Happy Birfday to me Pops!

It was on this day that me beloved Father Dear entered this world back a few years ago and I'd like to take a second to wish him the happiest of birthdays. I called Moms and Pops' house a while ago and he was at Menards, so it's good to see he's celebrating his special day to the maximum capacity of fun that such special days allow. Actually, when one is spending birthday time at a place of business which is known for selling lumber, M&Ms and beef jerky all under one gigantic roof, one's cup is likely overflowing with fun. I can picture him spotting a good deal on some pipe fittings right now and wishing he had someone to call to share the excitement with. Dad, you've got my number. The door is open anytime if you ever have the need.

So anyways, my Dad is the ass-kickingest Dad a 31 year old unemployed musician like me could have. Why, you ask? Read it and weep.

• He finds good deals at Menards
• If it wasn't for him, I probably wouldn't be a guitarist (he had a couple of geetars lying around at all times)
• Although he probably wanted to, he didn't kill me and my brother when he discovered his coin collection box was empty and that we spent it on candy and tiny plastic trashcans full of slime at Walgreens. Ouch, still a sore topic...
• He picks out really cool dogs
• He grills a mean tinfoil pouch filled with potatoes and onions. And his burgers and steaks are of the most exceptional, finest taste and quality I've ever experienced.
• He came up with the idea of putting Newcastle on Chow Mein. He also invented Hash brown pizza.
• Tell him what's wrong with your 74 Pinto, and you can bet your arse he knows what the problem is.
• He would give you the shirt off his back, and even give you his 3M pocket protector, comb, and pager with it.

Had enough yet? Fine, I'll keep going.

• He knows a lot about fixing stuff
• Once I was old enough, I grew sideburns because he always had them. Being a product of my environment, I thought that's how it was supposed to be. I still got me some pretty decent sized choppers on both sides of my face to this day as a tribute to him, not to mention when it's cold out, they really keep that 1"x2.5" area of skin by my ears cozy warm.
  
• He knows a lot about building houses
• He's a hard working dude, harder working than anyone I've ever known. Like a shark, he is constantly in motion doing something. Now that Everybody Loves Raymond isn't on anymore, I fear that his ass will never touch a couch or chair again.
  
• He has a funny Ex-Lax story that he didn't think was so funny at the time. Long story short, he shared a bed with my Uncle when they were kids.. my Uncle liked chocolate. I needn't say more.
• He used to take me to Sears and Grandma's house.
  
• He introduced me to "boy stuff" like stereos, VCRs, word processors, and tools. He probably tried to get me into sports but quickly realized that was a worthless cause.
  

He's just a really bitchin' dad, folks. That's all there is to it. Hope you have a great birfday dad - I'll try and call later, hopefully after you've unloaded your haul from Menards.

Have you seen my watch?

I can't seem to find it. It says "FOSSIL" on the face and is affixed to a rather wide piece of black leather which starts to smell funny if it gets wet.

My watch was last seen on my wrist. The left one. I removed it last night because I cannot sleep whilst wearing any sort of accessory (I can't even do socks), and that was the last I saw of it. I feel as if I never had a chance to say goodbye.

I'm really starting to get a little nervous, because I only know how to tell time on devices without any numbers on them. All of the other clocks which surround me contain numbers and are traditional circular clocks.. you know, like the ones which gave us such terms as "clockwise" and "counter-clockwise".

I just like little silver dashes on the outer edge of a circle instead of numbers; that's why I bought my watch. None of that numeric monkey business - just concise, easy to read dashes. It had the correct time set on it when I bought it and I never had to fiddle with it other than the two times a year Daylight Savings occurs, in which case I just bring it into the store I bought it at and they're more than happy to adjust it for me. Yeah, sure, I get a few strange looks when I do this, but maybe that's because I wear a helmet when I go to malls due to my slight fear of the ceiling caving in and falling on me. Anyways, they keep trying to tell me "It's not that hard - there's just one button you need to twist until the hour hand moves up by one - all there is to it!" Sure, real easy, but what if while I'm doing that, I forget which hour it was and which one I'm supposed to stop winding at? And don't even get me started on the minutes thing.

There's a few digital visual timekeepers at my disposal such as the microwave and VCR, but I can't figure out those numbers for shit. And even if I could, which one do I go by? The microwave display currently reads :59 and the VCR is blinking 00:00:00 over and over again. That's why I don't keep time with appliances; they're unreliable. You have to press buttons on them to tell them what time it is so you can look at them later and know what time it is. How are you supposed to tell a clock what time it is if you don't know in the first place? I mean, isn't that why you buy a clock - so it can tell you what time it is? That's like buying a car when you don't have any arms or legs and can't drive it. Appliances are stupid like that, not to mention the VCR's time display is making me nervous that either the end of the world has come or that it's been around since the inception of time and somebody forgot to press the GO button on it.

Please, let me know if you see my watch. I am so lost without it.

Wait! There it is over there by those socks on the floor. Never mind.

This Memorial Day, I'm not getting paid!

Yaaay!

Because I am an ignorant American citizen who is about as knowledgeable with history as I am quantum physics, I have no idea what Memorial Day is for. Usually, I celebrate it as "get paid to not work" day - but not this year, because I haven't a job.

Nope. Not this year. No getting paid to sleep in and have a pick-a-nick. It's pretty much like every other day, except it's a really insignificant one this time around. Instead of free money, I get free nothing. Big deal! I get free nothing every other day, too. Not to mention more stores are open every other day. I feel like I'm going through what the Jewish folk experience on Christmas Day.

I decided to investigate the true meaning of Memorial Day so's I could appreciate it for what it truly is seeing that I can't appreciate it for the usual reasons.

I discovered that Memorial Day was initiated by the cavemen back in the prehistoric age. Every time around this time of the year, they'd cage a Brontosaurus up and starve it for a few days. They'd poke and prod and it and get it really pissed off, and then once Monday came around, they'd let it loose and run like hell to their caves so they could safely watch the angry dinosaur wreak havoc on their town. Prisoners were left shackled to a post in plain view of the 'saurus and usually they were the first thing to go.

After the dinosaur had its way with the town and ran off, the citizens would gather together and rebuild. They saw this as a skin-shedding renewing process of sorts and did this every May.

With that in mind, I'm leaving for a few days, so will take this moment now to tell you all to have a safe holiday weekend. And don't be afraid to share this history lesson with the kids over some potato salad on Monday; I think it's good that they know.

Pee-nocchio

Caution: inappropriate observation ahead

I saw an ad this morning featuring Pinocchio and Gepetto as the main characters. I don't remember what exactly it was for, but it was nothing Disney related. If you're not Disney and you pimp yo product or service with characters like Pinocchio and Gepetto, I'm guessing business isn't going to pick up none. People will walk away like I did remembering Pinocchio and Gepetto rather than the company that paid for the ad and go on with their day.

But annahoo, I got to thinking - what if Pinocchio was in the privacy of his own room admiring a calendar with bikini clad female puppets and becoming rather excited, if you know what I mean. Gepetto walks in on him and asks:

"Good heavens, Pinocchio... what in gawds name are you doing??"

Instinctively, Pinocchio would become embarrassed, close the calendar and say "Nothing! Nothing! Er, I was..." [insert awkward silence]

And then his nose would start to grow because he had just fibbed. I mean... and then his nose would grow too.

One of the worst ways to bother me...

I will preface this entry with a lyric from an old KISS tune:

"I'm walkin' down the street mindin' my own business.."

Heavy stuff, I know. But that's what I was doing. And it was raining. A car pulled over and the window rolled down. Being the friendly bloke I am, always at the ready to give blurry directions to the lost folk in my part of the city, I approached the vehicle.

4 puffy old ladies were inside and "oh no," I says to myself... "gang rape." Fortunately I was wrong. Unfortunately, it was worse.

The old lady in the front passenger seat looked like the kind of person you see cruising the candy aisles at Walgreens on a Little Rascal scooter with a cane hanging from the basket on the handlebars. She extended her arm with some 8 1/2 x 11" documentation in her hand and said "Here's a magazine for you!" All it took was a split second glance and I saw an all too familiar illustration of a bearded man wearing sandals and a robe on the cover.

Aw, Crikey.. Another God Damn (that's right, I said God Damn) bunch of bible thumpers thinking they're gonna make the world a better place by doing driveby Jesus-ing because they've nothing better to do with their time.

Aaarrg, this bothers me so. Seriously, what kind of people get together on a rainy day to do exhibit such behavior? Go watch The Price Is Right, crochet, do some crossword puzzles, or anything else but that.

Cottage Grove po-leese department (continued)

Joe Berkman emailed me this link today (thanks, Joe!):

http://www.startribune.com/stories/467/5424219.html

Remember... this man is the head of the same league of outstanding community protectors that pulled yours truly over, impounded my Pinto and threw me in jail because I had 3 unpaid parking tickets.

I'm sure he wasn't doing anything wrong. Everyone abandons their flipped SUV with a loaded gun and unloaded beer bottles on occasion, no? Maybe being that he's the chief of police and all, he must have been too busy to be aware of the fact that there were EMPTY BEER BOTTLES in his vehicle and the fact that that's a no-no. Oops! His bad!

One thing's fo sho: I need to call this Fred Bruno character and have him speak on my behalf whenever I need to blatantly lie through my teeth. If I accidentally walk out of Target with a television set and DVD surround sound system that I forgot to pay for, sounds like he could straighten things out with security so's I can at least keep the stuff without paying for it.

Guilty... until proven you have friends in high places.

Iced Ink Online back up and running and a few other things

• The Iced Ink website has returned - lots of new gnus, new shows, and a lot more for you to poop on; all for just the price of a glass of water. Things are sounding amazing at rehearsal and we're strong like bull, ready to make our debut with new drummer Barry on the Triple Rock stage and tear the heads off of the 12 people that will be standing there watching us at 12am on a weekday night. There's still a bit of fine tuning to do, but the site is up and running for the most part. http://www.icedink.net

• While I'm on the topic of the band, I have a bone to pick with Cheapo's consignment division. I've played phone tag with them for 2 months now to get our CDs pulled back from the stores, as we have sold out of all other existing copies. First I was told it would be 2 weeks. I called 3 weeks later, still nothing, and was told to wait 2 more weeks. I did this a few more times, called the other day and the lady took my number so she could go check and call me back. It's been 3 days and I ain't heard sheeit. There's people waiting to buy the CD (Lanth even prepaid for his!) and it's really getting on my nerves how unreliable they've been. To all of you waiting for CDs, I apologize. Call them @ 651-644-6416 and tell them to stick a fork up their arses. In the mean time, I'll keep on 'em.

• Last but not least, I'd like to thank everyone for the kind comments and emails I've been receiving in regards to my cat Devo checking into that big plate of smoked salmon in the sky. I appreciate your thoughts & understanding... it's been tough, but I'm getting closer and closer to setting foot in a rescue shelter to find another little feller to hang with.

That's the gnus, I'm atta here.

Egg Beatnik

Pardon me, do you have the
Time to make the donuts
Lock me up and throw away the
Keys to a brand new car-X Men
I Can't Believe It's Not Better
Off Dead
Stubbed my
Tow truck
do you have a Buck
Rogers, Roger
Pour Some Sugar on
Me Myself and
Eye of a needle
Slice of apple
Pie are square
It's a Small World
After All this Time,
Don't feed the
Bare Naked
Ladies Room
Living in Sin-bad
Don't try this at
Home Sweet Home Alabama
Funny how time slips
on a banana
Peel away the layers
Find a hidden
Treasure
The lights are
Out to dinner,
Out of
Order me
Around the
Corner of my
Gilligan's Eye-land
Right said Fred
dy Krueger
That's it, I'm
Threw it in the trash
Can of soda
Pop rocks
I give
Upstream
It's about that
Time Magazine cover
Story of the
Year after year after year..
Does anybody
Care Bears are colorful little
cartoon bubble wrap
It's just not the
Same old story
If you want my honest
Opinions are like assholes:
Everyone's got one and they all
Stink bomb
It's
Cold, like a telephone
Call-a-Doctor
Detroit Rock City
Question and Answer
It's None of your
Business suit
None of your
Beezwax candle-a-bra-zier
This probably doesn't make any
Sense
of smell, so I will make like a tree and
Leave
it alone
===
(don't ask me... I'm just the messenger)

And now on a more serious note...

Pardon me while I take my clown mask off for a day to attempt to use this blog and all of you lovely readers as a coping mechanism. Caution to animal lovers: this is gonna be a tough one.

My cat Devo died yesterday morning due to kidney stone complications. Little buddy was only 5 years old - much too soon to be checking out, methinks. I always thought I had at least another 10 years of shoving him off the counter when preparing dinner and getting in my way when trying to work on the computer. He seemed to be a little out of it on Friday, and by Saturday morning he was anything but the crazy little monkey he usually was running around making us laugh. His little body just couldn't handle whatever was going on inside of it and before I knew it, Devo was gone. It's hard not to feel a lot of guilt for not taking him to the vet the second I spotted a change in behavior, but he was this way so many times before and I figured he was just passing another stone and would be back to normal soon.

As any of you who know me or read these blogs on a frequent basis, I'm usually a happy-go-lucky kinda dude who is always cracking jokes (or at least I see them as jokes) and goofing around. It's really rare for me to be completely miserable and have no interest in writing music and being a goofball. One of the very few things capable of making me that way is the passing of a pet. It's worse for me than dealing with a human death, because animals are helpless in the fact that they can't put into words what hurts or what's wrong with them. They do it with body language, but sometimes like in this case, signals get misread and things are much more seriously wrong than you think they are.

I've always said the only bad thing about having pets is losing them, and this one is a particularly difficult one to let go of. Devo was like my shadow, on or near me at all times. When I shut the bathroom door, he'd holler at me until I opened it to let him in. He loved car rides and going up to the cabin. He also loved food more than life itself. 99 out of 100 times when I sat down, he'd hop on my lap and start kneading my stomach. And if my stomach wasn't accessible enough, he'd think "Fine... I'll just find the mushiest part on your leg and work on that then."

I have this strange "What do I do now??" feeling that I don't really know what to do with. We had a pretty big party planned yesterday with a lot of family, friends, and band members invited. It was the day of the morning he died, of course - he always had an impeccable sense of timing with getting sick at times like that. Saying "The show must go on!" was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my 31.75 years of life on this planet. I stand corrected - it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do (to this day at least), but I somehow managed to do it. Although I didn't want to be around a bunch of people who knew what happened and how much I loved that little feller, I didn't want to sit around in a gussied up empty place moping around with salty wet cheeks and a snotty nose all day. It was pretty hard to stay composed in front of everyone... I had to duck out quickly quite often for 5-10 minutes to let out the lumps in my throat, but I'm really glad we had everyone over. It was good to see everybody to simultaneously a) celebrate and b) drown my sorrows in mounds of sugar and Newcastle. Friends/family = pathetic animal lovers as well, so I was in good company.

It's really, really weird without him now; I feel like I'm missing a limb or something. I feel fine for a while and then a breakdown of sorts comes from out of nowhere. I hear a noise and think it's probably him getting into some kind of trouble, but then remember that's not the case. When there's food on the counter, I instinctively want to put it in the fridge before he gets to it. When I go to wash my hands, I look over and expect to see him there waiting for me to finish so he can jump in and take a drink.

It's hard to even fathom having another kitty, as I don't think there will ever be one that was as cool and idiosyncratic as Deevis was. I don't know if will be 2 days, 2 weeks, or 2 months, but I know it will happen regardless. I know when I go looking at the shelters, just like with Devo I will know out of the hundreds of lonely cats the second I spot the feline with a bizarre personality to match mine that deserves the best home and friend a cat could ever ask for. I just hope he likes to ride in the car and drink out of the toilet (I can maybe work around the toilet thing...)

Wherever you are now Devo, I hope there's lots of ice cream, scones, and fried chicken for you to gorge yourself with and lots of hemp twine to chase around. You don't have to worry about those food allergies anymore or kidney stones, so let 'er rip and go crazy.

You'll be missed dearly, buddy!

Enough of the Snickers already

We have a bag of Snickers that is supposed to last until a party tomorrow. I accidentally opened it and started eating them. Get that fucking bag away from me!! "Fun Size" my ass...

"Fun Size" = eat 400 of them instead of 1 regular size bar because they are smaller and create the illusion of being tiny little bite sized snackies. It's a mind game. If I had a dozen regular sized Snickers bars sitting around, I'd eat one and forget about them. But with these Fun Sizes, I cannot quit. It's easy to lose track after 3 or 4. This does not happen when I eat regular sized candy bars. I do not lose track of how many I eat. One of those is all it takes. And if I ate 2, you can bet your arse I'd know it.

But with FUN SIZE, I quickly lose count. And I'm not all that concerned about keeping track either. I'll eat at least 6-7 with little thought, which is probably equal to 2 or 3 regular sized bars. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong - it's not because of the "fun" aspect. I do not have any more fun eating "Fun Size" candy bars than regular ones. If anything, they're less fun. You waste a lot more time unwrapping them than you would a regular bar. There's wrappers all over the place, my lips and fingers are smudged with chocolate, and my self esteem always hits rock bottom when I eat them. Why? Because I cannot stop. Some people are addicted to drugs, I am addicted to chocolate. I'm getting all fired up sitting here thinking about it.. and I'm not even remotely hungry! Friends and family: are you listening? It's probably time for intervention.

Oh, sweet pain. Lord Have mercy on my chocolate filled soul.

Instead of Fun Size, they should call them "You're Only Kidding Yourself" size. Screw you, candy makers. You've got me in the palm of your hand and you know it.

I tried to cut myself off today, but am starting to get delirium tremors. I'm starting to salivate thinking about that peanutty Snickers goodness. Just one more won't hurt, will it? Is there a chocolate patch I could try wearing?

Dude.. where'd the bag go? WHERE'S. MY. SNICKERS.

Gazing at Hot Dog mittens instead of Darth Vader

Star Wars fever is back!

Yes, I'm one of those people. If you were a kid in the 70s like I was, there was no escaping being helplessly drawn in to George Lucas' epic brainwashing tales. And if you did escape their mighty wrath, you probably sucked and didn't have any friends on the playground (or otherwise).

Here's a few examples of how Star Wars touched my life:

• When the first film came out in '77, my parents dropped me off at my Grandma's so they could go see it. I was 4 years old and the only true memory I have from that evening was sitting in her basement looking at my mittens. They were navy blue and had yellow words sewn onto them. The left one said HOT and the right one said DOG. Why on earth such mittens were created is beyond me. One other thing I will touch on in regards to this night: Thanks for not taking me to Star Wars and ruining my life, Mom and Dad. I still haven't forgiven you and never will. It's right up there with Santa never leaving me those KISS dolls under the tree. I've got 25 years of repressed anger in me and am currently talking to the Dr. Phil people about being on his show with you, so keep your schedules open.
• When we got our first VCR in 1980 (I think?) It weighed about 200 pounds, loaded from the top, and had a remote control with a 20 foot cord on it you had to plug into the front of the VCR. Aaah, the wonders of technology. The first thing dad rented was Star Wars and I must have watched it a good three to four hundred times. It was around Christmas time and I had strep throat, so I remember eating a lot of popsicles while watching it and mom getting ready to have the family over. This is probably why I crave ham every time I see robots. I also remember Dr. Doolittle was on TV during one of my Star Wars breaks. I waited to watch the big snail I remembered seeing in my school library's Doolittle picture book, but the movie proved to be too boring to wait it out. Back to Star Wars I went.
  
• Saving Nestles Crunch wrappers and mailing them in for necklaces of Star Wars characters. I pounded enough chocolate to nab an R2-D2, Darth Vader, and C-3PO. I believe this is also when my addiction to chocolate began. These days I'd guess those necklaces go for a small fortune on Ebay. (By the way, Star Wars fanatics: if I put the hyphens in the wrong places in the droids' names and you're dying to say something, get a life).
• My awesome Star Wars belt from KMart. It was blue and gold with the logo. My classmate had the same one and I recall him having a fascination with Wookees.
  
• Getting "Star Wars guys" at KMart. I went through multiple Obi Wans and Darth Vaders because I'd play with them so much in the sandbox that I'd wear them out and then have to beg for new ones. Let me tell you, there's nothing like opening a fresh Darth Vader from the package and then having him kick the ass of your old one that's missing his cape and light saber. Usually Old Vader would meet his demise by New Vader dismembering him and throwing his body parts in my mom's rhubarb plants. Vader was such a badass he didn't even have any remorse for himself.
  
• Ordering an Empire Strikes Back book from the Scholastic Book Club in grade school. All of the girls would order those lame kitten-on-a-branch "Hang in there" posters, but not this fella. I still have that book.
• Going to see Jedi with my Aunt Cookie followed by a trip to Children's Palace to blow money on as many Jedi trading cards as I could afford.

And there are many more. When Lucas started making the new films, the magic was pretty much gone for me. We went and saw Episode I and it was cool. I chose to skip II because I heard it was pretty lame. It kind of takes away from the fantasy of it all with the media these days - the actors are all over the internet, magazines, and TV and are too familiar to me from their other films to let my brain detach enough to get a good ride from the movies. And I know Star Wars has always been about the bombastic special effects, but now in the digital age where everything is done by computers, it's just not as fun for me to watch. Instead of wondering what cool techniques they used to achieve a special effect, now I know it's just some dude with pale blue skin and frizzy hair sitting at a super-powered computer for months on end doing it all with mouseclicks. Screw that - I want to see cardboard cutouts like they had to use in the old movies. Leave the cheese in there, dammit! Digital Yoda just isn't as interesting as analog puppet Yoda. I'm still pissed that the DVD reissues of Episodes IV-VI are the newer digitally altered ones...

After hearing of how dark and spooky it's supposed to be, I reckon I might like to go see Episode III sometime in the very near future. Until then, I will watch the lines of people dressed as Darth Vader, Chewy, and Stormtroopers wrapped around the block waiting to see it. It will always remind me of the classic Triumph the Insult Comic Dog bit where he was at a Star Wars premiere interviewing a fan dressed as Vader. He looked at the panel on his chest and asked something like "Is theese the button you press to call your mom to pick you up?"

Magnetic fish

I want to go fishing so bad it hurts. The only thing holding me back is I don't want to touch the slimy bait to bait the hook, and I wouldn't know what in the hell I would do if I actually caught a fish. I'd probably be so disgusted at the notion of touching it that I'd just drop the whole pole in the lake, fish attached, and run off screaming.

Case and point: a few years back my pops hooked me up with a fishing license and sent me on my way up to the cabin. "Go forth and be a man, son!" I attempted to fish and almost wet my pants when I felt a tug on the line. Oh yeah... what the f*&k do I do if I actually catch something? I ain't cleaned or caught a fish since the late 1980s, and I was looking forward to eating one, but to Hell with having to touch it, much less slice it open while it's flopping around on a table.

I reeled in and thankfully it was only an aquatic plant that had snagged the line - something I've always been good at catching and de-hooking. Actually, I've always managed to catch more plants than fish. That leads me to the hypothesis that certain lake plants must thrive on floating worms.

I digress - back to freaking out thinking I had a fish on the line. After such a close call, I did what any sportsman would do out in the middle of the woods: I went back into the cabin for some Playstation 2.

When we were kids my brother had this fishbowl toy with a plastic angelfish in it. It had a magnet in its body and when you pressed a button, another magnet would move around beneath the bowl's surface and cause the angelfish to move around creating the illusion that it was swimming.

With that in mind, I want to set out to breed a new kind of fish. A fish of the future. This fish would have a super powerful magnet in its nose and body so all you'd have to do to catch one is drop a line with a strong magnetic substance on the end and let the powers of magnetism do the rest of the work. When you caught one, all you'd have to do is pull it off the hook without any of the tedious twisting and surgical accuracy required to take a fish off of a traditional hook.

When I mentioned this idea to Kimb, she brought up the fact that these fish would likely have a lot of garbage from the bottom of the lake adhered to them such as nails, hooks, cans, and who knows what else. Good point, although this could be a good thing. There's also things like jewelry and coins at the bottom of lakes - it would basically be like catching a live aquatic metal detector!

Instead of one of those basket thingies you plop your "keepers" in and hang off the side of the boat, you could just tie a refrigerator door off the side of the boat. I assume that refrigerator doors are buoyant, and we all know that they're the ultimate surface for magnets to live on. Just throw the fish at it from across the boat Shhhhhhhhhhwck! and watch it stick on and try to flop around until you got back to shore to slice it open. And better yet, if any magnetic fish happened to swim too close to the door they'd be sucked on for you to either pull off and let go or keep and clean.

This brings me to the next improvement. Magnetic fish would require no fillet knives or cutting. Imagine if you will the bone of the fish possessing an intense magnetic attraction which would hold the left and right sides of the body on. The fish will be built in 3 distinct parts: the head/bone (like you see in cartoons) and the two magnetic body halves. In theory, all you'd have to do is knock it on a hard surface and break the sides off, sort of like those chocolate oranges in foil that you whack on a table to break it into slices. As far as the skin goes, maybe it could be hand peeled like a banana or something.

I have so many ideas, but such little regard to reality... on that note, in just a few minutes I'm off to job interview #345. If they only knew that just minutes before talking to me, I was writing to the world about developing a magnetic fish... yeah, they would find that real interesting, I bet.

Hey kids - it's Extreme Frisbee Golf!

We went to play frisbee golf on Sunday. Twas my first ever time doing such a thing and just between you and me, I think I've finally found yet another "sport" I am capable of hanging with. It's right up there with pool, table tennis, foosball, croquet, and bowling... (i.e. - sports for lazy asses that eat a lot of Cheetos and Twinkies). Some might call those things games, but I call them sports. I consider anything that gets your ass up out of a chair and involves scorekeeping to be a sport.

Frisbee golf, a.k.a. "disc golf", consists of this:

1. Go to frisbee golf-equipped park - one with posts set up with baskets to catch frisbees
   
2. Throw frisbees at and/or towards giant baskets.
3. Eventually get close enough to basket to throw frisbee into it and move to next hole.

Yeah, I think I can handle this one. One of the young men we were playing with was even smoking while playing, and I guess it's not uncommon to see people drinking beer during the game. I don't know about you, but I've never seen a major league football, basketball, or baseball player standing in the middle of the field or court sucking away on a heater and nursing a beer.

The first time I had seen frisbee golf was back in the late 90s on an absolutely phenomenal short lived MTV sitcom called Austin Stories (MTV: please put this out on DVD before I hurt someone). Since then I always had my curiosities but never knew where to go or an experienced player to introduce me to the game. I'd always pictured the stereotypical frisbee golf athletes as boys with tie dye shirts, gummy bear boobs and scruffy beards that listen to Phish 24/7 and smell like dusty cabbage soaked in beer. No thanks.

Anywho, as fate would have it, Kimb, her co-worker Steve, and a chap named Taylor had a notion to meet up at a local disc golf course with yours truly in tow. Good times were had. I kept wondering what kind of person would invent such a game? The only image that came to mind time and time again was Jim Morrison in his drunken, bloated, scary beard, slurred speech phase. You know... the phase right before the O.D. and Die phase.

At this particular course located in a quaint Edina park off of Highway 62, the public restrooms were nicely painted by a local anonymous graffiti novice. On one side, the mystery artist spray painted a large phallus on the wall with the words "HAIRY BALLS" beneath it. The ball area of the phallus (it looked like he basically just drew a figure 8) was hairless which perplexed me a little. On the women's room door was the artist's interpretation of the female nether-regions and beneath that was the word "VAGINA". Just steps away on the plastic kiddie swing, the artist painted an inspirational message: "I HAD SEX HERE". To say that the artwork added to the thrill of the game is an understatement.

All you have to know how to do to play this game is throw a dang frisbee. If you throw it too hard, it might end up on a highway or nearby body of water. There are two major things you need to look out for other than the posts you're shooting for: trees and other people.

A few years ago I was playing croquet with my nephews and niece and wanted to take the game to the next level. What if we put the wire hoops and goals on an uneven driveway and other impossible-to-play areas? We did and let me tell you, it was fucking hard. And so Extreme Croquet was born.

After only 18 holes, I think I'm now ready to invent and play Extreme Frisbee Golf. Keeping in mind that accidentally hitting a tree or fellow frisbee golfer is always concern when out on the course, I think I have the perfect idea of how to take this game to the next level.

Next time instead of a frisbee golf disc which looks like this:



I'm bringing a few of these to use.

Be nice to your friend's sister - she may be cutting your hair someday.

My homey Pete just posted a response on my Scare Cut blog that weirded me out.

Long story short, my hair used to be so long that it would get stuck in the zipper of my bluejeans. 2 years ago I took the big step of going to get my first haircut in nearly 15 years and getting rid of the ol' Cousin It security blanket that I'd been hiding under for so long. I instilled all of my trust in a randomly picked stylist named Mackenzie at a trendy asshole rock and roll salon in Uptown called HAIR PO-LEESE.

As you can see in my profile pic, I am now a dapper, younger looking me who has to carry a can of mace around just to keep the ladies at a safe distance.. nowadays I can't even go check the mail without having to sign autographs. With my new look, after my band plays shows I throw my sweaty towel out into the audience and people dive for it like ravenous beasts. It usually ends up being torn in half. The lucky recipients will then cuddle it against their cheeks like they're the Snuggle fabric softener bear with a neatly folded pile of laundry.

Um, yeeeeeah... so moving right along here -

Turns out the girl responsible for my beauty makeover on that fateful July day and many others since is the sister of one of my high school buddies (Matt) whom I used to listen to Death Angel and play geetar with. What are the chances of that happening? Very slim, methinks. I recall at one of my many hair reduction sessions last Fall telling her all about my old high school friends that came out to see my band. Little did we both know one of those fellers happened to be her brother! I think I even documented it in a blog but am too lazy to search for it.

My main question is: Where is this streak of coincidence which links things together in areas where I really need it?

Dear Fate,

If you could spare a brother one more coincidence, please let it be a winning Powerball ticket.

Yours truly,

Micycle

p.s. - Matt, please ignore anything your sister might mention to you about me having a botched gender transition surgery. Or how I may have confessed to her my fantasy of giving a full body massage to a giant hairy man while wearing a cowboy costume. That was all just fabricated small talk.

Cheaters

Our latest guilty pleasure as far as reality television shows go is a program called Cheaters. The show goes like this:

1) Girl/boy becomes suspicious that their significant other is cheating (hence the clever name "Cheaters").
2) Cheaters is contacted and sends spies out with video cameras to record cheating significant other in the act.
3) Cheaters shows footage to person being cheated on and then allows person to ambush the guilty party of two on camera, usually in a public place where everyone watches the spectacle unfold and takes pictures with their camera phones.

I had first heard of this on VH1's Most controversial Reality Show Moments. One particular Cheaters segment involved the host and heartbroken lover going out on a boat to nab the cheating man who was adrift with his mistress having fun in the sun. One thing led to another and the man ended up stabbing the show's host in the gut. Good shit! People getting stabbed is definitely no laughing matter, but if you watch the show enough and get to know the host, you'll sort of realize that the stabbing boatman was probably trying to do us all a favor.

My favorite ever Cheaters episode was one we just recently watched. It was so good that all I could do was stare at the telly in utter disbelief and feel my self esteem skyrocket:

They interviewed the woman who suspected her man was cheating. To give you an idea of this woman's charisma and beauty, all I can say is imagine an even less attractive, white trash, lethargic Rosanne Arnold - I can't remember her real name, so I'll just call her Rosanne. Her story of how he proposed to her started out like this: [in southern drawl] "We was at the Red Lobster when he proposed to me.." and after that I just lost it. I do remember something to the fact that he hid her engagement ring in a Red Lobster dessert of some sort.

So anyways, the Cheaters sleuths followed this man for a few days and sure enough, he was seeing another woman. Kimb and I looked at each other with dead, wide eyes and open mouths when we saw her. She was in a wheelchair, had corn teeth, lived in a dirty old trailer, and could have easily passed for Joey Ramone. The man was filmed propping her up on the hood of Rosanne's car and then playing some hot-n-heavy tonsil hockey with her. He later did some tricks in her wheelchair while she sat on the back of the car with her legs dangling like Kermit The Frog. I wondered to myself if his tongue ever got stuck in the gaps between her teeth when they kissed and then started throwing up in my mouth a little bit.

So, they showed the footage to the Rosanne (who I forgot to mention was 4 months pregnant with his baby) and she was all for busting this fella.. so off she went with the Cheaters crew to wheelchair lady's trailer. Wackiness insued.

There they were in all their glory frolicking outside her trailer next to Rosanne's car. This took place in Kansas if I recall correctly and they mentioned that severe tornadic weather was imminent. It was cloudy and the wind was blowing something fierce.. but nothing was going to stop Rosanne from busting this dude.

As soon as she appeared, you could read his face like a book, and it said "I AM SHITTING MY PANTS RIGHT NOW". After a few "Baby, I'm so sorries", he just took off running as fast as he could down the dirt road. The camera remained stationary, zoned in on Bubba booking it like a scared little piggy. The Wheelchair mistress rolled off camera to regroup and cry a little bit and I've got to admit, I felt pretty damn bad for her. This was truly a priceless piece of television history, my friends.

This show has proven to be the ultimate form of embarrassing revenge for those who find out their partners are fooling around. If you are at all suspicious of your partner, I highly urge you call the show and try to get on it - especially if you are of a particularly trashy heritage, because that makes it all the more entertaining to watch.

http://www.cheaters.com

Day in court, Part Deux

It was a cold and rainy day (as you may have heard non-fucking STOP on the evening news) and I showed up for what was my 2nd and final court appearance for being pulled over in February for driving with a suspended license. Here's a link to the ol' journal entry all about the whole ordeal if any of you are new to this blog or need to refresh your mammories: Micycle Goes to Jail>>

One interesting thing I should bring up is my sister and I went to talk to the sarge in charge at the Cottage Grove po-leese office about a month ago to complain about what a complete asshole this guy was to me when he pulled me over. He was quick to tell us that the man who pulled me over was a "great guy with no previous complaints who was just doing his job" and a bunch of other muckamuck that basically boiled down to this: "Cops are great people that do nothing wrong. This guy is a Grade A outstanding human who you should thank for straightening you out and making Cottage Grove a better place to live. Thanks for coming down and have a nice day!" The needle on my internal Bullshit Detect-O-Meter was as far as it could be from the Non-Bullshit side, but there was nothing we could do.

Court day started off meeting with my public defender to discuss what the plan of action was. She was a very cool, feisty lady that was ready to kick some ass for yours truly (which she did).

She told me that some coppers wait for an old car or an old driver to pass by and purposely scan their plates because usually old cars or old drivers have some sort of offense tacked onto them whether they know it or not. It was written in my report that the only reason the officer pulled me over was because my car is old. She told me in essence that she thought the officer was an asshole, thought this was discriminatory bullshit and I was quick to shout out an "AMEN TO THAT, SISTER!" which got a good laugh out of her.

She then told me a delightful story about the CG police to let me know what kind of people I was dealing with: Recently the Cottage Grove police chief's SUV was found overturned in a ditch with his badge and gun in it. He mysteriously was nowhere to be found until 12 hours later when he popped into a hospital - she pointed out to me that 12 hours was a decent amount of time for one to let one's blood alcohol level return back to zero. Interesting, eh?! If you like to read about stupid things that authorities try to abuse their power to get away with, the Star Tribune was kind enough to report the story here.

So anywho, she talked to whoever she needed to in order to see what she could do. She came back and gave me two options:

1. Plead guilty, pay a $170 fine, nothing goes on my driving record - over, finished, done, gone, out, end of story.
2. Plead not guilty, return to court in another month to face the officer and see what happens.

I opted for #1 because I wanted to get this shit over with ASAP. She agreed that it was probably the smart thing to do - so in the courtroom I went for round 2. Ding Ding!

Before it was my turn, the judge had just sentenced a gentleman that was pulled over for a DWI (his first ever moving violation as his lawyer mentioned) to 90 days in jail, attending various M.A.D.D. seminars, 1 year license suspension, and a $1,000 fine. I guess this is what happens to drunk drivers that aren't police chiefs.

I went up to the judge who was a different one than the happy-go-lucky guy I had last time. He was a crotchety old man with a scab on the left side of his forehead. Mine eyes were drawn to that scab like a thong to a buttcrack, I tells ya! Nothing is worse than when you see something like a scab or a big fat cold sore on somebody's yap. You feel like they know you're overdoing the eye contact thing in lieu of letting your eyes wander, because the second you let them, you just know they'll zone straight in on that blemish. Remember the mole from Austin Powers? Just like that.

I talked to the judge and thankfully managed to keep my eyes steered away from the pet Wheatie living on his forehead, agreed to the deal and that was that. No more court, no more worries.

I started wondering: was option #1 really the smart way to go or not? I will never face Officer Tackleberry in court and he probably won't even get his wrist slapped for this. Not that he would otherwise, but it sure would have been fun to watch my public defender lady go after him.

That's that - I reckon I should move on. There's people that have experienced much worse than I with the po-leese and I now have a special place in the cockles of my heart for them. Hehe - I said cockles! Cockles... cockles... COCKLE DOODLE DOO

I would like to thank my family and Kimb for their selfless generosity pertaining to this hogwash. My Pinto is ill right now and I don't have a car - my sister came all the way out to Minneapolis to pick me up. Mom and Pops saw to it that when I left their house yesterday that I took one of their vehicles to use for the time being just in case I have a job interview I need to get to (HA!! Job interview... that's a good one.)

My parents are the cutest, most generous parents you could ask for and always see to it that their kids' tummies are full. My mom sent me home with a care package of sorts, the contents of which I will list for you below. It's a good closer to all of this lame ass court bullshit which I will not soon forget. So without further ado, here's a complete list of my stash from Mom, because I think it's adorable... not to mention it's a rather entertaining assortment of goods that will all be put to good use.

• 9 bottles of Newcastle
• 1 pack of gum
• leftover meat loaf
• potato salad
• buns with which to lay the meat loaf on
  
• vegetables and dip
• 1 brick of Cub Foods brand Velveeta
• Tupperware Velveeta storage device
• a bunch of DVDs
• 1 jar of peanut butter

Yeah... my parents rule.

Oh, and dear Cottage Grove Police Department:

Tell-all

I don't ever share too much personal information on this blog because I'm a pretty private person. Not that I think my life is all that exciting, but I'm sure some of you are wondering: "Who is this Micycle person and what makes him tick?"

Without further ado, here it is. I'm spilling out the most personal and private facts about myself that I can muster up. Please do not share this information with too many people, as I don't want word getting around about these things.

I was born in a green rubber trashcan in my parent's back yard to a litter of maggots. The can was full of lawn clippings and rainwater, which yielded the ultimate environment for us to hatch in on that fateful warm summer day. I remember it as if it were a meal ago..

I survived on dog poo and rotten apples that were in the back yard, and once I was tall enough, I scaled the fence and never returned. After a few miles of wandering, I discovered the Cottage Grove KMart mall in which I quickly took up residence. The layaway department in Kmart proved to provide the most suitable living conditions and there I stayed for a number of years. I would spend the late night hours when Kmart was closed doing things like playing with Legos, Yaffa Blocks, and assembling Robotix figurines until the morning shift came in to open up the store. I lived on expired submarine sandwiches in the Kmart deli which I'd wash down with blue Icees.

I have 8 siblings, all of which I have not seen since I scaled the fence and moved to Kmart.

Things I like to do in my spare time: lick 9 volt batteries, sing karaoke music a capella, drink warm Tang, and collect toads from windowsills. I am also currently developing chewing gum that never loses its flavor and returns to stick form when you spit it out.

Where do I write these blogs, you ask? When Kmart is open during the day I don't have much to do, so I break into neighboring homes to use people's computers. How will you know if I've been to your house? Check your mayonnaise jar. If it's empty, chances are I've been to your house. I like to snack on mayonnaise when I write on the computer.

Hm.. what else. I like to read any users manual I can get my hands on, be it a blender, paper shredder, or a lawn mower manual. My favorite one to this day is the Panasonic Universal Remote Users Guide. I spend hours on end remembering which code goes with which electronic component. SHARP televisions made after 1998, for example, are code #057.

I love stale popcorn. I am allergic to wicker, crayons, paperclips, and tinfoil. I tried to track my parents down only to discover that they moved to New Mexico in 1968 and now run a dinosaur-themed bed and breakfast.

I wear my watch on my left hand not because it is comfortable, but because my head naturally turns in that direction when I start wondering what time it is. I wear belts and suspenders even though my pants are too tight.

The whole music thing? It's all fabrication. I've never touched a guitar in my life.

That about does it.. you already know too much. Oh, one more thing: I am currently unemployed, bored out of my mind during the days, and write absolutely ridiculous blog entries such as this one to make the time go by as quickly as possible. My imagination tends to wander when I write, but everything you have read here today is 100% true.

With that in mind, I should mention the fact that my fingers are crossed behind my back. Also: I also like to eat crickets every once in a while, but only if I have a tub of Papa Johns garlic dipping sauce on hand to dip them in.

Heaven on Earth

Remember when record stores were cool little independent places where you could go in and completely lose track of time looking at all of the stuff? Remember when there were buttons and pins of your favorite rock bands on large sponge spindles behind glass cases that you spun around via a knob on the top of the case? There happens to be such a place in Bloomington, MN called Disc Land.

If the world ever ends, that's where I want to be when it happens: surrounded by DVDs, old LPs, novelty tee-shirts, replicas of the KISS Creatures tour shirt my Grandma bought me for my 10th birthday, Atari 2600 games and consoles, and about a million other things I'd waste money on if I had any. That said, if I ever get a job, I need to install an electronic ankle bracelet on my person that would give me an electric jolt should I ever come within 30 feet of the Disc Land premises. I'm not saying that would keep me out of there, but it would make my visits (and therefore spending) much less frequent.

A fellow KISS fanatic/acquaintance of mine named Kyle (who even has the old KISS pinball machine) opened this place a few years ago after leaving a similar business, but I never make it out to that neck of the woods and figured it was another typical CD resale place. Nope. There's tons of music DVDs I've never even heard of including old 70s KISS bootlegs that I always wished were on DVD, posters, candy, magazines, VHS tapes, nearly any gaming system you can imagine, leather studded bracelets and rings that look like they'd do some serious damage if you punched someone while wearing them. There's tons of used CDs, a shelf of cassette tapes (remember those things?)... the list goes on and on. This is what record stores used to be like in the good old days - you'd walk in and spend the next hour or two digging through racks of shit and usually find a buried treasure. Kiddies, it's how us old folks would find stuff before the age of Ebay.

There isn't a website that I know of, but I highly recommend checking the place out if you're anywhere near Bloomington, MN and have an undying desire like I do to find cool record stores. I couldn't find a website, but here's a link with a map of how to get there:

Take me to Disc Land, bitch!

Iced Ink website down for a day or two

This is due to a botched domain transfer... but no worries, www.icedink.net will be up and running ASAFP.

One bit of Ink news I would like to pass on today: the debut of Iced Ink 2.0 with our new drummer Barry will tentatively occur on Wednesday June 8th at one of my favorite clubs - one we haven't played at yet, either! Hint: it's on Cedar Avenue and has something to do with three rocks.

Stay tuned...

Hershey's announces new dessert/dish soap line

While watching Revenge of the Nerds with Kimb last night, I got up to wash me hands at the kitchen sink and glanced at the bottle of dish soap. It suddenly dawned on me that dish soap bottles are the same as the ones Hershey's chocolate syrup comes in - not to mention, dish soap has the same thick, viscous consistency that chocolate syrup does.

If you could have seen inside of my head at that moment, you would have seen a mouse running in a wheel with great vigor... next to the mouse wheel would have been a sign that said "IDEA".

My imagination started running wild and came up with a new invention: a dish soap tough enough to cut through the grease, yet mild enough for sensitive skin, ice cream sundaes, and chocolate milk. It would be chocolate flavored, of course, but specially formulated to have no soapy aftertaste.

This is going to change our lives as we know it. After you have a sundae with this product, you will already be halfway there to washing it, as it will have a thin film of chocolate soap sauce on the inside of the bowl. Alls you have to do is grab a sponge, give it a quick swabbing under running water, and it's clean as a whistle. No more reaching for that pesky soap bottle!

Since it will be mild enough for hands, it can be used as a hand soap as well - I'm already seeing it in pump form. Does that cheap coffee they brew in the office need a pick-me-up? Is your plain old milk just a little too boring? No problem. Walk up to the sink and pump a few shots of Hershey's soap/syrup in there and stir gently. Suddenly you're catering to your tastebuds and conditioning your cup for washing all at one time. If you leave the dirty cup sitting out for too long and the residue dries, no problem. Run it under tap water and watch that dried residue turn into a rich, thick soapy lather.

Man... I need to get a job.

Scare-cut

So I went in to get what I refer to as a "hair reduction" at the Hair Po-leese in Uptown. I have the opposite problem of what most guys have - I have too much hair. Sometimes I think I'm doing the opposite of going bald - by the time I'm 50, I reckon my hairline will be somewhere down by the bridge of my nose.

Being one with too much hair, I have to frequently get it cut, lest I want to look like Buckwheat. I think I've bitched about this before, but frequent haircuts = not the cheapest thing in the world. So this time I decided to buck up and install every ounce of trust I had in McKenzie (my hair reduction specialist) and tell her to hack off as much as she could without making me look like a complete tool. I do a good enough job of that on my own and don't need anything more to enhance my tool-ness. She took my request to heart, busted out a nice new razor and got down to business.

I have to take my glasses off during haircuts to enable full access to my lovely locks and ensure a thorough hair reduction procedure. This always makes it interesting, because as I'm watching piles and piles of hair fall down my backwards cape, I look up at the giant mirror and all I can see is a really blurry version of what's happening to my head. For all I knew, she could have been fashioning my mop into a fresh mullet. Or making me look like Richie Cunningham. Or giving me the square military crew cut look. Thankfully that wasn't the case.

Haircut complete. There were mounds of my hair on the floor. Off came the cape and on went the glasses. "Holy crap!" says I, "my head is so tiny!" But she done a real good job. I walked out tall and proud like a bird chested momma's boy should. On the way to the car I was winking and hitting on every person I crossed paths with and even got whistled at a few times. Granted the only people out there was a motorcycle gathering of some sort and I was surrounded in an ocean of 200 fat old leather-clad men.. but hey - I was workin' that shit.

Now my only problem is seeing my new self in mirrors. At first glance, I get a little scared wondering who that is on the other side of that window. But then I realize the 'window' is not a window, it's a mirror. And that's ME I'm seeing. Ladies and gentlemen, my dapper new look has given me the mentality and judgement of a parakeet. For those of you unaware, birds think their reflections are other birds and sit there and peck at their reflection (or even try to fight it sometime.) Birds are either stupid or really bored.

I loves the new doo. Eventually I'll get used to my new reflection in mirrors and everything will be fine again. Until then, when I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I need to make sure I wrap towels around my hands before I turn the light on, otherwise I might cut myself when I punch the mirror.

Bibble bobble

• So we went to see "Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy" over the weekend. Here's what happens in a nutshell: Man hitches a ride on a giant square spaceship seconds before the aliens turn planet Earth into a cloud of dust and gas. Wackiness ensues, even more so when our leading character discovers the girl of his dreams is up in space too. If I ever want to read the book (which I've been told by numerous sources is better than the film), I'm going to have to tear out about 50 random pages and then read it so it makes as little sense as the movie did. The film is loaded with special effects which I found to be absolutely stunning once I blurred my vision to the point of not being able to make out what I was seeing on the screen.
• There are two kinds of people in this world: those who drive yellow cars, and those who look at yellow cars and think "Who in the fuck would drive a yellow car?"
  
• I just went to a local Caribou which has WIFI HOTSPOT stickers on the doors and windows. I got my overpriced beverage and sat down with the laptop to surf the web. It turns out that yes, they do have WIFI, but you have to pay for it in 2 hour increments. One would think after giving them roughly $3.00 in pure profits for 20 ounces of iced mocha, free WIFI access would be granted. Nope! It's $3 an hour. You can go to most independent coffee shops and get free WIFI, but not at Caribou. Is it me, or does this seem backwards?
• Martin Short is f*&king hilarious.
• I just realized when listening to take #5 of "Robster Craws" when it switches to the Bossa Nova section, I want the drums to do an upbeat jazz/swing beat instead. That sucks, because the only way to do that is to re-record the whole thing.
  
• I've said this ever since I was a kid: I wish dogs had cheeks so they could chew with their mouths closed.
  
• Dogs probably wish they had thumbs and could operate doorknobs so they could let themselves out whenever they wanted to.
• This just entered my head from out of nowhere: I remember in 3rd grade when Karen pinched her finger in the door and fainted. As soon as she saw blood, she began to swirl like a water tornado in a toilet bowl when you flush it. After the swirls peaked in radius, the laws of gravity decided that it was time for her to go from vertical to horizontal and she hit the ground. It was also that same classroom where Ryan ate Fiestada for lunch and threw it all up during class. Ryan sat directly behind me and his vomit sat even closer to me, creeping towards my KANGAROOS tennies like a slow, thick fog. Ron the Custodian came in to mop it up. It probably only took him a few minutes to get there with the mop, but it sure seemed like he was taking his sweet time.
  
• I learned that day that there is never a time in a person's life when they can be casual with sitting next to vomited up Fiestada and waiting for someone to mop it up.
• Ron likely learned that day that no amount of money is worth mopping up students' involuntary cafeteria regurgitations.
• What if monkeys had a 1/2 hour sitcom where they were in a band called "The Humans"?
• Jay Leno always has a pre-pubescent crackle in his voice when he screams.
• Last but not least, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the clothes dryer for supplying me with delicious iced mochas and banana-rum ice cream with chocolate chunks.
  

Monkey See, Mountain Dew

I watched Back To The Future the other night as I like to do from time to time. Watching movies I saw as a young pup is a nice, inexpensive form of time traveling in itself - I always remember who I was with, what theater we saw it in, and even what I did after the movie. Case and point: My Aunt Cookie took me to see Future at the Signal Hills theatre in West St. Paul. It was in August, methinks, and afterwards we went to Kay Bee Toys and Musicland in the mall. I went into Musicland with the intent of buying Bon Jovi's new LP "Slippery When Wet", but when I reached into my pocket realized I had lost my $20 bill. That was a true blessing in disguise now that I look back. We then ate at Taco Bell and Cookie took me home.

Holy digression, Bat Man. Anywho...

While watching BTF for the thousandth time (mainly for Christopher Lloyd and Crispen Glover's performances), I took note of the blatant product placement in the film. Within 30 seconds, Marty skateboarded past a nice, clean looking Burger King restaurant and then latched onto the vehicle of a driver who turned around and was wearing a nice shiny new Mountain Dew hat. Coincidence? Nope!

And even 20 years later, the product placement worked its magic on me. I suddenly craved a Whopper and a nice cold Mountain Dew. And I hate Mountain Dew.

Product placement is so silly. I mean, it's just a bunch of shameless promotion that worms its way into your brain and stays there until you satisfy your consumer cravings. It's really cruel, if you think about it. Your money is pretty much spent on the product before you even leave the theater.

Today's journal entry has been brought to you by the following products:

Robster Craws and other boring random Monday debris

Good morning, audience!

Today I'm putting the final touches on the arrangement of a new Iced Ink tune that I'm pretty psyched about. This one is a little more on the complex end of our repertoire.. it's always fun to send the finished demo out to the band and hear real musicians bring it to life. For you non-musicians, arranging = just what it sounds like. Taking parts of a song and arranging them in an order which makes them (hopefully) groove and flow together to make a cohesive song. After the arrangement stage comes the part where I sit for hours on end in front of the computer recording it for the band to learn.

The working title of the song is "Robster Craws". For all of you 80s movie buffs, the title pays homage to a conversation Booger and Takashi were having while playing poker in Revenge of the Nerds. The film is a timeless classic indeed.. this, my friends, is the subject matter that Iced Ink songs are made of. Screw love songs, songs about girls, being angry, etc.. in this band, it's all about things like washing machines, beards, and in this case a college burnout taking money from one of his fellow Asian Tri-Lambs while "teaching" him how to play poker. It's sort of hidden on the website, but here's a link to other circumstances which have inspired Iced Ink music in the past: http://www.icedink.net/behindmusic.htm

In other news, I really hate drinking coffee out of a real glass or cup. I say this because the cup of coffee I bought at the cafe I'm at right now served it in a clear glass mug. Gimme a paper cup, man!! And if it's an iced mocha, I'll take a flimsy clear plastic cup over a real one any day. It just seems to taste better when you're drinking it out of something that you get to throw away when you're done. I have a feeling much of this is due in part to my growing up in a disposable generation.. my brain has been programmed to think that consuming food and beverage is more enjoyable when I get to throw the dirty dishes out.

Either that or I'm denying the fact that I'm lazy and don't like to do dishes.

We watched Harold and Maude yesterday, something I've always seen bits and pieces of but never watched all the way through. Ruth Gordon (who I remember from My Bodyguard) was such a cutie pie! "WhOJOOJOOJOOSUCHA CUTIE PIE!! Who's such a cute little lady? Who JOOJOOJOO..?!" That is what I'd probably say to her if I met her back in the day. Classic scene: mourners loading a coffin into a hearse outside of a church as a marching band was going by playing pep-band music. Note to self: when writing will, be sure to note that you want marching band to play at your funeral.

A fake-bake fake-blonde Jiffy-Boob Barbie Doll Girl just walked into the cafe and every male eye seems to be glued on her. Guys are so stupid - they make like they're looking up at the menu or at the clock and it's obvious they're just trying to take a gander at her. I've never been much of a gawker - especially these days thanks to current circumstances. Attention guys: for more synthetic unattractive ladies that are way out of your league such as this one, might I suggest you attend the Great White concert this week in Cottage Grove.

That's all I've got for today, folks... have a pleasant Monday - I have a busy day ahead of me: 1) Make & consume lunch with the lady, 2) Wait to hear back from job interviews 3) Finish up "Robster Craws", 4) Try not to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon.

I can hardly contain myself from the excitement...