a perfect example. The usual happy-go-lucky delightful Ben Folds music fills the air, but in walks Granny Higgins and her 2 grandkids right during "FUCK YOU TOO - GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK... GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK, YOU BITCH!"
I can't even listen to the radio without this happening. This morning I had the morning show on and a regular devoted church-going customer came in with her daughter. 3 seconds later when it was dead silent, I was making their drinkies and one of the talk show hosts said something like "he was probably busy wiping his pubic hairs off of the computer keyboard!" It cut through the silence like a stanky fart in an elevator full of people. The radio crew, needless to say, weren't talking about anything like that before aforementioned customer and daughter came in - that's just what happens. And the radio/cd player is in the back room, an area far out of reach at moments like that, so I either turn the espresso grinder on, try and make small talk, or drop something to mask the untimely profanity.
Maybe from now on, I'll just listen to whatever the hell I want to and cut to the chase when someone walks in. From now on, I'll greet them like this: "Good morning, what fuck fuck fuck penis penis erectile disfunction coitus ass belly button earwax fart can I get for you today?"
What the f*&k is "nog"?
One of the few benefits of the holiday sleazon for me is the month and a half of eggnog as an option in the dairy section at stores. I am an eggnog fan... in small doses, of course, because when I drink it, I feel like I'm drinking paint. I've never drank paint before, but I imagine it to be as rich and filling as eggnog (if not more). Probably not as delicious.
After years of eggnog-filled Decembers, I have yet to know what a "nog" is. Everyone hears it and knows what it is, but if asked about its origins, you'd be hard pressed to not get an answer containing a head scratch and something like "um... I don't know.. Grandma used to make it with alcohol."
This morning I will roll my sleeves up and do some investigating in an attempt to solve the mystery of what makes a nog a nog. Where nog came from.
www.dictionary.com says this:
nog. (noun) Eggnog.
Gee, thanks - that really helps. Oh - wait:
Nog, (noun) [Abbrev. fr. noggin.]
1. A noggin.2. A kind of strong ale. --Halliwell.
#1 - mm-hmmm. Yeeeeeea. next. #2 - ah HAH. Now we're getting somewhere. But that's not enough to put my sleepless nights to an end. Here's something a little more thorough that I found:
Egg Nog Origins
Eggnog (some write egg Nog), a North American concoction derived from older European drinks. As early as the 17th century, strong ale simply called "nog" was popular in British beer halls. In a Dublin, Ireland pub, celebrating with a pint must be done before Christmas day, when the pubs are closed. An eggy beer named Biersuppe was a favorite in German alehouses. In the 19th century, North Americans took the French drink, "Lait de Poule," a mixture of egg yolks, milk, and sugar, and added spirits such as sherry, rum, and brandy, thus creating our modern day eggnog. Today eggnog is often thought of---
yaaaaaaaawn. BORING. Okay - that helps, but it lacks something. It's not exciting enough. Looks like I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands and just make some shit up.
Egg Nog Origins (revised by yours truly)
Eggnog (some write egg Nog), is a North Pole concoction derived from expired dairy drinks and frozen penguin eggs. The fermented ale, simply called "nog" was popular in North Pole beer halls. "Nog" is a shortened version of "noggin" - which is a slang term for a head. Elves celebrating with a pint of nog traditionally drank it out of a reindeer's head, which was always done before Christmas day for good luck. In the 19th century, elves and Eskimos alike took the French drink, "North de Poule," a mixture of penguin egg yolks, milk, snow, and sugar, and added spirits such as moonshine, Colt 45, and Listerine thus creating our modern day eggnog. Today eggnog is often thought of as the traditional drink of the holidays.
That's much better.
Now can anyone explain to me what a "nougat" is?
After years of eggnog-filled Decembers, I have yet to know what a "nog" is. Everyone hears it and knows what it is, but if asked about its origins, you'd be hard pressed to not get an answer containing a head scratch and something like "um... I don't know.. Grandma used to make it with alcohol."
This morning I will roll my sleeves up and do some investigating in an attempt to solve the mystery of what makes a nog a nog. Where nog came from.
www.dictionary.com says this:
nog. (noun) Eggnog.
Gee, thanks - that really helps. Oh - wait:
Nog, (noun) [Abbrev. fr. noggin.]
1. A noggin.2. A kind of strong ale. --Halliwell.
#1 - mm-hmmm. Yeeeeeea. next. #2 - ah HAH. Now we're getting somewhere. But that's not enough to put my sleepless nights to an end. Here's something a little more thorough that I found:
Egg Nog Origins
Eggnog (some write egg Nog), a North American concoction derived from older European drinks. As early as the 17th century, strong ale simply called "nog" was popular in British beer halls. In a Dublin, Ireland pub, celebrating with a pint must be done before Christmas day, when the pubs are closed. An eggy beer named Biersuppe was a favorite in German alehouses. In the 19th century, North Americans took the French drink, "Lait de Poule," a mixture of egg yolks, milk, and sugar, and added spirits such as sherry, rum, and brandy, thus creating our modern day eggnog. Today eggnog is often thought of---
yaaaaaaaawn. BORING. Okay - that helps, but it lacks something. It's not exciting enough. Looks like I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands and just make some shit up.
Egg Nog Origins (revised by yours truly)
Eggnog (some write egg Nog), is a North Pole concoction derived from expired dairy drinks and frozen penguin eggs. The fermented ale, simply called "nog" was popular in North Pole beer halls. "Nog" is a shortened version of "noggin" - which is a slang term for a head. Elves celebrating with a pint of nog traditionally drank it out of a reindeer's head, which was always done before Christmas day for good luck. In the 19th century, elves and Eskimos alike took the French drink, "North de Poule," a mixture of penguin egg yolks, milk, snow, and sugar, and added spirits such as moonshine, Colt 45, and Listerine thus creating our modern day eggnog. Today eggnog is often thought of as the traditional drink of the holidays.
That's much better.
Now can anyone explain to me what a "nougat" is?
Thursday, December 9, 2004
Dimebag Darrell - KILLED
Read all about it here: http://www.nbc4i.com/news/3983630/detail.html
Looks like it's true... this is incredibly sad, f*&ked up news. This is the very group my band was standing 20 feet away from backstage at the Quest nightclub here in Minneapolis a few weeks ago (see: my Glamorous Life post). This guy wasn't just another "metal dude" - he was an amazing guitarist, one of the best for the kind of music he played. I only gather this from reading a lot of interviews and his old "how-to" columns in Guitar World, but Darrell always seemed like he'd be a really cool guy to hang out with. And now thanks to some knucklehead, he's with us no more. No one seems to have reported yet if his brother, who was playing drums, was killed also - I think it would almost be better if he was. Would you want to live the rest of your life with the memory of your brother being killed in right front of you?
Not talking to him when we were backstage is yet another notch on the belt of my thankfully rather short "I should have..." list - right up there with not going to see Nirvana in 1994 with my friends thinking I'd catch them next time they came (not to mention The Breeders were opening for them that tour - what the Hell was I thinking passing that up?!!)
Goes to show you and me both, no matter how shitty you think your life is, it could be much worse. Like nonexistent.
I hope the killer gets a hearty serving of ass-capping of a different kind: dropping the soap in front of his cellmate Bubba in the prison showers for the next 20 years. Bubba - if you're reading this, this guy killed 5 innocent people. There's no need to wait for him to drop the soap. Kick it out of his hands. Make him your bitch. Better yet, consider this guy a free lifetime supply of bitch. You've got nothing else to do, right?
Hope you're still tearin' it up wherever you are, Dimebag... I'll forgive you for the wiener thing.
Looks like it's true... this is incredibly sad, f*&ked up news. This is the very group my band was standing 20 feet away from backstage at the Quest nightclub here in Minneapolis a few weeks ago (see: my Glamorous Life post). This guy wasn't just another "metal dude" - he was an amazing guitarist, one of the best for the kind of music he played. I only gather this from reading a lot of interviews and his old "how-to" columns in Guitar World, but Darrell always seemed like he'd be a really cool guy to hang out with. And now thanks to some knucklehead, he's with us no more. No one seems to have reported yet if his brother, who was playing drums, was killed also - I think it would almost be better if he was. Would you want to live the rest of your life with the memory of your brother being killed in right front of you?
Not talking to him when we were backstage is yet another notch on the belt of my thankfully rather short "I should have..." list - right up there with not going to see Nirvana in 1994 with my friends thinking I'd catch them next time they came (not to mention The Breeders were opening for them that tour - what the Hell was I thinking passing that up?!!)
Goes to show you and me both, no matter how shitty you think your life is, it could be much worse. Like nonexistent.
I hope the killer gets a hearty serving of ass-capping of a different kind: dropping the soap in front of his cellmate Bubba in the prison showers for the next 20 years. Bubba - if you're reading this, this guy killed 5 innocent people. There's no need to wait for him to drop the soap. Kick it out of his hands. Make him your bitch. Better yet, consider this guy a free lifetime supply of bitch. You've got nothing else to do, right?
Hope you're still tearin' it up wherever you are, Dimebag... I'll forgive you for the wiener thing.
Wednesday, December 8, 2004
Random debris in my head: Volume 7 Chapter 9 page 432
I have been eating low sugar Cocoa Puffs lately. They allegedly contain 75% less sugar than regular Cocoa Puffs. They are delicious. "75% less sugar" means only one thing to me: I can eat 75% more Cocoa Puffs now - that's about 3.5 bowls in one sitting.
Cocoa Puffs look like bunny poop.
Speed Bumps should not be called "speed bumps" - you do not speed as you travel over them. I think "leisurely bumps" or "making me slow down when I'm in a hurry bumps" would be much more applicable.
Indian food is delicious.
If I hear one more thing about money, so help me gawd, I am going to strangle a stuffed animal. And I'll make sure to pick a cute one.
Will I ever be "Alive and well" and know where I am?
Why do I save emails? I have some that go all the way back to 1998, and I probably haven't looked at them since then.
2 people that should never have been allowed to make Christmas albums: Gloria Estefan and Celine Dion. And Mannheim Steamroller. And Amy Grant. John Tesh. Jim Brickman.
I evidently forgot what 2 means.
People that should make Christmas albums: Slayer.
Tuesday, December 7, 2004
An open letter to an exact replica of me when I was in 7th grade
My niece is in 7th grade and plays flute in the school band, and last night was the Oltman Jr. High Winter Band Concert. Oltman was where my siblings and I served the junior high terms of our K through 12 scholastic endeavors, and now 33.3% of my sister's offspring are there learinin' it up just as we did many years ago.
I immediately noticed something when the band played that the rest of my family did as well: in the percussion area playing a fistful of sleigh bells was an exact replica of me when I was in 7th grade. To a T. Well, other than the fact that he wasn't playing a tuba. It was very strange. He had the perpetually sleepy look on his face. The bowl cut in disguise. My eyebrows. My nose. My mouth. My chin. My pudginess. The subtle random goofball mannerisms.
7th and 8th grade were by far my most awkward academic years. I was a shy, pudgy little kid that loathed the bus ride to Oltman, knowing it meant I was going to spend 7 hours of my day there wishing I was at home in my room with my guitar and Garbage Pail Kids. I wanted to go give him a hug and show him what a handsome ladies man he was going to be in 18 years (ha ha!)
I am going to write him an imaginary letter that I wish I could give to him and let him know what he's in store for. Because if he looks just like me, that means he's going to do everything just like me, right? Wrong, but just roll with me, here.
Without further ado, here is "An open letter to an exact replica of me when I was in 7th grade":
Dear Exact Replica of Me When I was in 7th Grade,
This is you from the future. 18 years into the future to be exact. I am here to give you some words of advice and wisdom:
Take it easy practicing those sleigh bells when Dad is sleeping. Remember to be respectful of the fact that he works nights and your bedroom is right next to his.
Don’t skip any lessons, and spend more time practicing rather than playing along to tapes of sleigh bell music. Listen to Peter at your sleigh bell lessons, he is a nice, wise man and knows his shit.
Don't just try and use water to cure bedhead. Use some of Mom's hair goop.
Lay off the mint chocolate chip ice cream and Nick at Night tv.
You know Dad’s coin collection in the basement? Don’t cash it in and spend it on candy and slime. Leave it alone.
I’m not going to pinpoint any particular events, but chances are Mom and Dad weren’t born yesterday and know what you’re doing.
Take better care of your KISS posters, and buy a few extra of the Empire State Building one that Tina stocks at In Concert. Those are going to be worth a lot of money. Take care of all of that stuff, or you’ll spend a lot of money on Ebay replacing it.
Girls don’t bite. Talk to them.
Save your money. Don’t spend it all on sleigh bells.
Don’t go spending 10 grand to get an MCSE degree that you’re not even going to use.
Be careful when dealing with females. Trust me on that one.
If anyone at school says mean things to you, find out where they live and put a flaming bag of dog shit on their front step.
Keep in touch with your best friend, or when you reach your 20’s you’ll never see him again and wonder what happened to him.
Don’t smoke in the tool shed. Dad is going to catch you.
Wash that jean jacket a little more frequently. Don’t wait until it smells.
That’s about it for now. I hope to see you at all future band concerts rocking away on those sleigh bells and watching how you’re coming along. If you ever run into any problems, just take out this letter and read it – I hope it helps.
Sincerely,
You when you’re 31
Monday, December 6, 2004
Spshhhhhtick.... fizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzle
Aaah, sometimes there’s nothing like a good old sugary can of Coke. It’s damn near impossible to find a Coke can around this time of the year that doesn’t have Sandee Claws on it. Kudos to Coke for sticking with tradition and not taking the PC non-denominational route of displaying snowflakes on their cans. Now that I think of it, Diet Coke cans are that way, but Santa ain’t no Diet Coke drinker either, is he? That would be like the Easter Bunny handing out low carb candies and trail mix.This makes me wonder: does this get on the nerves of non-Christian Coke drinkers out there? If there were only Jehovah’s Witness Coke cans, it would definitely get on my nerves a little. They’d likely have some sort of Jehovah’s documentation printed on the can which would distract me from enjoying my drink. There could be Kwanzaa cans. Hanukah cans. Festivus cans. But nope, with Coke, you’re getting Santa whether you like it or not. Coke is making a lot of people who just want something to drink involuntarily display Christmas cheer.
Okay – on a side note, a guy just came into the shop, set up his laptop and bought a can of Santa Coke. He is now sitting, typing, and enjoying a can of Coke, just as I am. There is a James Taylor Christmas carol on the radio. He just talked to me about how he heard The Clash’s “London Calling” in here a while back, and it was just being cranked in the store CD player an hour or two ago.
This is getting creepy. I need to go find something to do…
Pumpkin guts: the stuff that dreams are made of.
I had a very bizarre dream the other night - once it got cooking, I was looking in the bathroom mirror leaning my head back to look inside of my nostrils, and they were extremely cavernous. I could see miles into my head, and you know what was in it? Pumpin guts. I'm not sure if that's what it actually was because I sure as hell wasn't going to pick my nose and find out, but it looked like a bunch of stringy pumpin innards were in my head. And it didn't really startle me - I just kind of looked and thought Hm.. it looks like I have a lot of pumpkin guts in my nose. One thing I vividly remember is that I realized there were no seeds. Maybe I picked them out before I joined me in my dream?
I awoke in the morning wondering what the f*ck that was all about, and then figured maybe it would be best not to. I'm not too sure that those dream dictionary books have a blurb explaining why you had a dream that your nose was filled with pumpkin stringies.
I got out of bed really groggy and tried to snap myself out of it by trying to focus on something other than that dream. Wesley Snipes. Don't know why my brain randomly picked him, but it did, and you've got to do the best with what you have. So I started thinking about Wesley Snipes. I started feeling proud, for some inexplicable reason, that I have never viewed a Wesley Snipes movie. Then I suddenly remembered seeing "To Wong Foo: Thanks for everything! Julie Newmar" with my aunt when it was in the theater. God dammit!
If you pay attention to what's going on in your head at the time, the side effects of sleep are often very amusing.
I awoke in the morning wondering what the f*ck that was all about, and then figured maybe it would be best not to. I'm not too sure that those dream dictionary books have a blurb explaining why you had a dream that your nose was filled with pumpkin stringies.
I got out of bed really groggy and tried to snap myself out of it by trying to focus on something other than that dream. Wesley Snipes. Don't know why my brain randomly picked him, but it did, and you've got to do the best with what you have. So I started thinking about Wesley Snipes. I started feeling proud, for some inexplicable reason, that I have never viewed a Wesley Snipes movie. Then I suddenly remembered seeing "To Wong Foo: Thanks for everything! Julie Newmar" with my aunt when it was in the theater. God dammit!
If you pay attention to what's going on in your head at the time, the side effects of sleep are often very amusing.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Today is my mom's birthday. Woo hoo! We celebrated it yesterday with her at my parent's compound - my sister made a delicious dinner and chocolate cake.
Let me tell you how much my mom kicks ass:
I remember when I was 9 or 10 we were walking outside of K Mart past one of those mini merry go rounds. There were a few teenagers goofing off on it, just barely fitting on the teeny horses, and my mom walked up and put a quarter in so it would spin around... they all screamed and laughed and I'm sure were giving her the thumbs up. One time she was making chocolate frosting and had a big ol' spatula full of it. My aunt jokingly opened her mouth, and mom dumped the entire blob of chocolate frosting, about 1 cups with, on her face.
One time she ate one of her bird's thyroid pills thinking it was an asprin. She called the vet and he said no harm done. I did catch her eyeballing the bird seed more than usual for the next few days, though.
After moving around like a retarded sloth on the basketball courts during the 4-5 months of my life that I played a sport, (5th grade, I think it was) she'd take me to SA to get gummy bears and a huge ass fountain drink. I went on many a late night Cub Foods trips with her. She didn't kill me when I scribbled permanent marker all over her antique chairs when I was a little kid. At one of my band's recent shows, she picked up a dead bug and made like she was going to eat it in front of my percussionist (this answered many of their questions in regards to why I am like I am).
She has often told me I'm her favorite child, and that my sister and brother were adopted, but they don't know it yet. She also says I'm by far the most talented of the 3 kids. She told me that when the time comes, I get their house and all of the furniture.
There's a million other mom stories I have, but I'll save those for me...
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Let me tell you how much my mom kicks ass:
I remember when I was 9 or 10 we were walking outside of K Mart past one of those mini merry go rounds. There were a few teenagers goofing off on it, just barely fitting on the teeny horses, and my mom walked up and put a quarter in so it would spin around... they all screamed and laughed and I'm sure were giving her the thumbs up. One time she was making chocolate frosting and had a big ol' spatula full of it. My aunt jokingly opened her mouth, and mom dumped the entire blob of chocolate frosting, about 1 cups with, on her face.
One time she ate one of her bird's thyroid pills thinking it was an asprin. She called the vet and he said no harm done. I did catch her eyeballing the bird seed more than usual for the next few days, though.
After moving around like a retarded sloth on the basketball courts during the 4-5 months of my life that I played a sport, (5th grade, I think it was) she'd take me to SA to get gummy bears and a huge ass fountain drink. I went on many a late night Cub Foods trips with her. She didn't kill me when I scribbled permanent marker all over her antique chairs when I was a little kid. At one of my band's recent shows, she picked up a dead bug and made like she was going to eat it in front of my percussionist (this answered many of their questions in regards to why I am like I am).
She has often told me I'm her favorite child, and that my sister and brother were adopted, but they don't know it yet. She also says I'm by far the most talented of the 3 kids. She told me that when the time comes, I get their house and all of the furniture.
There's a million other mom stories I have, but I'll save those for me...
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Sunday, December 5, 2004
My pseudo 10 year class reunion
My band played a pretty damn good sweaty show at the Terminal Bar last night (Dec 4) with Fussy, John Wills, and Best Fight Story. Our time slot we played is commonly referred to as "headlining". "Headlining" is a fancy word which means "the last band to play". If you headline and you don't have a huge following, you are, as many would say, fucked. The freezing weather and new 2AM bar closing time here in Minneapolis doesn't help matters much for struggling bands, either. Regardless, we're always happy to play as long as someone's listening.
There was an above average amount of the usual patrons who actually stick around to watch us.. Iced Ink music isn't the most accessible material and has a tendency to clear out a room like a stinky egg salad fart.
And as usual, the enormous, scary, disgruntled bearded man that cleans tables and threatens to kill people all the time was there. It doesn't matter who you are - even if you just walk past him, he wants to pound your head in with his mighty fists and kill you. Dead. For example: he wanted to kill Joe the soundman last night because he didn't like the CD he was playing. As I walked past him sweeping the floor at the end of the night, he looked up and said "Fuckin' [mumble mumble mumble]..." Ha ha! I love you too, thanks for the support. He's been limping severely the past few times we've played there, and I was told it's because he was stabbed in the leg. But wait - it gets better: it happened where he lives, and the stabbing was done by his roommate. This did not really take me by surprise. Gee, sounds like someone must have kept using the wrong toothbrush...
Enough about scary bearded man, though - back to the people that were there. The above average turnout was a very pleasant surprise for me, because a lot of them were people I used to hang out with in high school that I haven't seen in 10 years. My high school girlfriend's brother Peter found me on the internet via my band's website, contacted me last week, and next thing you know, there I was with him chatting it up before our set at the Terminal last night about his desire to start painting again, all the old drawings of mine he still has, the caca both of us have gotten ourselves involved in with female companions, cars, parents, old times, and playing the "whatever happened to [insert friend's name here]" game. He invited a bunch of other old friends along, and it was a blast to see them.
It is so bizarre seeing people that you last saw roaming the high school halls (that would be 1990-91 for us), or at a party a year or two out of high school. Especially when language such as "my house", "my wife", "my fiancee", or "he had kids with two different girls" are being spewed. It used to be all about which teacher we hated most or whose house we were going to go drink beer at, but I guess 10 years will cause such conversation topics to dissipate into more grown-up subject matter. Darn!
One thing that hasn't changed or probably never will: these are the same personalities and attitudes I knew back then, just a little older and wiser. After all this time, I can make some sort of absurd, dry comment to Sebastian about humping his leg, which I immediately did, and he knows I'm joking... or at least he thinks I'm joking... hehehe. I can still talk with Matt about music for hours on end, which we did. All that was missing when I was talking to Peter was his skateboard. Billy still looks just like Billy. It was great to see them all again... I hope we can all hook up again real soon.
Peter, if you're reading this, I demand that you pick up a paint brush again and get crackin' on some ass-kicking abstract paintings ASAFP. Time's a wastin!
And Sebastian, my darling: I don't care if you're married... May I hump your leg?
There was an above average amount of the usual patrons who actually stick around to watch us.. Iced Ink music isn't the most accessible material and has a tendency to clear out a room like a stinky egg salad fart.
And as usual, the enormous, scary, disgruntled bearded man that cleans tables and threatens to kill people all the time was there. It doesn't matter who you are - even if you just walk past him, he wants to pound your head in with his mighty fists and kill you. Dead. For example: he wanted to kill Joe the soundman last night because he didn't like the CD he was playing. As I walked past him sweeping the floor at the end of the night, he looked up and said "Fuckin' [mumble mumble mumble]..." Ha ha! I love you too, thanks for the support. He's been limping severely the past few times we've played there, and I was told it's because he was stabbed in the leg. But wait - it gets better: it happened where he lives, and the stabbing was done by his roommate. This did not really take me by surprise. Gee, sounds like someone must have kept using the wrong toothbrush...
Enough about scary bearded man, though - back to the people that were there. The above average turnout was a very pleasant surprise for me, because a lot of them were people I used to hang out with in high school that I haven't seen in 10 years. My high school girlfriend's brother Peter found me on the internet via my band's website, contacted me last week, and next thing you know, there I was with him chatting it up before our set at the Terminal last night about his desire to start painting again, all the old drawings of mine he still has, the caca both of us have gotten ourselves involved in with female companions, cars, parents, old times, and playing the "whatever happened to [insert friend's name here]" game. He invited a bunch of other old friends along, and it was a blast to see them.
It is so bizarre seeing people that you last saw roaming the high school halls (that would be 1990-91 for us), or at a party a year or two out of high school. Especially when language such as "my house", "my wife", "my fiancee", or "he had kids with two different girls" are being spewed. It used to be all about which teacher we hated most or whose house we were going to go drink beer at, but I guess 10 years will cause such conversation topics to dissipate into more grown-up subject matter. Darn!
One thing that hasn't changed or probably never will: these are the same personalities and attitudes I knew back then, just a little older and wiser. After all this time, I can make some sort of absurd, dry comment to Sebastian about humping his leg, which I immediately did, and he knows I'm joking... or at least he thinks I'm joking... hehehe. I can still talk with Matt about music for hours on end, which we did. All that was missing when I was talking to Peter was his skateboard. Billy still looks just like Billy. It was great to see them all again... I hope we can all hook up again real soon.
Peter, if you're reading this, I demand that you pick up a paint brush again and get crackin' on some ass-kicking abstract paintings ASAFP. Time's a wastin!
And Sebastian, my darling: I don't care if you're married... May I hump your leg?
Saturday, December 4, 2004
I really need to wake up - gimme some extra milk!
Pardon the know-it-all coffee shop nerd humor here, but I love it when people come into the coffee shop and order a large latte rather than their usual medium because "they need that extra push."
Both medium and large drinkies come with 2 shots of espresso (and so it says on the menu). That jolt they're looking for must be in the extra 4 ounces of milk that comes in the large cups.
Both medium and large drinkies come with 2 shots of espresso (and so it says on the menu). That jolt they're looking for must be in the extra 4 ounces of milk that comes in the large cups.
Friday, December 3, 2004
How to assemble KRISTER
Meet Krister.
Krister is a very affordable piece of IKEA furniture that holds computers.
I bought Krister yesterday, and I'd like to tell you how to put him together just in case you should want to have a Krister of your own. For the record, I have had the pleasure of assisting in the assembly of other fine IKEA furnishings, and this pretty much applies to all of them, not just Krister.
Without further ado, here's how to assemble Krister:
Krister is a very affordable piece of IKEA furniture that holds computers.
I bought Krister yesterday, and I'd like to tell you how to put him together just in case you should want to have a Krister of your own. For the record, I have had the pleasure of assisting in the assembly of other fine IKEA furnishings, and this pretty much applies to all of them, not just Krister.
Without further ado, here's how to assemble Krister:
- Contemplate going to IKEA, which is a tedious project all in itself.
- Get in friend's car (friend drives and goes with for IKEA moral support), go to IKEA. Sit in parking lot getting nervous and debate going to thrift store instead.
- Realize it's been 6 years now and no thrift stores have anything I'm looking for
- Get out of car, walk by $20 IKEA Christmas trees.
- Enter IKEA complex, ride escalator up past walls that look like bacon up to main floor.
- Walk through complex maze that is IKEA past things like heart shaped pillows and lamps that look like soft serve ice cream, trying to keep eye on arrows pasted to the floor so I don't get lost.
- Try to resist sudden uncontrollable urge that I need a rug I don't even like, just because it's cheap.
- Try to resist sudden uncontrollable urge that I need to stand in a line to get $3.99 worth of meatballs.
- Meet Krister in the desk area.
- Read Krister's sign that says "I come unassembled!" and that you have to go downstairs to get a box containing all of Krister's parts.
- Begin 3 mile journey through rest of IKEA to get to the box of Krister.
- Get to the store level which houses Krister boxes, see mirage on warehouse floor
- Find box of Krister in section 29-7 of the warehouse
- Pay for Krister, bring Krister home.
- Open tiny box that Krister somehow fits into. Remove and unwrap all of Krister's various screws and appendages.
- Tell cat to please go away
- Read instructions carefully. Laugh at instructions because they have no words, only illustrations that look funny.
- Spend 45 minutes attempting to hold and screw pieces together, hoping that gravity works in my favor. Be sure to do this on a hard floor so you can hear the complimentary allen wrench clanking loud and clear when you drop it 300 times while trying to hold desk parts together and tighten bolts.
- Once everything is nice and tight, it's time to put the last piece on. Let out a sigh of relief.
- Stop and look at desk while holding last piece and realize something isn't right here. There's holes for the last piece, but they're on the wrong sides. Hm.
- Curse up a storm after coming to the conclusion that the first two parts taken out and put together, the two parts that everything is now tightly fastened to, are on the wrong sides.
- Curse up a storm after coming to the conclusion that the only way to fix this is to take everything apart and start over.
- Inhale in the good air, exhale the bad air.
- Reverse step #18.
- Stand disoriented in a sea of Krister body parts.
- Repeat step 18.
- Put last piece on and be thankful it's the last piece, as fingers have become raw from unscrewing cheap bolts.
- Apprehensively put big heavy computer monitor and tower on Krister, let out sigh of relief that Krister didn't collapse.
- Say "NEVER AGAIN!" in regards to putting IKEA furniture together, until the next time comes that you need something quick and inexpensive.
That's about it in a nutshell. The joys of assembling IKEA furniture are exciting and fruitful, especially when someone comes over and you can say "See that? It was only $30!" while in your head, you're thinking "yeah, and I put about $200 of painstaking labor into the f*&king thing.
Mouse tongs
Every few weeks, an exterminator comes into the coffee shop to check the store for cooties. He arrived yesterday with his trademark medevil-looking mysterious silver toxic spray tank in tow to do his thang.
It is winter now, and evidently, a few mice have snuck into the basement to keep from becoming mousecicles. Don't be alarmed or lead this to you thinking the shop is unsanitary. 1) Mice are cute, and 2) around this time of the year, a lot of people are experiencing problems of meeses moving into their warm homes.
Mr. Exterminator, or Crocodile Hunter as we call him (he bears an uncanny resemblance to Steve Irwin) came across a fresh mouse corpse in the basement that had digested some blue poison mouse food he left for them. The mouse was still in its original shape and looking like it was taking a nap.
The interesting thing about this is how it was presented to me. Croc Hunter came upstairs holding the cadaver in a pair of kitchen tongs that looked just like the ones my mom used to use while frying chicken.
I found this very amusing to say the least. How many people can honestly say they've seen a dead mouse being held by kitchen tongs? I doubt there's too many on the planet, and I'm one of them. This makes me feel unique and special. I immediately felt inclined to call my mom and ask if she'd drive her deep fryer over so I could give this little fella a hot oil bath, if you know what I'm sayin'. When you grow up seeing tongs used only for food preparation purposes and you one day see them used to handle a dead mouse, it sends the brain mixed signals.
After bringing my attention to the dead mouse in tongs, Croc Hunter disposed of him improperly in the trash can. I say improperly because he said "I'll just throw it in here - they don't smell or anything," flipped open the trash bin next to the employee table, and released tong pressure to let mousey fall into the depths of coffee shop hell - old used cups, potato chip wrappers, tissues, etc.
First off, Crocodile Hunter, show some respect to the little guy. Take him out back in the alley and dig a hole in which to bury him. Place him in there gently, not using tongs, and say a few kind words.
Second, you were wrong - they do stink, you hyperactive cootie-killing bastard! I sat a few feet away from the garbage can, and I'll be damned if my nose didn't detect the green funk of decaying rodent not 5 minutes after you left.
Third, I don't know how those tongs ended up on the ladies room stall after you were done picking up dead things with them. And I have a feeling I don't want to know.
R.I.P., little mouse.. may your soon-to-be-poisoned and deceased relatives not be buried in our trashcan via a pair of kitchen tongs like you were.
It is winter now, and evidently, a few mice have snuck into the basement to keep from becoming mousecicles. Don't be alarmed or lead this to you thinking the shop is unsanitary. 1) Mice are cute, and 2) around this time of the year, a lot of people are experiencing problems of meeses moving into their warm homes.
Mr. Exterminator, or Crocodile Hunter as we call him (he bears an uncanny resemblance to Steve Irwin) came across a fresh mouse corpse in the basement that had digested some blue poison mouse food he left for them. The mouse was still in its original shape and looking like it was taking a nap.
The interesting thing about this is how it was presented to me. Croc Hunter came upstairs holding the cadaver in a pair of kitchen tongs that looked just like the ones my mom used to use while frying chicken.
I found this very amusing to say the least. How many people can honestly say they've seen a dead mouse being held by kitchen tongs? I doubt there's too many on the planet, and I'm one of them. This makes me feel unique and special. I immediately felt inclined to call my mom and ask if she'd drive her deep fryer over so I could give this little fella a hot oil bath, if you know what I'm sayin'. When you grow up seeing tongs used only for food preparation purposes and you one day see them used to handle a dead mouse, it sends the brain mixed signals.After bringing my attention to the dead mouse in tongs, Croc Hunter disposed of him improperly in the trash can. I say improperly because he said "I'll just throw it in here - they don't smell or anything," flipped open the trash bin next to the employee table, and released tong pressure to let mousey fall into the depths of coffee shop hell - old used cups, potato chip wrappers, tissues, etc.
First off, Crocodile Hunter, show some respect to the little guy. Take him out back in the alley and dig a hole in which to bury him. Place him in there gently, not using tongs, and say a few kind words.
Second, you were wrong - they do stink, you hyperactive cootie-killing bastard! I sat a few feet away from the garbage can, and I'll be damned if my nose didn't detect the green funk of decaying rodent not 5 minutes after you left.
Third, I don't know how those tongs ended up on the ladies room stall after you were done picking up dead things with them. And I have a feeling I don't want to know.R.I.P., little mouse.. may your soon-to-be-poisoned and deceased relatives not be buried in our trashcan via a pair of kitchen tongs like you were.
Thursday, December 2, 2004
No wonder organic milk costs $6 a gallon!
I've always seen it in the coolers at Lunds and Kowalskis and thought "Why so expensive??" Now it makes sense - we all know rocket fuel isn't cheap these days. Read the story>>After I'm done at the shop today, I'm gonna go pick some up, throw it in the gas tank of my Pinto and see what happens. It's not plutonium, but hopefully it will be enough to charge the Flux Capacitor and I can go back to the future to redo some things... May 2004, here I come!
Wednesday, December 1, 2004
"No man is an island..."
That is unless your ship has capsized, he's dead, floating next to you, and you hold onto him strictly because he's the only buoyant object within reach.
In my ideal world:
Drinking grape juice would not make me perpetually thirsty for more grape juice. My cat would find a more suitable place to sit when I’m busy recording with a guitar in my lap.
He’d also live forever. Money would grow on trees, but only for me. Coffee shop customers would specify what size drink they want when they ordered. People would come out in masses to see good, weird local music. Leo Kottke would come into my coffee shop on a regular basis (Leo, if you’re reading this, I’d let you smoke all the cigars you want)
Egg nog would not be so god damned filling.
Video games would not become any more realistic than they already have. I could have several acoustic guitars, a few of them with Scruggs banjo pegs on them so I could do that cool stuff Adrian Legg does. I wouldn’t be sitting here typing what my ideal world would be like. I would get paid a lot of money to sit in front of my computer writing good, weird local music* – although if money were growing on a tree for me as mentioned before, I suppose that wouldn’t really matter, nor would I be sitting in a coffee shop for Leo Kottke to come smoke cigars in. My Pinto would run on water, never rust, and the woodgrain paneling would not be faded on one side. People would not wear Zubas with peppers all over them anymore. Or stretch pants. Parents would not let their little kids leave the house with ducktails. KISS would still have all of the original members and not suck so bad.
I would have time to play sousaphone for the Minneapolis Police Band (they’re in need of a sousaphone player and I happen to be one). I wouldn’t be aware of what mom puts in the blender to make that gravy so tasty. My hair would stop growing and I wouldn’t need haircuts anymore.
Target would still sell Super Pretzels at Food Avenue rather than those weird doughy gourmet ones.
That’s about it for now, leaving out a few personal things that might give someone the wrong idea and think I’m very naughty. Well, it’s not so much that it would be the wrong idea or that I actually care whether or not people think I’m naughty, because I am naughty, and naughty is very fun, but there’s some things just better left unsaid…
One more thing: In my ideal world, I wouldn’t have to type this shit out – all I’d have to do is think it and it the writing would magically appear on the computer screen.
He’d also live forever. Money would grow on trees, but only for me. Coffee shop customers would specify what size drink they want when they ordered. People would come out in masses to see good, weird local music. Leo Kottke would come into my coffee shop on a regular basis (Leo, if you’re reading this, I’d let you smoke all the cigars you want)
Egg nog would not be so god damned filling.
Video games would not become any more realistic than they already have. I could have several acoustic guitars, a few of them with Scruggs banjo pegs on them so I could do that cool stuff Adrian Legg does. I wouldn’t be sitting here typing what my ideal world would be like. I would get paid a lot of money to sit in front of my computer writing good, weird local music* – although if money were growing on a tree for me as mentioned before, I suppose that wouldn’t really matter, nor would I be sitting in a coffee shop for Leo Kottke to come smoke cigars in. My Pinto would run on water, never rust, and the woodgrain paneling would not be faded on one side. People would not wear Zubas with peppers all over them anymore. Or stretch pants. Parents would not let their little kids leave the house with ducktails. KISS would still have all of the original members and not suck so bad.
I would have time to play sousaphone for the Minneapolis Police Band (they’re in need of a sousaphone player and I happen to be one). I wouldn’t be aware of what mom puts in the blender to make that gravy so tasty. My hair would stop growing and I wouldn’t need haircuts anymore.
Target would still sell Super Pretzels at Food Avenue rather than those weird doughy gourmet ones.
That’s about it for now, leaving out a few personal things that might give someone the wrong idea and think I’m very naughty. Well, it’s not so much that it would be the wrong idea or that I actually care whether or not people think I’m naughty, because I am naughty, and naughty is very fun, but there’s some things just better left unsaid…
One more thing: In my ideal world, I wouldn’t have to type this shit out – all I’d have to do is think it and it the writing would magically appear on the computer screen.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
I'm just an Okie from Karaoke
Last night Johnny Cash, Cyndi Lauper, Garth Brooks, Jewel, Talking Heads, Pat Benetar, and Alana Miles, to name a few, were live at the Chatterbox Pub in South Minneapolis. Or so one would think if one was severely hearing impaired and blind.
We innocently walked into the Chatterbox thinking we were going to get a few chocolate beers, only to find out we were going to get as many karaoke performances to go with it as we could handle. "Karaoke" is a Japanese word which translates to "drunk person with no shame singing to instrumental elevator music recordings of popular favorites."
The guy running the show, "Clem", I'll call him, was a funny little old guy. He looked like he's been to a lot of gun shows and flea markets. He was wearing a snapped up flannel cowboy shirt, and I'd be willing to put money on the notion that he's owned it and worn it since the first time those shirts were in style. You've got to have something good to tuck those flannels into, and he certainly did - a faded pair of Wranglers. He had no ass or lower body shape to hold those Wranglers up, so he sported a belt with a silver belt buckle that looked like it was large enough to serve hors douvres on. He was very skinny other than a nice round belly - "beer muscle", as I like to call it.
I don't ever judge a book by its cover, but Clem looked like so much fun to judge by his cover, I made him an exception to the rule:
I'm guessing he was in Vietnam for a few years. He probably got it on with a lot of escorts while he was over there, endured a few VDs, capped a lot of Vietnamese ass, got drunk with his buddies a lot, and then came home and married someone named Mabel that he met in a dive bar while Merle Haggard was playing on the jukebox (if he's from this area, it was probably The Cardinal). Mabel's hairstyle was big, blurry, abrasive, and full of Aqua Net hairspray. 99% of her wardrobe consisted of polyester with floral patterns on it. She wore gaudy necklaces. She'd leave big, dark lipstick stains on her cigarette butts and on every can of cheap beer and truckstop coffee cup that ever touched her mouth. They had 4 kids and none of them really talked to Clem because he had some issues from the war and all, and if they made one false move, he'd take that belt with the silver platter attached to it off and chap their hides. They all moved far away when they were old enough, never to be heard from again.
I'm guessing Mabel died a few years ago from lung cancer. Clem hit rock bottom at that point and decided to stop drinking and take all the money he was investing in alcohol and buy a karaoke system. He scored a regular Monday night gig at the Chatterbox, and now we return to our regularly scheduled program:
Clem stood no less than 2 feet behind the karaoke participants while they were stumbling their way through their selections (there's not much room in there with all those karaoke doo dads eating up space). Every time someone started, he'd take a sip of ice water and then quickly assume his Karaoke Enjoyment Position: leaning on the table full of CD wallets behind him and looking at the floor. He'd stand there like a statue until the songs ended - I would kill to find out what's going through his mind when he does that. A few guesses:
"Aaah, 'Gunsmoke'. They don't make shows like that anymore."
"Please kill me."
"I wonder when the next Danish American Center all you can eat spaghetti dinner is?"
"I want to sneak a peek at her ass, but everyone would see me because I'm right behind her."
"I remember that one time I was out fishing, caught a snapping turtle, and ate it."
"Which is worse - staying home with the tv, or doing this? tv.. this.. tv... this.."
"I guess this is better than being a rodeo clown. Is it? Did I take the wrong path?"
We were about ready to take off, but Clem was fixin' to sing some Johnny Cash, and I was told it was worth waiting around for, so we did. And sure enough, when little Clem got to that first verse of "Ring of Fire", he nailed it all the way through to the end of the tune, and was probably thinking of Mabel the whole time.
We left there feeling complete, out to the freezing cold air, end of story. If you're ever in the neighborhood and have a hankerin' for some accurate Johnny Cash mimicry, stop by the Chatterbox and put in a request for Clem to do his thang. It seemed like the one thing that made him smile and think that the post-Nam, fatherhood, and Mabel lifestyle that I invented for him isn't so bad.
We innocently walked into the Chatterbox thinking we were going to get a few chocolate beers, only to find out we were going to get as many karaoke performances to go with it as we could handle. "Karaoke" is a Japanese word which translates to "drunk person with no shame singing to instrumental elevator music recordings of popular favorites."
The guy running the show, "Clem", I'll call him, was a funny little old guy. He looked like he's been to a lot of gun shows and flea markets. He was wearing a snapped up flannel cowboy shirt, and I'd be willing to put money on the notion that he's owned it and worn it since the first time those shirts were in style. You've got to have something good to tuck those flannels into, and he certainly did - a faded pair of Wranglers. He had no ass or lower body shape to hold those Wranglers up, so he sported a belt with a silver belt buckle that looked like it was large enough to serve hors douvres on. He was very skinny other than a nice round belly - "beer muscle", as I like to call it.
I don't ever judge a book by its cover, but Clem looked like so much fun to judge by his cover, I made him an exception to the rule:
I'm guessing he was in Vietnam for a few years. He probably got it on with a lot of escorts while he was over there, endured a few VDs, capped a lot of Vietnamese ass, got drunk with his buddies a lot, and then came home and married someone named Mabel that he met in a dive bar while Merle Haggard was playing on the jukebox (if he's from this area, it was probably The Cardinal). Mabel's hairstyle was big, blurry, abrasive, and full of Aqua Net hairspray. 99% of her wardrobe consisted of polyester with floral patterns on it. She wore gaudy necklaces. She'd leave big, dark lipstick stains on her cigarette butts and on every can of cheap beer and truckstop coffee cup that ever touched her mouth. They had 4 kids and none of them really talked to Clem because he had some issues from the war and all, and if they made one false move, he'd take that belt with the silver platter attached to it off and chap their hides. They all moved far away when they were old enough, never to be heard from again.
I'm guessing Mabel died a few years ago from lung cancer. Clem hit rock bottom at that point and decided to stop drinking and take all the money he was investing in alcohol and buy a karaoke system. He scored a regular Monday night gig at the Chatterbox, and now we return to our regularly scheduled program:
Clem stood no less than 2 feet behind the karaoke participants while they were stumbling their way through their selections (there's not much room in there with all those karaoke doo dads eating up space). Every time someone started, he'd take a sip of ice water and then quickly assume his Karaoke Enjoyment Position: leaning on the table full of CD wallets behind him and looking at the floor. He'd stand there like a statue until the songs ended - I would kill to find out what's going through his mind when he does that. A few guesses:
"Aaah, 'Gunsmoke'. They don't make shows like that anymore."
"Please kill me."
"I wonder when the next Danish American Center all you can eat spaghetti dinner is?"
"I want to sneak a peek at her ass, but everyone would see me because I'm right behind her."
"I remember that one time I was out fishing, caught a snapping turtle, and ate it."
"Which is worse - staying home with the tv, or doing this? tv.. this.. tv... this.."
"I guess this is better than being a rodeo clown. Is it? Did I take the wrong path?"
We were about ready to take off, but Clem was fixin' to sing some Johnny Cash, and I was told it was worth waiting around for, so we did. And sure enough, when little Clem got to that first verse of "Ring of Fire", he nailed it all the way through to the end of the tune, and was probably thinking of Mabel the whole time.
We left there feeling complete, out to the freezing cold air, end of story. If you're ever in the neighborhood and have a hankerin' for some accurate Johnny Cash mimicry, stop by the Chatterbox and put in a request for Clem to do his thang. It seemed like the one thing that made him smile and think that the post-Nam, fatherhood, and Mabel lifestyle that I invented for him isn't so bad.
How to eat a dry, crumbly cupcake with a fork (and other random debris)
Throw the fork on the floor and use your fingers. I speak from experience.
I have a jacket that reminds me of an oven mit. Not sure why, because it isn't shaped like one. Another weird thing - I wore it to a pub last night and today it smells like ketchup and mustard. If anything, it should smell like smoke.
The windows are huge and caked with translucent grey smears that makes everything invisible when the sun shines on them. I wish they made windshield wipers the size of brooms and there was a chrome button on the wall that I could push to spray blue cleaning solution on the windows and twist to activate the wipers.
Windshield washer fluid is blue. Is this the same liquid used in barber shop comb jars?
Is there such a thing as a case of vertigo so bad that even laying on the floor with your nose on the ground is still too high up?
Are there any pot smokers that actually know the meaning behind "4:20"?
Are there any people that use the phrase "86'ed" that actually know how that is supposed to mean "banished"?
Chuck Taylors sure are uncomfortable.
Minnesota dialect is amongst the most unattractive sounding dialects out there. I fear that I carry my O's and E's too heavily sometimes without knowing it because I'm from here. I hate that.
Coffee beverages should be offered in 6 oz. cups for people like me that take a few sips and get sick of it.
I have a jacket that reminds me of an oven mit. Not sure why, because it isn't shaped like one. Another weird thing - I wore it to a pub last night and today it smells like ketchup and mustard. If anything, it should smell like smoke.
The windows are huge and caked with translucent grey smears that makes everything invisible when the sun shines on them. I wish they made windshield wipers the size of brooms and there was a chrome button on the wall that I could push to spray blue cleaning solution on the windows and twist to activate the wipers.
Windshield washer fluid is blue. Is this the same liquid used in barber shop comb jars?
Is there such a thing as a case of vertigo so bad that even laying on the floor with your nose on the ground is still too high up?
Are there any pot smokers that actually know the meaning behind "4:20"?
Are there any people that use the phrase "86'ed" that actually know how that is supposed to mean "banished"?
Chuck Taylors sure are uncomfortable.
Minnesota dialect is amongst the most unattractive sounding dialects out there. I fear that I carry my O's and E's too heavily sometimes without knowing it because I'm from here. I hate that.
Coffee beverages should be offered in 6 oz. cups for people like me that take a few sips and get sick of it.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Wonderland by Night
Anyone remotely familiar with my acoustic guitar work (cough cough) knows I’m a huge Leo Kottke fan. A friend and I attended his annual Thanksgiving weekend show at the Ordway Theater in St. Paul last night.. Just like the other half dozen or so times I’ve seen him, I walked away absolutely astonished and wanting to go home right away to try some new tricks on my guitar.
Not only is he an amazing guitar player, but he’s a hilarious storyteller as well. He speaks not only in between songs, but during them. Often times he’ll be a minute or two into a song and just when you think everything is out of the starting gate and on its way, he stops and says something like “you know, my father can sleep standing up…” and continue to ramble on for a few minutes. While he talks, he always keeps his fingers busy playing little 5-6 second passages that swirl around his monotone, smoove, cigar-weathered voice.
Before the intermission, he said “Now be sure to pay attention to how different it sounds when you come back and I start playing. It’s not because of me or anything the engineer is doing – it’s because all of your densities have shifted.” YES! That’s what I’m talking about. No sappy “this next one’s about a girl” or “how’s everybody feel tonight” baloney. With Leo, it’s all dry, abstract deadpan observations that take a few seconds to register and make you chuckle. The end of the show came all too soon and after a few minutes of applause, he came out to start his encore and said “I was just saying back there ‘that’s a long time to pretend I’m not coming back…’” Classic.
He played one of my all time favorites – “Wonderland by Night” off of Peculiaroso. Every time I see him play it I get goosebumps. It’s one of the most simple things he plays and I want to learn it someday, but usually avoid doing so because once you learn the recipe, sometimes that takes the magic out of listening to it. I hope this works - I’ve posted an mp3 of it HERE (right click - "Save As") for you to check out. Get it while it’s hot, or until Geocities yells at me to take it down (I’m so naughty)! If you like it, I highly advise that you support Leo and add the Peculiaroso CD to your collection – it’s by far one of the best things he’s done in recent years. That is if 10 years can be considered recent.
Leo has a bad case of happy feet - they go all over the place while he plays his bouncy music. Last night he was standing up (he usually sits) and the feet were still moving. Put both of your hands on a table and lift your all of your fingers up and down, keeping your palms on the table - you are now doing an impression of Leo Kottke's feet while he's standing and playing.
Okay – I’ll get off my Kottke Pedestal of Worship now and let you get on with your day.
Leo on the web: http://www.leokottke.com Be sure to check out the NOTES page which contains a few hearty servings of his oddball storytelling.
Not only is he an amazing guitar player, but he’s a hilarious storyteller as well. He speaks not only in between songs, but during them. Often times he’ll be a minute or two into a song and just when you think everything is out of the starting gate and on its way, he stops and says something like “you know, my father can sleep standing up…” and continue to ramble on for a few minutes. While he talks, he always keeps his fingers busy playing little 5-6 second passages that swirl around his monotone, smoove, cigar-weathered voice.
Before the intermission, he said “Now be sure to pay attention to how different it sounds when you come back and I start playing. It’s not because of me or anything the engineer is doing – it’s because all of your densities have shifted.” YES! That’s what I’m talking about. No sappy “this next one’s about a girl” or “how’s everybody feel tonight” baloney. With Leo, it’s all dry, abstract deadpan observations that take a few seconds to register and make you chuckle. The end of the show came all too soon and after a few minutes of applause, he came out to start his encore and said “I was just saying back there ‘that’s a long time to pretend I’m not coming back…’” Classic.
He played one of my all time favorites – “Wonderland by Night” off of Peculiaroso. Every time I see him play it I get goosebumps. It’s one of the most simple things he plays and I want to learn it someday, but usually avoid doing so because once you learn the recipe, sometimes that takes the magic out of listening to it. I hope this works - I’ve posted an mp3 of it HERE (right click - "Save As") for you to check out. Get it while it’s hot, or until Geocities yells at me to take it down (I’m so naughty)! If you like it, I highly advise that you support Leo and add the Peculiaroso CD to your collection – it’s by far one of the best things he’s done in recent years. That is if 10 years can be considered recent.
Leo has a bad case of happy feet - they go all over the place while he plays his bouncy music. Last night he was standing up (he usually sits) and the feet were still moving. Put both of your hands on a table and lift your all of your fingers up and down, keeping your palms on the table - you are now doing an impression of Leo Kottke's feet while he's standing and playing.
Okay – I’ll get off my Kottke Pedestal of Worship now and let you get on with your day.
Leo on the web: http://www.leokottke.com Be sure to check out the NOTES page which contains a few hearty servings of his oddball storytelling.
All bow down to the Weather Penis
If you've never seen one of these before, no, it is not a fancy bong, it's a Galileo thermometer (more info here). A little phallic looking, isn't it?I received one as a Christmas gift one year, and thanks to my mind being in the gutter most of the time, I developed what seemed to be a rather suitable nickname for it: "The Weather Penis".
Was at the Cheescake Factory on Friday and after 1 beer and half of a chocolate martini, conversation topic quickly began to head south - I don't remember how or why, but the Weather Penis was mentioned... and my mind started wandering. What if the Weather Penis was used as, um, you know - an adult toy? (caution easily offended readers: this gets worse)
Not only would it probably be good for that purpose - but it would serve as a thermometer too. The only thing is you'd have to somehow have it inserted in its upright position and leave it untouched for a good 10-15 minutes to get an accurate reading.
I could take this a lot further, but I've probably gone too far already. I'll spare you from the details and visuals I have in my head. Trust me - it's not pretty.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
I am never eating again!
This is a picture of me on Thanksgiving at the tail end of gorging myself on the piles of food provided to us at my parent's house. Don't I look happy and thrilled to be alive?
It happens every year: I starve myself all day, get to Mom's completely famished, and start packing the food away like it's going out of style. Eventually I end up feeling like I look in that picture, and you know what? There was still pie waiting in the wings when that shot was taken, and hell yeah, I had some. After the pie, I felt like the guy on Geraldo that ate until he was so large that he couldn't get up or even out of his room... Hambone, I think was his name.
And then the night after came: Out to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. I hardly ate all day.. not because I was preparing again, but because I was still full from Thanksgiving dinner. 1 hamburger the size of a football and a half piece of chocolate cheesecake encased in whipped cream later, I was back in Hambone Zone. And worse yet, there was a freezing cold Pinto and 10 mile drive ahead before I got to lay down.
Enough, already... I am officially sick of food. Nothing sounds even remotely appetizing right now, and I don't think anything will for the rest of the day. Maybe I've pushed my body to the limits and I'll feel full forever and never eat again. Have I gone over the top this time? Did I push it too far? Water doesn't even sound good. I get full just breathing.
Wait - is that fried chicken I smell? Get me a plate, I'm going in.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Come spend 7 minutes inside of my brain
If you're a brain surgeon, please don't take that literally. Put the scalpels down, man.
For lack of anything else to write about, I am going to give myself 7 minutes to type whatever I'm thinking - hopefully my fingers will be able to keep up with my mind.. This kind of stuff is always fun for me personally to read days, months, or even years later, because for the most part, I have no recollection of ever thinking these things, nor would I want to. Hey - I'm easily amused.
I'm not going to spell check, format, or correct anything.. what you see is what you get! After I type the last word, I'm going to hit the PUBLISH button and not read this for a month or two - at which point I'll read it and probably think "okay, that was ridiculous... why did I do that?" [Note to Self: you were really bored at the time.]
Okay - ready... set... GO
I bet you can't guess what my password is
The cell phone is a piece of shit
How many vegetarians broke down and ate real turkey on Thanksgiving? I know of one and was there to see it happen.
How old is that half empty bottle of Diet Coke in front of me? Kittens are funny, because they chase after things. How long is it going to take for a customer to walk in here and disrupt my stream of consciousness writing? It's been a while since anyone's been here, they're all too busy driving in the freezing rain to do their holiday shopping... get things like $9.99 camera pens from Radio Shack and smelly lotion for grandma. How many pens are there on the table? 4. I wonder who put them there? I really ate a lot last night, glad a little walk in the freezing windy air helped it wear off a little bit. Who has my pin? Why is it being held for ransom? I've received 10 pictures of people wearing it now and am starting to get a little nervous. I wish I could buy one of the new smaller Playstation 2s and put my old big one in the box and return it,,, say something like "Look - I got home, opened this up and it's an old used one.. huh! I guess you'll have to give me a small one, please" I'd like to pick up the new GTA game, charlie has it and it's pretty funny. "Let it Bleed" is one of my favorite records of all time, I could listen to it literally any time and enjoy it... the Rolling Stones were amazing back in the day. It's purple blue outside and I wish I had a sweater or something. Going to the Cheesecake factory tonight, I'm still a little full from yesterady, but there's always room for a little Cheesecake factory fuds, if you know what i'm saying. Flashback to Avis' house - their couch always smelled like cigarettes and dog pee - most likely because they smoked and had a scary little pug named Doolie that apparently didn't find the back yard suitable enough for taking a piss
IHOP was pretty good last week, had a lot of eggs and 4 sausage links
Wonder what it's like to work there? Hopefully I'll never know I wish I could go to the library and get a bunch of CDs but I think I still owe $78 in late fees for some ridiculous reason. Ah, hell with them. The Walgreens over there was where I went to buy fizzy water once when I was going to KRS> I remember that guitar - it was gold, a Yamaha RGX200 or something? I still have that one, it's got stickers all over it. I sold the Kramer to Chris Streinke, what a dumbass move that was. I remember the day he burned his face off, the radiator of his car spit all over him. Still sitting here and wondering what's going on tomorrow. What is going on now?! Suave ain't all that bad, sure, it's cheap but it smells pretty good. Leo Kottke - I wonder if he likes Maccaroni and Cheese? What does he eat when he travels. Does he eat guitars?
I have no idea, whoa, 30 seconds left - the bakery guy is coming, will I finish before he gets here, I wonder if there's any of those ginger apricot thingies I want to go outside only a few seconds left
Boy, that was fascinating.
For lack of anything else to write about, I am going to give myself 7 minutes to type whatever I'm thinking - hopefully my fingers will be able to keep up with my mind.. This kind of stuff is always fun for me personally to read days, months, or even years later, because for the most part, I have no recollection of ever thinking these things, nor would I want to. Hey - I'm easily amused.
I'm not going to spell check, format, or correct anything.. what you see is what you get! After I type the last word, I'm going to hit the PUBLISH button and not read this for a month or two - at which point I'll read it and probably think "okay, that was ridiculous... why did I do that?" [Note to Self: you were really bored at the time.]
Okay - ready... set... GO
I bet you can't guess what my password is
The cell phone is a piece of shit
How many vegetarians broke down and ate real turkey on Thanksgiving? I know of one and was there to see it happen.
How old is that half empty bottle of Diet Coke in front of me? Kittens are funny, because they chase after things. How long is it going to take for a customer to walk in here and disrupt my stream of consciousness writing? It's been a while since anyone's been here, they're all too busy driving in the freezing rain to do their holiday shopping... get things like $9.99 camera pens from Radio Shack and smelly lotion for grandma. How many pens are there on the table? 4. I wonder who put them there? I really ate a lot last night, glad a little walk in the freezing windy air helped it wear off a little bit. Who has my pin? Why is it being held for ransom? I've received 10 pictures of people wearing it now and am starting to get a little nervous. I wish I could buy one of the new smaller Playstation 2s and put my old big one in the box and return it,,, say something like "Look - I got home, opened this up and it's an old used one.. huh! I guess you'll have to give me a small one, please" I'd like to pick up the new GTA game, charlie has it and it's pretty funny. "Let it Bleed" is one of my favorite records of all time, I could listen to it literally any time and enjoy it... the Rolling Stones were amazing back in the day. It's purple blue outside and I wish I had a sweater or something. Going to the Cheesecake factory tonight, I'm still a little full from yesterady, but there's always room for a little Cheesecake factory fuds, if you know what i'm saying. Flashback to Avis' house - their couch always smelled like cigarettes and dog pee - most likely because they smoked and had a scary little pug named Doolie that apparently didn't find the back yard suitable enough for taking a piss
IHOP was pretty good last week, had a lot of eggs and 4 sausage links
Wonder what it's like to work there? Hopefully I'll never know I wish I could go to the library and get a bunch of CDs but I think I still owe $78 in late fees for some ridiculous reason. Ah, hell with them. The Walgreens over there was where I went to buy fizzy water once when I was going to KRS> I remember that guitar - it was gold, a Yamaha RGX200 or something? I still have that one, it's got stickers all over it. I sold the Kramer to Chris Streinke, what a dumbass move that was. I remember the day he burned his face off, the radiator of his car spit all over him. Still sitting here and wondering what's going on tomorrow. What is going on now?! Suave ain't all that bad, sure, it's cheap but it smells pretty good. Leo Kottke - I wonder if he likes Maccaroni and Cheese? What does he eat when he travels. Does he eat guitars?
I have no idea, whoa, 30 seconds left - the bakery guy is coming, will I finish before he gets here, I wonder if there's any of those ginger apricot thingies I want to go outside only a few seconds left
Boy, that was fascinating.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Thanksgiving reflections: what I'm thankful for
Today is Thanksgiving, the day that officially kicks off the holiday season. Woo hoo! Before heading off to my mom's to munch on mounds of turkey carcass and stuffing, I shall display my Thanksgiving cheer by writing a little bit about what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving holiday.I, Micycle Tricycle, am thankful for:
- never allowing myself to let my friends use my bare ass as a dartboard.
- the idea that there may be some rich relative nobody knows about that's going to die any minute now and leave me piles of money, a Segway scooter, and a mansion. I'll share with my family by getting them all magazine subscriptions or adopting a highway on their behalf.
- the fact that I don't have to see Dr. Asshole today
- that I am not mentally retarded (some would beg to differ)
- my sweet-ass haircut. It makes me want to kiss the mirror. Damn, I'm handsome.
- My cat. Not because he's my best friend, but because he has no idea that if I one day decided to stop feeding him, he'd starve to death. Such power I have. It's like being God.
- ignorance. I'm able to be completely ignorant to the fact that my life sucks so bad right now. Cheers!
- Holly Nog. All of that great eggnog flavor with a lot less guilt.
- my brother going back to Cleveland on Tuesday so all of the attention can be focused back on me, the most important one.
- the notion of going to my mom's tonight to eat a freshly slaughtered turkey that never had a chance to live life to its fullest and die of old age.
- my artistic abilities enabling me to draw really good pictures of dogs defecating.
- the fact that I didn't park on Cedar Ave. the night some kids slashed everyone's tires. If you did, ha ha! You suck.
- My brother's homemade fart compilation CD.
- Wireless internet access that allows you to check your email while taking a dump if you feel so inclined.
- My ticket I got last week for having expired tabs. Thanks, Minneapolis! Glad I could help pitch in for the new light rail transit system.
- the gummy stars I licked and stuck on my shoes while seeing the Incredibles 2 weeks ago. They're still on there and looking good.
- The movie "Lost In Translation" - I can tell in a lot of scenes that Scarlett Johansson is thinking about how much she misses me.
- the new Grand Theft Auto game teaching us that it's funny to kill cops and innocent civilians, and the fact that you can get shot multiple times and still run away from them. I had no idea!
- the Sammy Hagar cassette I shoplifted in 6th grade. Because of that, I've always been $7.99 ahead in the bank.
- the customers at the coffee shop that compliment me on how fast I am. Little do they know, it's because I just want them to get the hell away from me so I can go sit down and surf the internet.
- The piles and piles of cheap D cell batteries I have and will never use.
- The Olivia Newton-John "Physical" video. Meee-ow!
- as much as I use the phrase "gouge my eyes out with a No. 2 pencil," I still haven't really done it to this day.
- the fact that yet another day has gone by without another $2,000 vet bill
- this year I will window shop, and think about what I would get everyone for the holidays if I actually had any money
- the fact that I have never taken a brick and smashed my face in with it.
That's good enough for now. I hope you enjoyed my list and that it sparked the true spirit of Thanksgiving in each and all of your hearts.
Let's eat!
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
My cat is a nerd.
Meet my cat Devo. He hasn't really been himself lately because I haven't been around much, so yesterday I decided to take him out with me while I was gone and try to make the little dude feel better.
Devo is a nerd. He has food allergies. He has bladder problems. When it's cold out, he sneezes and gets congested. He loves to ride in the car with me and look at trees. He's sensitive to sunlight (see photo). He yells at me if I'm not home enough. When you hold a piece of paper in the air, he repeatedly taps on it with his paw until you put it down. He is waifish, yet has the appetite of a horse.
Yesterday I began spoiling him by giving him a can of his cat food (prescription food, of course). He and I then visited a friend's house where he managed to wrangle a piece of pizza out of the top of the trash can. He then started ripping into his bag of crunchy food I brought along for the trip. I poured him a bowl and he munched on that for a while.
Not too long after that, he had some smoked salmon. Christ - not even I would be hungry after all of that, but he was just getting started. He was more than willing to help out with the spaghetti and asparagus dinner. Devo loves asparagus like it's raw meat - he goes into stealth mode and sneaks up to the plate like he's hunting it. He downed numerous pieces of asparagus, although some of the pieces he only licked, I assume because he was getting full, but when he is offered food he feels like he needs to do something with it before it's taken away. SO - within a couple of hours, he managed to eat:
- Can of cat food
- Some old pizza
- Crunchy cat food
- Smoked salmon
- Asparagus
- teeny piece of a breadstick
- and some more crunchy cat food.
Wow. Where does it all go? I know: the litterbox.
Read more about Devo's love of food here: http://meatsmoothie.blogspot.com/2004/11/how-to-make-micycle-style-fried.html
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
If you're going to hit on me,
You might as well be a nutcase - at least that makes it entertaining.
Let me preface this by saying that unless a person is Enid from the movie Ghost World or Olivia Newton-John, they're not going to get anywhere makin' they moves on me. I've got enough trouble to deal with these days.
This morning a nice young lady came in and was extremely... um.. befriending from the moment she walked in. I gave her the coffee she ordered, took her money, went back to the employee table, transaction complete. Or so I thought...
She came over to The Table and said "Mind if I join you?" to which I shrugged and hesitantly replied "I guess not..?" For the most part, The Table is commonly known as a sacred VIP employees and friends-only area. It is set up (meaning: there's a bunch of crap cluttering it) so that customers generally know that it's off-limits. She sat down and immediately started digging in.
"So what's your story? Where you from?" and a million other questions. About 2 minutes in to the conversation, I was really wishing a customer would walk in and save me... this of course never happens when you want it to - only when you're busy doing something important like sitting outside on your ass or writing emails to friends.
When she started talking about herself, things took a very strange turn. "Today's my golden birthday... I'm 22 and feelin' you! You're invited to my party on Saturday.."
[insert skipping, screeching record player noise and dead silence here]
Um... okay..?
She continued to speak in poetic pseudo-sk8tr grrl/hipster verse like that to me. She talked more. And more. And more. Minutes seemed to be stretched out like taffy into hours. I looked at my watch and only 5 minutes had passed. I started worrying that I had fallen into some sort of tear in the time/space continuum.
I quickly came to the conclusion that she was a f*&king nutcase. Her vocabulary was littered with "Right ons" and bizarre pieces of sentence that didn't really fit in with anything else she was saying. The best and most frequently used phrase was "So I pedaled to the metal over to so-and-so's".. I learned that "pedal to the metal" = "I rode my bike." I heard a bunch of stories about how her interpretive dancing got her kicked out, or "86'ed", as she continuously said, from all of these clubs. And how her confrontational attitude (gee, I never would have guessed) got her "86'ed" from a few coffee shops. It was getting to the point to where I was going to ask her where she hasn't been given the boot.
Hm. Interesting!
After about 15 minutes, she must have finally taken my typing on the laptop as she was talking as some sort of hint, shook my hand, and left.
And now I work in fear. Genuine fear that she will recall the fact that I was not given any specific details about the birthday party I'm not going to. If I see her coming, I will do some 86-ing of my own: lock the door and put up a sign that says "BE BACK IN 10MINUTES YEARS"
Let me preface this by saying that unless a person is Enid from the movie Ghost World or Olivia Newton-John, they're not going to get anywhere makin' they moves on me. I've got enough trouble to deal with these days.
This morning a nice young lady came in and was extremely... um.. befriending from the moment she walked in. I gave her the coffee she ordered, took her money, went back to the employee table, transaction complete. Or so I thought...
She came over to The Table and said "Mind if I join you?" to which I shrugged and hesitantly replied "I guess not..?" For the most part, The Table is commonly known as a sacred VIP employees and friends-only area. It is set up (meaning: there's a bunch of crap cluttering it) so that customers generally know that it's off-limits. She sat down and immediately started digging in.
"So what's your story? Where you from?" and a million other questions. About 2 minutes in to the conversation, I was really wishing a customer would walk in and save me... this of course never happens when you want it to - only when you're busy doing something important like sitting outside on your ass or writing emails to friends.
When she started talking about herself, things took a very strange turn. "Today's my golden birthday... I'm 22 and feelin' you! You're invited to my party on Saturday.."
[insert skipping, screeching record player noise and dead silence here]
Um... okay..?
She continued to speak in poetic pseudo-sk8tr grrl/hipster verse like that to me. She talked more. And more. And more. Minutes seemed to be stretched out like taffy into hours. I looked at my watch and only 5 minutes had passed. I started worrying that I had fallen into some sort of tear in the time/space continuum.
I quickly came to the conclusion that she was a f*&king nutcase. Her vocabulary was littered with "Right ons" and bizarre pieces of sentence that didn't really fit in with anything else she was saying. The best and most frequently used phrase was "So I pedaled to the metal over to so-and-so's".. I learned that "pedal to the metal" = "I rode my bike." I heard a bunch of stories about how her interpretive dancing got her kicked out, or "86'ed", as she continuously said, from all of these clubs. And how her confrontational attitude (gee, I never would have guessed) got her "86'ed" from a few coffee shops. It was getting to the point to where I was going to ask her where she hasn't been given the boot.
Hm. Interesting!
After about 15 minutes, she must have finally taken my typing on the laptop as she was talking as some sort of hint, shook my hand, and left.
And now I work in fear. Genuine fear that she will recall the fact that I was not given any specific details about the birthday party I'm not going to. If I see her coming, I will do some 86-ing of my own: lock the door and put up a sign that says "BE BACK IN 10
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