The Magical Disappearing Car Act

My Halloween soitenly got off to a spooky start.

Played a fun show last night with one of my all time favorite bands Silly Little Nothings. After a long night of pre-Hallow's Eve bliss at the creepy Station 4 bar and a long weekend of moving, I pulled the Death Star up to the curb at 1am, loaded my music gear into my flat, and passed out cold.

This morning I went out to my car expecting to get a few more things out of it and was surprised to discover that either it wasn't there or it had put on an invisibility cloak as a Halloween disguise. An invisibility cloak would only cover a small portion of the vehicle, so I immediately ruled that out.

It was 8:15am, and the sign next to where my car used to be read "NO PARKING 7AM-6PM MONDAY THRU FRIDAY." Well gaaaaaaaaaaawd damn! Was planning on going into work at 9am, but here's what transpired instead:

1) Realized car was not there.
2) Walked over to pick up damage deposit check from old apartment building at 8:30am as directed. No one was there, sign that read "back at 10:30" was on the door. Said some very bad words, as this $ was going towards rent check I just wrote out to new landlord last week.
3) Went home, sat on hold on impound lot hotline for 30 mins before getting through to operator to verify the Death Star was indeed there. Yup, it was. Realized didn't have proof-o-insurance to get car out of impound lot, as my insurance card was still packed in a box somewhere. Just spent all weekend moving. Went online to print one out.
4) Could not access account information online.
5) Sat on hold with insurance company for 10 mins, had them email statement to me.
6) Went to print out statement, realized printer was still packed in box somewhere and remembered printer was pert near out of ink last time I used it and that previous printing attempts were illegible.
7) Found and set up printer anyhow, first shaking printer with great gusto to hopefully knock ink loose.
8) Got a decent enough printout.
9) Walked 1.5 miles to impound lot, took in scenery of the Lyndale/I94 sidewalks and froze. Turned down numerous transients asking if I had spare change and/or cancer sticks.
10) Looked at very dark clouds wondering if it was going to rain, thinking my, wouldn't that be the icing on the cake. Thankfully it held off.
11) Arrived at Impound Lot, waited for a long time.
12) Paid $133 towing bill. Man behind bulletproof glass was also kind enough to give me the $34 parking ticket as added bonus.
13) Got car, arrived back at old apartment to pickup damage deposit check. Lady there couldn't find my info. Started digging around and making phone calls for 10 minutes. Remember the scene in "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" where Steve Martin doesn't get his rental car? Yep, that was me (on the inside)...
14) Walked thru old apartment with fumbling lady, got my damn check.
15) Finally arrived at work bright and late at 11:15.
16) Exhaled and sat like a big pile of hurt for the rest of the work day.

All you can do when things like this happen is laugh it off, which I did (I have become a great laugher-offer of things this year!) 'Sall cool, though - I've never been happier to be in my own place and settled for once. I celebrated tonight by spending $70 on groceries, cooking, and piggin' out on my incredibly squishy, totally bitchin' vomit green sectional couch I recently inherited from grandma. Kudos to moms and pops for driving that out here tonight and absolutely making my day. Frank and I are off to crash and chill on this cozy-ass shit depicted below to catch some Bewitched re-runs, hells yeah we are.

Happy Holler Ween, everyone. Eat some candy for me, I'm too dang full and pooped out. See? Here goes my noggin:*thud.*

Daylight Savings = confusion

Tis that time of year again. I always get screwed up with which way I'm s'posed to turn the dial on my watch, moreso than the average bear. Is it "Fall back/Spring ahead" or "Spring back/Fall ahead"?

Alls I know from personal experience is the latter of the two. Was strapping some cargo on top of my station wagon one time and the bungee cord snapped back at me, hitting me square in the kisser and knocking me out. I fell forward.

So um, yeah. Please advise. I went with my bungee experience and used "Spring back/Fall ahead". Hope that's the right way. If so, I'm in synch with the rest of you and that's cool. If not, I'm now 2 hours ahead of everyone which would make me really early for work on Monday. Losing out on all of that sleep and not being able to get into the office would suck something awful.

Thanks a lot, Benjamin Franklin. Real bright idea you had there, wiseguy...

Toys? He don't need no stinkin' toys.

He gets sparkly toys. Friends have bought him toys that look like wee mice and other small animals. My mom bought him toys that have giant feathers on them. He's tried toys that go boyeeeyoyeeeoingggg! when batted. Toys filled with catnip. Poofy spheres that look like little colored cotton balls specifically engineered, built, and sold for cats. A miniature remote control car that I thought he would chase. If it's a cat toy - you name it, he's prolly had access to it. But doesn't seem to give a rat's arse about any of them.

Nope. Sad to say, none of those are up to his high standards. Everybody's efforts and generosity are truly appreciated. But some $50 in toys later, it is still decided that the Hurley shoelace and sodie pop bottle caps are still the Best. Toys. Ever.



Yep, that there is a recent pic of my cat and bestest lil' buddy Frank with the only two aforementioned recreational devices he actually seems to give a shit about. Look at that undivided intensity and focus. When I took that pic you could have probably turned the vacuum on behind him and he wouldn't have even budged. The sodie pop bottle cap is a particular favorite of mine, as it only seems to catch his fancy and be fun to bat around the floor and chase at 3 in the morning when he needs to take a breather from molesting me.

I guess I'm lucky that he's easy to please like this. But he's got a billion standard issue cat toys and all they do is sit on the floor and get accidentally kicked by my size 10 1/2s when I'm walking around the apartment. He walks past them in a completely aloof manner as if they are all my junk. The only purpose they seem to serve is a reason for me to bend over 20 times before I sweep the floor to pick them up, sweep, and throw 'em back down for him to "play" with. So basically that means I'm getting a mild abdominal workout every few days to have a pile of cat doodads on the floor that don't even get used. Sheesh. I always try and tell him, "At least pretend you're interested.. these things were purchased for your enjoyment by people that care about you, ya know?"

But he could care less. I throw them. I dangle them in his face. Nothing. But bust out the Hurley shoelace and holy Hell, it's instant bliss. He goes nuts. I hide the bottlecaps on him until I go to work so he can get it out of his system then, but he always seems to somehow track them down and drag 'em out.

Awwwright Frank. This is my last warning: Either you start having some cat-fun with your cat-toys, or I'm not picking them up next time I sweep the floor, if you catch my drift. Yep, they'll end up in the dustpan, then in the trash. Hear me?

Look at him sitting over there like a princess. He doesn't even care, just sitting there looking at the little speck on the wall as if he doesn't hear me. Kids. They don't appreciate nothin' these days.

ps - Get well soon, sore throat goil!

Happy Birt-day toooo Eesaaaa, Happy Birt-day toooo Eesaaaa...

Today is a day of special celebration. Twas today that (my age+5) years ago, my lovely sister entered this fine world of ours via my mom. Tonight we feast at Buca's in honor of this dear occasion, and a delicious feast it will be. I don't know about you, but when you spend a birthday whilst sitting before a 10# plate of spaghetti with meatballs the size of a poodle's head, life is good.

What can I tell you about my sister? She is older than me. She works harder than anyone. She somehow survived having 3 kids (beats me how she did that one, those lil' brats! I mean.. er.. wonderful little cherubs!) She has fun stories about a weird man that drinks entire 2 liters of sodie pop in one sitting at her place of employment. She don't take shit from no one. She is very silly. One time when we were youngens and were sleeping on the bedroom floor, she managed to make the heating ducts directly below us magically reverberate. She introduced me to the wonderful woild of Walkman portable music devices and boom boxes. Best of all, she told me about KISS when I was 5. I believe that to be the sole purpose for her existence, period. Sure, she's a top notch sister to have, goes above and beyond, is a caring mom and wifey, helps me move all the time, fun to hang with, and all that good stuff. Yes, it's all true, mind you, but as soon as she told me about KISS, her duty here on Earth was pretty much done as far as I'm concerned. HA! Just kidding seester.

So it's your birt-day, Eesa. I know that for your birthday, you told me you wanted that tank of nitrous oxide to knock Bob, the kids, and the dog out late at night so you could finally ex-cape and run off to Mexico never to be heard from again, but I'm sorry. Dude that was supposed to meet me in the parking lot of the Lake Street Target last Sunday at 3am never showed. Can't trust anyone these days, I tells ya. So you'll have to settle for a normal present for yet another year. Sorry. Will see what I can do for you next year, sis.

How to light a match

My Grampa, as many of you who may have read about him know, lived through the Great Depression and therefore developed a tendency to save everything thruout his life. He was quite the pack rat - when we went to clean his house out it was a rather astonishing feat. When he ran across good deals or free things, he couldn't pass them up. He had over 80 cases of motor oil in his garage (yes, EIGHT ZERO). 14 ceiling fans, unopened in the basement. Stacks of napkins and terlit paper, some of which dated back to the 70s. The list goes on and on, it was a virtual flea market/junkyard in disguise.

Of the many things I "inherited" from his estate, one of my prize possessions is a Ziploc baggy full of literally hundreds of books of matches from his favorite place in the world (and one of mine, mostly due to the nostalgia of eating there as a tyke), Carbone's Pizza on Randolph. Matches were complimentary there, and Gramps was always sure to pocket a few during each visit and take 'em home. Why? They were free. Never know when you'll need 1,000 books of matches.

So I cracked the Ziploc bag open and fetched one of these neat matchbooks to ignite a candle the other day. I noticed on the front of the matchbook under the bitchin' Carbone's logo of a chef giving the "OK!" hand gesture were some handy instructions:

CLOSE COVER..STRIKE ON BACK

Up until this point, I had never been able to figure out how to get a match to reach the point of combustion. I would tear out and shake a match vigorously in the air hoping that would work. I would turn on a stovetop burner and hold the match above it to achieve the desired effect. I even at times would intensely focus my eyes on a match for about 3 minutes and then repeatedly yell "FIRE! FIRE! MAKE FIRE!" until my throat hurt.

So after reading this helpful hint on the matches, I closed the cover as directed and struck the match on the back of the book. Sure as shit, poof - a flame appeared. I could not believe my eyes. I shook the match out, dropped it, and tried another one. Flame. Another one. Yet again: Flame.

This is really fun, and I'm glad I've got a whole bag of them all to myself. Seeing that a lot of these are likely over 20 years old, maybe I should go through each and every one of these matches tonight to make sure they all still work.

Word of Caution: Do Not Flush Noodle Cake

So, I had an interesting experience last night. Mom sent me home over the weekend with two containers of yummy homemade lasagne, or "noodle cake" as I like to call it. Saaa-weeeet! That's at least 3 nights of not having to settle for cold cereal.

I'm a bit of a space case (sans the use of drugs, although this enchanting tale will likely make you beg to differ), especially as of late with trying to get packed to move and all that.

Got home with my noodle cake stash, put one container in the fridge, and for whatever reason left the other in the bag on the floor all night. So yesterday while I was packing and throwing stuff out, I ran across the bag on the floor with the full container in it. Yeeech. It wasn't growing fur yet or anything, but hells if I was going to consider taking it for a test drive.

I was in my jammie bottoms and th' apartment's dumpster is outside and a bit of a walk away. It was cold out and I wasn't about to get dressed to take this out and dump it, so started pondering some alternatives. I turned my head slightly to the right, and the toilet caught my eye. An imaginary spotlight was shining down upon it and everything else was left in the dark. I heard a choir singing in my head. It was a sign: put it in the terlit and flush it, I thought. Yes! Certainly worse things have gone down the hatch of that thing, and I figured the toilet actually would appreciate this if anything. It would be like I was feeding it, or giving it a treat.

So I opened up the container, plopped its contents into the biffy, and gave her a good hard flush. All seemed to be going as hoped for the first 5 seconds, and then the water started creeping towards the top of the bowl rather than go down like it's supposed to.

Um. Not good.

Thankfully no flooding occurred, but there was now a decent sized piece of lasagne lodged in the bottom of the toilet and it wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Awwwww shit. I reached for the plunger and suddenly realized oh yeah, I don't have one of those yet.

After a few more flushings, things only seemed to be getting worse. I put on my thinking cap and wondered... what sort of thing could I possibly use to try and fix this? Ah HA! A coat hanger.

So I went and got a wire hanger, undid it, and started fishing around trying to dislodge the mess that I had created. I tried flushing again and backed off right away as I watched the water creep towards the top of the bowl.

At this point, I started to have to go, if you know what I'm sayin'. I started to panic a little now. Tried a few more times with the hanger and flush technique, and thankfully on the 6 or 7th flush the lasagne was finally sucked down into the mighty black hole. All was right with the world once again.

But now I have another thing to worry about: being disowned by my mother for not treating her noodle cake with the proper respect it deserves. I'm sure in due time she'll end up reading this and see what I did with her care package she sent home instead of eating it like I was supposed to. Will I get grounded? Banned from the Rancho Relaxo premises? Will I be spending Christmas alone? Will she just send me home with containers of dog poo from now on seeing that I flush what she sends me home with down the toilet anyways? Ugh, I think I'm gonna puke.

That said, at least the toilet works.

Lessons in heavy metal belt shopping

So I bought me a new belt the other day, and went through some serious trouble to get it. Sad thing is that I don't really need to wear a belt at all, as my pants don't fall down when I leave the house beltless. I've never been one who has needed to affix geeky belt-related apparati such as fanny packs, multi-purpose knives, or cell phone holders to a belt either. So yeah, it's basically there as an impractical fashion accessory for lack of better explanation. Dumb thing is, like my tattoo, most of my shirts cover it up, so no one sees it anyways. But I know it's there and it comforts me in some strange sort of way.

This whole belt kick started a few years ago. I needed one to hold up some ol' jeans I scored at a thrift store that were a bit too loosey-goosey around the waistline. They accommodated my lower half in a rather flattering manner, so I bought them figuring I'd buy a belt to make 'em work. Since that moment, being a creature of habit I now feel incomplete without a belt on. Without a belt, I get the same feeling I get when I leave for work without my watch on. It weirds me out. Even if I'm running late, I'll get out of the car, run back into the apartment, and get it if I have to.

So. Belt #1 bit the dust and I was on the market for a new one. This is a very important decision to make, big time stuff here. I hit the stores in search of my next bitchin' belt that no one will see, much less will not be worn to hold my pants up.

After hitting about 6 shops, I found THE belt. Nice big ol' thick chunky black thing, adorned with thick strips of swell silver studs all the way around. Just like I wanted in 6th grade. I dug out a 32 incher, 'cause that's my size, and assumed that meant it would fit me. Big mistake.

I got home and started slipping my new belt through the loopholes of me pants. My lips were pursed and my tongue stuck out the side of my mouth a little.. you know, that really focused look people get sometimes. The belt made it all around back to the front, and well I'll be damned, there was a 1" gap between both ends. I pulled really tight thinking maybe I could just wear it that way, but then faced the fact that I'd have to make the 15 mile drive to swap it out for a larger one in lieu of having bruised hips and stomach cramps all the time.

There's another location of this particular store in the Mall-O-America which is conveniently on the way to my parent's house. I was heading out there anyhow, so cool, I thought. I'll just exchange it there.

Got to the evil empire that is El Paseo Grande de America, and 45 minutes later landed a parking spot about a mile from the entrance. The mall looked not unlike the size of a pitcure on a postage stamp. I made the trek in and through the crowds of people, got into the store to swap my belt, and after digging through the 20 they had there, no dice. The other location was the only one that carried that kind. Cripes, throw me a bone here, people.

Now I was really wanting that belt something fierce. So far, yet so close. I waited yet another day, made the 15 mile drive out to the original location, and thank gawd, they had one that fit me. And believe you me, I tried that bitch on first before swapping it out. Ample room to grow in this one should I ever become impregnated.

Moral of the story? There really isn't one. But next time you see me, just know that I went through a lot of work to find the belt I'm wearing that you likely won't even see. Heck with that, I'm trimming off the bottom 4" of all of my shirts and am gonna display this f'in thing with pride. Get me a scissors.

Note to self: Frank is NOT Food. Frank is your kitty.

Glad I finally get to move into my new place next week. My current landlord, a.k.a. guy who bought the apartments and is turning them into condos, is proving himself to be a turd wrapped in skin (gee, surprise!) It's getting pretty f'in cold out now and dude hasn't turned the heat on yet. It's obvious that it should be on, as we've all called, and *ahem*, asked him nicely, but it seems that our requests are "slipping his mind". Arg. My cat Frank is sneezing every so often now and that makes me sorta mad. I took a shower this morning and the water (which would be considered "warm" under normal, comfy room-temperature conditions) felt like it was burning my back and bum. It made the bathroom fog up something serious, too. You'd think you were in a dark street in London if you didn't know any better. Please. Turn. Heat. On.

Anywho, I put the oven on BROIL this morning for 20 minutes to get some heat going in this place for us. It worked dandy. Frank likes to be held, so I spent the first few minutes near the oven with him. He was diggin' the warm breeze, purring so intensely that I could have easily used him as a back massager.

I haven't been to the grocery store lately because heck, I figure I'm moving next week anyhow, so why bother getting a bunch of foods that I'm going to have to bag up and move, you know?

Guess that's making me sort of hungry though, the whole not having much food on hand thing. As I was standing near the oven holding Frank, I started seeing him in a different way. A cartoon bubble appeared over my head of him in roasting pan with an apple in his mouth.. hm.. I began to think "You know, I could slice up some carrots and potatoes, throw a secret blend of herbs and spices in there.."

Yeah, I had better go get some real food before I get any more ideas like that. Frank's pretty cool, I'd hate to have to eat him and all just out of my own sheer laziness.

Sorry about that, lil' buddy. Dad's not going to eat you.

Living in fear of being pooped on by a bird

I have a bizarre phobia that I'm trying to come to terms with: the fear of being pooped on by a bird. I know what you're likely thinking: "I don't think you're the only one here. Does anyone really like being crapped on by birds?" No, of course not, but my fear lies at a bit more heightened level than most, I reckon.

If a bird flies overhead like that sparrow did on my lunch break yesterday, I do my best to get out of the line of fire. The other day I was outside with my dad at my parent's home in the country (a.k.a. Rancho Relaxo) and a "V" of about 40 geese passed over the house. Must admit, I pert near ran for cover in the garage. Door was shut though. Out of those 40 birds, odds are pretty high that one of them needed to open the hatch and drop the bomb, if you know what I'm sayin. And goose poop is no small affair, we're talkin', like, AA battery size here.

Was looking out my kitchen window on Sunday and there was a big fat ol' crow on the phone wire above the dumpster. He poofed his feathers out and stretched his wings while at the same time pooping on the dumpster. It was as if he was putting on a fancy dance to try and cover up the fact that he was pooping. Can't fool me though, and thank gawd I wasn't taking the trash out at that moment.. bullet dodged.

When I walk beneath a tree and one of its leaves touches the top of my head, I reach up and feel it to make sure it was just a leaf. When it's raining and a drop manages to make its way to my scalp, I get a little freaked out as well. I touch to make sure. And you know, now that I think of it touching could only be worse if it were indeed bird shit on my head, because then not only would it be on my head, but on my index, middle and ring fingers as well. Then what would I do? Time to start carrying moist towelettes around with me, I guess. Or a handy pocket mirror.

Snot that I don't like birds or fear them, it's the thought of being pooped on by one that makes me break out in a cold sweat and panic. Not sure how to alleviate this, I guess all I can do is live in fear and keep one eye up on the sky at all times. Or carry an umbrella 24/7. I say this because I see Michael Jackson walks beneath an umbrella all the time – maybe 'cause he's afraid of birds pooping on him, too.

Wish me luck. I will close this one out with an Uncle Rick classic:

Uncle Rick: "You know how birds fly in V's? Ever hear why one side of the V is always longer than the other?"
Us: "Um... no. Why?"
Uncle Rick: "Because there's more birds on one side."

Hypnotic Walgreens Shopping Bonanza

I have this slight poofy eyelid thing in my driver's side eye that won't let up. I'd been starting to develop an irrational fear that I just might spend eternity behind a pirate patch if I didn't have it looked at, so I went to the doctor today to have it peeped. Doc was a tall good-humored fella, sort of resembled a mix between the Principal from Saved By The Bell and that one guy that's in that one movie. "No worries," said he, "just take some pills, man."

So off I went to Walgreens to have my prescription filled. I usually just go there to buy the quick essentials, such as candy and chockit milk. But now I was stuck there for a good 20 minutes, so I shopped. And I shopped hard. Suddenly things like shoelaces, ice cube trays, and tire gauges became alluring and had a big BUY ME, YOU NEED ME cartoon bubble hovering above them.

My name was called, pills were ready, so I dropped the plastic Slinky I was looking at and flew to the pickup counter located in the hindermost corner of the store. The line was boundless, a pleasant mix of neat punk rock girls and old folks that smelled like Eddingtons, one of which had aquarium tubing coming out of her nose hooked up to blue tanks of some sort.

You can't help but take notice while in this line that directly across the Pharmacy checkouts is a giant gondola of prophylactics, as well as a bevy of sexy lotions developed to allegedly cause new and unique sensations when properly administered to the nether-regions. Not sure how I'd feel about this scenery if I worked that counter all day. There are courtesy chairs across from said gondola, in which many elderly people sit waiting for their meds. They have no choice but to be face-to-face with these products as they wait which is a bit of a cruel joke on Walgreens' part, methinks.

I stood in line observing the weird array of tubes and bottles on the Gondola-O-Sin, because I'm curious like that. Nothin' else to do when it's right in your face. But maybe I did so a bit too much, for I suddenly felt the weight of one of the elderly folk's stare as if she thought I was on the market for some lube.

I quickly repositioned my eyes to the aisle's end cap. And it was then that I saw the light: The AS SEEN ON TV!™ Merchandise.

Swivel Sweepers™. Orange Glo™. Smart Spin Storage System™. Billy's BootCamp™ fitness regimine in a box. DIGI Draw™. WhiteLight Tooth Whitening System™.

Now I don't need any of this Shit™, mind you, but suddenly wanted it all. I began salivating with delight at the notion of owning my own DIGI Draw™. Cleaning up unsightly pet stains with Orange Glo™. Control yourself, I said. Control yourself. Thankfully I did. I made it out with only buying my pills. But the impulse which transpired from that AS SEEN ON TV!™ end cap is still burning strong, and I'm fighting it as hard as I can.

Um. Anyone need any floor sweeping.. or pet stain removal performed? Just let me know. I will fly to Walgreens at the speed of light and be at your doorstep with long yellow gloves on and a bag full of these revolutionary products faster than you can say Born Yesterday.

McCartneyless in Minneapplesauce

I'm fortunate enough to be able take in music via headphones all day at work. It's nice, because it drowns out all of the keyboard pitter patter that goes on, not to mention it makes it appear as if I'm really concentrating and keeps people from stopping by for the "how was the weekend/did you do anything fun" kind of small talk that life is too short for.

So today I brought a stack 'o' cds, the top priority being Paul McCartney's All The Best CD. Every few months I dig that one out and listen to 2 particular songs on there nonstop, those being "Uncle Albert" and "My Love" - for whatever reason I love to analyze what's going on in those tunes from a composing standpoint. I'm always able to pick em apart, find new things I like about them, and twist and apply said things into my own music.

I plugged my headphones in, all excited and at the ready to get my McCartney fix. I opened the CD case and well gawd damn, there's my Slayer "South of Heaven" CD I've been looking for. No McCartney though. Cripes. Dern me and my dern haphazard CD stashing ways.

Lo and behold, McCartney was in my Link Wray CD case which I'd also brought along today. Cool. So I popped McCartney in with a sigh of relief… The opening orchestra drones of "My Love" kicked in, and 10 seconds into it the CD starts going tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. I took it out and inspected its underbelly only to discover a silver landscape of teeny fissures and craters that aren’t supposed to be on CDs. It only skips on that song and "Uncle Albert" - the only ones I want to hear. Gee whiz. I tried putting up with the ticking, but then the music would come to a dead halt for a few seconds. And resume. And halt. And resume. I just want to hear these dang songs, is that so much to ask for?

I'm actually considering wasting my lunch hour away on walking 1/3 mile to my car and driving to the CD Shoppe in Dinkytown in hopes that they'll have a new copy of this and I can get it out of my system. This will be the 4th or 5th time I've bought a CD that I already own due to my lack of TLC that my CDs deserve. Looks like it's time to show my arsenal of music a little more respect. Perhaps go through and organize it a little. Incorporate the Dewey Decimal System and only allow 3 to be checked out at one time.

Dual bloggin'

Come to this blawg, get redirected to another for a day's entry. Sheesh, isn't that how it goes these days.

This here linked entry is the start of my other blawg, one which will be more about my trials and tribulations while playing acoustic shows and tryin' to 'splain how my brain works - mostly for my benefit. And hey, if you want to read it, more power to you. Will prollee only post entries of this type after I play a show (that = not too often.) I'm trying to figure out some things in regards to acoustic performance and hoo knows, perhaps documenting these things and going back and reading them later will help my brain groove more smoovely.

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=5689874&blogID=54353657

Don't you dare f%$k with me an' my Pinto.

Peep this: My brother Chuck has been going through the family photo archives and just sent this little gem of a Kodak Moment to me. Yep, that would be me doing my best Gene Simmons pose next to the very car of my Grampa's that some 20 years later would be mine (click the pic for a larger shot - that sucker is tight!)

This shot was taken up at Gramp's cabin and I honestly don't remember it being taken. I thought that car was badass back then, and still do today.. weird thing is although it's showing some age these days, there's prolly only about 5,000 more miles on it than when this pic was taken. Gramps had about 5 cars (minimum) at any given time, most of them junkers. But he saved the Pinto for summer drives only, so it was very well preserved.

I wish I still had that M&M shirt. I hated the shit out of peanut enna-ens back then, but I liked that shirt for some reason. If I did still have it, I'd drive le Pinto the 250 miles up to the lake and try and re-enact this here pic. It looks like I'm not wearing pants though, and that obviously concerns me a wee bit, especially seeing that I don't remember this pic being taken. If I were to re-enact this scene in the present time, I certainly wouldn't want a snapshot taken in front of my car without my pants on. I think I most likely had a pair of raisin smuggler shorts on, or "crotch biters" as we used to call 'em. Yes, I think I can see fabric peeking out from under my shirt a little bit. Damn, that's sort of relieving...

Note to self: You have a project for this winter.

1) Find yella and brown M&M shirt at thrift store.
2) Find pair 'o' raisin smuggler shorts.
3) Get a bowl cut.
4) When the now eagerly anticipated Spring thaw arrives, it's time to head up Narth with the trusty ol' camera to make this thing go full circle. Maybe I'll bring my boom box and Herbie Hancock, Art Of Noise, Queensryche and RATT cassette tapes to make it as authentic as possible. Add to that a package of stale Oreos and funny tasting warm 16oz glass bottles of Pepsi Cola.

And so the Grandpa Days Re-Visited Tour of 2006 is now officially in the works.

Sweet.

I keep breaking phones that don't fold

My cellular communication device is the kind that most refer to as a "flip phone". You open it up, do your business, and fold it back in half when yer done. To those of you who don't own cell phones (bless your little hearts), when you're done talking you hang these kinds of phones up by folding them shut like some sort of oblong taco.

So I've been using it for a month now and it's cool, I guess. Problem is, I got so used to folding it in half after a conversation ends that now when I use regular land-line phones, I forget and fold them in half too. If you've never tried folding a phone that wasn't built to be folded, it takes a tremendous amount of effort. But hey, I'm forgetful like that, and when I'm determined to do something like hang a phone up, I'll be damned if anything's going to stop me.

So far I've gone through 3 at work, and the boss is getting a little upset. She kept me today from breaking number 4 - I had just finished a call and had the phone across my leg, applying pressure on both ends to fold... or.. um.. I guess snap it in half in order to hang it up. She rolled up a newspaper and swatted me, snapping me back into reality. Oh yeah, says I to myself, this kind doesn't fold.

This seems to be getting worse. Now when I'm done talking face-to-face with a person that's in the same room with me, I suddenly feel the urge to bend over and touch my toes. My phone has brainwashed me into thinking that after any sort of communication whatsoever, I need to fold something in half in order to feel a sense of closure. This probably would come in handy if I wrote letters to people all the time, 'cause letters, much like flip phones, get folded when you're done saying what you have to say in them. But in this day and age of email, that's just not how things work.

Maybe I should just try and make the best of this by always being sure I have some laundry on hand when I'm talking to people.

Pimpin' my acoustic muzak

The Bob Dylan: Chronicles book I'm reading has been causing a creative fire to brew in mah belly that I didn't know I had. S'weird where you find inspiration sometimes.. I would have thought a Bob Dylan autobiography would be the last place that would happen, but lo and behold, I was sipping a mocha at a cawfee joint near my place this morning reading the book - next thing I knew, I was hyp-mo-tized into walking home, picking up my acoustic guitar, and recording something.

I wrote a new acoustic song over the summer entitled "Clüsterfüg" and it has been my nemesis for quite some time now - I had all the parts down, just couldn't find the right transitions to make them all merge into one single cohesive statement.

When I got home all caffeinated and inspired, I picked up my geetar and told it "Lissen up now, bitch! We're going to finish that song. Today! Hear me?!" And sure enough.. in less than 20 minutes I got up and stuck a fork in it, 'cause it was done. With the help of the underlying attitude in the Dylan book, the caca I've experienced this year, and the song topic itself, it was quite relieving to finally get the recipe for this tune down pat and close the door on that part of it. AAaaahhh! Exhale.

When I knew I had it, I plugged everything in, hit "record", and poof, there it was. I just squished it into an mp3 and uploaded it to my MySpace page for your listening enjoyment:

http://www.myspace.com/finnegan

Bye bye.

"Clüsterfüg" It had been a strange couple of years. He stepped out into the busy streets of the city, steadfast with a book in his hand and car keys in the other. At that precise moment, the fact that everything was going to be just fine hit him like a gust of warm air. The slate was now wiped clean, and the weathered and broken AOL trial CD he had just stepped over on the sidewalk suddenly clicked in his mind, the verbiage upon it in particular: Now more powerful than ever!

Pitter-pester, a.k.a. My aural schizophrenia

I have a peculiar sensitivity to certain sounds. The more common ones being loud eating and my cat "sharpening" his claws on bare walls. Those certain sounds make me start to tweak after a while. My skin crawls like it's got Alka Seltzer in it, and sometimes I have to get up and shake these feelings off like a layer of itchy dead leaves is beneath my clothes. Oh my, how apropos and poetic that thar simile was.. gee wiz, one would think it was Autumn right now.

Then it gets more interesting: You know those beer commercials on the radio where a beer is poured, sounding all liquidy, ploppy and frothy, and your ears are assaulted with every audible nuance and frequency that liquid pouring generates? Ho boy.. that's a big one. If I ever hear one of those ads and happen to be near a loaded weapon, I hope for the sake of my loved ones that I've written up my will and that they can find it.

Also: Cats and dogs eating. Cats and dogs unremittingly licking their nether-regions. Ugh. Another one is shopping at Cheap-o, or "Expensive-O" as I fancy calling it due to their hella crazy CD prices. They have their CDs displayed in a manner in which you have to flip through them in order to see which titles are at your disposal - the used ones in particular, which there are hundreds and thousands of. They are enclosed in hard plastic anti-theft socks which prove to be quite noisy when flipped through. It's all you hear when you walk into the place. Flick! flick! click! flick! click! flick! click.... usually my patience gets the best of me and I have to up and leave before I start throwing up in my mouth. That's cool, I guess, 'cause as a result I never end up spending money there.

And now I’ve got a new one. Where I work, a lot of typing goes down. Walloping, unwieldy amounts. Everybody is typing all the time, right now, matter of fact, including yours truly (although my typing is that of a non work-related nature). Sometimes it cuts through all the other noises going on and it's all I can hear. Pitter patter a million times a minute. My ears become incredibly focused and hypersensitive to the keyboard symphony in progress, and it starts giving me the heebie jeebies. Ack! Listen to it all! Somebody hits their ENTER key way louder than the rest. And the spacebar.. eck. I am in a cesspool of 5.1 surround sound suck right now.

I can't take this no mo.. I gots to git up and move around. Walk it off Micycle, walk it off..

Undivided Headlines

Every so often I see a gnus headline pop up on the ol' YAHOO! homepage that is so complete, so attention-fetching, so entire, so whole, and so in yo face that you don't need to bother clicking it to read the story in order to get a decent picture in your head of what precisely went down. Alls you need is to read that particular conglomeration of 5 or 6 words in the headline and your brain instantly takes care of the rest for you. Like a Thanksgiving Dinner's worth of information all in one little pill.

Without further ado, here's today's winner:

Python Explodes After Eating Alligator

My cat is molesting me in the middle of the night.

Okay, things are getting a little freaky between my cat Frank and I. I let him sleep in the bed because I like him there, not to mention if I didn't, he'd sleep there anyways.

I've been waking up lately in the wee hours of the night to him licking my face. Sometimes I'll find him licking my shoulder, the tattooed area in particular; perhaps it tastes different. One night it was my left sideburn. The other night he was licking my back. I give him a little "not tonight, dear" shove, and he backs off and pretty much leaves me alone the rest of the night.

But last night he took things just a little too far (no, not what you're probably thinking, thankfully). I awoke at 3am to a small incredibly abrasive, mushy, clammy paddle sanding away at my lips.

Dude was licking my mouth. And purring.

I sprung up, pushed him aside and had gave him a tongue lashin' of a different kind, yes I did: "Frank, I love ya little fella, but it's time to put this aspect of our relationship to some sort of permanent end. Like... now. I told you - I prefers womens, not kitties!" All he could say to me was Maarrrwrrrrrah? Yeah, whatever. Don't think I can't understand cat-speak. Maybe it's time I get him a lady friend. Maybe I need some sort of pheromone masking agent to cover my man musk so it doesn't make his instincts kick in like this.

It's not too easy to fall back asleep once you're violated by your pet in such a manner. I usually only sleep in just a pair 'o' jammie bottoms, but this is making me rethink my nighttime attire: Tonight I'm wearing a ski mask, my down filled parka, some really thick pants, and moon boots to bed. And I'll be packin' a loaded miniature Super Soaker water pistol which will act as cat-mace if need be. That's gonna learn him real fast.

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note, let me just state for the records that I'll never look at Krispy Kremes the same way again. *ahem..*

Russian Roulette: Party Pizza style

I didn't feel much like cookin' tonight so I opted for a frozen pizza instead. Not just any frozen pizza though: a Party Pizza. Hey, don't knock it - it's cheap. And when I heat pizza, I want to make sure it's gonna be a whole lot of fun, and Party = fun.

I went to preheat my oven as directed on the Party Pizza's box, and well, shite - I realized there aren't any numbers on my oven dial. "Well mother-fuk!" says I. I can sort of tell where it used to say "broil", but if I wanted to achieve any sort of accurate temperature level besides "broil", such as, say 425 degrees, it would pretty much be the equivalent of trying to catch a fart in a windstorm.

I dialed 'er in about 3/4 of a turn, let it get nice and warm and popped the Party Pizza in hoping for the best. So long as I don't a) break any teeth on overcooked "crust" or b) sink my teeth into an ice sandwich, the bread of which would be severely overcooked leathery pizza skin, I'll be happy.

This is getting intense. And all you can do at times like these is hurry up and wait.

Open letter to the chicken-gasm girl

Dear Mac-Donalds "Chick-AWWWWWWWWWnnnn.... awn." Girl:

I love you, you are my hero. But only under the condition that your soulful outburst of appreciation and enthusiasm for that chicken, a.k.a. "chicken-gasm" was of a genuine, non-scripted nature. Chances are being that it's a Mac-Donalds commercial, the outburst was pre-meditated in some way shape or form. Alas, you likes your chicken and aren't afraid to tell the world, and that's admirable.

I wish you the best and hope that this commercial proves to be a launching pad to bigger and better things. Maybe something like a sitcom, or a Windex commercial.

Best of luck,

Micycle

p.s. - I make some mean-ass fried chicken if you're ever in the neighborhood. Far more worthy and deserving of a chicken-gasm than that mechanically pressed and processed Chicken-food you were so hopped up about in the ad. Stay in touch.

Let me state for the record that Bob Dylan was the shit.

Disagree or agree as much as you like, but I think Bob Dylan was f'in awesome. I've always known this and listened to Highway 61 Revisited ever since I can remember, but I've been reading his book lately and it's been like a breath of fresh air - it's the only time I've ever really related to a "music legend's" creative process probably since reading about Frank Zappa or discovering The Melvins in the early 90s... sort of the "no one else is doing everything I like all in one package, so I guess I have to!" sort of approach. We've all heard Rainy Day Women 12 & 35 (you know.. the "everybody must get stoned" song) a zillion times, but if you listen to everything else that was out there at that time and picture hearing that come out of the radio for the first time, you can imagine it likely tickled an ear or two in a strange way.

Yesterday I was watching bits and pieces of the show on PBS about him and a particular piece of old concert footage made me very happy. It was in 1964, methinks, during his electric/backup band crossover point where he was pissing a lot of his folk fans off. The second he hit the stage, the fans saw the electric guitar and band, then started booing like crazy (I guess this was an ongoing thing at most of his shows at that time). He turned to the band and mumbled something like "play it fuckin' LOUD" and busted into Like A Rolling Stone - and they's was loud. You could tell the microphone on the movie camera was having a tough go at it trying to digest the volume they were playing at. That was one of the most bitchin' things I've ever seen, hands down. Hi, I'm Bob Dylan, and if you don't like what I'm doing, feel free to stick it straight up your arse and go home.

One of my earliest memories when I was a wee lad was staring at album covers in my parent's record collection. I was prollee around 4 or 5 at the time and the Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits cover was one of the most peculiar sights to me. Not unlike Juliette Lewis, it gave me a severe case of the heebie jeebies but I couldn't keep myself from looking at it.

Here, check it out:

Yikes! At that same time, I had a stuffed animal that was a buffalo (I still think it's at Mom and Dads to this day), and for whatever reason it reminded me of Bob Dylan's blurry head on that record cover. I would stare at it as I fell asleep and then have nightmares that this blurry Bob Dylan head/buffalo was rolling after me in our kitchen and my legs wouldn't move. Thankfully I'd always wake up before anything happened, but cripes. That album cover pretty much ruined it for me and stuffed buffalos. Better that than Bob Dylan, I reckon.

I digress. I always respected the guy and his music tremendously, but now after learning more about him and his attitude, I truly "get" what he was doing now and all of his other music suddenly makes complete sense to me. He gets mocked and made fun of a lot, but he was a pretty bold badass mo-fo in his day, and seeing stuff like that keeps a fire lit under my butt to write music that I want to hear.

Adden-dumb to my "Make that 10 Moves..." post

A sigh of relief.. kind of. I just spoke with the new owner this afternoon all planning to get in his face and spray spit in it while I was yelling at him and cocking my neck left and right like the sexy people on the Maury Povich Show do. It seems that we have a finger-pointing game going on here between the new owners saying the old landlord knew this was going to happen vs. the old landlord saying she had no idea. Hmph.. no time for that, 'cause it makes no difference now - so I was quick to change subject and ask what they expect of their tenants and what (if any) accommodations will be made.

It turns out that they're going to take good care of us in the interim and give everyone their full security deposit back seeing that they're gonna gut this place anyhow. That makes my bonfire in the living room daydream a definite possibility now that I think of it..

Regardless, it's sad to see yet another charming old building go the way of pristine updated, sheetrocked, carpeted flaky condos. Ugh. Keep that shit in the burbs, please. I like my old hardwood floors and lumpy ceilings the way they are, thank you.

Make that 10 moves...

So, my apartment caretaker knocked upon me door as I was emptying my last box of possessions from Move #9, feeling all proud and cozy.

Him: "Have you heard the news?"
Me: "Wha?"
Him: "How long have you lived here?"
Me: looking at watch "Um, about 3 days?"
Him: "Oh. You're not going to like this. I've lived here 10 years.. and in 120 days we're all going to have to find new places to live. Turns out somebody bought these places and they're turning them into condos. Here's the Notice of Conversion legal documentation.. sorry, dude."

Hm. So. Um. Soooo. Um. Like. I am not done moving yet? You mean..

Remember in Ferris Bueller's Day Off where they take Cameron's dad's car out and realized that the seedy characters at the parking ramp took it on a 100 mile joyride? And then Ferris looks right into the camera and says "This is the part where Cameron freaks out." Yeah, that was pretty much me right there and then.

But I'm gonna enjoy my blue bathroom and the rest of the place while I've got it. There's plenty o-places to scout around here and I'm not about to go the route of Howard Hughes when he stopped clipping his toenails and started peeing in milk bottles. Hells no! It rules being in my own place and this one didn't work out, so I'll just find me another one, yes ah will. I'll just make my sure my next landlord signs a "don't you dare fucking sell this building to a money-hoarding apartment-to-condo converter" form.