Think your life sucks? Go see "Hotel Rwanda", you whiney bitch!

I'm usually a hard egg to crack when it comes to movies that put a lump in my throat and make my eyes manufacture clear salty fluids. I think Problem Child 2 was the last one to have that effect on me, only because it sucked so hard I had to force myself to sit through and endure it because I had paid my hard earned $ for the ticket and wouldn't be able to live with the fact that I paid $5 to walk out of a shitty movie. Instead, I spent the rest of the film counting each popcorn kernel I put in my mouth (I think the final tally was 956?)

Anyhoo, Kimb and I went to see Hotel Rwanda last night and I think both of us were ready to break down quite a few times throughout the movie. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the story and rather ignorant with the daily news (like myself) I'll try to dumb it down and invent a "pretend" scenario that might be able to help you understand things a bit more:

Imagine if where you lived, all citizens were segregated into 2 types of people: the Purple and the Plaid. Someone from the Purple group kills your president. This upsets the Plaids, all Hell breaks loose, and all of the Plaid people decide that all Purple citizens need to be sliced and diced to death via machetes - women, children, boys, men, and anything else that moves until the Purples are no more. The people that are there to protect the Purples at some point throw their hands up and say "Sorry - we know hundreds of thousands of innocent people including your friends and families are being slaughtered, but we're gonna have to go home now. You're on your own - bye, have a nice day, hope you don't get chopped up like all of the billions of corpses laying on the streets blocking traffic out there!" And off they go, buckling up their seatbelts trying not to catch a blade, bullet, or drive over a corpse on their way out.

Sounds great, huh? That is a very vague interpretation of what happened in Rwanda 10 years ago, and it got much, much worse than that. It was incredibly real, disturbing, educational, and something that I think could be a great reality check for all humans in general.

Think life sucks? Go see this film ASAFP and you'll quickly realize that yeah, things aren't so great all the time, but at least you're not living in paranoia 24/7 of being chopped up with a giant dull, dirty blade because of the shape of your nose.

Me + 2 rather large glasses of cheap wine + 1 blog entry = this

Preface: Last Friday our dear friend Blessica made Kimberoni and myself a mean meatloaf dinner at her apartment which involved a bit of wine with which to wash it down. I am rather fond of wine. Wine tastes very delicious and makes me thirsty for more wine. The wine made me say very stupid things (good stupid things), so I figured it would be a good idea to document these stupid things via a blog entry. Here's what came out. I sort of wish I would have kept writing...

There’s random pickles on the mouse and I don’t know where. But they’re somewhere.. I think over by the meatloaf and beans. It’s 9:47 and the eraser is erasing all things that shouldn’t be on the paper. This is indeed fascinating; the salt and pepper are fornicating but they aren’t making any sense – the joy of cooking is a fine one. There’s cookies in the oven but they aren’t burning, because Bono is watching them. Everything will be just fine, he says, because the cookies will be just perfect. We’re going to get ants if we don’t wipe the cookie dust off of the table. The real problem is with Sharpies – they smell funny if you use them too much.

Well, the bell just rang, so the cookies are done. I don’t know how I feel about that truck, but as long as it doesn’t run me over it should be cool.

A tribute to the police officer that pulled me over:

The other day as I was sitting in the back of the cop car while the officer was going through my car looking for pot he wasn't going to find, I kept thinking of the KQRS morning show bit they play all the time called "Yo Mammy". It is a classic piece of actual arrest audio and I highly suggest you give it a listen if you have never heard it before and need a good laugh. Do it for me and my good friend Officer Tackleberry.. I only wish I could have said such kind things to him!

http://media.radcity.net/kqrs/morningshow/yomammy.mp3

(Caution - it contains naughty words, so if you're in a crowded office or around sensitive listeners, you might want to turn those speakers down a little bit)

Pope Dust

I'm probably going to offend some people or at the very least go to Hell for this, but oh well... I'll worry about that later.

Recently I have been pondering: am I the only person around here that realizes that the Pope is a very old dude? Maybe it's just the media making a spectacle out of his health - every time I turn on the news and see footage of him speaking from the ledge of his Pimpin' Pope Palace like Evita, he looks like any part of his body could crumble and fall off at any given minute. I'm guessing beneath the Pope Robe is a complex series of pulleys and belts that keep him harnessed to the chair up there and hold his neck up. Every time I see one of his hands go up to wave and almost wish I was there to hold a Dustbuster up to it to catch anything that possibly turns into dust. It could be bagged and sold on Ebay - "Get your very own Pope Dust while supplies last!"

On the Today Show this morning they were interviewing someone about Le Popa-rotza's current status. Apparently he's out of surgery, eating, and writing jokes on pieces of paper. Well that's great - so are a lot of other people out there that are probably in worse shape and have a lot more years ahead of them than he does... but you don't see them on the news, do you?

My point is, HE'S OLD. This is what happens when you get old. Your body stops working and falls apart. There's no need to go into hair splitting details anymore such as "he's eating.. he is breating on his own", "he had a half a bowl of Rice Krispies today and wants to play Monkey Ball", etc. He's OLD! Leave him alone, let him die peacefully, and stop spending so much newstime on it. Maybe until he checks out, all newscasters really need to do is look at the camera and say this:

"And now our 5 seconds of the day devoted to the Pope. Is he dead yet? Jimmy what's the word on the newswire?"
"Um, nope, Dan, the Pope is still alive. Now back to you."
"Thanks Jimmy. In other news..."

Micycle goes to jail?!!! *dun dun DUUNNNNNNNNN*

That's right folks, yours truly spent some time (my first and LAST time) in the Washington County slammer yesterday, and let me tells ya, it was a real treat. I'm such a rebel.

Lettuce go back to earlier that day, shall we? I had just finished a few delicious White Castles and a homemade Mom mocha, chit chatting it up with the parents and Polly (my canine sister) at their fine home in Cottage Grove. I got my good ol' goodbye kiss on the cheek from Mom, hopped in the Pinto, and was on my way back to Minneapplesauce.

About a block into my journey, I looked in the rearview and spotted a po-leese car behind me with his lights all a-flashing and whatnot, so I pulled aside to let him pass me. He started pulling aside too, and I figured either A) there was a po-leese car behind him too and he wanted to let it pass by, or B) I done something wrong. As soon as I saw him get out of his car, I was pretty sure it was "B". After speaking briefly with the officer, I quickly realized he was in a very bad mood… perhaps his life of going home lonely to his right hand after blowing his paycheck at the King of Diamonds was getting to him. (As you will read, he assumed I was holding illegal mind-altering toxins, so I guess that means I get to assume some things about him. Yay!)

Guess what, ladies and gentlemen, it's time to play "Who's Fucked?" – and if you guessed ME, you have won the game! Now back to our story:

It turns out that I had 2 parking tickets that I had forgotten to pay, and therefore was unknowingly driving with a suspended license. I was asked to step out of the Pinto and to put my hands on the po-leese car to be frisked. "Tackleberry", as I will call him (an accurate reference for all of you "Police Academy" fans), found 2 AA batteries and a peppermint patty on my person, but nothing else. He told me to get in the back of the po-leese car, and I complied. He then got in the front and that's where the real fun started.

Tackleberry: Going over to raid mom and dad's fridge today?
Micycle: Nope, just using their computer looking for a job… it's a long story.
Tackleberry: Do you have insurance?
Micycle: Amica.
Tackleberry: No you don't, because I didn't ask you for it, did I?
Micycle: Umm.. okay..?
Tackleberry: You been smoking some dope?
Micycle: No sir!
Tackleberry: Am I going to find anything in your car?
Micycle: Well, a cell phone, a bunch of trash, and some cigarettes. Feel free to go through it!
Tackleberry: You sure I'm not going to find anything else? There's no feeling free, because I'm going to go through it whether you like it or not..
Micycle: Could you grab my jacket for me when you're in there?
Tackleberry: What's in your jacket? Am I going to find anything in there?
Micycle: Probably some candy.

This went on for a few more minutes, and as I was continuing to kill him with kindness, Tackleberry was absolutely sure I was "high on dope" and was going to find a stash of some sort in the Pinto. He spent the next 10 minutes violating my car and other personal items only to walk back to the squad car with a "DAMMIT! I was wrong, but I'm not going to admit it" look on his face. He asked what my financial situation was, and I told him. "Well it sounds like you didn't have a backup plan!" he scolded me. I told him I was desperately seeking a job and it's not that easy right now to find one, to which he wisely said, "Well not me.. if I quit my job today, I could get a job tomorrow!" I bit my tounge hard as to not make the suggestion that maybe he should quit his job then and do something that wouldn't turn him into such an asshole… but he didn't seem like the type that would find that amusing.

So, off to the slammer where I stripped down to my jeans, t shirt and socks to be a guest in the deluxe accommodations of the 80th St precinct jail cell. During my stay, I wondered where Tackelberry was.. probably off in a lounge somewhere wishing I would have had some chemicals on my person so he could have had gotten a bigger buzz out of busting me. Thinking that maybe he should have had the peppermint patty in my jacket tested for traces of PCP. I also wondered what was going through the minds of Moms and Pops. Me? In Jail? For parking tickets?

I looked over at the 1-piece stainless steel toilet and found it ironic that it was indeed quite stained (with a name like stainless, one would think it would be free of stains.) I had to pee quite badly, but hell if I was going to insult my pee by putting it in that thing. I contemplated singing the blues, and wondered if a wee little mouse would enter my cell to befriend me. I could teach it tricks and feed it bread crumbs, just like Mr. Bojangles in The Green Mile.

Tackleberry eventually came to let me out. "Mom's here to bail you out." He watched me put my belt, shoes, watch, and jacket on, scolding me all the while about paying my tickets on time. I didn't say one word, because he didn't deserve a response, but in my head was saying Yeah yeah yeah, I know, fucker! And maybe you should work on that personality a bit.

Out back into the free world, and no drivey drivey for me until my court date on the 17th. Yeah, I done screwed up and it's my own fault in the end, it will be resolved, and I'll get on with life. But I've learned 2 big lessons out of it: 1) Pay your tickets on time. And 2) It's really quite fun to watch steam come out of a crabass power-hungry po-leese officer's ears when he realizes he's not making you scared or mad.

Thanks Mom and Dad for the support and help… I loves you boaf. I owe you big time for bailing me out of jail (I never thought I'd have to say that!) I will refrain from smart-mouthing in court so you can get all of your money back.

And as far as you go, Tackleberry: Fine, do your job and pull me over. I take full responsibility for being naughty. But fuck you if you're going to pull attitude on me like that and try to push my buttons… it might work on some people, but not this fella.

:) Smile! You're crabby, therefore your life sucks!

Meat Smoothie Guitar Secrets 101: Less is more

People often ask me about secrets of my guitar playing and I rarely talk about it, simply because I don't know what to say other than "Thanks! I like to play." Maybe I can try and make a dent with a lengthy journal entry. It's too damn hard for me to turn instinct into words and music lessons. When you see your doggie squatting and rubbing his/her bum on the floor, you don't ask the doggie why it does that - correct? Nope. Because you know they're doing it because it's instinct and it feels good - there's no other real reason (well.. other than glands with fluid in them, but that's a whole different journal entry altogether). Anyways, I'm bored out of my mind and am going to talk guitar for a bit here, simply because I feel like writing and have nothing else at the moment to talk about.

So, after nearly 20 years of playing geetars, I feel I have finally reached an important point with my abilities as a player: I am able to quickly and comfortably make my guitars say whatever it is my brain wants them to. Not necessarily in a guitar solo sense, because 99% of guitar solos are boring to me for the most part. These days it's way more fun for me to focus on seeing exactly how far I can push things beyond what you normally hear out of guitars. When I'm playing, I almost feel more like I'm holding a box of crayons than a guitar - and it sure is fun! If I want it to go "weeedily weedily weEEEEE.. shunk!", I put my fingers down and it happens. "Shikka shikka braaangangangang"? Consider it done. "Splink.. croing!" Easy peesy.

Granted yes, I have the 20 years of playing under me belt, but I still give most of the credit for this to the last 3-4 years of playing with Iced Ink (and the last 1.5 years with She Might Be A Spy - see links to both bands on the right side of this page). Not just playing in the bands, but the people I'm playing with: Joe B., VomitGod, Scara, and Big Johnson. Easily the most phenomenal players I've had the pleasure of dealing with, and the people who I feel are responsible for bringing out the mutated guitar noises that had been living inside of my head for so many years that I was never able to because I didn't know how. In the past I've always relied on effects to do the work for me. [Dear layperson: "Effects" = little expensive doo-dads you plug your guitar into in order to get cool noises out of it, sort of like when you add Tobasco to eggs, or jelly to toast to make it a little more exciting... or to cover up the fact that whatever it is you're eating tastes like shit]

In the early 90s, I started out with the typical effects: Flanger, chorus, Wah, and delay pedals. Those were fun, but I needed something with more dials and blinking lights on it, because dials and blinking lights are fun to look at, right? So I spent $900 on a box called an ART SGX2000 with red lights and a green LED display. It also had a lavender/pink paint job which was mos definitely a nice touch. After a few years, I sold the SGX2000 on Ebay and put the money towards a nice sleek new silver Digitech 2101. The brushed silvery-gold face on it reminded me of my Dad's cool old Marantz stereo receiver. A few years later I picked up a refridgerator-sized Marshall JCM900 half stack, because there is an unwritten rule somewhere in the world of guitar players that states if you're in a rock band, you have to own one at some point. After all those years, thousands of dollars, effects, and calories/time burnt hauling that heavy shit around and hooking it all up to play, I still found myself asking me "Good gawd, WHY do I sound like SHIT?!" I was spending more time pressing buttons and twisting knobs looking for The Sound than I was playing.

I have since sold most of that poot and stripped down to 2 simple teeny little amps and 1 volume pedal (Iced Ink observers know I still use the GT6 fx pedal, but that things days are numbered as well.. I give it a few more months before I'm ready to use it as a paperweight). Since I've adopted this new approach, I realized that all the cool sounds I've been looking for are in my fingers and guitar knobs/switches, NOT expensive pedals. The answer I had been looking for was right at the end of my wrists all of those years (and hiding inside of my Tech 21 Trademark 60 amp.. me + Tech 21 = match made in guitar playing heaven)

Another trap I fell into was the theory trap. I was strangled for many years trying to make music out of mathematical equasions. Once I let go of trying to be inspired by scales and modes and just let the music happen, ideas started pouring out of me like there was no tomorrow and continue to... and ironically they end up sounding like mathematical equasions. These days I couldn't tell you for the most part what chord or mode I'm playing, simply because I don't care anymore. Good stuff comes from the heart, not a mapped chord progression with a bunch of noodling over it.

The only other "secret" I have is that you are only as diverse as the music you allow yourself to listen to. If your tastes know no boundaries, your style is likely to as well.

So, that there is a great long story-longer secret for anyone that's ever attempted to poke and prod my brain for answers. I got to a point where I served my time, discovered less is more re: gear, found the right people, and it all allowed the floodgates in my brain to open and just let things happen. Not saying less is more would work for everybody, it's just what I found works for me. Not to mention less stuff = less time setting up, and less money spent fixing things.

Now go, get on with your bad selves. That's about all you're gonna get out of me, because it's all I know, I'm starting to bore myself, and I've got better things to do than talk about guitar all day.. like finding a galdamn job to pay off all those credit card bills I racked up paying for all of those aforementioned effects.

Four more words for you in closing: Jeff F'in Beck, baby!

p.s.- Before any of you go cringing and posting a comment on my food consumption habits, Tobasco on eggs is the shit.. don't knock it until you've tried it, punk!

Michael Jackson hospitalized with the flu?

Read it here on YAHOO! News.

Assuming this is an oral flu and not the sitting down holding onto the toilet seat kind (see: Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber), there is one major problem I foresee with this for Mr. Jackson other than the obvious one involving the discomfort of involuntary oral protein spills.

What happens when you puke? Your face moves. Unless you've had your head up your pooper for the last several years, you've likely seen a recent picture of Michael. I will provide the few of you who may have not seen him lately with 7 words which accurately and properly encompass what he has done to his face:
1. Too
2. much
3. plastic
4. surgery.
5. Not
6. Lookin'
7. good.

I know - it's obvious, and the plastic surgery thing has been overdone to death by comedians and talk show hosts. But the flu adds another angle to the mix.

With all of the overhauls he's had and things I've heard like his surgeon saying his nose is going to fall off if he has anymore work done to it, vomiting must be dangerous for him. As we all know, extreme amounts of internal pressure are exerted on the noggin whilst puking your brains out, and if his face is as delicate and fragile as we hear it is, what if during a particularly grandiose heave, his nose fell off? Assuming he'd be face down in a gold-plated toilet (what a sight that would be to see), his nose would then be floating around in... um, well, I'll let your imagination take care of the rest. Let me just say he probably should keep a pair of tongs and some Super Glue on hand just in case.

He's not in the hospital because he has the flu... he's in the hospital because he has the flu and needs to have his face put back together like Mr. Potatohead after every post-vomiting episode. That's my guess.

Michael, I hope you get well soon. I'm sorry that your shop class sawdust masks you wear did not serve as a thorough enough preventively measure for your well being. Have some 7Up and saltines and you'll be good as new in no time and ready to get back into court with both fists up and ready to fight.

Well.. Maybe one fist up ready to fight and the other hand holding your nose on until it dries.

I'm alive and well... here I am!

I am at a coffee shop sipping on a creepy tasting $1 bottle of sodie pop. I have $8 in my pocket. I used to have $9. This = I now have $8 to my name. At least until I sell another chunk of my CD collection and make trip #75 for the week to the Sperm Donor office tonight (hehe.. I kid you.)

I'm typing this text into Kimb's little white technological device which folds in half and "sleeps". It has a white glowing orb on the front of it which I stare at for minutes on end in a trance. The device I speak of is called an "iBook G4" and it has been really good at making me curse my brains out looking for a way to right click... I am, as I like to say, MacTarded. I have never used one prior to this month, but I'm figuring this bitch out whether it wants me to or not. Being the stubborn jackass I am, I will not give up on the dissipation of my MacTarded-ness without a bitter fight. How do I right click with only one button?? How do I get this fucking CD-Rom to give me my CD back? Why does text all of a sudden disappear when I'm typing? Why can I not CTRL+Z shit? Yeah, all of you Mac nerds can laugh all you want.. let me put a guitar and your hands and then see who's laughing!

I will learn how to use this thing though. It's actually kind of fun and I'm at about a 60% comfort level with it. Back when I was a young pup fresh out of high school, I bought me a brand spankin' new pickup truck with a manual transmission. "Well good for you," says you, I bet. But here's the capper: the closest I ever came to using a manual transmission prior to my $10,000 new, undented, nice smelling truck was manually putting my hand on a lever in other cars and making a little red needle move in between the letters P,D,R,N,1, and 2. Learning how to shift in a new truck that cost $200 a month to GMAC and another $230 a month for insurance (for no other reason other than I was under 21 and male) is a high risk way to do it. But when I drove out of the lot of Midway Chev in my shiny new truck with 6 miles on it, believe you me, I re-learned the meaning of the words slow, paranoid, and cautious real fast. It was a long 20 mile drive from the car dealer in St. Paul to my friend's in Cottage Grove. There were a few engine kills and gear grindings weee weee weee all the way home, but I did it and lived to tell. So take that, iBookG4. Cornfuse me all you want, but I'm gonna learn you!

Back to the final $8 in my pocket. I need to spend it wisely.. I really should put gas in the Pinto, but hm, that's not really a fun way to spend $8, is it? Maybe I'll fold this here iBook G4 in half, pack up, and go buy $8 worth of baseball cards. I never really collected them or had the desire to do so before, but it's never too late to start, right?

Meat Smoothie dreams

I had this dream the other night that I was flying on the back of a purple hippopotamos and that it was blowing bubbles out of its nostrils.



We flew over the Grand Canyon and it was full of old broken black and white television sets. On top of each television set was a golden cupcake with a lit sparkler in the middle of each one. We then suddenly found ourselves flying over the ancient pyramids in Egypt and after whizzing around in the sky for a few minutes, we were back in Minneapolis, and the hippo landed and dumped me off right in front of Chiang Mai Thai. My grandma was sitting in the entryway with the buzzer which went off and she said "aaaah - Micyle, dear - just in time! Our table is ready, honey! Have you passed Super Mario 3 yet?"



Grams and I went to our table and feasted on delicious curried salmon. Curried salmon? Yup. I heard the payphone by the restroom ringing and felt a strange urge to answer it, so I walked over, picked up the phone and said "Micycle speaking..?"



"Hello sir, your your CDs are ready. You can come pick them up at any time."



"My CDs? But... I wasn't waiting for any. Are you sure you have the right number?"



"Is this Micycle located at Chiang Mai Thai?"



"Yes..?"



"Your CDs are ready, please come get them."



I looked over at the table to make sure grandma was doing okay and she wasn't there - but a bevy of Solid Gold dancers were sitting there instead, all of them sipping on cans of Tab. I rushed over to the table leaving the phone dangling like a pendulum and when I got to the table exclaimed "What did you do with my grandma???!"



"Well," one of the dancers said, "we sent her off to McDonalds for a chicken burrito... the salmon just wasn't doing it for her."



Okay... actually, before I go any further I have to confess that I didn't have this dream; I'm full of shit.

Dear Apprentice Burger: You're fired!

Lanth, your wish is my command. I have been on blogging hiatus as of late and know it has left many of you with an empty feeling inside, so today I will take a few moments of my time to deliver the goods. Without further ado, I give you the Apprentice Burger essay. Not sure when I’ll be back next, but hopefully this will entertain you for the time being.

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



So the other day my partner in crime Kimb and I took it upon our bad selves to visit Burger King on Nicollet Avenue to see what the new Apprentice Burger is all about. On the commercial, the Apprentice Burger allegedly contains 100% Angus beef. I am not sure what Angus beef is, but after this experience, I reckon it has something to do with ground up entrails and body parts of Apprentice losers.



Upon entrance of the fine BK facility, I noticed the door on the right had a sign on it that read "PLASE USE OTHER DOOR. THIS DOOR IS BROKEN." On the other side was the same sign, complete with "PLASE". 10 points for consistency awarded to whomever wrote those fuckers up... if you're going to misspell something, it's at least good to do it twice like that. I'll throw in another 5 bonus points for the 3rd grade penmanship. I'm not knocking you, Burger King sign maker - you've given me years of great, friendly customer service and hot, tasty vittles.. and you work hard for your money. I just like to point out good sign making when I see it.



So anyhoo - back to the Apprentice Burger. We took the plunge, complete with complimentary plastic cutlery with which to sever our tasty sammich in 2 equal halves to share. Sammiches always look more appealing when split in 2 and opened up like a clamshell so all of the succulent vapors and juices can be displayed to make one's mouth water like a wet towel being wrung out. Look at Subway footlongs, for example. Do you think those would look nearly as appetizing if they weren’t cut in half diagonally like they always are? I think not.



While severing the Apprentice Burger in two, I contemplated out loud if prior to placing the Anus.. pardon me, Angus beef patty on the flame broiler if BK employees are required to point at it and say "You're Fired!" I know, bad joke, but I couldn't resist.



The first bite was taken and here is an actual transcription of what went through my mind at that very moment: Hm... maybe my taste buds need to become acclimated to a prestigious, new culinary concoction such as this. It's a little.. blurry tasting. Blurry… like Donald Trump’s hair. Maybe that’s what they’re going after?



The second bite came, and it didn’t get any better. I examined the Apprentice Burger ingredients before me with great curiosity to try and make some sense of all the hype and found the following: an(g)us meat, bun, lettuce, peculiar sauce which I think was BBQ, some other weird things, and the trademark Apprentice Burger ingredient, or the crown, as I like to call it: onion rings.



90% of the Apprentice Burger was finished and we couldn’t take anymore. It was so.. mushy. Blurry. I keep going back to thinking that perhaps Trump’s hair was used as inspiration for this taste sensation. Go try one for yourselves if they’re still making them and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You keep waiting for flavor and non-mushy consistency to appear and save the day, but it doesn’t. And you’re left with an empty wrapper and your glazed over eyes looking down at your belly feeling your self-esteem plunge by the minute.



Lesson learned. I’m sticking with the good ol Chicken Sammich, Bacon Double Cheeseburger, or Whopper from now on. There is no need to go risking $4 on such an unsatisfying hyped up mess like the Apprentice Burger. We fell into your trap once, NBC and Burger King, but never again.



Dear Apprentice Burger: You’re fired.