It kind of looks like Casper is coming out of your face

Every so often a person needs to let loose and have a good time. I was particularly in great need of such a thing last Saturday night, and I guess you could say I had a few drinks as a result.. AHEM.. this lead to my usual post-drink state of spewing out rather strange bits of impromptu muckamuck for a good part of the evening.



At some point I commented on how smoking "looks like Casper is coming out of your face"... that statement was then eventually refined into referring to smoking as "burping a Casper"



So next time you or a friend needs to get out for that breath of fresh, cancerous air, rather than saying "I'm gonna go have a smoke", why not use the phrase "I'm gonna go burp a Casper".. it sounds so... utterly... stupid.



Aaah, intoxication.

Miniature bismarcks would be so awesome

You know those teeny waxy Hostess donuts sold in packages of 6? All that is offered is powdered sugar, waxy chocolate, and glazed.



One thing that would kick some serious ass is if they made mini bismarcks.. with a dime sized drop of red flavored gelatinous goo, topped off with white frosting. Hell yeah... you listening, Hostess?



I can see little Smurflike creatures with gelatinous sugary goo-filled syringes next to a big pile of empty bismarck pods cranking them out by the thousands. This would be great, unless gelatinous sugary goo had a heroine-like effect on the Smurflike creatures.



Mmmm.. donuts.

I'll see you at the Fair, beeeyotch

Okay... the Minnesota State Fair started this week. Please, for the sweet love of god, NO MORE "ON A STICK" jokes. They've all been done now. Let's make 2004 the end of the "on a stick" humor era, why don't we? People put things like candy bars, Twinkies, whatever, on a skinny tounge depressor and deep fry them. Get over it.



I think it's time we put the shoe on the other foot and start poking fun at the hardcore on-a-stick eaters. You've seen them - wearing their fanny packs, carrying the free yardstick, shorts wedged up in the inner thigh area, and consuming every on-a-stick item in sight, and then washing their artery-clogging gorgefest down with a $5 44 oz. Pepsi. Yeah, now there's some comedy!



Now that my #1 complaint is done and over, on to things I like about the Fair:



- Horrible, painful talent competition

- the pickles... mmm.. the pickles.

- people watching, mainly in the beached whale/beer garden area

- seeing the news anchors getting powdered during commercial breaks

- looking at the art

- walking past the Pro Life booth and pretending it's not there

- walking past the Pro Choice booth and only sort of pretending it's not there

- walking past the PETA booth while munching on delicious turkey jerky

- that interesting egg coffee that tastes kind of like popcorn

- scary rides (scary = "I think I see a loose bolt... is this going to fall apart and kill me?"), operated by scary people

- pretending not to hear the carnies barking as we walk by in the Midway. I have no time for your silly games, and I'm sure the person next to me doesn't need a 6' tall stuffed Snoopy.

- the junk barn

- looking at jars of jelly with ribbons on them trapped in glass display cases. Hell yeah, that is the recipe for fun right there, my friends.

- remembering the arguments had every year there with my girlfriend in high school. If you're reading this: Aaaaah - good times, good times!

- the freakshow (RIP)

- going home



I just heard some on-a-stick comedy on the radio as I was typing. It's not funny, Clear Channel KOOL 108 Motherf*&kers.



See you at the fair, punk.

Mama always said...

Always remember that a mind is like a parachute: if it's not open, you will fall helplessly to the face of the Earth at a nauseating speed, scream your brains out, likely pass out from the panic attack and fright, and splatter onto the ground like a bug hitting the windshield of a car going 90 mph.

Invasions of da fruit flies

For your entertainment, today's journal entry has been "ebonified" courtesy of this online Ebonics translator. http://www.atlantaga.com/ebonics.htm Put on some good hippety hop muzak an' peep it!



==================



Yo buss dis. evary time I turn my head, dere's a reddish black dot or two (or 6) swirlin 'roun it. evary time I pick up somethin to eat, dere be reddish black dots swirlin 'roun it as well. evary time I move somethin on a countertop, same thin. An' you ain't evun want to no duh de firewuks dat happen when I go to fix out de trash.



De fruit flies be here; dey be breedin in an' skrikin down upon dis po coffee shop wit a great vengeance. Dere be evun one restin upon de wall calenda right now... I'z nevuh tasted a wall calenda, but if my life depended on landin on top uh gigantic sugary thins to feas upon, a Haworth & Co. wall calenda would probably be my las choice. I try to clapdem in flight an' dey somehow dodge me hands evary time. I has put cups uh apple ciduh vinegar wit a drop uh dishsoap out fuhdem as suggested on axejeeves.com. I spraydem wit mighty gusts uh bleach water. See what I'm sayin? Nothin. fuh evary thin I do to git rid uhdem, 10-20 mo seem to appear. Sheeit!



Yo buss dis, fruit flies: game on, bitches. Dis war be far from over. See what I'm sayin? When I'z finished wit you, de flo gonna be a sea uh dead, pathetic li'l red dots which I'z gladly sweep up into de dustpan an' dump out on 42n' skreet to be smashed by all uh de traffic.



Sheeit!

Recording guitar capella = just like tracing something that isn't there

Spent a good chunk of time in the studio over the weekend with Chopper and my Les Paul for SMBASPY overdubs.



We heard a zit in my playing about 20 seconds from the end of "Enfriendemy" and the only way to fix it is for me to redo the whole song, which in theory would take about 3 minutes. BUT - there is a very difficult hurdle to jump right out of the starting gate: the intro. It lasts for about 10 seconds and we must have spent 45 minutes on and STILL didn't get a good take. The problem is that it starts off with me "playing with myself" (strictly in a musical way). I get an interesting 4 click countoff from Scara, then I start off the song by myself, and the band joins in.



Being a human, there is no way in hell without a click track guiding you that you can keep lazer precise tempo that is consistent every time while playing along with nothing (unless you're Terry Bozzio).. so every time I tried overdubbing the intro, I'd start, everything would feel fine as I was "playing on top of the air", and then the band on the recording would come in a few seconds early or late because there's no way to match how I originally played it. We're doing this recording on tape, not on computer, so there is no easy way to pull it off other than using The Force. Where's my cape and light saber when I need them?



We shall see what happens. If I managed to do half the stuff I did while doing Iced Ink overdubs, I'm sure I'll get this one. 99.999% of the time, the worst enemy in these situations is thinking about it too much while you're doing it and not letting instinct take over.



Why did we not use a click track? I have no idea....



----



Q: How many guitarists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?



A: 5 - 1 to screw in the lightbulb and 4 to watch and talk about how much better they could do it.

Dogs have had it wrong all these years

This occurred to me several times back when walking the family dog Tillie (r.i.p.) and just did again as I saw some lady walking her dog on 42nd St.



Dogs don't pee where they think they're peeing. They sniff and sniff for that right spot to go, find it, and go. But the thing is that they stop walking when they find that magical plot of land that they find to be the perfect one for elimination. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it all comes out the other end on a spot they already sniffed and passed by while their head is still hovering above their chosen spot. This means they're taking a leak on a spot that's located a couple of steps before the spot they sniffed, so they aren't even going on that spot they chose in the first place.



If you're a dog and reading this, you're welcome for my bringing this to your attention, you dumbass. Keep walking just a few more steps once you find that spot and THEN go pee - chances are you'll be a lot closer than where you thought you've been peeing all these years.

Helpful hint: avoid orange Cheeto residue on your fingers

I crush them in the bag so they're not so long and then pour them into a cup and "drink" them. No more orange fingers.



Fucking ingenius, if I do say so myself. Put that one in your pipe and smoke it, Heloise.

UPDATE: The lost short story

Thanks to my brother Chuck who emailed me a copy, the short story I wrote about in my August 17th post is back in my hands.. along with another which I'll probably post here someday!



Funny how the memory incorrectly fills in gaps for you over the years.. I think it was written when I was at work back in 1999. I haven't read it since then until today, and although the heart of the story is still the same as I recalled, the details are quite different from what I remember.. all for the better, in my opinion.



If you are interested in diving into this literary masterpiece, I have updated the August 17th journal entry with the full story in its entirety. Scroll down a bit for the entry entitled "The Lost Short Story (Volume I)", read it and weep. It is by far one of my favorite love stories ever.

Short tempered citrus cleaner salesman encounter

So - I'm working at the coffee shop, sitting at the laptop enjoying a pastry, and this giant dude with tattooed forearms, sort of a Hells Angels-meets-Harvey Fierstein grizzly bear beast walked in with a towel and a spray bottle. A bunch of friendly sounding remarks started pouring out of his huge head in a deep, southern drawl. "How y'all doin' this mornin'?" "Where's the smiles?" "Ooooh - eatin' breakfast and workin' - this guy knows how to do it right!"



Now that he thought he had us all buttered up, he went in for the kill. "Are you a manager?"



"I guess I'm one of them," I replied.



"Well let me show you this great product. Have y'all ever seen this brand of citrus cleaner before?" He whipped out a weathered looking fact sheet on the product.



"No."



"Well let me just show you how it works, I'll give y'all a little demonstration."



"No thanks, we're not interested."



"Aw come on, I know you folks been ripped off by other citrus cleaners, but this here's the real deal!"



"No thanks, we're not interested."



He started getting angry. "Well... people come in and see y'all's dirty floors and then they don't want to stay in here; it's affecting your business. I know you been ripped off by salespeople before, but I ain't here to rip you off. People see these dirty floors and that's why your business sucks."



"Gee, that's great salesmanship you've got there."



"Let me just give you a demonstration."



"No thanks, we're not interested."



"Just hold on now." He knelt down, after the "that's why your business sucks" comment, mind you, and sprayed some of his magical life-changing citrus potion on the floor, and wiped it off. "See?"



"No thanks, we're selling the store, not buying anything, not interested."



He then got really mad, said a few more things about not ripping us off, turned around, headed for the door and on his way out, said "WELL THAT'S WHY YOUR BUSINESS SUCKS!"



"Get the fawk owda heeeeyer," I said in my best Southern accent. For a second, I thought he was going to turn around, come back in, and pound me into the ground with one of his fists. Thankfully he kept on walking; he had a lot of other places to hit up and get turned down.



Now there is a nice 6" x 12" clean stripe of the middle of the coffee shop floor from this miracle business-attracting citrus cleaner, and I'll be damned if our business hasn't tripled because of it. People actually now prefer to stand on that 6" x 12" area; I see some people even make sure one of their feet is touching the clean spot. Those people tend to leave the store feeling rejuvenated and ready to start the day.



Somewhere out there, there's that big guy with the Southern accent carrying the fountain of youth in a bottle. If you see him, stop him for a demonstration. It just might change your life. Or maybe it will change his life back into the carjacking, burglarizing frenzy it once was so he can get thrown back into the slammer to worry about a different kind of cleaner altogether: the soap he'll drop in the showers while he's standing in front of Big Bubba.

The incredible melting musician

Last night my band ICED INK played at the Fine Line Music Cafe in Minneapolis. When I read or hear the term "music cafe", the first image that comes to my mind is a waitress coming to my table with a plate full of CDs for me to slice up and eat. "Mmm... this Crash Test Dummies disc is quite delicious - try some with A1!" Speaking of eating music, I remember watching the show "Real People" when I was a kid all the time, and one particular episode featured a guy that ate weird stuff. One of the weird things he ate was a record album. He also ate light bulbs.. and a bicycle; tires and all, but I digress...



Bodies are weird things to be trapped in, especially when you’re performing. Medication was a topic of conversation last night while we were listening to the other band's soundcheck... Prozac, beta blockers, all that other good stuff. I have never been fortunate enough (ha ha!) to digest such things, but it got me thinking as I was up on the stage: is there a pill that you can take so you don't sweat so damn much? Christ. All I do is sweat. Usually there's hot stage lights to blame, but not in this case. The temperature of the venue was actually quite cool. There was absolutely no real reason for me to be perspiring; yet halfway through the 3rd song of our set, I saw water drops appearing on the body of my guitar. Several of them - courtesy of my sweaty head. I was not feeling the least bit hot, yet was perspiring like a madman. I hardly ever get nervous when performing (if at all) these days.. maybe any nerves I would have had somehow figured out how to leave my body in a sweaty mess rather than shaky hands or forgetting my guitar parts?



They say sweating is a natural air conditioner for the body, which is fine, but I really don't need it if I'm not feeling hot or feverish. Are you listening, Body?? I appreciate your concern to keep me at a comfortable room temperature at all times, but sometimes I'm already there and you're doing all that work for nothing. All you're doing is making me more thirsty, god dammit!



The show went great and a good time was had by all. I told the audience we were raffling a turkey off on the band's website. This was incredibly false information. If you are a fan that happens to be reading this and has high hopes of winning that turkey, sorry, Buck-o. There's no tooth fairy or Santa Claus, either.



Cell phones: can't live with em, can't throw them on the floor and stomp them into little bits and pieces when you get a less than desirable call that you probably shouldn't have answered right before your band sound checks.

If you ask me if this is fresh one more time, I'm going to have to kill you

Dear coffee shop customer:



Yes, the pastries are fresh. Please don't ask me again. You know the deal; you come in almost every day. I have answered this question for you many, many times before... "Yes, the pastries are fresh."



Please, maam. I beg you.



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



Please remove the cell phone from your face while ordering... or I will have to konk your thick melon with a frothing pitcher.



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



Please specify which size coffee you want rather than just saying "gimme a coffee"



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



The bathroom is through the back and to your right.



----- Dear coffee shop customer:



Yes, we have sandwiches



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



No, the coffee is not fresh. Actually I've been saving it since yesterday just for you.



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



If you think what you're getting is so overpriced to the point that you need to make some tacky, annoyed vocalization about it, why the hell do you then take out your money and pay for it?



-----

Dear coffee shop customer:



No, we don't have any.

The Lost Short Story (Volume I)

Back in 1999 I had a cushy office job where I learned to work 10% of the day and screw off the other 90% of the day. More often than not, I'd write short stories, many of which I'd email to friends and forget about.



My brother Chuck was kind enough to email this gem to me that I wrote back then, and I found it to be a rather entertaining love story. Read it and weep!



"SMALLYWOOD" (1999) written by me



Big Jim Slims was an adult film star. He was a little hefty, overly tanned, very furry (other than the bald spot on his noggin), wore a lot of jewelry from mall kiosks, and had a thick, bushy moustache. He lived in Hollywood in a severely outdated condo with a dirty pool. It was not unusual to see the neighborhood kids on weekends taking their dogs for a swim and a bath out there.21 years ago he had run away from home at the age of 10 to a hard (pun intended) life of drugs and prostitution on the streets. And now he was making ends meet (pun intended), doing something he loved. His only link to his life as a child was a small photograph of him, his parents, his sister, and his Uncle Ralphy from their trip to Niagara Falls. It was severely weathered from the years of carrying it around, and now it sat in a small frame on his dresser in his dirty bedroom. His house contained a lot of wicker furniture, dirty carpet, and glass tables, and he had an Iguana named Ron Jeremy.



Jim was having a dilemma. He liked Roxy a lot, but she was a co-worker. You know what they say: Never mix business with pleasure. They had "done it" in every humanly and non-humanly possible way on camera (and then some), and the two both had an unspoken magic between them. They sometimes had lunch between shots (um.. pun intended again), and occasionally met at the clubs for a drink and a dance.



The next project they were in together, "Stiff Proposition", was starting tomorrow. Jim decided to take things a step further and ask her over for dinner, and maybe a little rehearsal afterwards. There's nothing they hadn't done to each other in the "rehearsal" sense, but he thought it would be nice to have her over to get to know her more. Break the barrier. It was time to get serious.



Roxy of course accepted, and came over at 7, bringing a bottle of wine as a celebration of their upcoming project. They ate, drank, chatted, and eventually wound up in Jim's bedroom. He left her for a brief moment to visit the bathroom, thinking to himself that he might be in be in love.



He returned to the bedroom to find Roxy admiring his treasured family photo. Maybe it's time to tell her how much I love her, he thought. Yes... now is the time.



Roxy had the photo in her hand and looked up with at him with hopeful tears welling in her eyes and said, "Where did you get this picture of my family? I haven't seen my little brother in years!"



(Dang... I think I need to send that one in to Reader's Digest.)

Volunteers

One piece of advice I give to thee who walks the busy city streets: if someone is standing on a street corner holding a clipboard trying to make eye contact with you, it means they want you to kick them in the shins and run away from them really fast without speaking a word.

Help me please... it's 2am and I'm stuck in a tree.

I was awakened at 2am by a firetruck siren outside. It was in the distance, became increasingly louder, and when the siren came close enough to sounding like it was next door, it stopped. This either meant that a) something was wrong next door, or b) the guy behind the wheel thought he was turning on the wipers but accidentally hit the siren switch and had just figured out how to turn it off as he was driving by. I asked myself "Does it smell like something is burning?" No. "Is this a dream?" No. "Are people screaming or are there any fire alarms going off?" No.



It was then that I decided that there was no fire - but instead, a cute, cuddly stray kitten must have somehow gotten himself trapped high up in a tree, and an elite team of Minnesota's finest fire fighters were called out to rescue the little bugger and return him safely to ground level.



Thinking like that makes it much easier for my lazy ass to get to back to sleep and not worry so much about possibly waking up 15 minutes later because my flesh is being burned off in a bedroom where the carpet and furniture were just engulfed in a forest of smoke and 6' tall flames.



Good times, good times!

Question of the day:

Today I was asked if cowboys wear swimsuits.



Beats the shit out of me.

They should call them "Crispy Cinnamon Squares", NOT "Twists"...

As I was splashing some cold skim onto the pile of generic cinnamon tile-shaped cereal called "Crispy Cinnamon Twists(TM)" this morning (they are square shaped, not twist shaped... what's up with that?), I was distracted by my cat Devo who was yelling at me because he wanted the rest of his salmon which was slowly rotting in the icebox (or so it smelled.)



"Mmmmeeeeeeeeow... mmmmmmmmmm... REEEEOW" translated = "For the sweet love of god... open the door to that thing that keeps things cold, get out the little stinky can in the plastic bag, and dump those fish shards on my pink plate or I will have to go pee on your laundry."



Before I knew it, I had added way too much milk to my cereal. Such a severe milk-to-cereal imbalance makes for an unfulfilling cereal consumption experience. The way I like it, there should be just enough milk to cover about 3/4 of the cereal, and I had added so much that there was only a tiny island of Crispy Cinnamon Twists(TM) peeking out in the middle of a sea of skim, surrounded by a few floaters which looked kind of like rafts. The milk was just below the rim of the bowl - it was so full that I was going to have to make a tremendous effort to not spill it on the way to the kitchen table.



I turned around to put the milk back in the icebox and get out the salmon can, and as my back was turned, Devo had jumped on the counter, dipped his dirty little paw into my cereal bowl, and began licking the milk that had been absorbed into the fur of his toes.



Now I had a contaminated bowl of cereal with way too much milk in it, a crabby cat that helped himself to it, and didn't know what to do. I gave him his cold, stinky plate of salmon, started in on my cereal, and read a magazine article that I had already read twice (too lazy to find something else)



By the time I had fished all of the Crispy Cinnamon Twists(TM) out of the bowl, my belly was full of sugar and I was feeling a little queasy, but I could not dump the 1/2 cup of sugary skim that was left into the sink. I went back to the bag of Crispy Cinnamon Twists(TM), poured an amount of Crispy Cinnamon Twists(TM) into the bowl that was a perfect match to the leftover skim, and ate it. I felt completely sick, but god dammit, that skim was not wasted.Not too much later, I made it to work (at the coffee shop), grabbed a glass, and started making myself an iced mocha. It was a 16 oz. cup which calls for 3 scoops of chocolate powder. I had accidentally put 4 scoops in. Here we go again...