Just call me Mac-muthafuckin'Gyver

You didn't think I'd leave without one final nugget of love, did you? Aw Hell no. I'm waiting for some laundries to dry and have some time to kill. Peep this:

So tonight I received a call from Tim the sound guy at the Uptown requesting that I come down there and bust a can of Finnegan whoopass out for him so's he could test out a new acoustic microphone the venue just bought. He lured me in with a beer and said it would only take 20 minutes. I would finish nice and early by 10pm, sort of a pseudo-opening act for the bands that were already playing. Never one to pass up an opportunity to grace the stage of the Uptown (and free beer, no less), I obliged.

I showed up, played 3-4 tunes, put my guitar in the case and headed out. It was a fine set indeed and the new mic sounded great, or so I hear.

I got to the Pinto and realized I didn't have my keys.

Uh oh.

After about an hour of scouring the bar (with the help of Tim and his sound man flashlight, thankyouverymuch) and tracing over the path I walked about a million times, still no keys.

I walked out to the Pinto and realized one of the back windows was sort of open. I could reach in and alllllllmost touch the lock to disengage it. After several failed tries, I took off my wallet chain, made a loop out of it, and after swinging it towards the lock about a dozen or so times, it hooked on and I was able to pull it up and unlock the car. Presto! Alas, after tearing apart the inside, my keys were not in the car.

I took the bus home hoping my caretaker would let me in so I could get my spare keys to everything. She of course didn't answer, so I called the emergency maintenence line for my building (which comes with a $50 service fee, mind you) thinking they could let me in. Yep, $50. But I didn't give a rat's ass at that point. I have my spare keys in the apartment, and that's alls I cared about. The nice man on the line said that would cost $85 because this was an after hours emergency call. Fuck that says I, and hiked it up the creepy outside stairs in the back of the building to my back door and bathroom window.

I balanced on the railing and was able to reach the bathroom window screen, tear that motherfucker out, and thank gawd I didn't lock the window last time I closed it. It slid up with great ease (don't get any ideas, criminals - that thing is now locked for the season!) Nearly falling on my ass and a bunch of dried pigeon dung, I weaseled my way through the window and crashed onto the bathroom floor. Found the spare keys to my place and car, and all was well.

Out I went to hop on the bus. I felt a weird sting in my finger and took a looksie - eek! Blood! I guess I cut it breaking into my place or something. Huh.

It was about 12:03am at this point, and the bus stop said the next bus that came was 12:25. *sigh* It's about a 20 minute walk to the Uptown and I was freezing my arse off and hella cranky, so I started hoofing it. Beats waiting at the bus stop going nowhere fast and freezing. Of course, as soon as I got in front of the Uptown, the bus passed me by. I flipped it a mental birdy and headed into the bar to get my geetar and put this shit to an end.

And that I did. I'm at home and cozy warm now, waiting for the laundry to dry and eagerly awaiting getting on the plane tomorrow and kissing this place bye bye for a few days. One beer richer, $50 poorer. All in a day's work.

That said, nothing can possibly go wrong en route to NY, yes?

This is Micycle, over and out. We'll see you next week, and I mean it this time, dammit.

Meat Smoothie: Ebonified

This is SO awesome.

Might take a while to generate, so be patient.

In less than 36 hours, I'm adda here!

In less than 36 hours, I will be New York bound on an airplane for I'm certain what will be a very entertaining trip. That said, my friends, it will likely be about a week before you see any blog action posted by this lil' fella. But hey, what the fuck? Am I your little blogging jukebox here or something? Put a quarter in him and watch Micycle type silly things? Sheesh, I can't believe you people.

I keed you!

Anywho, as I sit here at work watching the snow pile up, obviously it concerns me a little. This best not be happening when I board that plane, no sirree. I'll be having none of this delayed flight business. There is no time for Planes Trains and Automobile re-enactments here, nor is there money. So you listen to me and you listen to me good, Mother Nature: if there's any sort of weather-related monkey business, tomfoolery, or shenanigans on your part, so help me gawd I will slap you until you're silly in the head, you filthy Ninny.

I have a vision in my head of what's going to transpire when I first set foot on New York soil. Like to hear it? Here it goes:

I will somehow accidentally end up lost in the city, walking the streets sad and alone... Singing sad circus boy songs and weeping uncontrollably.

And then suddenly I run into John Lithgow who lifts my spirits and points me in the right direction - but not without first taking out his acoustic guitar and singing a song with me. I'd ask him a few Harry and the Hendersons questions, thank him, and be on my way.

Later that night I'll be cornered in a dark alley by some thugs and right as I think I'm going to be killed, David Bowie swoops out of the sky, peacefully sends all of the thugs scurrying and saves me (he'd probably have a cape on). We'd re-enact the Christmas duet he did with Bing Crosby, he'd give me some advice, and I'd be on my way.

I then walk into a cafe, penniless and hungry, wondering what I'm going to do next. Lo and behold, my favorite actor Steve Buscemi is behind the counter with an apron and paper fry cook's hat on. He gives me free food, because he's well aware that I penned the Iced Ink hit Steve Buscemi Overture (see: here) in honor of his fine body of work.

There will be many other celebrity cameos that will help me get to my destination. And with every encounter, at least 1 song and dance number will ensue. The coolest will be when I bump into Christopher Walken and he does his tap-dance on the wall and ceiling bit. Maybe he could sing Lionel Richie’s hit “Dancing On The Ceiling” all the while. Yeah, that would be sweet.

The grand finale will be a bombastic Fame-style ending with everyone dancing on the streets and on cars in synch with one another. All of the Muppets will be there singing and dancing as well, ready to send me off to that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

I'll then hop into an old 1950s taxi cab with magical powers, fly into the sky above the crowd, and the car will leave a shimmering neon pink comet in its trail.

I'll look into the camera and say "Next stop, Ponchoville!" and the cab will burst into hyper speed. The camera will then pan down below to the crowd of celebrities I'd befriended along the way, smiling and waving.

Credits roll and "Holiday Road" by Lindsey Buckingham kicks in.

***

Either that or my plane will arrive as scheduled and everything will go fine. Regardless, it's all gonna make for some good journal material, believe you me.

See ya next week, kiddies!

Sincerely,

Micycle

The (potential) Last Supper

This pic was taken about 20 minutes ago. That's me and the Frank sitting before what could very well be my Last Supper.

Mom sent me home with some of her homemade chili a while back which had been in the freezer for quite some time. I took it out and threw it in the fridge to thaw in the beginning of last week (Monday? Tuesday? Maybe even Sunday?) and sorta forgot about it until tonight.

It's too cold out to run and grab something, and I'm too cheap to call for a delivery. I'm going out of town this week so am holding off on the grocery shopping. So that leaves me with only three remaining options: Hot dogs, Frosted Flakes, or the nearly week-old chili.

I'm tired of Frosted Flakes. I didn't think that was possible, but try eating Frosted Flakes for breakfast and lunch day after day and see how long you last. I only have a half loaf of bread left and refuse to use bread as a hot dog bun (it's a long story), so that rules out hot dogs as an option.

So there I stood looking at the white container of chili. I took the lid off and gave 'er a whiff. Still smelled like chili. Looked like it needed a little stirring from separating while it sat all week, but other than that, it looked okay. I think.

I contemplated this for a good 20 minutes: Either I spend $20 on a crappy delivery pizza pie, or I heat up this here chili and eat for free. If I die, at least I saved $20.

So I did it. I heated up the chili, dumped a shitload of Tabasco in it (I loves me the Tabasco something fierce) and took a teeny sip off the spoon. Hm.. still tasted like chili. I threw in a few more splashes of Tabasco, cause I figure if anything it might help kill off whatever sort of eco community that may have grown in the chili over the past few days.

So, one and a half bowls later and so far I feel fine. Should anything happen to me though, it was nice knowing you all, and I wish you all the best. If you don't hear from me on this blog thing in the next 48 hours, I'd say it's safe to send the medics and a body bag up to my place. I haven't written a will yet, but so long as my guitars are buried with me and Frank gets to live with Mom and Dad, that's all I really care about.

I'm looking at my watch now and starting to realize there's so much more I want to do with my life yet. First and foremost my trip to the New York this week. That's something I've always daydreamed of doing for quite some time now, and aw, SHIT! I may have just blown it, all for a dang bowl of chili.

Well, alls I can do is hurry up and wait, I guess. It was some pretty damned good homemade Mom chili, I must say.. so if that was indeed my last meal, at least it was a good hearty one. Unlike that one time 10 or so years ago when I ate some of a Subway party sub that had been left out all night after the holiday party at Target when I worked there. I thought I was a goner for sure as I was eating that, and damn. That would have really sucked to die from a piece of a 10 foot long Cold Cut Combo.

Turds wrapped in skin: It's the Holiday Sleazon

You've probably seen it on the news - the usual day after Thanksgiving early morning insanity which ensues at stores across the U-S-of A. The pic you see here was from a Wal Mart store in Maryland on Friday when an early morning sale got out of hand.

First thing I thought when I saw this was golly, what a bunch-a dang jackasses. Second thing it made me ponder was if anyone has told that guy on the right that chewin' tobacca ain't a healthy habit. Not for those that use it, because that's their choice. I'm talking about second hand spit. It's no laughing matter - my sister can tell you all about it, that's fo sho. She once took a swig out of a Diet Coke can only to get a mouthful of lukewarm minty snuff flavored spit. Turns out the can was recycled into a disposable spittoon. Yeech! Can you imagine? I'm not sure who got the shittier end of the stick with can surprises - her or my uncle who got stung in the mouth after taking a swig of beer out of a can that a bee had crawled into. Makes that old peanut brittle with a spring loaded snake in the can gag not seem so scary now, doesn't it?

I'm sorry, I digress. And who knows, maybe that's a can of those IceBreakers sour mints in his pocket and not chaw after all. Hi, my name is Micycle and I like to judge a book by its cover. Sheesh.

Anyways. Back to the pile of flaming idiots in the pic and the other thousands of stores where things like this went down:

It's just stuff, people. Is it worth saving $10? Are you happy now that your dumb ass is all over the news? Ha? HA? ARE YA? Being a frugal bargain hunter myself, I like a sale as much as the next person. I understand that 'saver's high' of making a big score. The thrill of the hunt.

However.

I also understand that it's good to have some pride every now and again. During the holidays in particular. Every year when I see stuff like this on the news, I can't believe these are real people doing this. I'm a human too, and I fear that people like this are giving the rest of us a bad reputation with the aliens that are watching us via satellite from the outerspace in the safety of their flying saucers. Who knows, they could have the cure for cancer, the fountain of youth... but then see this crap transmitting onto their liquid plasma spaceship screens (which they got on sale at Best Buy the day after Alien Thanksgiving), and likely look at each other and say "Fuck this, we're finding another planet! Scratch Earth of the map immediately!"

If these people want to camp out at 1am rather than hit the sack after a nice night with the family, then let 'em, I guess. It wouldn't be a Thanksgiving Friday without the money shots of the year of these meatheads barging through the starting gates of the holiday shopping season and trampling over each other like a bunch of pigs running from a slaughter.

I have a request for next year that might do the world some good as well as make for one Hell of an entertaining news clip: Dig a 100 foot deep trench right in the inside of store entrances and fill it with poop water and angry starving alligators with television cameras strapped onto their bodies. Open those storefront doors and watch the herd of lowest common denominator humans disappear into the ground. Just think of how sweet that would be to watch live on CNN. They could even give it a nice little holiday kick by making the alligators wear Santa beards and hats - that way the whole family could watch.

If this happens, I hope I know ahead of time - I'd want to stock up on eggnog and buy some Depends. Why? Because I wouldn't want to leave the couch until the last aggressive early morning shopper was eaten and the alligators were all sitting there with full bellies picking their teeth with bones.

NBC's "The Biggest Loser"

So.. this reality show is supposedly about the person who loses the most weight winning a prize.

However. I just got caught in a thought spiral thinking of that title, The Biggest Loser, and am now wondering if it's actually about the person who loses the least amount of weight and doesn't win shit. Think about that title for a bit and maybe you'll see what I'm getting at.

If that's the case, I'd certainly be interested in trying out for next season, providing they foot the bill for meals and all.

Playing the Blogger slot machine

One of the advantages of being bored at work is having too much time to surf the web.. I kept hitting the NEXT button on blogger which brings up random blogs and this one popped up:

http://oldster.blogspot.com/

Check it out! Very fun stuff to read.

And I give thee Thanks.

Tis Thanksgiving Day. I wish you all the happiest and most blissful, fulfilling Thanksgivings you've ever had. Here is what I am thankful for this year:

1. Got to wake up at 6am and go to work today
2. Parked Pinto 4 blocks from work, walked in blistering cold gusts of wind until I couldn't feel my nose or cheeks only to learn the meters right out front of the building are free on holidays
3. Was locked out of work building when going out for a coffee run - couldn't feel face and ears once again (thanks Angela for letting me back in!)
4. Went to use restroom and water in urinal was blue. That = clean toilet, and I was the first one to use it. Either that or somebody who didn't flush drank windshield wiper fluid last night.
5. All of the bullshit that has transpired this year, and good gawd, there's been a lot of it. Seriously. If you know me well enough, you know that my 2005 has come with an unlimited free massive supply of bullshit. Heaping tuckloads of it. Consider this a thank-you card to the bullshit and those responsible for it, including myself. Because of it all, I'm happier than I think I've ever been and am glad it all went down. There will be no Johnny Cash middle finger pic flipping 2005 off in this journal like last year, that's fo sho. Micycle = strong like bull. Grunt grunt.
6. My trip to New York to hang out with someone incredibly bitchin' and just have a good time. That's not till next week, but my Spidey Sense tells me it's going to be great.
7. I am thankful that I found a replacement headlight for the Pinto last night and that it was only $11.
8. I am not thankful that I will likely not enjoy installing it in the cold, windy weather.
9. I am thankful that when I went to change the address on my drivers license last night that they didn't take my picture. I like the one they have on file and was having a bad hair day yesterday, so that's cool.
10. I am thankful for buttered toast with grape jelly.
11. I am eternally grateful for the generousity of my fambly and friends this year. Just don't expect anything in return, people. Just kidding! I think.
12. I am glad I adopted Frank who has proven to me that there is life after Devo.
13. I am glad that somebody stumbled across a photo of me and thought it resembled Elvis Costello and the wackiness that ensued thereafter.
14. I am thankful that my landlord let me paint my apartment.
15. I am not so thankful that I will have to paint it back when I move out
16. I give thanks to the fact that I got way too much sleep last night.
17. I am thankful for the members of Floozie who played with us at the Uptown on Tuesday, they surprised us by hitting the stage all dressed up in limited edition Iced Ink shirts that the drummer made (these are, like, real shirts, not inkjet transfers on cheap wifebeaters):
    
18. I am also thankful that they made each of us an Ink shirt as well which we were presented with after the show. That was veddy cool. There are only 6 of these in existence and I bet I could fetch at least a good $3 on mine if I put it up on Ebay. Ha!
19. I am thankful that I am about to partake in a feast like none other at mom's tonight
20. I am thankful that my brother brought his two kitties along from Cleveland - should we run short on food tonight, we have backup now.

There are many more things to give thanks for, like the fact that I'm about to publish this for all of you to read and enjoy.

Have a goot holly-day everyone!

Sincerely,

Micycle.

Cunna-what?

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Nachos 'N' Beer

Last night we played the Uptown. Our drummer extraordinaire Barry is a nacho aficionado and it's sorta rubbing off on me, I have to say. I've always liked nachos as much as anyone else, but Barry has taken my nacho awareness to a whole new level. I crave them now whereas before it was more of an out of sight out of mind thing. Pre-Barry, if a friend had some on hand I'd say sure, I'll have me a nacho or two, have some, end of story. But now I can't imagine life without them.

Barry had a plate of Uptown nachos before him when I arrived at the club and loaded my gear in. The nacho plate was immense and magnificent looking; it was so sexy I had to go and order some for myself. My plate arrived just minutes later was a good 8 or 9 pounds at least - a very well assembled plate of nacho-ey goodness if I do say so myself. About 5 1/2 pounds into it, I could do no more and gave in.

And then the full stomach and hot pepper hallucinations set in. When I looked at any source of light, I started to see rainbows. My tummy started to feel all floaty and tingly. They were some hella spicy nachos indeed, and it is an unwritten law that the only cure for salty, spicy nachos when you're at a bar is beer. So I ordered me a Summit Winter Ale and sucked it down in seconds flat to ease the pain. Still thirsty and buzzing from the nachos, I ordered another beer. And another.

This was all fine and dandy, however I remembered I had a set to play in a little under an hour. And with the kind of music we do, it's sorta important to be on the ball, as these are laser-precise arrangements that require quite a bit of concentration. Playing Iced Ink music when high on beer drinks is like trying to build a house of cards in a moving car.

Alas, there was only one thing I could do at this point. Mouth still tingling from nachos and feeling comfortably dumb, I of course went and got another Summit Winter Ale. What a tool.

By the time we hit the stage, I have to admit, I had my beer goggles on and I had a good 1-2 second delay cookin’. Not good. We played a pretty good set, I reckon, and managed to clean out the room which was full of college students there to see the band before us faster than you can say American Eagle Outfitters. I was pretty stoopided up from the nachos and beer combo, but we plowed through our muthafuckin' set anyhow like a goose freight train and I lived through it. The only casualties suffered were a string cut on my index finger and split fingernail.

Oh, and there's the CD of the show that Tim the soundman recorded for us that I'm listening to right now. Next time we play out at a nacho and beer offering venue, if you see me wearing headphones, don't mind me. I'm just taking preventative measures to remind myself why not to punish my body so soon prior to playing a set. I'll stick with my fault tolerant classic Sour Skittles and Newcastle regimen from now on, thankyouverymuch.

Bright idea for the day

I got to thinking: If I were ever on the run from the po-leese, like in a COPS-style high speed chase, my car is a little too recognizable. A brown wood-paneled 74 Pinto tends to stick out like a sore thumb.

I'm not planning on it now, but just in case I ever do end up in a hot pursuit-style chase, I'm gonna keep a giant 5' handlebar moustache in the back seat of the car. That way I can quick pull over behind some bushes, slap the moustache on the front bumper of the car, and just watch the 4-5 po-leese cars that were chasing after me zoom by.

"Hey Sarge! I think that's our man - that looks like a 74 Pinto to me over there on the side of the road! See it? See it?"

"No, that's not it. The Pinto we're after doesn't have a moustache."

Do it for the polar bears.

.. and to instill selfish false expectations in the children of today.

I fed the vending mat-cheen at work 70 cents, punched the Coke badge on the face of it and got me a nice vitamin fortified can of Coke for breakfast today as I like to do every so often.

Clumpety clump CLUMP! Out came my refreshing can of Coke. It’s almost December and the decorative cans are now out – mine was one of these new "winter" cans which reads GIVE LIVE LOVE and has polar bears and snowflakes on it.

What I'm wondering is what ever happened to Santa? Put him back on the cans, man. Everything is becoming so neutral in this day and age of political correctness; it's stupid. Things have come to a point where they had to put polar bears on a sodie pop can in lieu of Sandee Claws, because oooooh my we don't want to offend anyone now, do we?

I'm not saying this because of religious reasons as some might think - I'm about as religious as a bucket full of pancake batter. Christian shmishtian. Sure, I grew up with the Sandee Claws thing and I get all nostalgic when I think about it. But that's not what it's about either.

What the Christmas spirit truly means to me is receiving. As a kid, of course. That's what it boils down to: you get a shitload of toys and other fun stuff from everybody without lifting so much as a finger. And the true beauty of it is that people don't expect anything back from kids because they don't have jobs and aren't expected to pull their weight like that in life just yet. Yeah, sometimes a parent will buy things for others and slap the kid's name in the From: area of the tag, but you're not fooling anyone with that move. Honestly, when's the last time you saw a 7 year old spot a $20 cheese and summer sausage gift box in a catalog and say "you know, I think I'm going to buy that for my Great Uncle Clyde for Christmas! You know how he loves summer sausage!"

So that is why I think Coke should put Santa back on the cans. It’s not about Santa at all – its alls abouts the presents. Every kid likes presents. That is the true embodiment of Sandee Claws, yes it is. Surrounding yourself in a sea of toys and occasional lame sweater from a distant relative. Never buying presents in return or having to bring food to the party. Santa represents the pimpy lifestyle of children - Be a kid and take take take. That’s what the dang Coke can should read instead of GIVE LIVE LOVE: TAKE TAKE TAKE! Golly, if everyone were as ignorant as me, we wouldn't have to worry about things like this and the world would be a better, happier place.

But noooooooo. Instead there's polar bears and snowflakes on our Coke cans now with the words GIVE LIVE LOVE. Sure, polar bears are real cute and all; I like to watch the one at Como Zoo rolling around like the big magnificent slow motion blob that it is batting its big toy cube around in the air. But who asked the polar bears if it was okay to put them on the cans? Nobody. And I highly doubt that they drink Coke. Polar bears can’t afford to buy such things. If I were a polar bear, that would make me want to manufacture a soft drink with a human on the can crouched down on all fours by a body of water holding a bigass fuckin’ trout in their mouth.

Just put Santa back on the Coke cans, that’s all I ask. Do it for the polar bears. And to give little kids like I once was false hopes that everything is always going to be handed to them on a silver platter.

Peace out.

---------------

On a completely unrelated note, I pulled a softball sized glob of what appeared to be car seat batting out of the floor heating vent in the Pinto and it blows a fierce, hot breeze now. I’m keeping the glob of stuff as a new pet and putting some sticky googly eyes on it – it’s so gnarly!

One year on MySpace and all I got was this lousy profile pic

Today's entry is about the MySpace, located at the MySpace, and I'm too lazy to cut and paste it here. So click on the pic below to read if you're dying for your daily serving of Meat Smoothie. Sorry for the convenience.

Iced Ink vs. Saint "Could"

Donning our lab coats (and Berkman and Barry in what they call their "Krenner glasses"), my weird-o rock band Iced Ink hit the stage of a venue called The Rox in St. Cloud MN lass night. Was a fun, weird experience. Those that were in attendance were quite responsive, always nice to hear that confused smattering of applause after we hit the last note of a song. I don't know what it's like for a first time listener to hear this stuff, because I write it and play it - so I always know what's around the corner. I reckon to virgin ears it's got to be a little overwhelming. Sort of like a Where's Waldo? picture in the form of music - there's a whole lot of things going on at once for your ears to look at and it takes a few passes before realizing what's going on.

Outside of the hi-octane Minneapplesauce rock and role music, it was pretty low key in all other regards, but a great warm-up for our Uptown show coming up this Tuesday. Not to mention it's always great to play shows with friend's bands - Autonomy is a great bunch of peeps, and I haven't seen the In The Morning blokes in months; some of the nicest doods one could wish to be stuck in a far away bar for 7 hours with. Was great to hang with them again and fill them in on some of the more interesting turns life has taken as of late. (p.s. - I love you too, Sir Chia. and thank you for the energizing head butt; it kept me awake for the drive home)

*****

Not a show goes by where I don't walk away having learned something. Here is what I realized while driving home from the show last night:

I have found my personal Hell on Earth: loading my stuff out of a bar in a busy college town after 2am.

Oh.

My.

GOD.

It was a good block or so that I had to tote my gear to the Pinto after the bar closed and the sidewalks were completely cluttered with hundreds of soused college folk. Lots of people walking with half-bent knees looking like they were trapped in their own little personal tornadoes, swirling all about and whatnot. Horny drunken college boys that all looked the same (flannel shirts, baseball caps, Eminem hair, and white taco sneakers - Chads, as I call them) eyeing up girls that they would be thinking about later that night next to a box of Kleenex, if you know what I'm sayin'. Drunk people getting into cabs. People doing the Technicolor yawn on the streets. Swirly people as far as the eye could see. Friends asking friends if they're sure they can walk yet. Friends acting as bread, taking the left and right sides of their really drunk friends creating a human crutch sandwich. And so on.

Don't get me wrong here, I'm all for having a good time and getting Gumby-ed up every now and again myself, but damn. This was too much for even me. Prolly because I had just spent 7 hours in a bar and had to make 3-4 trips through this clusterfuck to get my car packed up. I started to feel like I was in a real life version of the ol' arcade classic Frogger.

My condolences to any po-leese officer who has to man the streets of such towns at 2am every weekend. I could read each of the officer's faces like a book - every one of them had that PLEASE KILL ME look.

Bah - don't mind me, I think I'm just turning into an old fart, that's all. St. Cloud is actually a neat little town, I hope to return soon and peep all the cool looking little shops it had to offer in Downtown.

In the daytime, that is.

How to spend $515 and drive 100+ miles in 2 hours

I, or maybe I should say Danny's Towing took the Death Star in to be diagnosed earlier this week. The Death Star is my car (an 87 Escort wagon) and it fell ill on me a week or so ago. Since then, much wackiness has ensued. Allow me to share:

Tuesday morning: I unfolded my phone to answer it and it was the dudes from Cedar Avenue Repair with the gnus. "Hey Michael, we're calling about the 87 Escort wagon. It's just the water pump and the timing belt - you're lookin' at about $300." Fair enough. I gave them the green light and told them to call me when it was done.

Wednesday morning: Unfolded cell phone to check new voice message. "Hey Michael, we're calling about the 87 Escort wagon. Got the water pump in, but we found something else.. give us a call!"

Now. I know as much about fixing cars as I know about knitting (I've never knitted before) but I do know this: whenever you get a message like that from any sort of fix-it shop, it pretty much is a tell-tale gare-awn-tee that you're fucked.

Turns out the Death Star overheated to the point of developing a cracked cylinder head or something like that. Which translates in human terms to "one thousand-plus dollars".. YEOWCH.

Thursday: My precious turd on wheels, the 74 Pinto, has been living on my parent's land for the past few months due to wobbly tires I couldn't afford to have fixed at the time. My darling sister and her hubby were oh so kind enough to take it in to the shop to have the front end peeped and see what was wrong with that. 2 front tires and $136.50 later, the Pinto was once again drive-able. YES! Thanks so much, Eesa and Bubby.

Back to the Escort: I passed on the cylinder head thingy for now, 'cause I'm not made of money like that. I'm a musician, for cripes sake. So after work, I hopped the bus for a heartwarming 20 minute ride to the repair shop to retrieve the Death Star. It was a nice bus ride - for the better part of it I was serenaded by the cell phone rings of the girl sitting next to me: it was the most deafening BLEDEEDEDEEP! BLEDEEDEDEEP! I'd ever heard. Evidently her phone doesn't have a vibrate setting. Or an answer button.

Arrived at the repair shop, gave them $379 of my cold, hard earned cash and went out to the freezing cold parking lot to start my car.

*click* ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-yaaaya-ya-ya-ya-ya.... *click* *click*

Awwwwwwwww man. Not today, I said to my steering wheel. I just spent $379 on this sonofabitch pretty much for no reason, 'cause I can't really drive it anywhere when it's running on only 3 cylinders, or so I hear. Dude came out from the garage like a superhero and got it running for me; hearing that car start was music to my ears. I was certain I was going to be bussing back home for a brief moment. I've never wanted to kiss a man before, but after that I realized I guess there's a first time for everything. If only I had some lipstick on me..

So I drove the Death Star home, threw all my band practice gear into my mom's car to return that to her and swap it out for the freshly repaired Pinto. 30 miles and one hour’s worth of rush hour traffic later, I made it to my parent’s abode. Switched my stuff to the Pinto, bid my dear fambly farewell, and off to practice I went, yet another 35 miles out to the Rancho Berkmano Iced Ink Rehearsal Compound with $515 less in the bank.

An arse-kicking practice ensued, and home I finally went to put my feet up, chill out, and engage in entertaining Hollywood trivia chit chat on the phone with a dear fellow fan of such things. "What? The Rock is gay??" "So-and-so is so-and-so's kid? Reeeally?" And so on. Always a good way to end the day if you axsk me.

So yeah, back to being po' again for a while. Gas station coffee in lieu of mochas. Mac-Donalds dolla menu in lieu of the $7.99 Indian buffet. Fresh Scent Tide in lieu of good quality cocaine.
However. The glass is always half full. I have the material love of my life back: the Pinto.

Now how can a person not feel happy driving around in this thing? So many memories. It still smells like my Grampa's garage. It is a wood paneled thing of beauty - 10 minutes onto the highway, I was already getting honked at and the thumbs up from other drivers.

So long as that gets me to the Iced Ink gig in St. Cloud tonight and back, I'll be happy. Or maybe I should say so long as it gets me to St. Cloud. If it craps out on me there, at least I can stay at the St. Cloud State Penitentiary for the night.. I hear the Salisbury steak there is phenomenal.

What would I like on my Tombstone?

Well for starters, some flavor would be nice. Peep this:

Went grocery shopping yesterday afternoon and threw a frozen pizza in the buggy 'cause I knew I'd be too pooped to cook by the time I got home and everything was unbagged.

I slipped the frozen food disc in the oven and 20 minutes later was sitting before a plate of 3 piping hot wedges of Tombstone sassidge and fungus pizza. One bite into it and I learned something interesting about myself. If ever asked what I would like on my Tombstone, I’d have to say "Flavor, please!"

There was adequate sassidge and fungus coverage on the pizza pie, however I couldn't taste a single one of em. Not even the cheese. Or the sauce. I could taste the crust, but that's because it was about 1/2" thick and hard as a rock. It was really weird. I double checked the wrapper to make sure I didn't get some sort of new water-pizza or something, but nope. This was just the standard issue run of the mill frozen pizza. And dang, it really sucked.

Maybe they're called “Tombstone” because they sort of resemble Tombstones once fully cooked. I was tempted to take the tip of my apple peeler, carve “R.I.P.” in the cheese and plant half of it in the ground outside in the foliage as a late Halloween decoration of sorts. But I was too tired and too hungry.

Hm. Maybe they're called “Tombstone” because they make you feel half dead after pounding back a few wedges with a glass o milk, 'cause I did indeed feel pretty crappy while my body kicked into overdrive attempting to digest the stuff. I passed out for a few hours, waking up disoriented before an empty plate at 1am wondering what had just happened and what year it was. After feeling my chin hairs and realizing they hadn’t grown into a Santa beard or anything like that, I was quite relieved.

I stumbled into the kitchen to warsh my plate and dangit, there was the other 2/3 of the pizza still sitting on the countertop. I always do that. It certainly resembled a tombstone before, but now it was pretty much petrified. I picked the 2/3 Pac Man shaped once barely-edible sculpture up from the rack and it magically remained in one piece and retained its shape, resembling a thick plastic Frisbee that had been warped in a fire.

Being one to not throw food out and waste it, I put it in the fridge to cure it a little bit more and am hoping that by tonight, I can use it as a cutting board for when I'm chopping my vegetables.

Stream of subconsciousness, chapter 5 page 544.3

Tis that time again. It's crazy slow here at work, so I'm doing another stream of consciousness outpouring to kill the time. Same rules as always apply: I type fast as I possibly can whatever enters my brain, 7 minutes this time, and post it as is, mistakes and all. I'm quite tired right now, so my apologies ahead of time for any illegibility. My fingers, they are fast, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're accurate. (hm.. I'll have to remember that for next band practice)

Put on your seatbelts, I'm goin' in:

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

I am typing too loud and there's a crumb on my desk the cell phone sits before me like a dead frog and a squeaky frog no arms these speakers are pieces of shit but what do you expect Glad the death star isn't too expensive I just bit my ring fingernail biting nails I don't do that much though on my left hand only if everbecause I need my right ones for guitar picks I wonder if fingernails digest properly? I wonder if fingernails could eat, would they bite us, ring fingernail is short now took a ring once and pounded it flat with hammer to make sureit didn't fit was very proud became very hot and flew across the room lost it down there I did,permanent marker Mark Mark stretch marky mark and the Funk tape i used to listen to in 5th grade but it was actually rap, I called it funk though. it was fun Fun Fun Dip with the bone stick and happy kid on the package

Post-its and burritos I'll bring her a gunny sack fulla clear tape cause it makes fingers feel funny when touch the sticky side of it I hope chuck's cats are okay, that's too bad that happened poor kitty, hope he's not a pirate Chuck played a show with that metal guy the other night and his amp wasn't oon HAHAHA I remember when that happened to dad at the Civic Center, got a pope cards made fun of them offended elderly54654 6546 cold as shit outside I put goop in my hair from a strawberry colored can it smells nice it's expensive but I like how it smells and could have just let the wind mess it up instead mess up down Uptown Girl she's been living in her white bread world Billy Joel was awesome listenin to You May Be Right left right left Sgt. Baker is my name, I'm gonna teach you how to play the game of warfare Passion and Warfare the audience is listening Carol Channing Molly was a cool dog

You may be right, I may be crazy. Crazy Train, train your dog dogman, King's X Men's room with a view-master I wonder which box my KISS viewmasters are in quite dusty I see huge hairs across the Paul stanley pyramid pic but they are tiny when not magnified under viewmaster there was one with giants whe nI was a kid and it scared me therewas a boy with a checkered shirt. Belly full of sugary mocha no hershey star drawing on my whipped cream today walking back from coffee shop wind blew made face feel like celophane cell phone pain Mel Go Plane lego train water in the brain lumpy smoothie meat smoothie Ankle bracelet I saw Martha Steweart do a trick where she folded t shirt in 3 seconds I want to learn how she showed David Spade and he fucked it up I would too he was dressed up like her and had a little dog and a poncho on. this was before I was aware green eyelids existed Coincidence? David Spade, sign of things to come funny, he did ads for long distance too. 1800collect or something like that annoying commercials carrot top Topper Chopper Black Star War of the worlds on a jacknifed trailer trash white trash can of pears in my fridge I haven't thrown away I wonder how Franks io

====

TIME'S UP

Does your dry clean only shirt smell like B.O.? Act now.

I was walking down the street near my place the other day and a gentleman that looked sorta like Danny Aiello approached me from a new storefront in town. It is a dry cleaners. The floor is a giant black and white checkerboard and the place looks quite tidy, so I like it already. Problem is, most of what I own requires no dry cleaning, save for that one tie I bought back in 1994.

He emerged from the doorway and excitedly said to me "Excuse me sir. We are a new business in town, we do dry cleaning!" He had money saving certificates in his hand and passed one onto me. "$6.99 jackets, half of what Nokomis Cleaners charges!"

I looked at the sheet and thought aw shit, I don't ever take stuff to dry cleaners, but I wanted to help Dude out, 'cause he seemed friendly. I sensed his desperation, so tried to humor him by asking a question:

"You guys do socks?"

He winced a little, gave me a weird look, and I could tell I wasn't going to get anywhere with this guy by cracking jokes with him. Okay.. um.. "Oh, $6.99 jackets!" I said. "I've been meaning to take this old thing in!" as I wiggled the zipper up and down a little bit on my dark blue jacket. fwwt fwwwwwt!

"$6.99, I'll do it for you right now!" he said. Jeez, it's cold out and I have no other means of protection from our harsh climate right now. It's not like I had my Taun Taun parked at the curb that I could slit open and crawl inside to keep warm. I lost two already last winter doing that and am currently saving up for my next one. A Hybrid, no less.

I told him I'd be back with my coat tomorrow and he said "Okay!" and introduced himself, shaking my hand. I wanted to give him a hug and tell him business would get better, but kept it at a handshake.

Well, it's tomorrow now and I've got a few days left to go yet till payday. I've a car repair bill to pay for, so let me just say with that in mind having a nice smelling coat isn't my first priority at this time. I can see his storefront from my bedroom window and am wondering if he can see me. And he's probably wondering why I didn't come in like I said I would.

Now I can't take my usual walk to SA past his store, because he'll see me and there will be that awkward tension. This could all turn into a Seinfeld episode the way things are going: I live right across the street, he will see me outside, an across-the-street shouting match might ensue..

That's it. I need to bring my jacket in. Maybe I can go buy another one to wear while I have my current one in his shop. It will end up costing me $66.99 or something if I do that though.

Okay. So I'll just give the guy a shameless plug and hope that's good enough for my independent dry cleaner karma. If you live in Uptown and your DRY CLEAN ONLY duds are starting to carry a cloud of dusty been-sitting-in-a-closet B.O., act now and take 'em to Genesis Cleaners on Franklin. The prices are astounding (actually I have no idea about that) and the ambiance is something to be seen. This ain't your mama's dry cleaners. As the price list I have says, WE DARE TO COMPARE.

Somebody dare them, please. I only have one jacket and it's hella cold out right now.

Mark the calendar, I was actually embarrassed last night...

Those of you that know me are well aware that I have very little shame and do not embarrass very easily. Matter of fact I can't remember the last time I was embarrassed. What year is it? No.. Seriously, don't remember. Was prolly when I wasn't paying attention and accidentally walked into the ladies room in the Robert Street Mac-Donalds 4-5 years ago to a little girl warshing her hands looking at me like I was going to eat her (this was when I had hair down past my waistline and was extra scary looking!) Alls I wanted was to rinse the eggnog shake residuals off of my hands and suddenly there I was right in the middle of the makings of an evening news story.

Alas, I usually just don't care about silly shit and laugh it off.. And then there was tonight. My several year-long streak was finally broken.

Was on the phone with Tam-bourine yammering away and she started dozing off a lil', cause she works hard during the day helping dogs with yella skin and whatnot. That tends to take it out of a person, so I hear. I told her she best get some shut-eye because sleep is the best medicine, even if you're not sick. I bid her a proper farewell and she mustered up a few words in half asleep zombie slo-mo style to acknowledge that yes, it was bed time. I chuckled, hung up the phone, put it on my desk and went to check my email.

When I went to move my mouse, it scrolled over one of those irritating MySpace flash animation advertising banners that makes sound when moused over. This particular one had smiley faces on it and they were sassy as all hell. My speaker volume was up pretty high, and one of the faces angrily yelled "SAY SOMETHING!" to which another sheepishly replied "Whaaaat?"

Now here's the part where I lost it and crapped my drawers: I looked at my phone and realized I had not hung up; I had pressed the speakerphone button instead. So half asleep on the other end not having hung up yet, she heard a pissed off sounding "SAY SOMETHING!"..."Whaaat?" Panicking, I hung up hoping against hope that she'd dozed off and not heard a lick of that. Homey don't speak to people like that, raising my voice and sounding irate is simply not my style. I fell deep into a thought spiral and figured it prolly sounded as if I was pissed off yelling "SAY SOMETHING!" into the air 'cause she was dozing off. I don't like coming off as rude to nobody, especially when I never even made a peep such as in this case.

Seconds later, I regrouped and hit redial to check in with her and assess the damage. She was laughing her arse off and that was very relieving, and once I explained what went down, was laughing even more. *whew* Bullet dodged.

That's the sort of bizarre timing mishap you usually only see on Threes Company when Mr. Furley overhears something and misinterprets it, his eyes bug out, and wackiness ensues.

Like a sitcom, it was all resolved and peace was restored when all was said and done. Lesson learned: I'm making sure my PC is on mute and my phone is good and fuckin' folded in half from here on out before ending a conversation and checking email.

Start spreading the Gnus: Homey goes to NY

That's right, family members and few friends I've mentioned this to. In the "You Only Live Once" department, I found a very affordable airfare and am locked in to set foot on New York soil for the first (and prolly not last) time in a few weeks. It has been a dream of mine ever since I was 5 and saw a pic of KISS atop the Empire State Building, later learning they were from there, so it will be nice to cross that off the list of things to do. My plane stops in Warshington, DC on the way, so I'll be able to add that onto my list of states I've visited as well. It's only for an hour so I won't get to see much other than whatever's in the airport, but I'll at least be able to do a Burger King comparison and see if the bacon double cheeseburgers out there taste any different than here in MN. Because as we all know, each Burger King is independently owned and operated and they get their beef from the local ma and pa farms.


Granted I'll be about 5 hours from where this shot was taken, but still. Who cares. I'll be livin' it up and Wang Chung-ing with a very cool and entertaining host, not in Minnesota, and maybe at least fly over NYC and wave to the Empire State Building roof thanking it for making it one of my favorite KISS posters ever. I bought that poster the same day I served community service for nearly burning down the entire nature preserve behind my elementary school. And why did I do that? Because, well duh, I listened to too much KISS music.

I'm pretty excited. Even if all I can afford to eat on this trip is gum.

Sunshine makes you realize what a shitty paint job you've done

The sun is out and the skies they are cheerful. A pleasant change after yesterday's gloomy, overcast inclement conditions if I do say so myself. It makes me want to break into song and dance out on Franklin Avenue, and I would do so if I knew everyone out there was capable of singing along with me and dancing in synch atop of cars like they did in Fame.

When talking to mom on the telly-a-phone a few minutes ago, the upper area of my apartment walls caught my eye, the part where they meet the ceiling in particular. I just painted the place some pretty loud colors last weekend, and it just dawned on me when running my eyes across the walls that evidently I'm not capable of painting straight lines. The entire perimeter of the ceilings/walls in the living room is sloppy as all shit; I could have sworn I did a better job than that, but now with brilliant sunshine pouring through the windows, it looks like a 2nd grader came in here with a blindfold on and painted for me.

Peep this example of my Tang orange living room wall above the buffet:

Yeech. How exactly did I miss that? And it's pretty much like that all across the board, although that spot is a particularly bad miss.

I have the roller thing down pat. Rolling paint is way easy, and it's actually sort of fun. Maybe if there's a way to remove the ceiling so I can just be sloppy and roll the tops of the walls over the edge, everything would be fine. But seeing that someone is living on the other side of my ceiling, I don't believe this will be an option.

This is now bugging the Hell out of me... I knew I had some touch-up to do, but this looks like it's going to take a while, and I'm just not in the mood. Maybe I'll just have to invest in a big ol 10 gallon cowboy hat to wear so I can't see anything above eye level when I'm walking around in here. Or some of those flip-up shades for my glasses - I could just wear them flipped up all the time so they'd block my view.. and that way I would have that "Dwayne Wayne" look. You know, that guy from A Different World. Then I would have to go to the barber and get a fly fade, which I guess would be cool. I'll have them shave my hair into that Venetian blind-looking style on the sides of my scalp while I'm at it.

Hey, it beats killing 3 hours throwing a tarp on all of my stuff again and buying an edging brush.

Hey-seuss H. Crimeny.

How hard is it to get a freakin' pair of shoes?

I buy out of print Hurley Chuck Taylor knockoffs on Ebay, 'cause I'm pretty choosy with my footwear. They are comfy and long lasting and built much better than Chucks, not to mention I like the shape of the toes better; they're a bit more rounded.

So I ordered a new pair per usual, brand new still in box and quite inexpensive. They were UPS'ed to the wrong address about 2 months ago, 'cause I've moved about 1,000 times this year, and returned to sender. Just had them re-shipped for pickup at the UPS counter. Why the UPS counter and not my residence? Because UPS never comes when I'm home. I never received a call and learned today when I went to pick 'em up that they'd been returned to sender yet again. Why? Because I was not told that they were shipped and sitting at UPS waiting for me. Um. Thanks for calling like you said you would, UPS. Must be run by a bunch of men or something.

So now back they go to California or someplace like that. And once again, I have to pay $8 to have them re-sent. Gawd. Damn.

My current pair are falling apart. I walked over some dirt the other day and most of that dirt ended up on my socks because the sides are all ripped up. My feet felt like those gumballs filled with wee crunchy candy beads. But I refuse to give in and buy another pair now when I've already paid for a pair, providing I actually get to wear them someday.

So here goes another week or two at least without my dang shoes. At this point, it just might be more affordable to fly down there to pick them up.

FIDDLESTICKS. Darnit. FEH. Blah. Poo. Stoopidass dummies. Ninnies. Boobiefuckerheads. I hate waiting for things to be delivered like this. My $20 shoes are now almost double in price thanks to the triple shipping fees.

Why can't I just be happy with a nice pair of Eminem Taco Shoes of the Future from Foot Locker? It would just make life so much easier. But noooooooooo. That would be too easy now, wouldn't it?

I fart in UPS' general die-rection.

Got yer Speedy Rewards card?

Being the loyal SuperAmerica patron that I am, yes, I have a Speedy Rewards card. And hopefully you do too.

For those of you who don't have SuperAmerica gas stations in your hood, allow me to 'splain: The Speedy Rewards Card is a plan where you enroll for a free credit card thingy (and convenient keychain card) that racks up points as you make your regular purchases there. Once enough Speedy Reward points are accumulated, you redeem said points for spectacular savings. Example: 2,000,000 points or something like that will get you a free sweaty hot dog. 2 cents off per gallon of gas. A complimentary donut. And so on.

Something dawned on me the other day when asked for my Speedy Rewards Card. I think I'm onto what they're really doing. These cards aren't just for savings, oh no. SuperAmerica is tracking what we buy and it all goes into a secret database. Yet another way of Big Brother watching over you, disguised as savings. Points. They're watching your spending habits and what you buy closely and give the results to people in a secret cave somewhere wearing lab coats and goggles.

I envision gigantic boxes and file cabinets full of printouts in these caves. There's immense building-sized computers that this data is plugged into. Upon further examination of this data, strategic steps are then taken to alter the SuperAmerica environment in such a manner that will make you spend more money at their business. By putting posters up of "actual store managers" holding fizzy, bubbling fountain soft drinks and smiling at you with a hypnotic gaze. Perhaps they put gasses in the air that make you want to buy an extra cans of beef jerky snuff. Switch to the premium gasoline instead of regular.

It's all about turning us into SuperAmerica robots that will return to the stores almost without choice to give them our hard earned money for things we otherwise wouldn't buy. You can't fool me. Nope.

But I've got plans, yes I do. Nobody's going to pull the wool over this SA customer's eyes. I'm here to throw a wrench into their records and they don't even see it coming. Prolly never will, either.

As of today, I am going to shop at SA multiple times a day. And I'm going to buy as much stuff as I can regardless of whether I need it or not. Listerine, tampons, calculators, funnels, hairspray, cartons of generic mentholated cigarettes, and even food I don't like. And I'll slap that fuckin' card down on the counter with great gusto for each and every purchase, and the joke will now be on them.

I'll make like I'm putting gas into my car, but really I'll be dispensing it straight onto the pavement five minutes after my tank is full just to mess with the numbers. They'll be reading their silly printouts and thinking whoa, look at the jump in this guy's gas use. He sure is buying a lot of tampons. And what's with the 5 bratwurst he buys every visit? And all of those diapers? I'm even going to buy cereal there that I don't like.

I'm really going to mess their little Speedy Rewards plan up, and it's going to feel good. I'm going to have to get a second job to make this happen and be able to afford doing this, but I'm all for tampering with the system like that. They want to mess with me and track my convenience store spending habits? I'll get 'em back ten fold, just you watch.

Because he cared.

I had an interesting lunsh break today. It was spent at the Haaaaawhyte Castle eatery on University Avenue, mainly because I was short on cash money and hey, a little can go a long way when you're talkin' White Castle. Good chiggen sanidges there, try 'em. And go ahead all you White Castle knockers, have at it. Get it out of your system in the comments section if you need to. Just remember: We all have guilty pleasures in life and they should be embraced, not jeered and made fun of. Even if they are notorious for making people gas something awful.

So anyhoo, the patrons at this place are always interesting. I almost go there more to watch them than for the "food". It's like being in a VFW and an old folks home all at once.

Today's Customer of the Day Award Badge gets pinned upon the dirty parka of a guy I'll call Pig Pen. He was one of those seedy characters you immediately knew was not safe to make eye contact with. Tell tale sign was when he walked out of the men's biffy past a little old man minding his own beeswax eating his Sliders and reading the paper. Pig Pen took a look at him and said "Shut the Hell up!" in passing. Nice! He got some napkins, walked past us again, and sat down.

About 10 minutes later, I felt the lingering presence of a person approaching me from behind. I fixed my eyes real hard on the CityPages I was reading, putting on the best poker face of undivided concentration I could muster up. I knew damn well who it was: I was going to be the next victim or a walk-by Pig Pen-ning. You can just feel that stuff coming sometimes.

Sure as Hell, Pig Pen was now at the end of my table standing there steadfast, slightly swaying to and fro. I didn't make a peep 'cause I didn't particularly feel like being told to shut the Hell up at that time. He stood there for a few seconds and I made like I was readin' my paper and didn't see him there.

"Yoowansumunionships?" said he. Translated: "Dear boy, would you prefer to consume any of my leftover Onion Chips? I'd hate for them to go to waste."
"Oh, um, no thank you, I'm pretty full," I apprehensively responded.
"Huh, oggay.."

He stood there for a few more seconds as I thought to myself oh no. oh no. oh no. oh no...

He looked at my empty tray and mumbled "Well. You done eetin?"
"Yes," I sheepishly replied.
"Oggay... lemme take this tray for you then. Mmmmmmmmhh! You were hungree!"

He took my tray, disposed of my garbage properly, and went back and sat down. Little old man was looking at me blankly like "why the Hell did you get the royal treatment and he told me to shut the hell up?" I gave him a shoulder shrug and beats the shit outa me face.

I had 15 minutes left of my break and was quick to do the ol 'look-at-the-time' routine and quickly got up and out of there. 15 minutes could be an eternity if spent with this fella. At the rate he was befriending me, another 5 minutes and he'd be asking me to help warsh his beard and hair in the bathroom sink for him. And I just don't need to know how rich of a lather the soap in the White Castle restrooms are capable of creating.

It has since been decided that tomorrow I'm brown baggin' a lunch and staying within the safe confines of my work building. I like to make friends and all, but just wasn't feeling a connection with Pig Pen, sad to say.

I shouldn't have taken that nap...

First off before I get started - Owen rules! Please take a moment to peep what fellow guitarist/goofball Owen made for me the other day and posted in my MySpace comments section:



Now isn't that lovely?! I spit Cheerio milk out on my monitor when I saw that this morning, so kudos to you Owen for getting my day off to a rip roaring start. Another cool thing about Owen: he knows how to make a neat sound by bouncing an empty plastic cup on a microphone. If you read this Owen, isn't that always how it goes? You could play the most brilliant guitar work ever onstage and people will still remember you for things like that instead. I learned this when I started playing slide guitar with my cell phone. Not a complaint, just observation.

In other news, I messed up my sleep schedule something horrible yesterday. Got home from work feeling a lil under the weather and at Oprah:15, (or 4:15 as the rest of the world calls it), crashed on the sofa with Frank watching The Oaps, and dozed off.

I woke up seeing dark skies out my window and pooped my pants thinking it was morning and that I was tardy for work. I hate being tardy for work, mainly because I've been taking the bus lately and when a person misses a bus and is already late for work, they're pretty much fucked. Mainly because you have to wait 10 minutes for the next one to come by. And at as each bus passes, they only seem to become progressively more congested with more fearful riders that look at you like you've got 6 eyeballs on your forehead and smell like egg salad.

Lo and behold, it was only 10pm, and I was not late for work wakeup. 8 hours early, if anything. I was wide awake and nowhere to go. You know, because it was 10pm. Well there's Cub Foods and stuff like that, but.. um.. you know what I'm sayin'.

So, I up and recorded a new Finnegan song and plopped it up on le MySpace page. It's entitled “tba” for now and I like where it's going. Once I get an arrangement I'm happy with (who knows, this might be the final version - need to give it a few more listens), its real name will surface and will be available for download on the page.

And now here I sit at work dozing off at my monitor, almost to the point of drooling on my desk. I could have very well permanently botched up my sleeping schedule for life now. Way to go, Me. After recording and yammering on the phone with a homey, I went to bed at 2am and woke up at 6 for work. And this worries me. What if now my body wants to go to sleep whenever it sees Oprah, sleeps until 10, and then from 2am-6pm? What kind of deal is that? Cripes. I am incredibly tired, yet wide awake; all at the same time.

I guess all I can do at this point is down a bunch of Unisom sleep gels with several straight shots of espresso to try and balance things out. Just to keep my body in line and let it know who the boss still is around here. I will now hit the men’s room at work, gaze into the mirror swaying back and forth with red eyes and mutter through my teeth “You want to tamper with my sleep schedule, body? I'll show you, Beeeeyotch.”

At least I've got my favorite black tee shirt on today. Yes, that black tee shirt. It has since been laundered and it's nice to have it back.

GET ONTO THE BUS...

I've been using the bus line of our fine Metro Transit system lately due to the Death Star being out of commission and am quickly learning that each and every ride is an adventure in some way, shape or form. I haven't been on the bus in years, so wasn't sure what to expect.

I hopped on Monday morning for my first ride and everyone looked crabby and miserable. Understood. The only seat open for me to take was next to a cute old lady. No big deal, right? Not to me at least. I plopped down next to her and she moved as far away from me on the bench as possible, pressed hard against the wall of the bus and nervously twiddling her thumbs. I know I'm no Bob Eubanks, but gee wiz, settle the Hell down. I'm not going to take your dang purse. It's not just old lady, but it seems everyone on the bus has comfort zone issues. You sit next to them and they scoot over like you just rolled in a pile of rotten grass and have a big booger hanging out of your schnoz.

Maybe Metro Transit should look into dark tinted glass Jetsons-style pods that lower over the seats so no one has to touch, breathe, or even see one another. I dunno. Personally, I'm able to accept the fact that somebody's jacket may touch mine by accident while sitting shotgun and traveling from point A to point B on the bus. If there's some sort of bacteria on it, so be it, but I ain't ne’er heard of anyone getting Staff Infection or AIDS from such circumstances.

Yesterday a girl got on without paying the fare and sat down. Bus driver lady got on the horn and politely mentioned "You need to pay when you get on the bus, ma'am." Girlfriend gets up all sassyfrass and shit, walks up, scolds the driver for accusing her of trying to get a free ride, slams her change in the change thingy, and returns to her seat still mumbling. She then called her friend on her smell phone and rambled on for 5 minutes about how the bus driver wrongfully accused her, made an announcement over the intercom, etc., and might I add she was not using her inside voice.

This morning I had Mr. Mumblefuck for a driver. Every car that passed the bus was "fuckin'-this fuckin' that" - I counted about 7-8 effenheimers sneaking out of his orange bearded face during my 4 mile ride. I was getting off the bus to go to work and a gentleman with a bicycle was approaching the vehicle with the intent of placing his bike on the bike rack of the bus so he could hop on and catch a ride. Mr. Mumblefuck uttered a "aaaaaaaah fuckin' bicycle!" under his breath and off I went to work. Love you too, Captain!

I think I'm going to ride the bus more often. It's really a pleasant and refreshing reminder of how fun it is to get out and mingle with my fellow warm, receptive bus riding members of the Minneapplesauce area.

Tomorrow, I intend on initiating a change that will undoubtedly make our Metro Transit system a better place to ride. How, you ask? For starters, I'm going to dress up like Richard Simmons and make sure I start everyone's morning off with a nice sweaty hug. I might get some glitter on their coats, but hey, it just might brighten their day. The next morning, I'm planning on bringing my accordion on board to crank out a polka or two and try to have a nice 6:20am singalong with everyone.

And I quote Clark Griswald: "We're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles. You'll be whistling 'Zippety Doo-Dah' out of your assholes!”

Hope to see you on the bus!

Noodle (pan)cake

Just you take a gander at that delicious looking Michelina's lasagna, now. Give it a good stare and take it all in. Piping hot layers upon layers of noodles and homestlye Meat Sauce(TM). Just like mom used to make. So easy and convenient, ready in only 5 minutes and some change.

I wasn't in the mood to cook last night (a.k.a. all of my dishes are dirty) so I opted for the Michelina's frozen entree that I've been hanging onto for the last month. As you can see by the pic on the package, it looks incredibly delicious. I had an appetite of a horse, and certainly this would more than take care of it, so I thought. That's what lasagna does: you eat it so you can feel nice and sick. And full. I envisioned myself sprawled out on the davenport after consuming this meal, pants unbuttoned and in full lasagna hangover mode.

I peeled the corner of the box lid per the instructions on the package and popped it in the microwave for 4 minutes. I was salivating with delight looking at that image on the lid. Look at all that cheese, says I to myself. This is gonna be fuckin' yummy.

The microwave beeped letting me know that my feast was awaiting me. I removed it from the nu-cu-lar heating chamber and peeled back the lid to let it breathe. Clouds of toasty warm delicious smelling lasagna arose quickly into the air and fogged up my glasses.

I wiped the fog away and this is what was before me:

Um. Calling all porno film crew members: Is there a Lasagna Fluffer in the house?

That pic doesn't really do it justice, it actually looks flatter in person. Did somebody smash my lasagna? Was there a temp at the factory that day that maybe forgot some ingredients? Is this only the top layer, and other layers are sold separately? I shouldn't expect much for $1, but golly. This was sorta pathetic. 2 toilet paper square-sized noodles with a toilet paper thin layer of "cheese" in a puddle of watery orangish red Meat Sauce(TM). Yeech.

So all I could do was eat it. Maybe it's more filling than it looks, I tried convincing myself. About 1/4 of the way through, or so I though I was, the container was already empty. I ended up having to make 4 pieces of toast and eat a can-o-pears to compensate, and spent the duration of the evening with that not-so-full feeling, eating a bunch of crap.

Remember the annoying as all Hell Michelina's commercial with the starchy office lady who when removing her Michelina entree from the microwave at work became so excitable that she did the Macarena? After this experience, I'm starting to wonder if she was doing that because she was famished and completely delusional as a result. She was prolly relying on single servings of Michelina's entrees for her meals and a little out of it due to prolonged starvation. Poor thing, I now know her pain.

Meat Smoothie stats

Jeez! Don't you people have anything better to do? 100+ readers on this page today. Evidently I wasn't the only one slacking off at the office on a lame-ass tired Monday.

Glad you're stopping by, whomever the Hell you all are (hello, anonymous Norway visitor).. The readership is much appreciated and I'll have you all over for ice water sometime. Not just any ice water, but my secret recipe. It's all about putting the ice cubes in first, then the tap water.

Rapture on 11/6/05

a.k.a. Two lives simultaneously at stake. (Followed by steak later that evening)

Was driving down I94 in the Death Star yesterday afternoon on the phone with a dear friend of mine. I had just bought an edging brush to touch up my sloppy paint job in my new place, had a mocha betwixt my knees, and life was good.

Suddenly from out of nowhere, my car started a-rattling and smoking something awful and a red light came on the display with a graphic of a dripping oil can on it. Although the oil can graphic is sort of cute and cartoon-y, you could tell that it wasn't supposed to be illuminated like it was by the sounds the car was making. I pressed down on the accelerator the Death Star didn't seem to take that too well, just rattling more and saying "Fug you! I'm in no mood to get you from Point A to Point B today, Poopie Pants!"

At that same time she exclaimed "OH SHIT!" into the phone (or something to that effect), and alls I could hear was a fierce wind blowing on the other end. I started wondering if she had tied her phone to her car's bumper and gone for a drive. I guess some rather inclement weather conditions had suddenly developed. She was walking her wee pet in a park, and was in the middle of a bevy of tornadic activity laced with zaps of lightning, a downpour of rain, and wind. Lots of wind.

The phone signal was chopping up like an old McDonald's drive thru intercom, and I sort of heard her holla "CAN I CALL YOU LATER?" over the wind. Worried, I said “PLEASE DO!” loud and clear and before I knew it, the display on me smell phone read Call Ended. My eyes fixed themselves back on the red oil light which was still shining vividly. It was like looking into the eyes of Satan.

The Death Star was getting more upset by the second, still vibrating and smoking. I feared it was going to stall on 94 and that I was going to be robbed and man-raped, left for dead, and that friend and her wee pet on the other end were flying around in the air like all that shit was in that tornado movie Twister with Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt.

I began to suck my thumb and make baby noises. Childhood flashbacks were passing through my brain like a subway train blurring past you in a dark station. I only had 2 miles to go before home, but was certain the Death Star wasn't going to make it. Those two miles now were 200, and every time I hit the gas, the car seemed to go slower and I felt like I was actually traveling further from home than closer. Tunnel vision set in. Dollar signs flew before mine eyes, visions of towing and auto mechanic bills shooting past me. I started to miss Frank. I envisioned myself on the side of the highway with my thumb out facing westbound traffic trying to hitch a ride. I wondered if Friend and wee pet were now embedded in a tree like you see in the papers when winds are so strong that they cause nails and other things to impale tree trunks.

Five minutes later I made it home alive. I pulled the Death Star to the curb and smoke was billowing from beneath the hood. It sorta looked like the Delorean from Back to the Future, all silent and smoky with a faint hiss from the engine. I checked a newspaper in a nearby stand just to make sure that I hadn't just entered a tear in the time/space continuum while all that shit went down. Thankfully it was still 11/6/05, at least according to the paper.

I called pops who is an auto mechanic genius, and he's going to come out and take a look at the car for me. In the interim, I live right on the bus line which is quite convenient. Worse comes to worse, I've got the Pinto stored away at Rancho Relaxo and can use that as backup if need be. At least until that starts rattling and smoking, at which point I will start shopping around for a mule.

Friend and wee pet checked in a little later and ended up being okay as well. They suffered severe power outages from the storm and allegedly ended up eating cold steak and brownies at the family dinner, but at least everyone was still alive and well fed.

Myself on the other hand: I went home exhausted and sat down to take a load off. The chair collapsed beneath me and I fell onto the floor and cracked my head open on the oven.

Well, not really, I actually simply crashed on the davenport and watched some tee-vee. But you’ve got to admit, the chair and head cracking open thing would have added an extreme angle of drama and suspense to this story and would have been pretty fuckin’ cool to tell people about some years later, drooling in a wheelchair and whatnot. So let’s just go with that ending instead, shall we?

Thanks Mom

I just read that a recent Harvard study shows that when a mother eats a lot of fish while a baby is in the womb, the child is apt to be smarter.

I'd just like to say: Thanks, mom - you must have been eating a shitload of fish back in '73.

Stream of subconsciosness

Yeah, so there's nothing to write about at this time. But having the obsessive compulsive creative microchip installed in my brain that I do, I feel compelled to write anyways. If I don't make something at least once a day, be it a bunch of typed words, music, or cookies, I get a little batty. Must. Create.

I used to do this a while back and it was always sorta fun and people always liked it: Set the clock at a certain amount of minutes and just type whatever the hell comes to mind, fuckin' fast as I can paying no mind to spelling/grammatical errors and just posting it. This is something our engrish teacher Mrs. Bonfig made us do in 9th grade, was the only thing I liked about that class and a creative tool I still use today. Bonfig, like many others, pulled me aside after I skipped her class for the 2 dozenth time, expressing concern that maybe my home life wasn't so good. I'm sure she thought I was hopped up on goofballs. I know she thought that. Couldn't have been more wrong on both accounts, but I didn't bother defending myself because she was just another person misunderstanding me and I had no reason to prove anything to her. She was my engrish teacher, snot like we hung out and played Nintendo together or anything. Not to mention, she had that morning/coffee breath that teachers get, and she had it something awful.

I digress.. Without further ado:

8 minute 37 second Stream of Subconsciosness

Webcam photos are funny, the way they blur and the persons face is all blue from the monitor and you can see their room in the background. LIstening to guitar and singing music right now, it reminds me of mildew in a good kind of way. THe record player makes a lot of popping sounds. The girl at Caribou gave me 3 beans on my mocha again either she wants me to be extra caffienated or is unaware that 1-2 beans is good enough. No, really. Lady at Antique Mall was glad to see me again, she thinks I stole her glasses but I tell her no, trust me I bought them with my flex spending plan at the time. She loves to talk with me, but they didn't have any dinette tables I liked and had to get to grandmas gave me the puppydog face as I left sauid NO worries, I'll be back when I have more time but only if you have that music on you did last timne! It was the underscore for A christmas Story, Canon something something I think , she told me the name but I didn't write it down. She always asks if I've found a "lucky lady" yet what's that supposed to mean? Like one that wins stuff all the time??I tell her yes, my father's dog, but you don't let dogs in here, she'd knock everything over with her tail anyhowsWHimsical crazy old art ladsy are funny, they scare me sometimes don't make too myuch eye contact with them or they start freaking you out. recently learnedI like peach scented stuff, so long as it's subtle it's weird that sort of surprises me= I don't usually like stinks. This orange is a bit much,we'll see if it grows on me I see some streaks but arms hurt too much for touchup

Baking soda pop can I borrow a tissue paper mache penguin bat man on the running scared with Billy crystal and the other guy Whatever ha]ppend to Paul ROdrigez, he was in Quicksilver. And Yukov Smirnoff, I LOAF THEESE COANTREE! HHEP HEEEP HEEP Imogen Heap The canoe of love, funny story glad it all happened actuallywas tooeasy want to send a thankyou cardMust fix the clock, I broke some spokes off and that's a bummer. NY, NY been on the brain , green eyelids hope the hair dye didnt' sizzle, why can't I run into such spectacularicity at the hot dog rollers while buying a donut. very awesome humanperson behind the green eyelids.I minds me of Tom Hanks, Bacheolor Party was good movie hanky was mom and dad's parakeet and then there was Bob who would wrap his wing around your fingers and his pupils would dialate

AOL Instant Messenger bag brown bag lunchtime whatever the Morris Day and the TIme car keys, string and a double A-battery fixin to make a pan off eggs with shitake fungus and carmelized onionssssssssWOO HOO says the music man, screensaver of pink shoes is cool kicking balloons while playing onstage is a test of one's concentration 5 people can fit in my place last nightas long as they leave their bags and any detachable limbs in the hall Kids in the Hall mthanks for the new profile pic but can I pay you tuesday for a Hamburger next Wednesday Correct as usual King Friady Lady aberlin aberdeen absolut abcess abdominal candy coated thermostat wristband fisher price barn caked with oild childrens hands smudges primer on the perimeter of the basement wall loves having autn Joan here want a new printer got paint on mine and its a piece of shit out house new house newcastle whitecaslte Jerry Casale Mark Mothersbaugh potatohead toilet seat collar glasses with eyebrows french fry in a donut hole great video my shoes is ramblin, got the freight tr

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Time's up! Ah. Time to get on with my day.

And the dumbarse award of the week goes to.. me.

I've been walking past an article of clothing on the floor of the hallway of my apartment building the past few days. I figured somebody must have dropped it on the way to or from the laundry room.

It sort of became a friend to me, in passing I would say "Hello randomly placed piece of clothing, I hope your owner sees you there and claims you soon." I felt like I should at least pick it up and fold it, or set it aside and out of harm's way. But instead I just left it there. Didn't want to pick it up because ew, what if it was dirty, ya know? And I'm not about to soil my good set of kitchen tongs to pick up somebody's dirty clothes either, so there it sat on the floor for a good 3-4 days.

Last night on the way to the Laundromat, I passed by this article of clothing yet again and gave it the usual friendly greeting. "Hello piece of clothing on the floor. I know somebody out there misses you, just give it time and you'll be home again." I contemplated doing my good deed for the day and throwing it in with my stuff, but my "ew gross" feelings kicked in and I left it there, wondering if anyone was ever going to claim it. Poor thing.

So I arrived at the Laundromat, dumped my clothes in the warshing mat-cheens, and sat and read the CityPages, listening to an episode of Seinfeld on the telly. There's a billiard table in this particular Laundromat that I was sizing up thinking hey, that's pretty awesome, next time I'll have to bring some beer and friends. I'll buy the games, they fold my clothes.

About an hour later, I was emptying the dryers. The dryers there are so big that I'm mighty tempted to climb in one and have somebody throw in a few quarters just to see what the ride is like. Sorry, I digress. So I was standing before the dryers folding my bodily furnishings and noticed that my favorite black tee-shirt that I'd been looking for the past few days was missing. It's sort of a detrimental staple of my wardrobe, as it hugs my arms and trunk just right, is rather soft, and it's not too taut around the boobie area. I love it so.

And then it hit me. On went the often burnt out imaginary light bulb over my head: Aaaaah CRIPES! That's my favorite black shirt that everyone including myself has been stepping over in the apartment hallway.

Well Gall-dammit.

So home I went, lugged alls of my clean laundry back in and up the stairs, all the while wishing I had a mule to do this sort of hauling for me. And sure enough, there it was on the floor in the hall where it had been for the last 4 days: my black shirt. I have been wanting to wear it quite badly lately and couldn't find it. And I had just fed a million quarters to the Laundromat to wash what I thought was all of my dirty clothes. But nope. Not the favorite black tee-shirt, and hell if I'm gonna throw away a $2.25 laundry load on just one tee-shirt. The thrill of having it back and wearing it again just isn't worth it. Even if it's my favorite one ever like this one. So now I have to wait at least another 5 days when things pile up before I can have it smelling all pretty and wear it once again.

Gee wiz, I really hate when shit like this happens.

Onion Boy Rides Again

I'm very paranoid about having B.O., exspeshilly living in the area I do which is flourishing with punk rockers that harbor a perma-cloud of onion-esque aroma around their persons 24/7. Walk into the SA on Lyndale at any given moment and you'll smell what I'm getting at. Not so bad now as it's colder out and most wear jackets these days which contain their funk quite effectively. But your nose still gets slapped by it every so often no matter how many layers a person has on.

I ritualistically apply some pit-stick at least twice a day and take great pride in how lovely my armpits usually smell (feel free to ask me to lift an arm to take a huff if we're ever hanging out and see for yourself, they're really quite refreshing). I was a little out of it this morning and am sitting here at work now, just realizing that I had neglected to apply my usual AM coating of underarm protection to get me through the first half of the day. I'm not catching any unpleasant man musk aromas creeping from my pits, but I know I didn't take the usual protective measures this morning and that makes me feel a lil' at risk. And now here I sit developing chronic paranoia of the hygiene kind, my arms firmly planted against my trunk in fear of somebody walking past me and potentially catching a hint of Micycle Musk, thinking "Geez, does this dude ever take a bath?"

I know - sitting with my arms down is only going to make it worse, but at the same time I don't want to lift them, 'cause you, know, what if there actually is a funk of some sort happening? "What you don't know can't hurt you," or so they say.

So I have a few options here:

1) Go home during lunch, run to my precious antiperspirant stash, and relieve the paranoia (this would also include a shirt change as an added bonus).

2) Walk up to the drug store and spend $4 on some. I already have, like, 4 sticks at home because this has happened before and I've ended up buying it in lieu of wasting my lunch break going home. So I don't really need anymore, really. Not to mention I have this firm belief that deodorant goes bad and loses its potency over time. Also, there's better things to be spending $4 on, like bad overpriced coffee.

3) Just put on my happy hat and do nothing but suck it up for the next 6 hours. Ugh, the very notion of that just kills me.

What to do, what to do. I’m looking at my watch and my left heel is nervously bouncing up and down on the floor.

Is it getting hot in here?

A well hung banana is a happy banana

Get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. Okay, now on with today's entry:

I've always been an avid user of banana hangers. Bananas are an extremely precious, delicate food and they need to be treated as such. Bananas hanging in the air getting proper circulation = recipe for perfectly ripened bananas.

There's a mysteriously placed plastic hook on my wall in the kitchen above the oven. I couldn't figure out what to put on the hook but it was there, and being the resourceful person I am I felt obligated to make use of it. I invested in some bananas yesterday and placed them on the hook. This is ideal in several ways: I will save on counter space by not using my countertop banana hanger. I also discovered that bananas look pretty awesome hanging on a wall. And to their benefit, there is a very subtle aura of heat always lingering above the stovetop which may serve as a tropical climate emulator and make the bananas feel more at home.

One thing that perplexes me though about banana hangers is what to do when only one banana remains. If you've never used a banana hanger, let me tell you this: you can not hang a single banana on a hook. It's sort of sad, you know. The last banana of the bunch sort of gets the shit end of the stick with this deal. It spends all of its life adjoined to the other bananas and in many cases is just left for dead once it is the only banana to remain. Why? 'Cause you can't hang it. It just sits on the countertop and as each second passes, it ripens faster in the non-ventilated area (i.e. the side resting on the countertop). And in most cases it's already well towards the overly-ripened stage, as it's been around longer than all of the other bananas. Sure, it could go towards a batch of banana bread, but my recipe calls for 3-4 overly ripened bananas, not just one that's extra dark and mushy on one side.

Perhaps it is time for me to invent the better banana hanger. I will take the standard banana hanger and affix a strong clamp upon it with which to suspend the final banana to keep a fresh supply of air around all sides of it at all times.

Attn: Baker's Catalogue. I love your publication and page through it like a dirty old man does to Penthouse. If I were to crank out, say, 200-300 of these new and improved Better Banana Hangers, would you be willing to consign a couple hundred of them? I'd be willing to barter for some good quality King Arthur flour.. Let's make a deal.