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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
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
Monday, November 22, 2004
Meet Dr. Asshole.
Hello, I am Doctor Edward, a.k.a. "Doctor Asshole".
I work across the street from a coffee shop with prices that I think are too high and I tell them that a lot. The fact that I still go in there and spend my money is besides the point. Maybe if I tell them enough, they'll think "Hm... Ed thinks our prices are a little steep - let's lower everything a bit. And maybe we could cut him a deal for bringing it to our attention."
I love my deal cutting. Once I went into the store and told the guy behind the counter, Mike, I think his name is, that I'd give him the Wall Street Journal every day in exchange for a cup of coffee. I told him not to tell his manager about it, and just to think about it. I wasn't aware at the time that he was one of the managers. Anyways, I started receiving that rag for free and what the hell am I gonna do with an extra copy? I get it already, and don't want to read it twice. Might as well try and hock it off for something that costs someone else money. The bastard turned me down. Hey, it's his funeral.
I used to like the pastries they had there until they switched bakeries. I'd go in nearly every morning and sift through them with my bare hands to find the right one, and then hold it there to drop crumbs all over the clean counter and say "I need a small bag for this." Every day I'd request a bag, and it looked as if the guy was getting testy with me, as if he was thinking the bags are 5" from you, Ed, get one your damn self.
Everyone there is nice enough, I guess. I leave my trash I find in my pockets on the counter and my messes all over the tables there, and they always throw it away. That is because they are in the food service industry and it is their job to clean up after me. I don't need to say a damn word to them other than "hi", because I am far too good for that. The only conversations I carry here are with the people I occasionally bring in to sit down with and talk really loud about money and real estate with.
So anyways, come to my office sometime and let me work on your teeth. Especially if you're a cute little blonde... yeah, that's what Big Poppa's talkin about.
I work across the street from a coffee shop with prices that I think are too high and I tell them that a lot. The fact that I still go in there and spend my money is besides the point. Maybe if I tell them enough, they'll think "Hm... Ed thinks our prices are a little steep - let's lower everything a bit. And maybe we could cut him a deal for bringing it to our attention."
I love my deal cutting. Once I went into the store and told the guy behind the counter, Mike, I think his name is, that I'd give him the Wall Street Journal every day in exchange for a cup of coffee. I told him not to tell his manager about it, and just to think about it. I wasn't aware at the time that he was one of the managers. Anyways, I started receiving that rag for free and what the hell am I gonna do with an extra copy? I get it already, and don't want to read it twice. Might as well try and hock it off for something that costs someone else money. The bastard turned me down. Hey, it's his funeral.
I used to like the pastries they had there until they switched bakeries. I'd go in nearly every morning and sift through them with my bare hands to find the right one, and then hold it there to drop crumbs all over the clean counter and say "I need a small bag for this." Every day I'd request a bag, and it looked as if the guy was getting testy with me, as if he was thinking the bags are 5" from you, Ed, get one your damn self.
Everyone there is nice enough, I guess. I leave my trash I find in my pockets on the counter and my messes all over the tables there, and they always throw it away. That is because they are in the food service industry and it is their job to clean up after me. I don't need to say a damn word to them other than "hi", because I am far too good for that. The only conversations I carry here are with the people I occasionally bring in to sit down with and talk really loud about money and real estate with.
So anyways, come to my office sometime and let me work on your teeth. Especially if you're a cute little blonde... yeah, that's what Big Poppa's talkin about.
Anyone have a pocket TV?
I'm going to see Leo Kottke on Sunday night and there's one problem: he starts at 8:00.
Do you know what this means??? I'm going to miss Desperate Housewives.
It starts at 8pm on Sunday as well. And I can't very well stand to miss this next episode. People are getting murdered, hit by cars, consumed by drug addiction, couples are arguing, separating, kicking their kids out... I thought I was only going to have to wait 167 hours until the story continued, but at that 167th hour, I will be sitting at the Ordway Theater instead.
Leo, could you maybe reschedule your show - maybe move it up an hour or something? Granted you've been my guitar hero for almost 20 years now, I'd like to hope you'd understand.
Maybe I'll have to run to Radio Shack and pick up a pocket TV with an earphone. Nah, the screen is too small. I'll just have to give my ticket to some homeless person in the park across the street from the Ordway and head out to the nearest place I can find to tune in to an all new shocking episode of America's #1 Show, Desperate Housewives. Only right here at 8pm Central on ABC.
Do you know what this means??? I'm going to miss Desperate Housewives.
It starts at 8pm on Sunday as well. And I can't very well stand to miss this next episode. People are getting murdered, hit by cars, consumed by drug addiction, couples are arguing, separating, kicking their kids out... I thought I was only going to have to wait 167 hours until the story continued, but at that 167th hour, I will be sitting at the Ordway Theater instead.
Leo, could you maybe reschedule your show - maybe move it up an hour or something? Granted you've been my guitar hero for almost 20 years now, I'd like to hope you'd understand.
Maybe I'll have to run to Radio Shack and pick up a pocket TV with an earphone. Nah, the screen is too small. I'll just have to give my ticket to some homeless person in the park across the street from the Ordway and head out to the nearest place I can find to tune in to an all new shocking episode of America's #1 Show, Desperate Housewives. Only right here at 8pm Central on ABC.
Subway spokesman Jared gives me the creeps
Dear Subway:
You helped Jared shed the pounds, and now maybe you should develop a sandwich that helps him shed whatever it is that makes me want to punch him in the piehole- er, I mean, Subway-hole.
Jared, first off let me say congratulations on the weight loss. I feel your pain - I was a pudgy little kid, and had I known Subway was all it took, I would have been asking my mom to take me down for a Cold Cut Combo a lot more often.
You can lose all the weight you want, but nothing seems to change the fact that you scare me. I see some sort of unidentifiable creepiness lingering behind those eyes. I can't put my finger on it, but I know something's going on in that footlong-munching cranium of yours. Tough childhood? Or maybe it was murder? Do you talk that way because you ate so many sandwiches that you have an uneasy stomach?
You just seem so uncomfortable. It's in your body language, in the way you speak. When you talk, your mouth moves way too much. Watch yourself sometime. And if you haven't yet, rent the movie "Supersize Me". You're in it, and you're talking to a little girl and her mom after doing a presentation. You try your hardest to be a nice guy and hear about her struggling with weight loss, but I can read you like a book. You're thinking "okay... relax... relax... she's standing so close to me... don't touch me.. she's gonna touch me.. ew, don't get so close, girl, Jared needs his space."
Maybe that's it. You're one of those OCD people. You iron your socks. You need to shower every time somebody touches you. You use precisely 6 squares of toilet paper every time you go No. 2. You close doors 3 times every time you leave a room. Tinfoil on your windows. Big Brother is watching.
The more I see Jared, the more frightened I become of him. I've cut back on my Subway consumption drastically since the Jared campaign began. You know why? I heard that he's watching you through those security cameras above the cash registers at all of the Subway restaurants.
He's got his pants around his ankles and is building a footlong of his own, if you catch my drift.
You helped Jared shed the pounds, and now maybe you should develop a sandwich that helps him shed whatever it is that makes me want to punch him in the piehole- er, I mean, Subway-hole.
Jared, first off let me say congratulations on the weight loss. I feel your pain - I was a pudgy little kid, and had I known Subway was all it took, I would have been asking my mom to take me down for a Cold Cut Combo a lot more often.You can lose all the weight you want, but nothing seems to change the fact that you scare me. I see some sort of unidentifiable creepiness lingering behind those eyes. I can't put my finger on it, but I know something's going on in that footlong-munching cranium of yours. Tough childhood? Or maybe it was murder? Do you talk that way because you ate so many sandwiches that you have an uneasy stomach?
You just seem so uncomfortable. It's in your body language, in the way you speak. When you talk, your mouth moves way too much. Watch yourself sometime. And if you haven't yet, rent the movie "Supersize Me". You're in it, and you're talking to a little girl and her mom after doing a presentation. You try your hardest to be a nice guy and hear about her struggling with weight loss, but I can read you like a book. You're thinking "okay... relax... relax... she's standing so close to me... don't touch me.. she's gonna touch me.. ew, don't get so close, girl, Jared needs his space."
Maybe that's it. You're one of those OCD people. You iron your socks. You need to shower every time somebody touches you. You use precisely 6 squares of toilet paper every time you go No. 2. You close doors 3 times every time you leave a room. Tinfoil on your windows. Big Brother is watching.
The more I see Jared, the more frightened I become of him. I've cut back on my Subway consumption drastically since the Jared campaign began. You know why? I heard that he's watching you through those security cameras above the cash registers at all of the Subway restaurants.
He's got his pants around his ankles and is building a footlong of his own, if you catch my drift.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Frequent Buyer Cards
We have a "Buy 10, get one free" punch card system here at the coffee shop. It is quite popular with the customers... I know one guy in particular that comes in to get a coffee just for the thrill of being one stamp closer to that free coffee.
There are a few punch card holders out there that take advantage of the system: they buy 10 small coffees, one of the cheapest things on the menu, and when it's time for the free one, they stand there trying to calculate out the most decadent, extravagant, balls-out drink they can order.
After thinking for 3 minutes and then taking another 2 to find their punch card, game on. "Hmmm. Today's will be FREE, so I think I'll skip the small coffee. Let's go with an extra large triple shot white mocha with some caramel in it. Oh, and a splash of vanilla. Extra white chocolate. Could you use half and half with that? And put some whipped cream on it? A lot of whipped cream. And don't make it so hot that I can't drink it."
Suuuuure. There are a few people we bust and tell the freebie is only good for whatever they normally get, but that's only because they're annoying.
All this Frequent Buyer card business has got me thinking over the years. What if more places had them? I'd be all about taking advantage of that freebie, boy.
The Frequent Moviegoer Card: Went to see The Incredibles last week. It was some ridiculous shit like $9 to get in there, and then you can expect to pay another $15 if you go in with any sort of appetite. Thank gawd for my incredible charm which yields enormous piles of coffee shop tips... hehe! For the free one, you should get 2 tickets good for any time and a voucher for 2 of the alleged "money saving" popcorn/nacho/drinkie combos. Movie theater prices are, as Regis Philbin would say, "Out of CONTROL!"
The Guitar Center Frequent Buyer Card: "Excuse me, Dagger," slapping full punch card down, "I bought 10 Epiphone Les Paul copies - so for my free one, I'll take that 1957 Gold Top up on the top there. And throw in a plush hardshell case and strings for it if you'd be so kind."
The Best Buy CD shopper Card: Buy 10 regularly priced CDs, and get another CD, or... a deluxe box set, rather, for free.
The Car Lot Frequent Buyer Card: Buy 10 lower class economy cars, then for #11 go in there, slap your card down, and get yourself a Hummer. Why not? You paid your dues via the punch card system, right?
The Homeowner Frequent Buyer Card: Buy 10 dumpy houses, get a completely furnished million dollar mansion... free.
The Frequent Asshole Card: Deal with 10 assholes, redeem your card and pummel, tar and feather, verbally abuse, or do whatever you want to the 11th one.
Sounds like fun, huh? Go to your favorite retailer and suggest a Frequent Buyer card program today.
There are a few punch card holders out there that take advantage of the system: they buy 10 small coffees, one of the cheapest things on the menu, and when it's time for the free one, they stand there trying to calculate out the most decadent, extravagant, balls-out drink they can order.
After thinking for 3 minutes and then taking another 2 to find their punch card, game on. "Hmmm. Today's will be FREE, so I think I'll skip the small coffee. Let's go with an extra large triple shot white mocha with some caramel in it. Oh, and a splash of vanilla. Extra white chocolate. Could you use half and half with that? And put some whipped cream on it? A lot of whipped cream. And don't make it so hot that I can't drink it."
Suuuuure. There are a few people we bust and tell the freebie is only good for whatever they normally get, but that's only because they're annoying.
All this Frequent Buyer card business has got me thinking over the years. What if more places had them? I'd be all about taking advantage of that freebie, boy.
The Frequent Moviegoer Card: Went to see The Incredibles last week. It was some ridiculous shit like $9 to get in there, and then you can expect to pay another $15 if you go in with any sort of appetite. Thank gawd for my incredible charm which yields enormous piles of coffee shop tips... hehe! For the free one, you should get 2 tickets good for any time and a voucher for 2 of the alleged "money saving" popcorn/nacho/drinkie combos. Movie theater prices are, as Regis Philbin would say, "Out of CONTROL!"
The Guitar Center Frequent Buyer Card: "Excuse me, Dagger," slapping full punch card down, "I bought 10 Epiphone Les Paul copies - so for my free one, I'll take that 1957 Gold Top up on the top there. And throw in a plush hardshell case and strings for it if you'd be so kind."
The Best Buy CD shopper Card: Buy 10 regularly priced CDs, and get another CD, or... a deluxe box set, rather, for free.
The Car Lot Frequent Buyer Card: Buy 10 lower class economy cars, then for #11 go in there, slap your card down, and get yourself a Hummer. Why not? You paid your dues via the punch card system, right?
The Homeowner Frequent Buyer Card: Buy 10 dumpy houses, get a completely furnished million dollar mansion... free.
The Frequent Asshole Card: Deal with 10 assholes, redeem your card and pummel, tar and feather, verbally abuse, or do whatever you want to the 11th one.
Sounds like fun, huh? Go to your favorite retailer and suggest a Frequent Buyer card program today.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
The Glamorous Life
Screw the details of the Zippo Hot Tour show we played last night... I want to talk about this guy:
I recognized the guitar playing right away - lightning fast, razor blade sharp, and full of what Steve Morse once referred to as "whistlers" (guitar players, this = pinch harmonics and severe Whammy pedal abuse). I knew within about 3 seconds that it was former Pantera guitar player "Dimebag" Darrell - a man who I worshipped for quite some time in the early 90's Cowboys From Hell heyday. Quite possibly one of the best "metal" (for lack of better term) guitar players out there.
I stepped over into the main room area and sure enough, there he was in all his brutal, hairy glory completely annihilating his guitar to the delight of a packed room. I made it just in time to hear them start up the classic Pantera tour de force "Walk", a song I still love to this day. It's actually sort of autobiographical for recent events in my life... hehe.
After the 15 minute crowd-pleasing version of "Walk", I went back to hang out with my band in the upstairs backstage area. About 20 feet away by a very scary looking sectional couch that I'm sure has a few stories and diseases of its own, up came Darrell and his band to freshen themselves up after a good, long set.
I said to VomitGod "I never would have thought at noon today that I'd be standing 20 feet away from Dimebag Darrell right now!" I've always thought he was an amazing guitar player, and this was the chance of a lifetime to go over and tell him, give him my band's CD, and show him my Ace Frehley tattoo (he is an Ace nut and has one as well - what better way to break the ice?!)
My bandmates and I were getting ready to head out to Pizza Luce to kill some time. The only way out involved walking past Dimebag and his band - ah, the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.
Buzzkill in 5...4...3...2.......1:
At that moment, Dimebag, shirtless, looking 8 months pregnant with a towel wrapped on his head turbine-style, began to take his pants off, exposing his bare, pale white-pink, puffy, lumpy ass for the whole world to see. It looked like his ass had downed an entire pack of Big League Chew and was puckered up getting ready to blow a bubble. And then he turned around and let little Mr. Happy dangle around for a bit before finally finding the clean pants and putting them on.
The image in my head of Dime and myself chatting and laughing quickly turned into an image of a big hole in the wall of the club in the shape of my scared, running body like a scene out of an old Warner Bros. cartoon.
After seeing Dimebag in his comfort zone like that, wearing only a towel on his head and that frizzy red beard, I just couldn't do it. The buns - fine, I can deal with that, but the frank and beans were just too much for me to handle. We walked right past them, to the elevators, and off to Luce for pizza and the most delicious chocolate cake $4.17 can buy.
Do I regret not saying anything? I probably will. What was I supposed to do, though? "Darrell, I'm such a big fan of your ugly lumpy ass- er- NO! NO! I mean, guitar playing!" I was in shock and helpless. And I will probably never have that chance again.
I'm going to see Leo Kottke next week. In the unlikely event that we end up backstage, let's hope against hope that dude keeps his pants on.
"Dimebag" Darrell former Pantera,
current Damageplan guitarist
I recognized the guitar playing right away - lightning fast, razor blade sharp, and full of what Steve Morse once referred to as "whistlers" (guitar players, this = pinch harmonics and severe Whammy pedal abuse). I knew within about 3 seconds that it was former Pantera guitar player "Dimebag" Darrell - a man who I worshipped for quite some time in the early 90's Cowboys From Hell heyday. Quite possibly one of the best "metal" (for lack of better term) guitar players out there.
I stepped over into the main room area and sure enough, there he was in all his brutal, hairy glory completely annihilating his guitar to the delight of a packed room. I made it just in time to hear them start up the classic Pantera tour de force "Walk", a song I still love to this day. It's actually sort of autobiographical for recent events in my life... hehe.
After the 15 minute crowd-pleasing version of "Walk", I went back to hang out with my band in the upstairs backstage area. About 20 feet away by a very scary looking sectional couch that I'm sure has a few stories and diseases of its own, up came Darrell and his band to freshen themselves up after a good, long set.
I said to VomitGod "I never would have thought at noon today that I'd be standing 20 feet away from Dimebag Darrell right now!" I've always thought he was an amazing guitar player, and this was the chance of a lifetime to go over and tell him, give him my band's CD, and show him my Ace Frehley tattoo (he is an Ace nut and has one as well - what better way to break the ice?!)
My bandmates and I were getting ready to head out to Pizza Luce to kill some time. The only way out involved walking past Dimebag and his band - ah, the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.
Buzzkill in 5...4...3...2.......1:
At that moment, Dimebag, shirtless, looking 8 months pregnant with a towel wrapped on his head turbine-style, began to take his pants off, exposing his bare, pale white-pink, puffy, lumpy ass for the whole world to see. It looked like his ass had downed an entire pack of Big League Chew and was puckered up getting ready to blow a bubble. And then he turned around and let little Mr. Happy dangle around for a bit before finally finding the clean pants and putting them on.
The image in my head of Dime and myself chatting and laughing quickly turned into an image of a big hole in the wall of the club in the shape of my scared, running body like a scene out of an old Warner Bros. cartoon.
After seeing Dimebag in his comfort zone like that, wearing only a towel on his head and that frizzy red beard, I just couldn't do it. The buns - fine, I can deal with that, but the frank and beans were just too much for me to handle. We walked right past them, to the elevators, and off to Luce for pizza and the most delicious chocolate cake $4.17 can buy.
Do I regret not saying anything? I probably will. What was I supposed to do, though? "Darrell, I'm such a big fan of your ugly lumpy ass- er- NO! NO! I mean, guitar playing!" I was in shock and helpless. And I will probably never have that chance again.
I'm going to see Leo Kottke next week. In the unlikely event that we end up backstage, let's hope against hope that dude keeps his pants on.
Friday, November 19, 2004
I'm alive and well... Where was I?
Where was I? Where am I? Good questions. Right now it's 6:54am and I'm sitting in the coffee shop.
It's been an interesting week... I feel like it's been a year or two since last Friday. Lots of things become apparent when you take a little time to step back from a big mess and think about stuff.
One would think I'd be pretty miserable right now, and I do have my moments, but I think I'm doing quite fine. All thanks to things like my peeps, ice cream, music, Twinkie shirts, The Incredibles, air hockey, Adrian Legg's "Mrs. Crowe's Blue Waltz", guitars, writing ridiculously long blogs, and cocaine (just kidding on that last one)!
If you're around me and I'm ever mysteriously quiet, don't worry. I'm most likely preoccupied because I'm still trying to figure out how to build a working electric guitar out of a Kleenex box, empty paper towel tube, and rubber binders. Either that or I'm still figuring out the whole homemade bomb recipe. The Kleenex guitar is one that's had me stumped ever since my nephew made me an acoustic prototype back when he was 7 or 8 - still have it! It looks something like this...
__________
| _______ |________qqq
| |______| |___________)
|_________| bbb
Anyways... Money money money. I quote Marilyn Monroe: "I don't want to make money. I just want to be wonderful." Ha ha!! That's some funny shit.
Thanks again for the help, everyone!
It's been an interesting week... I feel like it's been a year or two since last Friday. Lots of things become apparent when you take a little time to step back from a big mess and think about stuff.
One would think I'd be pretty miserable right now, and I do have my moments, but I think I'm doing quite fine. All thanks to things like my peeps, ice cream, music, Twinkie shirts, The Incredibles, air hockey, Adrian Legg's "Mrs. Crowe's Blue Waltz", guitars, writing ridiculously long blogs, and cocaine (just kidding on that last one)!
If you're around me and I'm ever mysteriously quiet, don't worry. I'm most likely preoccupied because I'm still trying to figure out how to build a working electric guitar out of a Kleenex box, empty paper towel tube, and rubber binders. Either that or I'm still figuring out the whole homemade bomb recipe. The Kleenex guitar is one that's had me stumped ever since my nephew made me an acoustic prototype back when he was 7 or 8 - still have it! It looks something like this...
__________
| _______ |________qqq
| |______| |___________)
|_________| bbb
Anyways... Money money money. I quote Marilyn Monroe: "I don't want to make money. I just want to be wonderful." Ha ha!! That's some funny shit.
Thanks again for the help, everyone!
MySpace: Everyone's doin' it
Including rodents. Last night either a human going through some sort of identity crisis or an actual hamster by the name of "Roller" sent a request to be Iced Ink's friend on MySpace.People sometimes ask if they can sing for us, and after viewing the pic to the left on Roller's MySpace page, I just know she's waiting to ask or be asked. Sorry - but human, rodent, amphibian, whatever - we aren't looking for a singer.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
I am convinced that Leo Kottke is a robot
I started the workday off with a Leo Kottke compilation CD I made. Leo is the man solely responsible for making me pick up an acoustic guitar and learn fingerstyle when I was a kid (See: finnegan).
The first song on the CD is a live version of "Busted Bicycle" off of his "The Best" LP. Every time I hear that song, it hits me like a ton of bricks, mainly because that's what it sounds like. No one that is human could possibly posses such flawless speed, accuracy, and command over a 12 string guitar like that. Especially when fingerpicking.
And it's not just the speed - the songwriting is equally impressive. Instead of "Busted Bicycle", he should have named it "Hello, My Name is Leo Kottke and I'm here to knock your sorry ass into next year with my 12 String". There's a slim chance that I'll be able to attend his upcoming Thanksgiving show at the Ordway which always leaves me in a trail of dust wondering "How does he do that?" If you ever see him live, keep an eye on his feet - they have a mind of their own.
In other music related news, Iced Ink fan Owen from the band Screaming Monkey Boner sent my band an email telling me he created an Iced Ink MySpace page because he wants to spread the word about us. Just when you're ready to throw in the towel, something like that happens and makes playing for 12 people and making $8 all worthwhile.
The first song on the CD is a live version of "Busted Bicycle" off of his "The Best" LP. Every time I hear that song, it hits me like a ton of bricks, mainly because that's what it sounds like. No one that is human could possibly posses such flawless speed, accuracy, and command over a 12 string guitar like that. Especially when fingerpicking.
And it's not just the speed - the songwriting is equally impressive. Instead of "Busted Bicycle", he should have named it "Hello, My Name is Leo Kottke and I'm here to knock your sorry ass into next year with my 12 String". There's a slim chance that I'll be able to attend his upcoming Thanksgiving show at the Ordway which always leaves me in a trail of dust wondering "How does he do that?" If you ever see him live, keep an eye on his feet - they have a mind of their own.
In other music related news, Iced Ink fan Owen from the band Screaming Monkey Boner sent my band an email telling me he created an Iced Ink MySpace page because he wants to spread the word about us. Just when you're ready to throw in the towel, something like that happens and makes playing for 12 people and making $8 all worthwhile.
Ray Charles throwing punches?
My sister saw the movie "Ray" and brought the soundtrack to the store for me to check out (great music!)
As I was asking her about it, I wondered out loud if he beat up on his womens a lot. You know - the token legendary performer behind the scenes drugs, alcohol, abusive realtionship thing that makes those movies and stories so entertaining (see: Ike Turner)?
It then quickly dawned on me that Ray Charles was probably a pretty nice dude, or so he seemed to be, and more importantly, he's blind. Chances are he didn't do much punch swinging - I had a picture in my head of him swinging his arm through the air to hit his ladyfriend and her dodging him with ease. All you'd hear is swoop.... swoop....
As I was asking her about it, I wondered out loud if he beat up on his womens a lot. You know - the token legendary performer behind the scenes drugs, alcohol, abusive realtionship thing that makes those movies and stories so entertaining (see: Ike Turner)?
It then quickly dawned on me that Ray Charles was probably a pretty nice dude, or so he seemed to be, and more importantly, he's blind. Chances are he didn't do much punch swinging - I had a picture in my head of him swinging his arm through the air to hit his ladyfriend and her dodging him with ease. All you'd hear is swoop.... swoop....
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Spam I Am: A glimpse into the mind of a compassionate Spam victim
Here is a screenshot of one of my email accounts. I emptied it out last Friday, it is now Wednesday, and here's what it looks like:
Damn!
To the layperson, it would appear that I'm a very popular guy. Not the case - every single one of those is junk mail that I've received over the span of 5 days. Looks like it's time for me to get a new account.
No... on second thought, I really like the username I picked for this account. I think what I'll do is try and write back to them. All of them. Maybe something like this..
Dear Sirs,
Thank you kindly for informing me of your fine product, but at this time, I am not interested in online dating, genital enhancement, inkjet printers, or seeing a movie where a girl named Trixie apparently gets it on with a horse. If you would be so kind, I'd appreciate you removing me from your mailing list. No hard feelings, but I'm simply not in a financial position to support you right now.
Maybe try getting back to me in a few months. Best of luck to you in the mean time. Keep at it and you'll be wiping your nose with $100 bills in no time!
Sincerely,
Mike
I'll throw my home address and credit card number on there too so they can put it on file... just so they don't think I'm brushing them off and not taking them seriously. And I should really include my main email address, just in case I'm not able to check this one anymore.
I better go.. looks like I've got some emails to send. A whopping 1,579 of them, to be exact!
Damn!
To the layperson, it would appear that I'm a very popular guy. Not the case - every single one of those is junk mail that I've received over the span of 5 days. Looks like it's time for me to get a new account.
No... on second thought, I really like the username I picked for this account. I think what I'll do is try and write back to them. All of them. Maybe something like this..
Dear Sirs,
Thank you kindly for informing me of your fine product, but at this time, I am not interested in online dating, genital enhancement, inkjet printers, or seeing a movie where a girl named Trixie apparently gets it on with a horse. If you would be so kind, I'd appreciate you removing me from your mailing list. No hard feelings, but I'm simply not in a financial position to support you right now.
Maybe try getting back to me in a few months. Best of luck to you in the mean time. Keep at it and you'll be wiping your nose with $100 bills in no time!
Sincerely,
Mike
I'll throw my home address and credit card number on there too so they can put it on file... just so they don't think I'm brushing them off and not taking them seriously. And I should really include my main email address, just in case I'm not able to check this one anymore.
I better go.. looks like I've got some emails to send. A whopping 1,579 of them, to be exact!
Evidently
I don't use the word "evidently" enough. Evidently, I never felt the urge to.
But not anymore, I'm gonna make a note of it to write and say it a lot more. It's a pretty sexy sounding word.
But not anymore, I'm gonna make a note of it to write and say it a lot more. It's a pretty sexy sounding word.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Belly full of Indian food + open mic night = not a good idea
Setting: Golden Valley, MN. Indian restaraunt called Taste of India. Monday evening, approx. 6:35 pm. The night was cold.
I had a delicious pile of chicken curry, a glass of cheap wine and too much Naan for din dins with a friend - for FREE, thanks to gift certificates. I like free. It is currently my favorite price out there. Especially when Naan is involved.
It was an interesting atmosphere, as ethnic restaurants in the suburbs usually are. As we walked in, our nasal passages were greeted by a combination of Indian food and Arm and Hammer carpet powder. There were plastic plants hanging from the ceiling wrapped in white holiday lights. Wow, just like being in India!
About 1/3 of the way through the entree, my stomach started telling me it might be a good idea to use the Mens room, which I did. I excused myself, got in there and locked the door. The bathroom consisted of a sink, 1 wall urinal, and one standard floor mounted toilet, or "Biffy", as my Grandpa used to call them. There were no privacy walls surrounding the Biffy - it was just sitting out there in a wide open space.
I suffer from what I call Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. I always get paranoid, even when the door is locked, that someone will walk in on me doing my thing on the throne. If I hear the entryway door knob jiggle from someone trying to get in, that's it - party over, everyone back in, lock up the intestines, better luck next time. When stomach cramps are mixed into the game it's Extreme Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. What if I forgot to lock the door and someone walks in on me? What if they come in as I'm walking out and smell my poo? And then get back to their table and point me out whispering "man - that guy probably shouldn't be eating here if you catch my drift!" I waited a minute, could not perform, and went back to the table to put another log on the fire.
A few more trips to the restroom and finally everything was okay. Plates were empty and the table littered with rice. "Check please!" Gift certificate and tip $ slapped down, exit to the Pinto.
Angry stomach continued to be angry. Now I was in a cold car feeling very full, cramped in my trunk, and trying to carry a conversation with a cartoon bubble over my head of the driver's side Pinto seat morphing into a toilet. This was no good. NO GOOD.
I dropped Friend off and stopped off at home to exercise the demons for a while in a real bathroom. Kitty had snuck in there and was trying to be all lovey dovey rubbing his face on my shoe. Sorry buddy, now is not the time.
I felt much better and thought it would be a good idea to pack up my acoustic and do the open mic thing at a nearby bar I frequently visit. I arrived at the bar, was greeted by a few regulars I've come to know, signed up to play, ordered a Newcastle and had a seat. My guitar was by my side. Stomach back to normal. All was right with the world.
GUDDLRRRRP! "Hello, Micycle - this is your stomach. Remember that dinner you ate? It's not done with you yet. I hope you're not doing anything for the next 20 minutes, because for that time, you are going to be my bitch whether you like it or not."
Panic set in. Let me just say if the tidy Indian restroom was not comforting enough for me, I'd have a better chance of executing outside in the parking lot than in the bar's restroom, which has a lingering aroma of seal aquariums and 1 Biffy with a flimsy door and gaps in the privacy wall that everyone can see through (it's a bar - that's how they're supposed to be). And with my luck lately, there'd probably be 1 square of toilet paper left.
I somehow held back and went to a nearby Target to use their restroom. I bought me some chalky Tums and returned to the bar feeling better, but a little unstable. Before I knew it, it was my turn to play and I went up and delivered the goods as best as I could. The audience of 12 went wild with delight.
When you gotta go, you gotta go. Speaking of, I should go right now - I think my stomach is telling me we have some unfinished business to tend to.
I had a delicious pile of chicken curry, a glass of cheap wine and too much Naan for din dins with a friend - for FREE, thanks to gift certificates. I like free. It is currently my favorite price out there. Especially when Naan is involved.
It was an interesting atmosphere, as ethnic restaurants in the suburbs usually are. As we walked in, our nasal passages were greeted by a combination of Indian food and Arm and Hammer carpet powder. There were plastic plants hanging from the ceiling wrapped in white holiday lights. Wow, just like being in India!
About 1/3 of the way through the entree, my stomach started telling me it might be a good idea to use the Mens room, which I did. I excused myself, got in there and locked the door. The bathroom consisted of a sink, 1 wall urinal, and one standard floor mounted toilet, or "Biffy", as my Grandpa used to call them. There were no privacy walls surrounding the Biffy - it was just sitting out there in a wide open space.
I suffer from what I call Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. I always get paranoid, even when the door is locked, that someone will walk in on me doing my thing on the throne. If I hear the entryway door knob jiggle from someone trying to get in, that's it - party over, everyone back in, lock up the intestines, better luck next time. When stomach cramps are mixed into the game it's Extreme Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. What if I forgot to lock the door and someone walks in on me? What if they come in as I'm walking out and smell my poo? And then get back to their table and point me out whispering "man - that guy probably shouldn't be eating here if you catch my drift!" I waited a minute, could not perform, and went back to the table to put another log on the fire.
A few more trips to the restroom and finally everything was okay. Plates were empty and the table littered with rice. "Check please!" Gift certificate and tip $ slapped down, exit to the Pinto.
Angry stomach continued to be angry. Now I was in a cold car feeling very full, cramped in my trunk, and trying to carry a conversation with a cartoon bubble over my head of the driver's side Pinto seat morphing into a toilet. This was no good. NO GOOD.
I dropped Friend off and stopped off at home to exercise the demons for a while in a real bathroom. Kitty had snuck in there and was trying to be all lovey dovey rubbing his face on my shoe. Sorry buddy, now is not the time.
I felt much better and thought it would be a good idea to pack up my acoustic and do the open mic thing at a nearby bar I frequently visit. I arrived at the bar, was greeted by a few regulars I've come to know, signed up to play, ordered a Newcastle and had a seat. My guitar was by my side. Stomach back to normal. All was right with the world.
GUDDLRRRRP! "Hello, Micycle - this is your stomach. Remember that dinner you ate? It's not done with you yet. I hope you're not doing anything for the next 20 minutes, because for that time, you are going to be my bitch whether you like it or not."
Panic set in. Let me just say if the tidy Indian restroom was not comforting enough for me, I'd have a better chance of executing outside in the parking lot than in the bar's restroom, which has a lingering aroma of seal aquariums and 1 Biffy with a flimsy door and gaps in the privacy wall that everyone can see through (it's a bar - that's how they're supposed to be). And with my luck lately, there'd probably be 1 square of toilet paper left.
I somehow held back and went to a nearby Target to use their restroom. I bought me some chalky Tums and returned to the bar feeling better, but a little unstable. Before I knew it, it was my turn to play and I went up and delivered the goods as best as I could. The audience of 12 went wild with delight.
When you gotta go, you gotta go. Speaking of, I should go right now - I think my stomach is telling me we have some unfinished business to tend to.
Go away, you bastards! I don't want to buy your crap
During my 2+ year tenure here at the coffee shop, the one thing I can count on is the same little group of door to door "salesmen" showing up in a beat up old car with out of state plates on it every few weeks. There's usually three of them, and they all look like they've spent the better part of their lives sitting in mom's basement playing things like D&D, Magic, and arguing over which Star Wars guy kicks more ass (for the record, I think Darth Vader kicks the most ass).
They walk the littered sidewalks of Cedar Avenue carrying duffle bags full of things like games, umbrellas, flashlights, and other crap most likely obtained in an abandoned parking lot via an unmarked semi trailer.
They have a leader. He looks like a young white trash version of John Goodman. When they unstuff themselves and their merchandise out of their dorkmobile, he points at buildings and tells each one which businesses to hit. They disperse, and at least one of them comes into the store every time. If I'm lucky, another one will come in unaware we've been hit already.
I stop them with a "NOT INTERESTED" the second they open the door and they leave. Sometimes they'll try and hit up customers on their way in to the store.
Please, do not give money to people like this or even give them the time of day. If you do, it will only make things worse. You might as well put a pile of dog crap on your front door with a sign that says "FLIES WELCOME HERE" while you're at it.
Supporting people like this is not a good thing. It keeps them coming back and from getting real jobs where they don't dress up in their Wal Mart clearance rack business casual attire and spend their days annoying the shit out of people.
Either that or they continue the pattern of wearing bad clothes and annoying people by becoming car salesmen... or working for the IRS.
They walk the littered sidewalks of Cedar Avenue carrying duffle bags full of things like games, umbrellas, flashlights, and other crap most likely obtained in an abandoned parking lot via an unmarked semi trailer.
They have a leader. He looks like a young white trash version of John Goodman. When they unstuff themselves and their merchandise out of their dorkmobile, he points at buildings and tells each one which businesses to hit. They disperse, and at least one of them comes into the store every time. If I'm lucky, another one will come in unaware we've been hit already.
I stop them with a "NOT INTERESTED" the second they open the door and they leave. Sometimes they'll try and hit up customers on their way in to the store.
Please, do not give money to people like this or even give them the time of day. If you do, it will only make things worse. You might as well put a pile of dog crap on your front door with a sign that says "FLIES WELCOME HERE" while you're at it.
Supporting people like this is not a good thing. It keeps them coming back and from getting real jobs where they don't dress up in their Wal Mart clearance rack business casual attire and spend their days annoying the shit out of people.
Either that or they continue the pattern of wearing bad clothes and annoying people by becoming car salesmen... or working for the IRS.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Come on baby, light my fire
Wow! With all of this writing I've been doing today, I feel like I'm on fire.. Apparently, so did this guy: http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/afp/us_bush_fire
- "I've fallen, and I'm probably not going to get up."
- "Those damn kids loaded my cigar again!"
- "So.. does this mean I'm in trouble?"
- "If you'd be so kind, I have a bottle of aloe in my back pocket that I can't seem to get to."
- "Please.... help... giant invisible bear... on top of me... can't fight him... for much longer.."
I love news headlines like this. The first thing to cross my mind was if I was there, I would have wished I had Hershey bars, graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows and a skewer on hand to make some S'mores. Ever have a S'more with a hint of smoked human thrown into the mix? Either have I, but I bet it'd make fer some real tasty eatin'.
If you're crazy or dumb enough to set yourself ablaze in front of the White House, or anywhere for that matter, you deserve to live through it, you idiot. I lived with a burn victim for a few years (r.i.p. Ray) and he told me some pretty horrific stories of what he went through. And I'm sure what he told me was a diluted version of what he really went through. You know how much it sucks when you get a little teeny burn on your finger taking the pizza out of the oven? Imagine having that sensation all over your damn self. Ouch, that's gotta sting like the muthafuckin' dickens.
Maybe this guy had high hopes of making a huge political statement by killing himself in protest like the monk on the Rage Against The Machine album cover (see here). Maybe he was jealous and had high hopes on being the next RATM album cover. Sorry guy, but FYI - they're not together anymore. Maybe he is mentally insane and didn't ponder the consequences of lighting himself up.
He certainly wasn't thinking he would be extinguished and survive with burns over 30% of his body, did he? I bet right now he's doing a Chris Farley style "GAAAHD, I'm such an IDIOT!" and is thinking maybe he took his election result disgust (or whatever caused him to do this) a little too far. People can set fire to themselves all they want, but I doubt it's going to have a serious impact on who's in office and what kind of decisions they make.
Yeah... I think I'll just stick with the easy way out: occasionally complaining about it and reading the daily comics.
New coffee shop drink ideas
Working at a coffee shop gets the creative drink making part of your brain working. You get sick of the same old stuff and start experimenting when you're bored to find something new.
Here's what I've come up with so far. Feel free to try them out and let me know what you think!
The Glacier. A summertime special that cools you down and makes you feel like you're ridin' that prehistoric river of ice. How to make: Throw ice in blender, blend, and pour into cup. Serve with straw and hold the f*&k on.
The Hot Snow. Just thought of this one today. Make sure you're sitting, as it's highly likely that you're going to pass out from the brilliance behind this one. The Hot Snow is a wintertime beverage. It's for those of you just off the ice rinks looking for a quick, delicious warmup without all those calories that are in hot cocoa. How to make: Fill cup with hot water, serve.
Look out, Fa La Lattes and Frappichinos - there's a new kid in town.
Here's what I've come up with so far. Feel free to try them out and let me know what you think!
The Glacier. A summertime special that cools you down and makes you feel like you're ridin' that prehistoric river of ice. How to make: Throw ice in blender, blend, and pour into cup. Serve with straw and hold the f*&k on.
The Hot Snow. Just thought of this one today. Make sure you're sitting, as it's highly likely that you're going to pass out from the brilliance behind this one. The Hot Snow is a wintertime beverage. It's for those of you just off the ice rinks looking for a quick, delicious warmup without all those calories that are in hot cocoa. How to make: Fill cup with hot water, serve.
Look out, Fa La Lattes and Frappichinos - there's a new kid in town.
If you buy McYogurt, McDonalds gives 0 McCents to the Twin Cities Ronald McDonald House
A bus just drove by with a "Buy a Yogurt Parfait and 10¢ goes towards the Twin Cities Ronald McDonald House" banner on it.
Slight McProblem: The "1" in "10" is painted right on a door hinge, which makes it look like it says "Buy a Yogurt Parfait and 0¢ goes towards the Twin Cities Ronald McDonald House"
Slight McProblem: The "1" in "10" is painted right on a door hinge, which makes it look like it says "Buy a Yogurt Parfait and 0¢ goes towards the Twin Cities Ronald McDonald House"
Talk radio hosts are funny.
Unless someone else is around that can't stand it, I listen to talk radio about 99% of the time. I simply can't stomach the music stations we have here in Minneapolis - they're like bratty kids: tolerable for about 3 minutes and then the redundancy of it all makes you want to blow your brains out.
This morning on the way to "work", I was listening to an AM talk radio personality whose name I will withhold out of respect for him ron rosenbaum on kstp because he has his ideas and opinions and I can respect that.
He was all bent out of shape about last night's AMA (American Music Awards) television program on ABC. I did not catch the show, but aside from the usual crappy artists receiving awards for their crappy music, apparently Anna Nicole Smith presented an award and was completely inebriated (gee, surprise surprise), and Snoop Dogg was shown backstage having a bake sale. The camera panned over the table, which contained cookies, pastries, and last but not least, brownies with a $400 price tag. Get it? $400 brownies = they have pot in them.
The main point the host was trying to make was that stations were refusing to air "Saving Private Ryan" because the word fuck is used extensively throughout the movie. But then they turn around and air things like the AMA where people are half naked, drunk, etc., with little or no concern. I agree with his point - where does the FCC draw the line?
However - he kept mining over the fact that Anna Nicole was "high on some sort of drug or booze" and that Snoop Dogg was selling drugs backstage. He seemed to take that very seriously and was convinced that Snoop was really selling real pot brownies backstage and that everyone there was eating them.
If you think Snoop was really selling pot brownies, I've got news for you: Dude - it's a joke. There's no Santa Claus either. It's Hollywood. It's entertainment. You don't have to watch it, but you kept on watching it, right? Get up off your arse and change the channel. I personally am much more amused by a drunk bimbo with the brain capacity on a snail presenting an award watching than some stuffy record company executive wipe sweat beads off of his head doing the job. It's FUNNY. All you're doing by watching the show and complaining about it is doing these people a favor by giving them ratings and exposure, which I'm all for. If I could be rich by doing ridiculous shit like that rather than working for money and exposure, I'd be right there sucking it up, and I'm sure you would too.
On a closing note, I will plug one of the most insane, brilliant, funny talk radio personalities in the Twin Cities, or anywhere else for that matter: T.D. Mischke. Instead of beating around the bush and delivering nonsense disguised as information, he cuts to the chase and delivers just plain idiotic nonsense. Ahhh - just how I like it!
This morning on the way to "work", I was listening to an AM talk radio personality whose name I will withhold out of respect for him ron rosenbaum on kstp because he has his ideas and opinions and I can respect that.
He was all bent out of shape about last night's AMA (American Music Awards) television program on ABC. I did not catch the show, but aside from the usual crappy artists receiving awards for their crappy music, apparently Anna Nicole Smith presented an award and was completely inebriated (gee, surprise surprise), and Snoop Dogg was shown backstage having a bake sale. The camera panned over the table, which contained cookies, pastries, and last but not least, brownies with a $400 price tag. Get it? $400 brownies = they have pot in them.
The main point the host was trying to make was that stations were refusing to air "Saving Private Ryan" because the word fuck is used extensively throughout the movie. But then they turn around and air things like the AMA where people are half naked, drunk, etc., with little or no concern. I agree with his point - where does the FCC draw the line?
However - he kept mining over the fact that Anna Nicole was "high on some sort of drug or booze" and that Snoop Dogg was selling drugs backstage. He seemed to take that very seriously and was convinced that Snoop was really selling real pot brownies backstage and that everyone there was eating them.
If you think Snoop was really selling pot brownies, I've got news for you: Dude - it's a joke. There's no Santa Claus either. It's Hollywood. It's entertainment. You don't have to watch it, but you kept on watching it, right? Get up off your arse and change the channel. I personally am much more amused by a drunk bimbo with the brain capacity on a snail presenting an award watching than some stuffy record company executive wipe sweat beads off of his head doing the job. It's FUNNY. All you're doing by watching the show and complaining about it is doing these people a favor by giving them ratings and exposure, which I'm all for. If I could be rich by doing ridiculous shit like that rather than working for money and exposure, I'd be right there sucking it up, and I'm sure you would too.
On a closing note, I will plug one of the most insane, brilliant, funny talk radio personalities in the Twin Cities, or anywhere else for that matter: T.D. Mischke. Instead of beating around the bush and delivering nonsense disguised as information, he cuts to the chase and delivers just plain idiotic nonsense. Ahhh - just how I like it!
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Product review: Holiday Spice Pepsi
In case you've been living in a cave and haven't seen it on store shelves, the fine folks at Pepsi Cola have crafted what I'm sure they hope to become the next perennial favorite amongst consumers: Holiday Spice Pepsi. A.K.A. Subtle Potpourri Pepsi.
I have a theory that the bottle label is not just to tell you what it is - I think it is also used to mask the pine cones, cinnamon sticks, and orange rinds floating around in the bottle. It is a red, white and blue label (Heaven forbid they go the red and green route and offend people) with a woodcarved image of an old Pepsi Cola bottling plant on it. Here's my favorite part: the label says L I M I T E D E D I T I O N. You know what that means - some idiot somewhere is going to buy a bottle and not open it thinking he's gonna send the kids to college with it someday. You laugh, but take it from someone who sat next to a co-worker that would buy 5 Happy Meals at a time only to throw the food out and keep the Beanie Babies that they came with, all to "send the kids to college" some day. Been there, done that, rolled my eyes in disbelief.
As far as the flavor of this new beverage, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was sure it would be cinnamon flavored Pepsi. But after cracking the bottle open and taking a chug, it tasted more like potpourri. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a "grandpa left this Pepsi next to the potpourri in the basement for 6 months and it sort of tastes like potpourri now... but we're thirsty and we'll drink it anyways" kind of way. Is it orange? Cloves? Nutmeg? I don't know what the hell the "Holiday Spice" flavor is, but I don't think egg nog manufacturers should feel at all threatened that their product will soon be overthrown by Holiday Spice Pepsi in years to come.
Nope.
I guess I would try it again, but maybe only at a Holiday party or something... Perhaps you need presents and sweater-clad people around in order to get the full Holiday Spice effect. Or maybe it needs to be served in a punch bowl with a ladle. Or while outside building a snowman.
Nice try, Pepsi, but I think this one will end up in the inevitable "Whatever happened to..." water cooler conversation spiral in a few years.
Speaking of: Whatever happened to Clear Pepsi?
I have a theory that the bottle label is not just to tell you what it is - I think it is also used to mask the pine cones, cinnamon sticks, and orange rinds floating around in the bottle. It is a red, white and blue label (Heaven forbid they go the red and green route and offend people) with a woodcarved image of an old Pepsi Cola bottling plant on it. Here's my favorite part: the label says L I M I T E D E D I T I O N. You know what that means - some idiot somewhere is going to buy a bottle and not open it thinking he's gonna send the kids to college with it someday. You laugh, but take it from someone who sat next to a co-worker that would buy 5 Happy Meals at a time only to throw the food out and keep the Beanie Babies that they came with, all to "send the kids to college" some day. Been there, done that, rolled my eyes in disbelief.
As far as the flavor of this new beverage, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was sure it would be cinnamon flavored Pepsi. But after cracking the bottle open and taking a chug, it tasted more like potpourri. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a "grandpa left this Pepsi next to the potpourri in the basement for 6 months and it sort of tastes like potpourri now... but we're thirsty and we'll drink it anyways" kind of way. Is it orange? Cloves? Nutmeg? I don't know what the hell the "Holiday Spice" flavor is, but I don't think egg nog manufacturers should feel at all threatened that their product will soon be overthrown by Holiday Spice Pepsi in years to come.
Nope.
I guess I would try it again, but maybe only at a Holiday party or something... Perhaps you need presents and sweater-clad people around in order to get the full Holiday Spice effect. Or maybe it needs to be served in a punch bowl with a ladle. Or while outside building a snowman.
Nice try, Pepsi, but I think this one will end up in the inevitable "Whatever happened to..." water cooler conversation spiral in a few years.
Speaking of: Whatever happened to Clear Pepsi?
2 wrongs don't make a right... but 3 rights make a left
It's true, stand up and try it... right turns must be made in 90 degree increments, otherwise you won't get a true "left" out of it.
It's time to take a break from posting about the fun, meaningless things I like to write about so much and get some stuff off my chest. Hey, I can't be a clown all of the time! I'm sure even Ronald McDonald has some things he worries about when not sitting stationary in a hardened statue form with his legs crossed and arm stretched out across a bench so you can sit next to him at selected McDonald's restaurants. If you've seen the movie "Supersize Me", I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, rent it!
I did one of those blood pressure chair armcuff thingies at Lund's the other day. Turns out the numbers are a little higher than they should be.. they're in the "prehypertension" category. YIKES! I used to have to run around the aisles of Target when I worked nights there in order to get their machine to yield such results (on a side note, try putting a lotion bottle in one of those sometime when you're at Target - it's pretty funny.)
I'm a very private person, but figure those numbers mean it's probably a good time to start talking... er... writing a little bit. I use creativity as a coping mechanism (mainly writing words and music) because I'm not big into stress relief via mind-altering chemicals. Chemicals seem like such a weak, expensive, temporary fix (but if it works for you, kudos, my friend!) I shouldn't say I'm completely chemically independent, as I've taken up smoking every so often (ha ha) over the past few months... surprise to those of you who were unaware! Don't worry - I know it's smelly, unhealthy, costs money, and when extreme stress goes away, so do my cravings. And in time my lungs return to the nice pink color they once were, like those cute fluffy bunny slippers Ralphy wore in "A Christmas Story". I think it had been 4-5 years since I had last taken a drag from a cancer stick up until this summer.
Anyways, the stress I'm under is from making a decision that seems necessary, but makes no one in particular happy either way I go, myself and a few bank accounts (one of them being mine) included. Why am I doing it? Hm. Why does the wind blow? Why does Donald Trump not spend some of his billions of dollars on a trip to Mastercuts to get a better hairstyle? Why does KISS still tour? Why is Keith Richard still alive? Why do some people think farts aren't funny?
To the few people that know the details of my situation and understand, thank you for the support. It keeps me from cutting my ear off and mailing it to someone I love.
Not sure what else to say for now, other than things seem to change by the minute and I never know what's around the corner or where I'll be 24, 12 or even 1 hour from now. At this minute, I will continue to sit in the very crux of the stress I'm in and keep doing things like wondering why the f*&k some lady just came into the store complaining about how cold out it is and then turned around and ordered a Granita. A Granita is an annoying to make frozen drink. It's 20 degrees out.
That's it for now. Thanks for reading, and now back to our regularly scheduled program...
It's time to take a break from posting about the fun, meaningless things I like to write about so much and get some stuff off my chest. Hey, I can't be a clown all of the time! I'm sure even Ronald McDonald has some things he worries about when not sitting stationary in a hardened statue form with his legs crossed and arm stretched out across a bench so you can sit next to him at selected McDonald's restaurants. If you've seen the movie "Supersize Me", I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, rent it!
I did one of those blood pressure chair armcuff thingies at Lund's the other day. Turns out the numbers are a little higher than they should be.. they're in the "prehypertension" category. YIKES! I used to have to run around the aisles of Target when I worked nights there in order to get their machine to yield such results (on a side note, try putting a lotion bottle in one of those sometime when you're at Target - it's pretty funny.)
I'm a very private person, but figure those numbers mean it's probably a good time to start talking... er... writing a little bit. I use creativity as a coping mechanism (mainly writing words and music) because I'm not big into stress relief via mind-altering chemicals. Chemicals seem like such a weak, expensive, temporary fix (but if it works for you, kudos, my friend!) I shouldn't say I'm completely chemically independent, as I've taken up smoking every so often (ha ha) over the past few months... surprise to those of you who were unaware! Don't worry - I know it's smelly, unhealthy, costs money, and when extreme stress goes away, so do my cravings. And in time my lungs return to the nice pink color they once were, like those cute fluffy bunny slippers Ralphy wore in "A Christmas Story". I think it had been 4-5 years since I had last taken a drag from a cancer stick up until this summer.
Anyways, the stress I'm under is from making a decision that seems necessary, but makes no one in particular happy either way I go, myself and a few bank accounts (one of them being mine) included. Why am I doing it? Hm. Why does the wind blow? Why does Donald Trump not spend some of his billions of dollars on a trip to Mastercuts to get a better hairstyle? Why does KISS still tour? Why is Keith Richard still alive? Why do some people think farts aren't funny?
To the few people that know the details of my situation and understand, thank you for the support. It keeps me from cutting my ear off and mailing it to someone I love.
Not sure what else to say for now, other than things seem to change by the minute and I never know what's around the corner or where I'll be 24, 12 or even 1 hour from now. At this minute, I will continue to sit in the very crux of the stress I'm in and keep doing things like wondering why the f*&k some lady just came into the store complaining about how cold out it is and then turned around and ordered a Granita. A Granita is an annoying to make frozen drink. It's 20 degrees out.
That's it for now. Thanks for reading, and now back to our regularly scheduled program...
Friday, November 12, 2004
Things to do when you're freaking out
I've been under a bit of stress lately. Here's how I cope. Not only are these pointers good for stress relief, but they're good time killers if you're bored, too!
- Bite nails.
- Sit and focus on one word, repeat in head continuously until it no longer makes sense
- Listen to favorite music
- Practice breathing exercises
- Meditate
- Watch favorite movies from when I was growing up. Great escapism.
- Make paper airplanes out of grocery bags
- Hold cat up and talk in a little voice while waving his arms around like he's the one talking.
- Take head and place in vice; tighten until I start to feel cracking
- Cut own hair with eyes closed
- Microwave stuff just to see what happens to it (boy, you should see what it did to my pet lobster)!
- Eat expired foods to see if nervous stomach allows it to pass by with no side effects
- Spin around until nausea sets in, continue spinning until vomiting occurs.
- Take paperclip and attempt to pierce tongue. Fail miserably, then lick freshly cut lemon
- Chew on tinfoil
- Jab things under fingernails
- Put thin layer of Elmer's school glue on hands, allow to dry, then peel off like dead skin
- Throw already broken cell phone against wall to try and make it even more broken
- Eat food that tastes bad and attempt to convince self that it tastes like chocolate cake. Hey, it's all mind over matter, man!
- Stomp on own foot until it goes numb
- Hold newspaper upside down in front of a mirror, try to read it
- Try and play CDs by putting CD face down on turntable, spinning really fast with hand, and pointing laser pointer beam on it
- Hold breath until I pass out
- Try and lose pencil eraser up nostril like that one kid in 7th Grade did
- Bang head against wall
- Make Macaroni and Cheese and upon completion, get out Bunsen burner, goggles, and flasks, try to reverse steps and turn back into uncooked pasta, butter, milk, and powder.
- Make lists of ridiculous things to do when freaking out
Tuesday, November 9, 2004
What I had for lunch today
1 dusty can of wholesome goodness for only $1.19 at Cedar Country Boy.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I have stooped this low, and I'm not afraid to admit it. I've said it a million times and I'll say it again: You've got to embrace the guilty pleasures in life, not be embarrased by them.
According to official product website: "Chef Boyardee has combined the deliciousness of nachos with the bounciest pasta ever. In every bite, pasta is smothered with Chef's cheesy nacho sauce."
Wow. Where do I start?
I opened the can of this fine gourmet delicacy (it comes with a canned cat food-style lid with a ring on it that you pull) and as the final section of the lid was separated from the can, "nacho cheese sauce" that was on the upper inside of the lid splattered on the wall.
Mmmm.
Waiting inside the can for me was a pile of orange spiral noodles that were pretty puffy looking, most likely because pasta is not usually something that indefinitely wades in a 16 oz. can of nacho cheese sauce until someone desperate like me in need of a cheap lunch rescues it from the dusty Cedar Country Boy store shelves.
As I poured the can into a microwave safe bowl, it looked like it was vomiting big pasta chunks and drooling dark orange saliva. Suddenly I felt like those people that bungee jump must feel when they're on the edge of the bridge, asking themselves "Do I take this leap? Is it worth it?"
I tried to psych myself up and eventually put the bowl in the microwave. 1 minute and 30 seconds to nacho cheese coated pasta bliss. 6 minutes and 30 seconds until my stomach would be full of it and very unhappy with what I chose to put in it.
"Ding!" The microwave was telling me it did its job and my meal awaited me. I could have sworn I heard a Doomsday-style church bell rather than the usual little "ding" that happens when food is ready, but it must have been my imagination.
I took the first spoonful. Hm, not too bad.
2nd spoonful. Okay, I guess it's better than McDonalds.
3rd spoonful. Has this stuff been approved by the FDA?
By the time the 4th spoonful came about, I was starting to feel queasy. The cars passing by outside on Cedar Avenue started glowing and had a motion blur trail behind them. I suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to hold up my spoon. I did, and it started talking to me. It said "Micycle... eat more Chef Boyardee Cheesy Nacho Twistaroni.."
Like watching a car accident happen and knowing there's nothing you can do, I took another spoonful. The pasta slid down my throat slowly and I started feeling carsick. It felt like it was having a difficult time making its way down my food pipes, most likely because my body was trying its hardest to reject it. But Hell no, I made it that far and I'll be damned if I was going to turn back. I was gonna eat this stuff if I had to force it down.
Which I did.
The bowl was empty other than a thin layer of cheese that was painted on the sides and a circle of it that had accumulated on the bottom. The hallucinations became more intense. The cheese accumulation on the bottom of the bowl started glowing - it became the sun. I could not stop staring at it and blacked out.
When I came to, I decided to read the ingredients on the can. Big mistake. It was a pretty large paragraph and the text was small. The only words I could actually pronounce were "pasta" and "cheese".
In the end, I give Chef Boyardee's Cheesy Nacho Twistaroni a big thumbs down. I will not be playing this culinary version of Russian Roulette ever again, nor would I recommend it to any of you. Not unless you've got a good 48 hours where you know you'll be in the safety of your own home. Because in that time, Chef Boyardee is gonna come a knockin' on the doors of your stomach lining. And he's gonna be pissed. He'll be wearing a leather jacket, shades, and carrying a bludgeon - and dude is gonna be ripe and ready to stir up some major shit with your sorry self.
Monday, November 8, 2004
My Dad - a.k.a. "Dr. Pinto"
To those of you unaware of the ongoing legacy of my Pinto not being in service for the past few weeks, allow me to give you a brief explanation: It was running a little chuggy (as any 30 year old car would) and had no heat. No heat + Minnesota weather 9 months out of the year = no good.
I drove le Pinto, or as I like to call it, "Brown Sunshine" (only those of you familiar with the White Zombie song "Black Sunshine" will get the humor in that) to my Dad's garage for him to work his magic on it - which he did. The Pinto doesn't feel like it's going to die at a stoplight anymore. Its dashboard vents provide a nice, constant warm flow of air to keep the windshield from fogging up and me crashing it into things such as signs, fire hydrants, other cars, children, slow people in crosswalks, etc.
Here's what the problem was in a highly sophisticated nutshell: It wasn't giving off any heat because this thingy that is hooked up to a few hoses was all full of all of this black sooty crap, and these other hoses that enable water to circulate into something else or something like that were old and also clogged with black sooty crap. All of this stuff was replaced and the heater works.
This one big tube looking thing that goes into the Starship Enterprise-shaped air filer thing was full of holes. Dad bandaged it with cool looking silver 3M tape.. problem solved. Jeebus - is there anything that stuff can't do??
There's also this one thing that wasn't opening and closing properly, thereby making the engine all shaky and stuff. That thing now opens and closes properly, so bye bye chugga chugga, hello smooth ass-running engine.
Father, I hope you read those last three paragraphs and are extremely proud of how much your son has learned about cars over the years. I hope one day I can be as smart and intuitive as you are with all of that stuff, but don't hold your breath.. Hey - at least I know how to put gas in 'em and drive 'em!
Thanks a million to my Dad, a.k.a. "Dr. Pinto" - and I don't mean to speak for him, but I'm sure he spent the last couple of weeks under the hood of the Pinto thanking Grandpa with 4 letter words for doing such a good job of making it so confusing to work on.
I drove le Pinto, or as I like to call it, "Brown Sunshine" (only those of you familiar with the White Zombie song "Black Sunshine" will get the humor in that) to my Dad's garage for him to work his magic on it - which he did. The Pinto doesn't feel like it's going to die at a stoplight anymore. Its dashboard vents provide a nice, constant warm flow of air to keep the windshield from fogging up and me crashing it into things such as signs, fire hydrants, other cars, children, slow people in crosswalks, etc.
Here's what the problem was in a highly sophisticated nutshell: It wasn't giving off any heat because this thingy that is hooked up to a few hoses was all full of all of this black sooty crap, and these other hoses that enable water to circulate into something else or something like that were old and also clogged with black sooty crap. All of this stuff was replaced and the heater works.
This one big tube looking thing that goes into the Starship Enterprise-shaped air filer thing was full of holes. Dad bandaged it with cool looking silver 3M tape.. problem solved. Jeebus - is there anything that stuff can't do??
There's also this one thing that wasn't opening and closing properly, thereby making the engine all shaky and stuff. That thing now opens and closes properly, so bye bye chugga chugga, hello smooth ass-running engine.
Father, I hope you read those last three paragraphs and are extremely proud of how much your son has learned about cars over the years. I hope one day I can be as smart and intuitive as you are with all of that stuff, but don't hold your breath.. Hey - at least I know how to put gas in 'em and drive 'em!
Thanks a million to my Dad, a.k.a. "Dr. Pinto" - and I don't mean to speak for him, but I'm sure he spent the last couple of weeks under the hood of the Pinto thanking Grandpa with 4 letter words for doing such a good job of making it so confusing to work on.
Sunday, November 7, 2004
Fun with signs
Every time I drive past the Burger King on Nicollet Avenue I see one of those signs beneath the BK logo with the black tile letters on the backlit white canvas that reads:
TRY OUR NEW
ANGUS BURGERS
One of these days when I have the time, I want to stop and take the "G" out of "ANGUS" and slide the 4 remaining letters from that word together. Not only would it be funny, but it would also probably give Burger King consumers a more realstic idea of what's actually in that quarter pound hunk of flame broiled goodness they're putting in their tummies.
Thursday, November 4, 2004
How to make "Micycle Style" fried chicken
Ingredients:
1 cast iron skillet
4 boneless chicken breasts
butter
Directions:
1. Purchase boneless chicken breasts
2. Take home, put bag on table
3. Tell cat to get out of the grocery bag and that he's not getting any of that chicken
4. Tell cat to get out of bag again
5. Put chicken in fridge
6. Shut fridge door on cat who is trying to get at the chicken
7. Melt butter in cast iron skillet.
8. Watch cat obsessively sit in front of fridge door staring at it, trying to figure out how to get in there
9. After cat smells butter and hops on counter to try and get to it, tell cat "NO!" and toss him off the counter.
10. Remove chicken from refrigerator.
11. Accidentally close refrigerator door on cat's head while he's sniffing around in there for something to eat
12. Place chicken in skillet
13. Toss cat off counter again
14. Fry chicken until brown on one side, then flip
15. Toss cat off counter again
16. Go to put green beans in microwave, turn around and catch cat jumping on counter again to obtain chicken
17. Try to distract cat with some of his own damn food
18. Realize cat's own damn food is about as important to him as a glass of water at that moment
19. Realize this is going to be impossible with cat in the kitchen
20. Place cat in bathroom
21. Go to kitchen and get cat again after not closing bathroom door quickly enough
22. Place cat in bathroom, close door with foot in it preventing him from getting out
23. Feel guilty as cat meows and cries in bathroom
24. Wonder why cat has to use food as an emotional crutch.
25. Continue cooking chicken
26. Hear scratching on bathroom door
27. Wonder if cat is mentally retarded
28. Eat chicken
29. Let cat out of bathroom
30. Forget the fact that you left skillet on stovetop... cat, however, doesn't.
31. Hide skillet in oven, go back to watching TV
32. Hear noise in kitchen
33. Go in to discover cat licking unwashed chicken cooking utensils
34. Say "That", insert some bad words, followed by "cat"
35. Lock cat in bathroom again
36. Wash dishes
37. Let cat out of bathroom
38. Watch cat jump up into sink and lick soapy food particles off of sink surface
39. Shake head in disgust at cat's lack of shame
40. Go watch television
41. Try to ignore further kitchen noise by turning up television
42. Realize a half hour has gone by and cat is still searching for chicken remains in kitchen
43. Hope to see cat back to normal again sometime in the next 4-6 hours.
This is one of my favorite recipes and goes great with mashed potatoes.
1 cast iron skillet
4 boneless chicken breasts
butter
Directions:
1. Purchase boneless chicken breasts
2. Take home, put bag on table
3. Tell cat to get out of the grocery bag and that he's not getting any of that chicken
4. Tell cat to get out of bag again
5. Put chicken in fridge
6. Shut fridge door on cat who is trying to get at the chicken
7. Melt butter in cast iron skillet.
8. Watch cat obsessively sit in front of fridge door staring at it, trying to figure out how to get in there
9. After cat smells butter and hops on counter to try and get to it, tell cat "NO!" and toss him off the counter.
10. Remove chicken from refrigerator.
11. Accidentally close refrigerator door on cat's head while he's sniffing around in there for something to eat
12. Place chicken in skillet
13. Toss cat off counter again
14. Fry chicken until brown on one side, then flip
15. Toss cat off counter again
16. Go to put green beans in microwave, turn around and catch cat jumping on counter again to obtain chicken
17. Try to distract cat with some of his own damn food
18. Realize cat's own damn food is about as important to him as a glass of water at that moment
19. Realize this is going to be impossible with cat in the kitchen
20. Place cat in bathroom
21. Go to kitchen and get cat again after not closing bathroom door quickly enough
22. Place cat in bathroom, close door with foot in it preventing him from getting out
23. Feel guilty as cat meows and cries in bathroom
24. Wonder why cat has to use food as an emotional crutch.
25. Continue cooking chicken
26. Hear scratching on bathroom door
27. Wonder if cat is mentally retarded
28. Eat chicken
29. Let cat out of bathroom
30. Forget the fact that you left skillet on stovetop... cat, however, doesn't.
31. Hide skillet in oven, go back to watching TV
32. Hear noise in kitchen
33. Go in to discover cat licking unwashed chicken cooking utensils
34. Say "That", insert some bad words, followed by "cat"
35. Lock cat in bathroom again
36. Wash dishes
37. Let cat out of bathroom
38. Watch cat jump up into sink and lick soapy food particles off of sink surface
39. Shake head in disgust at cat's lack of shame
40. Go watch television
41. Try to ignore further kitchen noise by turning up television
42. Realize a half hour has gone by and cat is still searching for chicken remains in kitchen
43. Hope to see cat back to normal again sometime in the next 4-6 hours.
This is one of my favorite recipes and goes great with mashed potatoes.
Tuesday, November 2, 2004
What's going to happen after the election?
YES. I voted.
What do you think will happen? Here's my opinion:
They will count the votes. The candidate with the most votes will win, and the candidate with less votes will not win.
The winner will go on national television, thank everyone for getting out to vote, and promise that he'll do his best to live up to his promises. He will then look up into the sky and yell "Alright...... NOW!"
Big huge lazers from flying saucers hiding behind the clouds will pierce the Earth's surface and turn innocent civilians into piles of black dust. The President Elect will then reach for his neck. You'll think he's going to adjust his collar or scratch an itch, but nope - much to your surprise, he is ripping off a mask he's been wearing all along only to reveal a giant green slimy head with one orange glowing eyeball in the middle. You will not be able to resist the glowing, piercing stare coming out of that eyeball. It won't matter if you're there in person or in the safety of your own home watching it on TV. You will be sucked into the beam of that eyeball and there's nothing you can do about it.
He will speak to you, but you will not see his mouth move because his freshly unmasked lizard pig head doesn't have one. He will use his mind to communicate - you won't hear his voice with your ears, you will hear it bouncing around in your head. It will be very creepy and reverb drenched. It will make your teeth vibrate.
After telling you all that he has come to overthrow the planet, his mesmerizing gaze will make you feel incredibly warm and paralyzed. Your brain will turn into mashed potatoes. You will fall into a deep coma that you'll never snap out of. His army will then scour the face of the Earth for your comatose bodies, throw them all into giant dump trucks, haul you off to the Betty Crocker factories, and make things out of you like Fruit Roll Ups, Fruit Gushers, and cake mix. They will feast like they've never feasted before. After they're done here and all of us have been consumed, it's off to the next planet, next election. Business as usual.
Yeah, you laugh now, but just you watch. For those of you predicting only recounts and lawsuits, it's gonna be a lot worse than that, my friends.
What do you think will happen? Here's my opinion:
They will count the votes. The candidate with the most votes will win, and the candidate with less votes will not win.
The winner will go on national television, thank everyone for getting out to vote, and promise that he'll do his best to live up to his promises. He will then look up into the sky and yell "Alright...... NOW!"
Big huge lazers from flying saucers hiding behind the clouds will pierce the Earth's surface and turn innocent civilians into piles of black dust. The President Elect will then reach for his neck. You'll think he's going to adjust his collar or scratch an itch, but nope - much to your surprise, he is ripping off a mask he's been wearing all along only to reveal a giant green slimy head with one orange glowing eyeball in the middle. You will not be able to resist the glowing, piercing stare coming out of that eyeball. It won't matter if you're there in person or in the safety of your own home watching it on TV. You will be sucked into the beam of that eyeball and there's nothing you can do about it.
He will speak to you, but you will not see his mouth move because his freshly unmasked lizard pig head doesn't have one. He will use his mind to communicate - you won't hear his voice with your ears, you will hear it bouncing around in your head. It will be very creepy and reverb drenched. It will make your teeth vibrate.
After telling you all that he has come to overthrow the planet, his mesmerizing gaze will make you feel incredibly warm and paralyzed. Your brain will turn into mashed potatoes. You will fall into a deep coma that you'll never snap out of. His army will then scour the face of the Earth for your comatose bodies, throw them all into giant dump trucks, haul you off to the Betty Crocker factories, and make things out of you like Fruit Roll Ups, Fruit Gushers, and cake mix. They will feast like they've never feasted before. After they're done here and all of us have been consumed, it's off to the next planet, next election. Business as usual.
Yeah, you laugh now, but just you watch. For those of you predicting only recounts and lawsuits, it's gonna be a lot worse than that, my friends.
Monday, November 1, 2004
And Nutcase of the Week Award goes to...
The guy outside the coffee shop wandering around in traffic! Congratulations.
Today I looked outside only to see a confused looking man walking around all swirly in the middle of Cedar Avenue. Splendid!
There were cars flying by him honking and swerving out of his way as he held his jacket up in the air at them. Why was he holding his jacket up? I don't know. Maybe it was a new jacket and he wanted to show it to everyone. Maybe this is some new bastardized version of urban bullfighting where cars play the role of the bull that I have not yet heard of. Maybe he found the jacket and was holding it up to everyone zooming past him at 30 mph as if to say "pardon me - is this yours?"
He continued to do this and every so often gave the coffee shop a looksie like he was going to head over here and pay me a visit. This made me feel a little unsafe, so I locked the door and called the Po-leese.
He wandered up Cedar and one of the many people watching him in disbelief pointed the Po-leese car in his direction when it pulled up. He was talked to for a few minutes and placed in the car, never to be seen again (hopefully).
Congratulations to the Nutcase of the Week Award winner - it's people like you that make life more interesting!
Runner up: guy who has been sleeping on the couch here for the last 2 hours. And snoring.
Today I looked outside only to see a confused looking man walking around all swirly in the middle of Cedar Avenue. Splendid!
There were cars flying by him honking and swerving out of his way as he held his jacket up in the air at them. Why was he holding his jacket up? I don't know. Maybe it was a new jacket and he wanted to show it to everyone. Maybe this is some new bastardized version of urban bullfighting where cars play the role of the bull that I have not yet heard of. Maybe he found the jacket and was holding it up to everyone zooming past him at 30 mph as if to say "pardon me - is this yours?"
He continued to do this and every so often gave the coffee shop a looksie like he was going to head over here and pay me a visit. This made me feel a little unsafe, so I locked the door and called the Po-leese.
He wandered up Cedar and one of the many people watching him in disbelief pointed the Po-leese car in his direction when it pulled up. He was talked to for a few minutes and placed in the car, never to be seen again (hopefully).
Congratulations to the Nutcase of the Week Award winner - it's people like you that make life more interesting!
Runner up: guy who has been sleeping on the couch here for the last 2 hours. And snoring.
My bout with the 80 proof flu
Riddle me this: Anyone know of a way for me to pay for and consume something that is really bad for me? I'd like it to make me really sick, too - for a good day or so. "A dozen Krispy Kremes," you say? No thank you. Those are too messy. I'd like it to be something that is in liquid form that carries a flavor reminiscent of formaldehyde. And as it travels down my throat on its one way ticket to saturate my liver, I'd like it to make my neck feel like a dead, burning tree trunk.
Give up? If you guessed alcohol, ding ding ding! You win!
If you're an alcoholic, you're a friggin' idiot! Ha ha... I kid you. I know it's a serious problem for a lot of people and I don't mean to make fun of it, but damn. I seriously can't understand how people can voluntarily drink in mass quantities day after day.
I don't drink very often. And when I do drink, I'll have a beer or two, and that's it. I can count on one hand (plus maybe one finger from the other hand) the number of times I've been intoxicated to the point where I wake up the next morning regretting it, and most of those times were when I was young and stupid.
And then last Saturday came along.
On Saturday night, I felt a strange desire to sip on some Bacardi to take the edge off of reality for a little while. Time was flying. Fun was had. EZ Cheese was dispensed into a Newcastle bottle cap. Before I knew it, a sip ended up turning into a half of a bottle.
Ouch!
It was fun for a while, but it was getting late and I was tired. Around 2:30am (technically 3:30am because of daylight savings, thankyouverymuch Ben Franklin), my brain was saying "Okay, I'd like to get off the ride now, please!" but every time I'd try to move, I knew damn well it wasn't going to happen. It was like being stuck in the front row of a 3 hour Celine Dion concert and being chained to the chair in a straitjacket with toothpicks propping my eyes open.
In my 31 years, I have yet to experience an involuntary oral protein spill (a.k.a. puke) from drinking too much. Thankfully my body tells me when I need to cut off before it gets to that point. I came reeeeeeally close on Saturday, but thankfully was able to hold back. I pondered going outside and munching on the lawn, as that seems to be a good vomit suppressant for a dog I know, but there were too many leaves out there and it was raining. Hell if I was going to waste my very first alcohol-related Technicolor yawn from drinking too much rum on a strange, cold October night in suburban Minneapolis. First times are supposed to be memorable - I at least need to be in New Orleans with a crocodile head in one hand and beignet in the other or something like that when it does happen.
I sobered up a little, and with a severe case of what I call "I feel like I drank a gallon of eggnog" stomach, drove home at 4am. 3 hours of sleep and several bedspins later, I woke up to go open the coffee shop. It doesn't get much better than that, my friends!
It will be a long time before I do anything like that again. And I don't mean "not until next weekend." It's going to be a long time if there's anything I can do about it. If you're the type of person who frequently feels a certain sort of enthusiasm and constant desire for drinking a bunch of liquid that tastes horrible with the intent of puking your brains out, be my guest... you deserve it!
Next time I'm gonna get me real good and messed up on something else.. like chocolate chip cookie dough and malts.
Give up? If you guessed alcohol, ding ding ding! You win!
If you're an alcoholic, you're a friggin' idiot! Ha ha... I kid you. I know it's a serious problem for a lot of people and I don't mean to make fun of it, but damn. I seriously can't understand how people can voluntarily drink in mass quantities day after day.
I don't drink very often. And when I do drink, I'll have a beer or two, and that's it. I can count on one hand (plus maybe one finger from the other hand) the number of times I've been intoxicated to the point where I wake up the next morning regretting it, and most of those times were when I was young and stupid.
And then last Saturday came along.
On Saturday night, I felt a strange desire to sip on some Bacardi to take the edge off of reality for a little while. Time was flying. Fun was had. EZ Cheese was dispensed into a Newcastle bottle cap. Before I knew it, a sip ended up turning into a half of a bottle.
Ouch!
It was fun for a while, but it was getting late and I was tired. Around 2:30am (technically 3:30am because of daylight savings, thankyouverymuch Ben Franklin), my brain was saying "Okay, I'd like to get off the ride now, please!" but every time I'd try to move, I knew damn well it wasn't going to happen. It was like being stuck in the front row of a 3 hour Celine Dion concert and being chained to the chair in a straitjacket with toothpicks propping my eyes open.
In my 31 years, I have yet to experience an involuntary oral protein spill (a.k.a. puke) from drinking too much. Thankfully my body tells me when I need to cut off before it gets to that point. I came reeeeeeally close on Saturday, but thankfully was able to hold back. I pondered going outside and munching on the lawn, as that seems to be a good vomit suppressant for a dog I know, but there were too many leaves out there and it was raining. Hell if I was going to waste my very first alcohol-related Technicolor yawn from drinking too much rum on a strange, cold October night in suburban Minneapolis. First times are supposed to be memorable - I at least need to be in New Orleans with a crocodile head in one hand and beignet in the other or something like that when it does happen.
I sobered up a little, and with a severe case of what I call "I feel like I drank a gallon of eggnog" stomach, drove home at 4am. 3 hours of sleep and several bedspins later, I woke up to go open the coffee shop. It doesn't get much better than that, my friends!
It will be a long time before I do anything like that again. And I don't mean "not until next weekend." It's going to be a long time if there's anything I can do about it. If you're the type of person who frequently feels a certain sort of enthusiasm and constant desire for drinking a bunch of liquid that tastes horrible with the intent of puking your brains out, be my guest... you deserve it!
Next time I'm gonna get me real good and messed up on something else.. like chocolate chip cookie dough and malts.
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