Saturday January 28th was not just any Saturday. Oh no, it was Women's Expo Saturday. To all the Manly Man Dudes scoffing right now, go ahead and be jackasses and poke fun at it, I don't care. To Hell with the whole lot of ya, you don't know what you're missing. You wouldn't know a good time if it stood up and gassed right in your face.
It's truly the shit. I was hooked the first time I went quite a few years back and have made a point of it to go back since. To those of you who have never been, it's basically a big auditorium filled with booths of people pimping various products and services. The best part, however, is the free samples, which there are many of.
Take last year for example: I actually had to go to the car to empty our stash bags out and make room for more. It gets heavy carrying around all of that free shit you get. Vitamin gumballs, various trial size samples of shampoos, soaps, and other topically applied bodily toxins.. foods, detergents, coupons, cereal, oh my. And that's only the stuff you take home. There's also copious amounts of ready-to-eat samples of cake, soup, salad, cheeses, meats, juice, ice cream, candy you name it, its there. Be sure to bring your appetite I'd always tell people.
Basically you're paying $10-15 to gorge yourself like a little piggy on a million different foods, get at least a pillow case full's worth of take-home booty, and be surrounded by hundreds of glorious womens (with the occasional grumpy bored husband that was dragged along and doesnt know what a good time is.) The first year I went I was all like Hellllllll yes, sign me up for the next 10 years please! If a bomb were to ever drop, I thought to myself, this is the place I'd want to be. These things are like a People Watcher's wet dream. You ain't seen nothin' till you've been in a mile long line for free Nestle Drumsticks watching people impetuously elbow one other as the hander-outers repeatedly exclaim "One per person!" like trained monkeys. Muthafukkin' Survival of the Fittest to the extreme; that's right.
One year we even caught a Rick Springfield concert as a special Women's Expo extra, and let me tell you. There's nothing like watching Rick smash a dozen roses on his guitar to the delight and amusement of hundreds of screaming, ravishing ladies. Rick still got it goin on.
So last week my seester Lisa, who was taking her daughter to be initiated into her first ever Womens Expo experience called and invited me along. Needless to say I was in like Liza Minnelli at some pretentious washed up asshole celebrity wedding with an open bar: I pretty much said "Yes!" before she was even done asking.
Saturday morning 9:30am
Lisa and my lovely niece Deb picked me up from my weekend morning coffee/book ritual at my preferred local caffeine emporium. I had just sucked back one of the best iced mochas ever and made sure to do my bag carrying stretches, frothing at the mouth in anticipation over being part of yet another one of these freak shows. By golly, I was frothing so feverishly it looked as if someone had just fed me a box of Alka Seltzer.
And off we went to the Minneapplesauce Convention Center for our Girls Day Out. One $9 parking ramp tab and 4 block walk later, there it was: Women's Expo 2006. Right through the gates we each nabbed a lovely red Channel 5 News window scraper which we dropped into our red Channel 5 News bags. We shook the bags a little to make sure they hit bottom, making room for the stash to come.
Such a magnificent bounty awaited us. Such anticipation. Such splendor. All under one convention center dome-shaped roof. And Hell if anyone was going to get in my way this year at the Fruit Stripes booth. Oh no. I was ready to fight, and I was going to fight hard for my free stuff. It's the crux of what this fine country of ours was built on: Freedom and the willingness to fight for it.
Channel 5 Bags in hand, we all moved forward.
To be continued. Please tune in back to http://www.meatsmoothie.blogspot.com/ over the next few days for the exciting Women's Expo 2006 conclusion. (Cliffhanger blawg format inspired by Debbie Cakes)
Monday, January 30, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
I kicked Artificial Intelligence's ASS.
I've been a lil' hooked on the game 20 Questions (the online version) since reading about it on a message board last year. For those of you unfamiliar, long story short, you think of something and it’s supposed to guess what you’re thinking within 20 questions, hence the incredibly clever name of the game. It's really quite fun - you can play it for free here or go buy a sassy little ball version of it for $15-20 in stores.
Recently, I wondered if 20 Questions was familiar with what a Micycle is. Sadly, it really had no clue. Here's each question that it asked me followed by my answer:
1. It is classified as Animal.
2. Can it be trained to obey commands? Yes.
3. Does it swim? No.
4. Does it have paws? No.
5. Does it have hooves? No.
6. Does it have a cold nose? Sometimes.
7. Can you see it in a zoo? Sometimes.
8. Is it a type of bird? No.
9. Is it a specific color? Yes.
10. Does it weigh more than 1 ton? No.
11. Is it dangerous? Doubtful.
12. Is it bigger than sofa? No.
13. Does it like to run? Sometimes.
14. Is it very large? No.
15. Does it have a long tail? No.
16. Does it make noise? Yes.
17. I guessed that it was a chimpanzee? Wrong.
18. Does it grunt? Sometimes.
19. I guessed that it was a bonobo? Wrong.
20. I guessed that it was a seal? Wrong.
21. Does it eat seeds? Sometimes.
22. Does it need love? Usually.
23. Have you seen one in real life? Yes.
24. Does it come in many varieties? No.
25. I guessed that it was an orangutan? Wrong.
26. Is it an insect? No.
27. Does it make a good pet? Sometimes.
28. Is it originally from Europe? No.
29. I guessed that it was a baby? Wrong.
Q30. I am guessing that it is a pug? Wrong
You won!
Okay. Now here's where it gets interesting. 20Q actually had the nerve to disagree with some of my answers! Dude, I think I know me better than you, you stoopid artificial intelligence. Here's what 20Q.com told me after I was done handing its ass to it on a silver platter:
Contradictions Detected
The opinions of the AI are its own and are based on the input of people playing. It does not matter if our answers disagree, as over time my answers will change to reflect common knowledge. If you feel that I am in error, the only way to fix it is to play again.
Does it swim? You said No, I say Yes.
Does it have a cold nose? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Can you see it in a zoo? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Is it a specific color? You said Yes, I say No.
Does it eat seeds? You said Sometimes, I say Doubtful.
Does it come in many varieties? You said No, I say Probably.
Does it make a good pet? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Um. Yeah. Nice try, but wrong on all accounts. I eat punkin and sunflower seeds sometimes. I only come in one variety. I go to the zoo sometimes. I never really learned how to swim. 20Q, you don't know me.
Here's what it told me next. A list of Similar Objects:
Similar Objects a chimpanzee, a bonobo, an orangutan, a baby, a pug, a kestrel (falcon), a seal, Mickey Mouse (cartoon character), an ape, a celebrity, a boston terrier, a ballerina.
Sure, I guess I'm cool with all of that. And last but not least, when you're done playing, 20Q challenges your answers one last time:
Uncommon Knowledge about me 20Q thinks these may be wrong
Is it commonly used? I say Probably.
Do you use it in public? I say Probably.
Can it help you find your way? I say Yes.
Is it annoying? I say Probably.
Does it provide protection? I say Yes.
Can it carry people? I say Yes.
Okay, so I guess it may have a few good points there. Anywho, I’m glad to say that I kicked Artificial Intelligence’s ass fair and square. Go ahead and try and call me a chimp or a ballerina, I still won. Sticks and stones, 20Q. Sticks and stones.
Recently, I wondered if 20 Questions was familiar with what a Micycle is. Sadly, it really had no clue. Here's each question that it asked me followed by my answer:
1. It is classified as Animal.
2. Can it be trained to obey commands? Yes.
3. Does it swim? No.
4. Does it have paws? No.
5. Does it have hooves? No.
6. Does it have a cold nose? Sometimes.
7. Can you see it in a zoo? Sometimes.
8. Is it a type of bird? No.
9. Is it a specific color? Yes.
10. Does it weigh more than 1 ton? No.
11. Is it dangerous? Doubtful.
12. Is it bigger than sofa? No.
13. Does it like to run? Sometimes.
14. Is it very large? No.
15. Does it have a long tail? No.
16. Does it make noise? Yes.
17. I guessed that it was a chimpanzee? Wrong.
18. Does it grunt? Sometimes.
19. I guessed that it was a bonobo? Wrong.
20. I guessed that it was a seal? Wrong.
21. Does it eat seeds? Sometimes.
22. Does it need love? Usually.
23. Have you seen one in real life? Yes.
24. Does it come in many varieties? No.
25. I guessed that it was an orangutan? Wrong.
26. Is it an insect? No.
27. Does it make a good pet? Sometimes.
28. Is it originally from Europe? No.
29. I guessed that it was a baby? Wrong.
Q30. I am guessing that it is a pug? Wrong
You won!
Okay. Now here's where it gets interesting. 20Q actually had the nerve to disagree with some of my answers! Dude, I think I know me better than you, you stoopid artificial intelligence. Here's what 20Q.com told me after I was done handing its ass to it on a silver platter:
Contradictions Detected
The opinions of the AI are its own and are based on the input of people playing. It does not matter if our answers disagree, as over time my answers will change to reflect common knowledge. If you feel that I am in error, the only way to fix it is to play again.
Does it swim? You said No, I say Yes.
Does it have a cold nose? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Can you see it in a zoo? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Is it a specific color? You said Yes, I say No.
Does it eat seeds? You said Sometimes, I say Doubtful.
Does it come in many varieties? You said No, I say Probably.
Does it make a good pet? You said Sometimes, I say No.
Um. Yeah. Nice try, but wrong on all accounts. I eat punkin and sunflower seeds sometimes. I only come in one variety. I go to the zoo sometimes. I never really learned how to swim. 20Q, you don't know me.
Here's what it told me next. A list of Similar Objects:
Similar Objects a chimpanzee, a bonobo, an orangutan, a baby, a pug, a kestrel (falcon), a seal, Mickey Mouse (cartoon character), an ape, a celebrity, a boston terrier, a ballerina.
Sure, I guess I'm cool with all of that. And last but not least, when you're done playing, 20Q challenges your answers one last time:
Uncommon Knowledge about me 20Q thinks these may be wrong
Is it commonly used? I say Probably.
Do you use it in public? I say Probably.
Can it help you find your way? I say Yes.
Is it annoying? I say Probably.
Does it provide protection? I say Yes.
Can it carry people? I say Yes.
Okay, so I guess it may have a few good points there. Anywho, I’m glad to say that I kicked Artificial Intelligence’s ass fair and square. Go ahead and try and call me a chimp or a ballerina, I still won. Sticks and stones, 20Q. Sticks and stones.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Dear Oprah: Don't be hatin'.
In case you haven't heard, let me sum up this recent Oprah Winfrey gnus story for you:
1. Oprah Winfrey reads James Frey memoir "A Million Little Pieces"
2. Oprah believes its claim to be a harrowing nonfiction account of the authors struggle with chemical dependency
3. Oprah pimps book to her audience as her Book-O-the-Month
4. Everyone follows Oprah's word, buys book, reads it, also believing it's nonfiction
5. Whistle is blown on author James Frey, saying many details in book are bogus and ornate
6. Oprah calls into Larry King shortly thereafter saying "Na-AHHHHHH! It's real, dummy!" and sticks her tongue out at him
7. Oprah realizes she was wrong
8. Oprah has author James Frey on her show to flame him and hopefully make herself not feel like such a jackass.
While hearing news clips on the radio of her flaming this James Frey guy the other day, I got to wondering if Oprah reads my blawgs. You know, I'm sure Oaps grabs her boy toy Stedman, picks out hats for them to wear, and then they take their iBook and hit the local Starbucks on weekends. He reads the newspaper and sips on a cup of lukewarm water, and she hits up Blogger and MySpace to see what I'm up to. 'Cause Oaps and I, we go back a long way (she likes it when I call her 'Oaps'.) We worked at a Musicland together back in the late 80s before her talk show really took off.
Oaps, I just wanted to tell you that what I write in these journals is all 100% true personal experience and all from the heart... So don't you be reading my offerings and getting all skeptical and shit. You can't be hatin' just because of being burned by this phony Frey guy.
I really do want a pet giraffe. I really did lose my watch that one time and find it under a sock. I really do have a blind neighbor that accidentally crawls into my bed at night after cleaning my apartment and eating all of my hot dogs. I did have a torrid love affair with Olivia Newtown-John. There really is a bald alien man at my local coffee shop that is studying my behavior.
Its all fer real, and you had better live up to your promise of featuring my book in your Book-O-The-Month club once its published. After all, you dont want me leaking that little secret of ours from the Musicland days out to the tabloids, now, would you? You know the one involving me finding you and my girlfriend at the time in the stockroom making out? Man that room reeked of marijuana something fierce.
1. Oprah Winfrey reads James Frey memoir "A Million Little Pieces"
2. Oprah believes its claim to be a harrowing nonfiction account of the authors struggle with chemical dependency
3. Oprah pimps book to her audience as her Book-O-the-Month
4. Everyone follows Oprah's word, buys book, reads it, also believing it's nonfiction
5. Whistle is blown on author James Frey, saying many details in book are bogus and ornate
6. Oprah calls into Larry King shortly thereafter saying "Na-AHHHHHH! It's real, dummy!" and sticks her tongue out at him
7. Oprah realizes she was wrong
8. Oprah has author James Frey on her show to flame him and hopefully make herself not feel like such a jackass.
While hearing news clips on the radio of her flaming this James Frey guy the other day, I got to wondering if Oprah reads my blawgs. You know, I'm sure Oaps grabs her boy toy Stedman, picks out hats for them to wear, and then they take their iBook and hit the local Starbucks on weekends. He reads the newspaper and sips on a cup of lukewarm water, and she hits up Blogger and MySpace to see what I'm up to. 'Cause Oaps and I, we go back a long way (she likes it when I call her 'Oaps'.) We worked at a Musicland together back in the late 80s before her talk show really took off.
Oaps, I just wanted to tell you that what I write in these journals is all 100% true personal experience and all from the heart... So don't you be reading my offerings and getting all skeptical and shit. You can't be hatin' just because of being burned by this phony Frey guy.
I really do want a pet giraffe. I really did lose my watch that one time and find it under a sock. I really do have a blind neighbor that accidentally crawls into my bed at night after cleaning my apartment and eating all of my hot dogs. I did have a torrid love affair with Olivia Newtown-John. There really is a bald alien man at my local coffee shop that is studying my behavior.
Its all fer real, and you had better live up to your promise of featuring my book in your Book-O-The-Month club once its published. After all, you dont want me leaking that little secret of ours from the Musicland days out to the tabloids, now, would you? You know the one involving me finding you and my girlfriend at the time in the stockroom making out? Man that room reeked of marijuana something fierce.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Micycle's Thursday morning Bitchfest
Here's some tings that bug me.
wHEN i'M TYPING AND LOOK UP TO SEE THAT ALL OF THE LOWER CASE LETTERS ARE IN CAPS AND ALL OF THE CAPS ARE IN LOWER CASE BECAUSE OF ACCIDENTALLY HITTING THE STOOPID "caps lock" KEY
Beverages that only make me perpetually more thirsty for more of the same beverage. Grape juice and lemonade = #1 non-thirst quenching culprits. But I do love them so.
Why, oh why do men frush the terlit as they pee? This seems to only happen at wall urinals and it's the dumbest thing I ever did see. It's like they know the steps, just have 'em in the wrong order. Ladies, I don't know if you do the same; I'm guessing not, as it would involve a reach-back for you. You could possibly do some irrevocable harm twisting something.
Bananas that turn too quickly. There is a 24 hour threshold in which I prefer my bananas: slightly speckled. Just before the point that they start to look like the shoulders of a 50 year old woman who spent too much time in the sun. Iffn' I don't eat them in that 24 envelope, they ripen even more quickly and I'm fucked. I either end up with too many overly matured bananas or not enough perfectly ripe ones. That said, It's banana bread time this weekend!
People that reek of ashtrays and onions that breathe in my general direction. Nuff said.
No matter which music or book store I go to, it always seems that someone's standing in front of the letter I need to look at. Case and point: last night was at Barnes and Noble with a friend. I went to the "D" section of the CDs and 3 people were crowded around it reading every last word on every CD cover. Rest of the music area? Wide open for browsing.
I rent movies and never watch them. And more often than not, I return them late. Why?
Which reminds me. I think it's time that Blockbuster renames their bullhunky "restocking fee" for late movies back to "late fees". You're not fooling anyone. Old is the new new, go back to the old name. We all know you pay your employees the same to restock a late movie as you do the on time ones.
Clients at work that give me their email address with a www-dot before it.
My driver's side wiper is always the first to go, even if I replace both at the same time. Is it because the driver's side wiper is looked at more when driving?
The fact that there's an empty spot where fur won't grow on my left sideburn. Sharpie needs to make a "fur" colored marker (with a fine point, please)
When I need to speak with a contact NOW at work on behalf of a client who is on hold. I press 700 numbers and go through 8 menus only to get their voicemail.
People that make loud suckling noises whilst eating greazy food and suckling their fingers. Your finger is not a teet. There's a time and a place when it can be fun, of course, but eating isn't that time.
Once you open a tube of saltines, if you don't eat the whole tube in an hour or so, they are no longer crispy. Sensitive little devils, those saltines.
No matter how many times I've sat through it, I'll still watch the Time Life infomercial with Barry Williams and that one chick for the Hits of the 70s CD set. I guess you do the best with what you've got when you don't have VH1.
When I clean my glasses and put them on and my finger accidentally touches the lens and leaves a smudge. And by the way Frank, I love you little fella, but please leave the cap of my eyeglass cleaner spray alone.
I have a pound of perfectly good ground coffee which was ground for a drip brew mat-cheen and alls I've got is a French press.
Having to pay 50 cents to put air in my tires at SA.
MySpace sluts that send me a message simply saying sumpin' like "Do I know you?" or "hey, was I at your show last week?" I go to peep their page because, hell, I don't know, only to see an external webcam link and their top 8 which consists solely of muscle doods whose arms and chests make them look like a big dumb sack of oranges. Not to mention they don't seem to know what shirts are.
Neighbors that smell like buttery microwaved cabbage. Not naming any names, and said neighbor is hella nice, but I have to breathe through my mouth when chit chatting in said neighbors apartment and still get a lil' sick.
People that write blogs complaining about stuff because they're bored.
On that note, I'll close this motherfucker out with a poem:
Happy little hampster rolling in his ball,
He didn't see the stairs and he had a tragic fall.
wHEN i'M TYPING AND LOOK UP TO SEE THAT ALL OF THE LOWER CASE LETTERS ARE IN CAPS AND ALL OF THE CAPS ARE IN LOWER CASE BECAUSE OF ACCIDENTALLY HITTING THE STOOPID "caps lock" KEY
Beverages that only make me perpetually more thirsty for more of the same beverage. Grape juice and lemonade = #1 non-thirst quenching culprits. But I do love them so.
Why, oh why do men frush the terlit as they pee? This seems to only happen at wall urinals and it's the dumbest thing I ever did see. It's like they know the steps, just have 'em in the wrong order. Ladies, I don't know if you do the same; I'm guessing not, as it would involve a reach-back for you. You could possibly do some irrevocable harm twisting something.
Bananas that turn too quickly. There is a 24 hour threshold in which I prefer my bananas: slightly speckled. Just before the point that they start to look like the shoulders of a 50 year old woman who spent too much time in the sun. Iffn' I don't eat them in that 24 envelope, they ripen even more quickly and I'm fucked. I either end up with too many overly matured bananas or not enough perfectly ripe ones. That said, It's banana bread time this weekend!
People that reek of ashtrays and onions that breathe in my general direction. Nuff said.
No matter which music or book store I go to, it always seems that someone's standing in front of the letter I need to look at. Case and point: last night was at Barnes and Noble with a friend. I went to the "D" section of the CDs and 3 people were crowded around it reading every last word on every CD cover. Rest of the music area? Wide open for browsing.
I rent movies and never watch them. And more often than not, I return them late. Why?
Which reminds me. I think it's time that Blockbuster renames their bullhunky "restocking fee" for late movies back to "late fees". You're not fooling anyone. Old is the new new, go back to the old name. We all know you pay your employees the same to restock a late movie as you do the on time ones.
Clients at work that give me their email address with a www-dot before it.
My driver's side wiper is always the first to go, even if I replace both at the same time. Is it because the driver's side wiper is looked at more when driving?
The fact that there's an empty spot where fur won't grow on my left sideburn. Sharpie needs to make a "fur" colored marker (with a fine point, please)
When I need to speak with a contact NOW at work on behalf of a client who is on hold. I press 700 numbers and go through 8 menus only to get their voicemail.
People that make loud suckling noises whilst eating greazy food and suckling their fingers. Your finger is not a teet. There's a time and a place when it can be fun, of course, but eating isn't that time.
Once you open a tube of saltines, if you don't eat the whole tube in an hour or so, they are no longer crispy. Sensitive little devils, those saltines.
No matter how many times I've sat through it, I'll still watch the Time Life infomercial with Barry Williams and that one chick for the Hits of the 70s CD set. I guess you do the best with what you've got when you don't have VH1.
When I clean my glasses and put them on and my finger accidentally touches the lens and leaves a smudge. And by the way Frank, I love you little fella, but please leave the cap of my eyeglass cleaner spray alone.
I have a pound of perfectly good ground coffee which was ground for a drip brew mat-cheen and alls I've got is a French press.
Having to pay 50 cents to put air in my tires at SA.
MySpace sluts that send me a message simply saying sumpin' like "Do I know you?" or "hey, was I at your show last week?" I go to peep their page because, hell, I don't know, only to see an external webcam link and their top 8 which consists solely of muscle doods whose arms and chests make them look like a big dumb sack of oranges. Not to mention they don't seem to know what shirts are.
Neighbors that smell like buttery microwaved cabbage. Not naming any names, and said neighbor is hella nice, but I have to breathe through my mouth when chit chatting in said neighbors apartment and still get a lil' sick.
People that write blogs complaining about stuff because they're bored.
On that note, I'll close this motherfucker out with a poem:
Happy little hampster rolling in his ball,
He didn't see the stairs and he had a tragic fall.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Lack of work ethic leads to memories of Rosanne the celophane-eating pig
Ever just not in the mood to work some days? That would be nearly every day for me, but it's decent enough pay to keep me going. Not to mention my bout with joblessness last year learned me one thing: jobs aren't that easy to find, so stick with it until something better pops up.
Regardless, some days my lack of work ethic is much thicker than others. Sadly, my fear of boredom trails into my work life, and if what I'm doing doesn't keep me entertained, off I go into la la land to ex-cape (such as right now.) I'm sort of at the Taint portion of my working life right now, finding myself suffering from a case of "how can people do this for more than a year?!" and feverishly searching for a job that I would be better suited for. It will happen, I've just got to stick it out here until it does... It's only been 6 months, it's not the end of the world.
Sometimes I have to deal with customers via the internet and am just flabbergasted by the sheer ignorance and helplessness humans can exhibit. Jeebus people, it's called a telephone. Get off your arses and make a dang phone call! It would be so much easier for you. And there's this thing called the internet with the information you seek right at your fingertips. Seeing that you're contacting me via the internet, you already know what it is. Uncle Micycle is not getting paid to sit here and wipe your bumcheeks for you. This ain't no nursing home, you know what I'm sayin?
At any rate, I reckon it's time for a stream of conscious brainstorm session for a project I'm trying to work on. So if you're not in the mood for my usual scatterbrained clusterfuck of words that spews out when I do this, we should probably part ways at this point. Have a good day!
And if you want to hang in there, get comfy and read on. I'm not going to spell check or edit, just layin' this shit out as fast as can be and leaving it for what it is to read later and a) think what the hell is that? then b) likely get some ideas from it.
5...4....3....2....
Pitter patter pancake batter, I make peanut butter pancakes it's the recipe with peanut butterAsk me how? I'll stumble and tumble. I don't know what football means. Not a word. Wishy dishwashysometimesAll you can do is watch when such poor decisions are made and let them learn for themselves. A good egg means nothing to those blinded by revenge. It happens in slow motion and they often learn too late if at all. Meatatarians watch videos at the state fair about meat while gnawing on smoked turkey jerky and sipping on a shake
Pigs, they are so cute and tasty. I would like a pet pig someday, I once sold a potbellypig named Rosanne and she ate celophane. Her owner did not follow instructions and strangled her to death with a dog leash.Chinchillas and domesticated fox too, Amadeus was a snippy little bastard. Grapepopsicle stick stained glued together make a raft to float down the curb after it rains.Don't you bite me when I clean your cage, I am here to help. Eat your crickets.The funk of the sleeping hamster was unlike any other. Mr. D said "I have a secret" and pulled his hair back to reaveal that itwas a snap on and he was bald as a peeled hard boild egg.
Mork mork mork I wish I could have played guitar for XTC. There is nothing more entertaining than a Womens Expo. I try to go every year, Lisa said she's goingand hell yeah, I'll join along if I can find the time running short on vitamin gumball samples and want to see them budging in line for free food samples. security to the drumstick booth please, we have another incident and a bloody nose. Woman down, woman down.
Cross combover to the yellow and black striped sign, it tells you you shouldn't go that way but you do anyhow and that's the way the coffee crumbles,Rick Springfield smashing roses on his telecaster. Chef Brockett hair follicles trained to stay neatly in place.
Bush Collision Center located Dallas Dodge, motherfucker. Lady with a shopping bag bumps her arm
Denise stood at the escalatorEyes closed tightly, cheeks start to hurt Tippy toe on the sideways comb Fear of stairs, fear of Honeycombs and bees freeze fry yourself up an honeycomb and pour some sap on it for good measure.Cracked an eyelid open just a slit, And in her pants she wanted to shit.
I think you're funny. Bye bye.
Regardless, some days my lack of work ethic is much thicker than others. Sadly, my fear of boredom trails into my work life, and if what I'm doing doesn't keep me entertained, off I go into la la land to ex-cape (such as right now.) I'm sort of at the Taint portion of my working life right now, finding myself suffering from a case of "how can people do this for more than a year?!" and feverishly searching for a job that I would be better suited for. It will happen, I've just got to stick it out here until it does... It's only been 6 months, it's not the end of the world.
Sometimes I have to deal with customers via the internet and am just flabbergasted by the sheer ignorance and helplessness humans can exhibit. Jeebus people, it's called a telephone. Get off your arses and make a dang phone call! It would be so much easier for you. And there's this thing called the internet with the information you seek right at your fingertips. Seeing that you're contacting me via the internet, you already know what it is. Uncle Micycle is not getting paid to sit here and wipe your bumcheeks for you. This ain't no nursing home, you know what I'm sayin?
At any rate, I reckon it's time for a stream of conscious brainstorm session for a project I'm trying to work on. So if you're not in the mood for my usual scatterbrained clusterfuck of words that spews out when I do this, we should probably part ways at this point. Have a good day!
And if you want to hang in there, get comfy and read on. I'm not going to spell check or edit, just layin' this shit out as fast as can be and leaving it for what it is to read later and a) think what the hell is that? then b) likely get some ideas from it.
5...4....3....2....
Pitter patter pancake batter, I make peanut butter pancakes it's the recipe with peanut butterAsk me how? I'll stumble and tumble. I don't know what football means. Not a word. Wishy dishwashysometimesAll you can do is watch when such poor decisions are made and let them learn for themselves. A good egg means nothing to those blinded by revenge. It happens in slow motion and they often learn too late if at all. Meatatarians watch videos at the state fair about meat while gnawing on smoked turkey jerky and sipping on a shake
Pigs, they are so cute and tasty. I would like a pet pig someday, I once sold a potbellypig named Rosanne and she ate celophane. Her owner did not follow instructions and strangled her to death with a dog leash.Chinchillas and domesticated fox too, Amadeus was a snippy little bastard. Grapepopsicle stick stained glued together make a raft to float down the curb after it rains.Don't you bite me when I clean your cage, I am here to help. Eat your crickets.The funk of the sleeping hamster was unlike any other. Mr. D said "I have a secret" and pulled his hair back to reaveal that itwas a snap on and he was bald as a peeled hard boild egg.
Mork mork mork I wish I could have played guitar for XTC. There is nothing more entertaining than a Womens Expo. I try to go every year, Lisa said she's goingand hell yeah, I'll join along if I can find the time running short on vitamin gumball samples and want to see them budging in line for free food samples. security to the drumstick booth please, we have another incident and a bloody nose. Woman down, woman down.
Cross combover to the yellow and black striped sign, it tells you you shouldn't go that way but you do anyhow and that's the way the coffee crumbles,Rick Springfield smashing roses on his telecaster. Chef Brockett hair follicles trained to stay neatly in place.
Bush Collision Center located Dallas Dodge, motherfucker. Lady with a shopping bag bumps her arm
Denise stood at the escalatorEyes closed tightly, cheeks start to hurt Tippy toe on the sideways comb Fear of stairs, fear of Honeycombs and bees freeze fry yourself up an honeycomb and pour some sap on it for good measure.Cracked an eyelid open just a slit, And in her pants she wanted to shit.
I think you're funny. Bye bye.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
You sexy chockit malt, you.
Monday, 9:35pm
You spoke to me from afar. From 1 and a half blocks away, to be exact. I was all cozy and warm, yet you suddenly wormed your way inside of my head from out of nowhere.
It was like in Donnie Darko, as if my Solar Plexus Chakra trailed out of my stomach, out the apartment door, down the stairs, and up Franklin Avenue, showing me where to find you.
I got dressed. I slipped my Vans on, put on my blue coat, and pulled the hood up over my head. My scalp felt all tingly and weird because I just had my hair cut, but that didn't phase me. You had me in the palm of your hand, and not even a good scalp tingling sensation was going to deter me from making you mine.
I walked up Franklin like a zombie. A transient asked me for change, but alls I could do was grunt, keep looking ahead, and walk on forward. The neon glow of your shop's sign shined brilliantly. It was all I could look at as I stood waiting to cross the street in front of the perpetually vandalized Cotty Lowry sign. You would soon be mine.
I crossed the street and walked through the door, bumping shoulders with a nice young lady on her way out. I snapped out of my trance enough to apologize, she said "oh no it was my fault!" and then realized this was no time for dilly dallying. Back into my trance I went. Yet again it was as if I was underwater looking up at the surface to see the sun shining brightly, the majestic big ball of fire it is, behind a buoyant chockit malt.
Up to the counter I went. I pulled my hood off of my head, felt another new haircut scalp tingle and said 1 chockit malt please, and paid for you. Divine creation commenced.
"Would you like whipped cream on this, sir?" Hell no I would not. I didn't want anything more to come between us. Usually whipped cream is more than welcome, but with you it would only be one more thing to get out of the way.
One minute and 37 seconds later, there you were in my hands. You were so thick that the spoon your creator stuck in you remained motionless as I carried you home.
Every spoonful and sip of you was better than the last. You coated my mouf with a cold, yet somehow warm layer of chocolaty bliss. Such comfort. Frank reached his paw up at you and all I could do was make a scary face and hiss at him to protect you, sending him scurrying off to his food dish and putting him in his place.
The bottom of your cup appeared all too soon and I gave it a few taps to make sure I could ingest every last drop of you. Still somewhat conscious, I heard the empty cup being set upon my desk and felt my arms fall to my side. There I sat like Gumby in my office chair with the best malt hangover ever, knowing that someday soon you will meet my lips once again... but not soon enough.
Someday...
You spoke to me from afar. From 1 and a half blocks away, to be exact. I was all cozy and warm, yet you suddenly wormed your way inside of my head from out of nowhere.
It was like in Donnie Darko, as if my Solar Plexus Chakra trailed out of my stomach, out the apartment door, down the stairs, and up Franklin Avenue, showing me where to find you.
I got dressed. I slipped my Vans on, put on my blue coat, and pulled the hood up over my head. My scalp felt all tingly and weird because I just had my hair cut, but that didn't phase me. You had me in the palm of your hand, and not even a good scalp tingling sensation was going to deter me from making you mine.
I walked up Franklin like a zombie. A transient asked me for change, but alls I could do was grunt, keep looking ahead, and walk on forward. The neon glow of your shop's sign shined brilliantly. It was all I could look at as I stood waiting to cross the street in front of the perpetually vandalized Cotty Lowry sign. You would soon be mine.
I crossed the street and walked through the door, bumping shoulders with a nice young lady on her way out. I snapped out of my trance enough to apologize, she said "oh no it was my fault!" and then realized this was no time for dilly dallying. Back into my trance I went. Yet again it was as if I was underwater looking up at the surface to see the sun shining brightly, the majestic big ball of fire it is, behind a buoyant chockit malt.
Up to the counter I went. I pulled my hood off of my head, felt another new haircut scalp tingle and said 1 chockit malt please, and paid for you. Divine creation commenced.
"Would you like whipped cream on this, sir?" Hell no I would not. I didn't want anything more to come between us. Usually whipped cream is more than welcome, but with you it would only be one more thing to get out of the way.
One minute and 37 seconds later, there you were in my hands. You were so thick that the spoon your creator stuck in you remained motionless as I carried you home.
Every spoonful and sip of you was better than the last. You coated my mouf with a cold, yet somehow warm layer of chocolaty bliss. Such comfort. Frank reached his paw up at you and all I could do was make a scary face and hiss at him to protect you, sending him scurrying off to his food dish and putting him in his place.
The bottom of your cup appeared all too soon and I gave it a few taps to make sure I could ingest every last drop of you. Still somewhat conscious, I heard the empty cup being set upon my desk and felt my arms fall to my side. There I sat like Gumby in my office chair with the best malt hangover ever, knowing that someday soon you will meet my lips once again... but not soon enough.
Someday...
Sunday, January 22, 2006
F**k you Caribou Coffee for making me late, but thanks for the free mocha
Dear Caribou Coffee:
It's all your fault. I had a 9am meeting to be at on Saturday, and I'll be damned if I was going to be late, 'cause when you're late to meetings at work, you have to donate "a buck" to the "Buck Jar". The contents of the Buck Jar are donated to a notable charity of the company's choice at the end of the fiscal year.
(Why is a dollar referred to as "a buck" anyhow? I've always found that to be a little irritating. When looking up the definition of the word buck, one can clearly see that any mention of a federal note is absent. One of the definitions in particular caught my eye: Offensive. A Native American or Black man. I've never heard of such a thing, but I feel the need to mention that seeing how part of this meeting was dedicated to appropriate behavior in the workplace, we seem to have a bit of an issue here. When I arrived at 9:04am, you were throwing that word around at me like it was going out of style. This boy is all honkey, mind you, but still. If you're going to be preaching about not using inappropriate language and then turn around by starting the meeting off doing just the opposite, what kind of example do you think that sets for your employees?)
I digress.
Okay, back to you, Caribou. You know you've got me in the palm of your hand, as you're conveniently located right on the way to my workplace. It's all part of your plan being one of the Big Guys - location, location, location. After getting my ass handed to me on a silver platter the night before playing Extreme Uno (thankyouverymuch Jess), I was definitely in need of some caffeine to stay awake for this 3 hour meeting. It was 8:45am and I figured time would allow me to make that pit stop.
So I ordered my mocha and the kind lady behind the register asked if I'd like to fill out a brief survey and have this mocha on the house today. Sure! Why not? Free is good. Free is way better than $4. And alls I have to do is fill in little check boxes? Psssht... Bring it on. So I left a $1 tip, took a survey form and headed to a table.
It took me 10 minutes. I was blinded by the prospect of a free mocha and for a brief moment of time, the excitement of it all caused me to forget that I was supposed to be somewhere. Oh, and nice survey, by the way. You tried to fool me by asking how likely I would be to order soup if you carried it, and then asked again a few questions later to see if I was being consistent and paying attention. Yes, I was, thank you. If I say I'm not going to buy soup once, what makes you think that 3 seconds later I might change my mind and check a different box? Oh yes, now that you've given me space and time to think it out, my heart has now changed direction on this issue. Bring on the muthafukkin' soups!
I know where you get this trick from: the border patrol. Our cabin is right up by the Canadian border and I crossed over into Canada once (I heard the candy is really good over there so had to check it out.) They were constantly asking the same questions in different ways to try and catch me in a fib, but failed miserably: No Sir, I am not harboring any potatoes or firewood in my car. No Sir, I am still not harboring any potatoes or firewood in my car.
Alas, I filled out your silly survey, collected my "free" mocha, and remembered oh yeah, I'm supposed to be at work in 3 minutes. 7 minutes and a lot of scurrying later, I arrived in the office to everyone greeting me with "There's Krenner! That's a buck! That's a buck!"
Mmm HM! No, you didn't hold a gun to my head and make me take that survey. But offering me a free mocha is almost worse than that, for free is more often than not an irresistible term - particularly when it's pertaining to something rather overpriced that I spend too much money on in the first place.
That said, come Monday morning I'll be at your establishment and have a survey ready for your employees to take before they go into work. I will not be offering any free stuff, I'm sorry to say. Well.. maybe I'll let them keep the dull No.2 pencils. As part of the payback, I'll make sure they're the kind with hardened erasers that leave dark oily smudges on the paper rather than erase.
And I'm going to cap that survey's ass off with an essay question, so warn them ahead of time to have their thinking caps on. The main topic at hand will be as follows: How Micycle should simply get out of bed 15 minutes earlier, use his French press, and maybe actually start getting to work on time for once.
Discuss.
It's all your fault. I had a 9am meeting to be at on Saturday, and I'll be damned if I was going to be late, 'cause when you're late to meetings at work, you have to donate "a buck" to the "Buck Jar". The contents of the Buck Jar are donated to a notable charity of the company's choice at the end of the fiscal year.
(Why is a dollar referred to as "a buck" anyhow? I've always found that to be a little irritating. When looking up the definition of the word buck, one can clearly see that any mention of a federal note is absent. One of the definitions in particular caught my eye: Offensive. A Native American or Black man. I've never heard of such a thing, but I feel the need to mention that seeing how part of this meeting was dedicated to appropriate behavior in the workplace, we seem to have a bit of an issue here. When I arrived at 9:04am, you were throwing that word around at me like it was going out of style. This boy is all honkey, mind you, but still. If you're going to be preaching about not using inappropriate language and then turn around by starting the meeting off doing just the opposite, what kind of example do you think that sets for your employees?)
I digress.
Okay, back to you, Caribou. You know you've got me in the palm of your hand, as you're conveniently located right on the way to my workplace. It's all part of your plan being one of the Big Guys - location, location, location. After getting my ass handed to me on a silver platter the night before playing Extreme Uno (thankyouverymuch Jess), I was definitely in need of some caffeine to stay awake for this 3 hour meeting. It was 8:45am and I figured time would allow me to make that pit stop.
So I ordered my mocha and the kind lady behind the register asked if I'd like to fill out a brief survey and have this mocha on the house today. Sure! Why not? Free is good. Free is way better than $4. And alls I have to do is fill in little check boxes? Psssht... Bring it on. So I left a $1 tip, took a survey form and headed to a table.
It took me 10 minutes. I was blinded by the prospect of a free mocha and for a brief moment of time, the excitement of it all caused me to forget that I was supposed to be somewhere. Oh, and nice survey, by the way. You tried to fool me by asking how likely I would be to order soup if you carried it, and then asked again a few questions later to see if I was being consistent and paying attention. Yes, I was, thank you. If I say I'm not going to buy soup once, what makes you think that 3 seconds later I might change my mind and check a different box? Oh yes, now that you've given me space and time to think it out, my heart has now changed direction on this issue. Bring on the muthafukkin' soups!
I know where you get this trick from: the border patrol. Our cabin is right up by the Canadian border and I crossed over into Canada once (I heard the candy is really good over there so had to check it out.) They were constantly asking the same questions in different ways to try and catch me in a fib, but failed miserably: No Sir, I am not harboring any potatoes or firewood in my car. No Sir, I am still not harboring any potatoes or firewood in my car.
Alas, I filled out your silly survey, collected my "free" mocha, and remembered oh yeah, I'm supposed to be at work in 3 minutes. 7 minutes and a lot of scurrying later, I arrived in the office to everyone greeting me with "There's Krenner! That's a buck! That's a buck!"
Mmm HM! No, you didn't hold a gun to my head and make me take that survey. But offering me a free mocha is almost worse than that, for free is more often than not an irresistible term - particularly when it's pertaining to something rather overpriced that I spend too much money on in the first place.
That said, come Monday morning I'll be at your establishment and have a survey ready for your employees to take before they go into work. I will not be offering any free stuff, I'm sorry to say. Well.. maybe I'll let them keep the dull No.2 pencils. As part of the payback, I'll make sure they're the kind with hardened erasers that leave dark oily smudges on the paper rather than erase.
And I'm going to cap that survey's ass off with an essay question, so warn them ahead of time to have their thinking caps on. The main topic at hand will be as follows: How Micycle should simply get out of bed 15 minutes earlier, use his French press, and maybe actually start getting to work on time for once.
Discuss.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Happy Birfday to Joe B. on bass!
Dear Joe Berkman,
Happy Birthday to the bestest Iced Ink bassist ever.
Just for you:
Gee, I sure hope I set this to "private" so only you can read it, Joe. It would be a terrible and embarrassing shame if everyone were to see this, you know?
Happy Birthday to the bestest Iced Ink bassist ever.
Just for you:
Gee, I sure hope I set this to "private" so only you can read it, Joe. It would be a terrible and embarrassing shame if everyone were to see this, you know?
Friday, January 20, 2006
How to have really heavy clothes for only $2.50
Last night during a good ol’ late night Target shopping spree, I was going through my head picking out my attire for the day to follow as I usually do. People think I’m deep in thought sometimes and yeah, I am, but it’s usually unimportant shit like that. Regardless, I was proud to be defying Oprah’s hypothesis that men aren’t multitaskers. What the fuck you call shopping for a Dustbusta, walking, sipping on some water and thinking about what I’m gonna wear to work tomorrow, HUH OPRAH? Who’s the big shot now?
As I was going though the different shirt and jean options in my head, it occurred to me that it was time to do laundry. Every article of clothing I could think of was presently residing in the hamper beneath a wet towel from my shower that morning. All that remained for me to wear on my lower half were a) a pair of flood-cut Levis and b) a pair of black heavy metal jeans. Mmmmyeah, thanks, but no thanks.
So I got home around 10 and lugged my 2 loads of laundry down and figured heck, might as well throw my 1 set of bedsheets I own in there as well, they’re about due. 10 quarters and 2 capfuls of detergent later, I was on my way to living a life full of clean, fresh, neatly folded bodily furnishings.
30 minutes passed and I went down to switch to the dryers. One of my neighbors was on her way out of the laundry room:
“Hey Micycle – is that your laundry in there?” said she.
“Yes it tis,” I kindly replied.
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I think both machines are broken and no one put a note on them.”
I thanked her for the heads up, we bid each other a good night, and into the laundry room I went.
Upon entry, I was greeted by the faint smell of something resembling burning engine belts in a car. The time display on both mat-cheens read “2” and they were shaking and smoking something fierce. I waited the storm out for a few minutes, but nothing really changed.
I lifted the lid to each mat-cheen only to discover that they each stopped doing what they were made to do somewhere around the “filled up with soapy water” cycle of the wash. How it was that 2 separate mat-cheens simultaneously broke down like that is beyond me, but they sure did.
There’s no way this stuff was remotely dryer-ready, so I took ‘em all out, sopping wet, getting soapy water all over the damned place, and lugged that shit back outside and to my building, up 3 flights of stairs, leaving a nice trail of soapy water all along the way. My Vans were hella soaked and making a weird squishy noise as I walked. I felt a strange effervescent sensation between my toes. And let me tell you something: if you think a lot of laundry is heavy when it’s dry, just you try carrying it when it’s wet. I felt like a dang mule hauling that stuff up there. Props to the mules and other farm animals; hauling shit is hard.
I learned that Laundromats are not open at 10:45pm, and this saddened me. So today I chose the flood-cut Levis (my, how apropos). They’re a might bit too short around the ankles and make me feel like I have hula hoops swishing around them when I walk. And it’s gonna be that way until I hit the Laundromat tonight after work to spend prolly $20 restoring my clothes to how they’re s’posed to be.
To my specs-wearing accomplice for the evening: there will be no better time for ale, greazy foods, and malts, I reckon. Bring that shit ON!
As I was going though the different shirt and jean options in my head, it occurred to me that it was time to do laundry. Every article of clothing I could think of was presently residing in the hamper beneath a wet towel from my shower that morning. All that remained for me to wear on my lower half were a) a pair of flood-cut Levis and b) a pair of black heavy metal jeans. Mmmmyeah, thanks, but no thanks.
So I got home around 10 and lugged my 2 loads of laundry down and figured heck, might as well throw my 1 set of bedsheets I own in there as well, they’re about due. 10 quarters and 2 capfuls of detergent later, I was on my way to living a life full of clean, fresh, neatly folded bodily furnishings.
30 minutes passed and I went down to switch to the dryers. One of my neighbors was on her way out of the laundry room:
“Hey Micycle – is that your laundry in there?” said she.
“Yes it tis,” I kindly replied.
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I think both machines are broken and no one put a note on them.”
I thanked her for the heads up, we bid each other a good night, and into the laundry room I went.
Upon entry, I was greeted by the faint smell of something resembling burning engine belts in a car. The time display on both mat-cheens read “2” and they were shaking and smoking something fierce. I waited the storm out for a few minutes, but nothing really changed.
I lifted the lid to each mat-cheen only to discover that they each stopped doing what they were made to do somewhere around the “filled up with soapy water” cycle of the wash. How it was that 2 separate mat-cheens simultaneously broke down like that is beyond me, but they sure did.
There’s no way this stuff was remotely dryer-ready, so I took ‘em all out, sopping wet, getting soapy water all over the damned place, and lugged that shit back outside and to my building, up 3 flights of stairs, leaving a nice trail of soapy water all along the way. My Vans were hella soaked and making a weird squishy noise as I walked. I felt a strange effervescent sensation between my toes. And let me tell you something: if you think a lot of laundry is heavy when it’s dry, just you try carrying it when it’s wet. I felt like a dang mule hauling that stuff up there. Props to the mules and other farm animals; hauling shit is hard.
I learned that Laundromats are not open at 10:45pm, and this saddened me. So today I chose the flood-cut Levis (my, how apropos). They’re a might bit too short around the ankles and make me feel like I have hula hoops swishing around them when I walk. And it’s gonna be that way until I hit the Laundromat tonight after work to spend prolly $20 restoring my clothes to how they’re s’posed to be.
To my specs-wearing accomplice for the evening: there will be no better time for ale, greazy foods, and malts, I reckon. Bring that shit ON!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Dr. Finkelstein and the White Coats vs. the Minneapplesauce Earthlings
Every morning at 6:45am when I go to get coffee before work, I see this weird bald dude wearing sunglasses in the coffee shop reading the paper. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Dr. Finklestein in that one Tim Burton movie. You know, that one that Hot Topic is basically an exclusive storefront for.He's as much of a fixture there as the chairs and tables. As I walk in, here's usually what goes down in my head: Hi CityPages rack. Hi book trading shelf. Hi mixing station. Hi Weird Bald Guy Reading Paper. Hi bakery case... And then I arrive at the counter to greet the barista and place my order.
He's there every morning that I go in, and I've gone in several hours after 6:45am on occasion and he's still there. Sitting on the sofa as if he has grown onto it, legs crossed, sunglasses on, reading the paper.
Why the sunglasses at 6:45am? Me no understand. Is he in the Paul Shaffer Club? The more I look at him, the more it doesnt really look like he's reading the paper. I'm starting to wonder if he has no eyes at all. What if he's a robot sent down by the aliens and has been stationed there? What if instead of eyeballs, there are cameras installed in his eye sockets and he's recording my every move and all of my coffee drinking habits? And the newspaper? What if it's a communication device where he's able to project what he's filming onto the newspaper via his special sunglasses? And the newspaper in turn sends the images up to a satellite where the aliens study us?
I had better change my coffee drinking habits, just to throw a wrench into their plan, whatever that plan may be. Instead of an iced mocha, I'm getting a soy latte next time. And I'm going to ask them to crush up a day-old scone and put it in the cup first then make the latte and put it in said cup.
I just want to see if this will get a rise out of Dr. Finklestein. As I place my order, I will be sure to say it very loudly so he hears me. Then as I pretend to look at the shelf of board games while waiting, I will peep over at him to see if he nervously adjusts his newspaper, talks into a microphone in his sleeve.. you know. Any sort of signal that might tell me he's on to my change in behavior and reporting this to the Mother Ship. And the next day if he's not there? Likely means I scared him off.
That said, my soy latte I'm going to order with a crushed up day-old scone in it could very well be saving the world from extraterrestrial domination.*
Just in case, I'll just say this ahead of time: You're welcome.
* I'll be damned if that sentence just didn't make me sound like the world's biggest fucking nerd..
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
ketchup!
I'm baaaack! Finally got all caught up with the cross posting of journal entries. I think last one I posted here was Jan 4th, so we've all got some catching up to do. Get a nice cup of hot chockit, make yourself cozy, and read on, my friends.And Spanks for your patience over the past couple of weeks.
The Pus. N.
In the abbreviation "Dr.", you subtract the letters octo and add a period to make it shorter. And with "Jr.", unio are removed from the word to make that shorter.
Does this mean we can take words like "octopus" and "union" and change them to "pus." and "n."? If so, I'm all for it. Especially if there’s somebody who writes the phrase Octopus Union a lot. I doubt there is such a person, but if they're out there and reading this, I just saved them a lot of time.
It’s highly unlikely that such a Union exists. Perhaps that means I need to up and start a Pus. N. myself just so I can make good use of this thought provoking marriage of time saving abbreviations.
Does this mean we can take words like "octopus" and "union" and change them to "pus." and "n."? If so, I'm all for it. Especially if there’s somebody who writes the phrase Octopus Union a lot. I doubt there is such a person, but if they're out there and reading this, I just saved them a lot of time.
It’s highly unlikely that such a Union exists. Perhaps that means I need to up and start a Pus. N. myself just so I can make good use of this thought provoking marriage of time saving abbreviations.
Product makes me mad.
When I say Product, I'm referring to hair goop. Three years ago I made the wise decision to chop my Cousin It hair off and thought it was gonna be easy. Well it is, I guess; I don't get hair in my soup anymore. My hair doesn't get stuck in my zipper after using the Biffy or zipping up my jacket. No more split ends. It doesn't take 4 hours to dry after a shower. Thankfully, I don't get hit on by as many 45 year old heavy metal moms anymore. It doesn't get stuck under body parts causing a stranglehold on my noggin during.. um.. while practicing my rassling moves. Yeah. That's what I was going to say.
Anywho. With the convenience of the dapper new me comes the price of maintenance and upkeep. I've pretty much been using the same kind of goop on my du since chopping it off; it's a cute little red can of "matte fibre gum" (mmm!) and my main gripe is its not all that inexpensive.
I was at Target last night and figured what the heck. Maybe I should switch things up a bit and try something more affordable... So I swooped on over to the Product aisle. Truth be told I just felt like opening and smelling stuff, but this was as good of an excuse as any to do so. While standing there checking the bouquet of the various Products, I began to develop a fondness for a teeny Carmex sized container of pomade. The price was right, so I put it in my basket.
Today marks the introductory Target Goop trial run and I'm not really falling in love here. My mop is strangely oily, yet crispy all at once. I feel as if I rubbed a piece of fried chiggen on my head and then sprayed it down with some polyurethane.. not to mention I think it's starting to make me a lil' itchy. *sigh*
Evidently you get what you pay for with Product, and this makes me sad. I don't like spending my precious recreational moneys on pricey red cans of hair goop. I fear that my follicles have become so accustomed to being pampered with the more costly Product that now they just reject the cheap Product right off the bat. I've been trapped! Maybe I'll get some good Product pointers come Friday when I'm able to consult with a bona fide "crazy hair" specialist.
I love the red can stuff, but would like to think there's a less expensive option. Perhaps I could go the There's Something About Mary route. As much as I'd like to start every day off that way, there isn't always time, you know? I wake up pretty early as is.
I'd never do it, but the Daddy Warbucks look is sounding more and more enticing as time goes by. But then Id have to start buying Nair, and from what I hear that shit just stinks to high heaven.
Anywho. With the convenience of the dapper new me comes the price of maintenance and upkeep. I've pretty much been using the same kind of goop on my du since chopping it off; it's a cute little red can of "matte fibre gum" (mmm!) and my main gripe is its not all that inexpensive.
I was at Target last night and figured what the heck. Maybe I should switch things up a bit and try something more affordable... So I swooped on over to the Product aisle. Truth be told I just felt like opening and smelling stuff, but this was as good of an excuse as any to do so. While standing there checking the bouquet of the various Products, I began to develop a fondness for a teeny Carmex sized container of pomade. The price was right, so I put it in my basket.
Today marks the introductory Target Goop trial run and I'm not really falling in love here. My mop is strangely oily, yet crispy all at once. I feel as if I rubbed a piece of fried chiggen on my head and then sprayed it down with some polyurethane.. not to mention I think it's starting to make me a lil' itchy. *sigh*
Evidently you get what you pay for with Product, and this makes me sad. I don't like spending my precious recreational moneys on pricey red cans of hair goop. I fear that my follicles have become so accustomed to being pampered with the more costly Product that now they just reject the cheap Product right off the bat. I've been trapped! Maybe I'll get some good Product pointers come Friday when I'm able to consult with a bona fide "crazy hair" specialist.
I love the red can stuff, but would like to think there's a less expensive option. Perhaps I could go the There's Something About Mary route. As much as I'd like to start every day off that way, there isn't always time, you know? I wake up pretty early as is.
I'd never do it, but the Daddy Warbucks look is sounding more and more enticing as time goes by. But then Id have to start buying Nair, and from what I hear that shit just stinks to high heaven.
When I'm out and about on the city sidewalks and in the malls,
I just try to be a friendly person and say hi to people, but they never say anything back and always just look at me like I'm some sort of freak.
I guess I should stop walking around out in public naked all the time, but hey - I've gotta do what I've gotta do to feel comfortable and at ease, you know?
I guess I should stop walking around out in public naked all the time, but hey - I've gotta do what I've gotta do to feel comfortable and at ease, you know?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Cool New People on MySpace
Whenever I see the Cool New People blurb on MySpace, I have to admit that I get a little green with envy. I think back to when I first enrolled for a MySpace account and wonder if I was ever featured in the Cool New People window. That's a bad time to be a Cool New Person, 'cause at that time you usually don't have proper MySpace etiquette (which some never acquire, but that’s a different story) and have not made full use of the technology and page tweaking available to you. I’ll be the first to admit, my page was pretty lame back when I was a Cool New Person. Not saying it’s any monument of perfection now, but it’s definitely better than it was back then.
How "Cool" is it really to go to someone's page and see so-and-so has 1 friend, that being MySpace Tom... and all fields say things like "I will update this SOON LOL" That's not fuckin' cool. You've got to give it some time before you deem someone Cool like that. It puts too much pressure on the new users. It’s like buying ingredients for dinner, putting them in the Frigidaire and calling your dinner “delicious” before it’s even assembled. Perhaps they screen people prior to enrolling these days and have a pretty good hunch of which new people are worthy of the Cool stamp. I dunno. This all just seems a little bass-ackwards, if you axsk me.
That said, I have an idea. It may give us all a chance to be in the Cool New People window again and if not, it will at least be a fun little gag to play on MySpace Tom:
Phase I: We all need to pick a specific date and time where we all simultaneously close our MySpace accounts and then sign up for new ones. Everyone at the same time. I’m not just talking about you people reading this, I’m talking about the other billion users who have been on this thing for a while now, too. Just you imagine the ruckus that would ensue in MySpace Tom’s mommy’s basement… ER-, I mean, the Secret MySpace Headquarters. He would be running amok watching the servers smoking something fierce trying to keep up with all of the Pac Man being deployed upon all of the newer users who weren’t in on this buffoonery. His dot matrix printer would be shooting paper out like crazy. It will be like that scene in Weird Science where the dog is sitting on the ceiling barking and pianos and sofas are getting sucked into fireplaces and up out of the chimneys. Weird shit like that.
Phase II: 15 minutes later we would then all simultaneously sign up for new accounts and wreak even more Pac Man havoc on Tom and the newer users. And in the end we would technically be Cool New People and have a second shot at being pimped in that way. But we’ll already be cooler than the former Cool New People, ‘cause we’re experienced, therefore our pages will look bitchin’ right off the bat. So, let's all figure out a day when we can do this. Check your planners and get back to me.
How "Cool" is it really to go to someone's page and see so-and-so has 1 friend, that being MySpace Tom... and all fields say things like "I will update this SOON LOL" That's not fuckin' cool. You've got to give it some time before you deem someone Cool like that. It puts too much pressure on the new users. It’s like buying ingredients for dinner, putting them in the Frigidaire and calling your dinner “delicious” before it’s even assembled. Perhaps they screen people prior to enrolling these days and have a pretty good hunch of which new people are worthy of the Cool stamp. I dunno. This all just seems a little bass-ackwards, if you axsk me.
That said, I have an idea. It may give us all a chance to be in the Cool New People window again and if not, it will at least be a fun little gag to play on MySpace Tom:
Phase I: We all need to pick a specific date and time where we all simultaneously close our MySpace accounts and then sign up for new ones. Everyone at the same time. I’m not just talking about you people reading this, I’m talking about the other billion users who have been on this thing for a while now, too. Just you imagine the ruckus that would ensue in MySpace Tom’s mommy’s basement… ER-, I mean, the Secret MySpace Headquarters. He would be running amok watching the servers smoking something fierce trying to keep up with all of the Pac Man being deployed upon all of the newer users who weren’t in on this buffoonery. His dot matrix printer would be shooting paper out like crazy. It will be like that scene in Weird Science where the dog is sitting on the ceiling barking and pianos and sofas are getting sucked into fireplaces and up out of the chimneys. Weird shit like that.
Phase II: 15 minutes later we would then all simultaneously sign up for new accounts and wreak even more Pac Man havoc on Tom and the newer users. And in the end we would technically be Cool New People and have a second shot at being pimped in that way. But we’ll already be cooler than the former Cool New People, ‘cause we’re experienced, therefore our pages will look bitchin’ right off the bat. So, let's all figure out a day when we can do this. Check your planners and get back to me.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Okay boys and girls, it's time to play "What the F**K is THIS?"
Just you take a good long gander now before going any further:
Okay.
So. I'm sitting here watching the Golden Globes mindin' my own business and my blind neighbor I have spoken of here in previous accounts knocks on my door to let me know she'll have a bag of trash for me to take out for her. No problem; she's a really sweet lady and I likes helping her out whenever I can.
She handed me the package pictured up above and told me I could have it and that it's too "tangy and spicy" for her. She can't see, so she wasn't aware that there's no label on it, so being a curious little monkey I thanked her and asked what it was.
"Oh, well you can mix it with Miracle Whip and eat it cold like a salad, or you can throw barbeque sauce in it and eat it hot - it's just too tangy and spicy for me!"
Mmmmmkay. Don't get me wrong. Like I said, she's the sweetest lady ever. She even gave me another half used tube because she didn't want to throw it out. But this "gift" just gives me the creeps. Evidently it's some sort of meat. That much I know. But what's all that other shit in there? See 'em? Those non-meat colored chunks? And what kiiiiiiind of meat is this? Huh? And just where did this unmarked package come from? Am I being poisoned here? What's going on? Dare I thaw and eat this? I want to just because I'm curious. You never know, it could be yummy. But then again, I don't want to die or spend the next 72 hours folded in half feeling like I'm having a baby.
So many questions.
It's supposed to be thrown in the freezer, but has only made it as far as my desk where I sit and curiously stare at it. I don't know if I want it in my freezer. What if it tries to eat or impregnate the green beans and pizza I have in there?
If anyone has any ideas of what this is, speak up. Maybe if you properly identify it, I'll let you "win" it. Or maybe I'll just have a big mystery meat party where everyone can come over. I'll give you each a Dixie cup full of it and we'll have a good old fashioned cook-off. Whomever makes the best cuisine, sculpture, piece of art... with their cup of mystery meat wins. Wins what, I don't know. A free oven mit, perhaps.
I don't know, man. I'm getting a little weirded out now. On that note, I'm gonna go heat up some hot dogs for din dins. At least with those I know I'm eating the parts of animals that can't really be used for much anything else. But this here tube of frozen "tangy and spicy" mystery meat is just a little too mysterious for me at this juncture.
Okay.
So. I'm sitting here watching the Golden Globes mindin' my own business and my blind neighbor I have spoken of here in previous accounts knocks on my door to let me know she'll have a bag of trash for me to take out for her. No problem; she's a really sweet lady and I likes helping her out whenever I can.
She handed me the package pictured up above and told me I could have it and that it's too "tangy and spicy" for her. She can't see, so she wasn't aware that there's no label on it, so being a curious little monkey I thanked her and asked what it was.
"Oh, well you can mix it with Miracle Whip and eat it cold like a salad, or you can throw barbeque sauce in it and eat it hot - it's just too tangy and spicy for me!"
Mmmmmkay. Don't get me wrong. Like I said, she's the sweetest lady ever. She even gave me another half used tube because she didn't want to throw it out. But this "gift" just gives me the creeps. Evidently it's some sort of meat. That much I know. But what's all that other shit in there? See 'em? Those non-meat colored chunks? And what kiiiiiiind of meat is this? Huh? And just where did this unmarked package come from? Am I being poisoned here? What's going on? Dare I thaw and eat this? I want to just because I'm curious. You never know, it could be yummy. But then again, I don't want to die or spend the next 72 hours folded in half feeling like I'm having a baby.
So many questions.
It's supposed to be thrown in the freezer, but has only made it as far as my desk where I sit and curiously stare at it. I don't know if I want it in my freezer. What if it tries to eat or impregnate the green beans and pizza I have in there?
If anyone has any ideas of what this is, speak up. Maybe if you properly identify it, I'll let you "win" it. Or maybe I'll just have a big mystery meat party where everyone can come over. I'll give you each a Dixie cup full of it and we'll have a good old fashioned cook-off. Whomever makes the best cuisine, sculpture, piece of art... with their cup of mystery meat wins. Wins what, I don't know. A free oven mit, perhaps.
I don't know, man. I'm getting a little weirded out now. On that note, I'm gonna go heat up some hot dogs for din dins. At least with those I know I'm eating the parts of animals that can't really be used for much anything else. But this here tube of frozen "tangy and spicy" mystery meat is just a little too mysterious for me at this juncture.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
I went shopping for a rug and alls I got was this lousy chockit shake
Oh, and a pack of socks. Jeez.
I set out on what I thought would be an easy mission today: to buy a bitchin' rug to throw under my coffee table by the davenport to "tie the room together" as they say on those shows.
After hitting nearly every store I could think of (which I believe was around a dozen), I have discovered that buying a rug isn't quite as easy or affordable as it sounds. I found a rug de resistance at Urban Outfitters (of course) and when flipping it over to peep the price immediately felt that it was too expensive for what it is (of course). It's a simple and lovely circular shag rug that would look toadilly awesome beneath my coffee table. But. It's a hunnit dollars. I can maybe see going fifty for it. But $100? Come on!
I know, I know. I've been on the market for rugs before and it snot a bad price for a rug (although many would beg to differ). But something about buying a rug for $100 at Urban Outfitters rubs me the wrong way. Maybe because I know they prolly only paid $4.36 for it and the other $95.64 is for the Urban Outfitters ambiance and buying experience. Hmph.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, there's Ikea. I hate to admit that the place has grown on me over the years, mainly because they have those walls that look like bacon on the escalator up into the store and they're fun to look at. With my track record of bad juju putting Ikea furniture together I always swear to gawd I'll never buy anything from there again.. but lo and behold, in due time I find myself back in there poking around. I figured an Ikea rug wouldn't be too hard to put together; or at least I should hope not, so off to the big blue and yella cube I went as my last stop. They had a few circular rugs, but they all looked so... so... Ikea. Plus I don't want my place to be like the beginning of Fight Club where you look at it and catalog numbers and descriptions appear in thin air pointing at each item. I only have one thingy from there, but having two would lead to three, and four, and so on. We can't be having that.
So after my 10 mile walk through the Ikea complex, I headed to the Pinto and hung my head in shame. Is a $100 rug my only hope? If I bought it, would Frank shag it even more with his claws? He doesn't scratch things up, nor has the little dude ever hacked up a hairball or yacked on the floor (bless his little heart). But of course this would be the one thing he'd destroy, just because that's usually the way it goes.
Another thing: being a fan of living in hardwood floor-equipped dwellings, I have never owned a vacuum. So if I bought me a snazzy rug, I would also need a vacuum with which to keep it looking clean and fluffy. I guess I could go around with a straw siphoning the dirt up from it, but that's just too much work.
I guess at least I didn't come home empty handed: I drowned my rug-less sorrows in a Burger King chockit shake and found a screamin' deal on some neat socks. But socks and chockit shakes don't "tie" the living room together. It's only a temporary fix. I have a feeling that I'm inevitably going to be spending $100 on a trendy asshole shag rug and will never let myself hear the end of it. NO. Not gonna do it.
Perhaps I should just go with my original idea of throwing an inch of soil on the floor and growing a lawn in my apartment. But then I'd need a lawnmower.
*sigh*
I set out on what I thought would be an easy mission today: to buy a bitchin' rug to throw under my coffee table by the davenport to "tie the room together" as they say on those shows.
After hitting nearly every store I could think of (which I believe was around a dozen), I have discovered that buying a rug isn't quite as easy or affordable as it sounds. I found a rug de resistance at Urban Outfitters (of course) and when flipping it over to peep the price immediately felt that it was too expensive for what it is (of course). It's a simple and lovely circular shag rug that would look toadilly awesome beneath my coffee table. But. It's a hunnit dollars. I can maybe see going fifty for it. But $100? Come on!
I know, I know. I've been on the market for rugs before and it snot a bad price for a rug (although many would beg to differ). But something about buying a rug for $100 at Urban Outfitters rubs me the wrong way. Maybe because I know they prolly only paid $4.36 for it and the other $95.64 is for the Urban Outfitters ambiance and buying experience. Hmph.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, there's Ikea. I hate to admit that the place has grown on me over the years, mainly because they have those walls that look like bacon on the escalator up into the store and they're fun to look at. With my track record of bad juju putting Ikea furniture together I always swear to gawd I'll never buy anything from there again.. but lo and behold, in due time I find myself back in there poking around. I figured an Ikea rug wouldn't be too hard to put together; or at least I should hope not, so off to the big blue and yella cube I went as my last stop. They had a few circular rugs, but they all looked so... so... Ikea. Plus I don't want my place to be like the beginning of Fight Club where you look at it and catalog numbers and descriptions appear in thin air pointing at each item. I only have one thingy from there, but having two would lead to three, and four, and so on. We can't be having that.
So after my 10 mile walk through the Ikea complex, I headed to the Pinto and hung my head in shame. Is a $100 rug my only hope? If I bought it, would Frank shag it even more with his claws? He doesn't scratch things up, nor has the little dude ever hacked up a hairball or yacked on the floor (bless his little heart). But of course this would be the one thing he'd destroy, just because that's usually the way it goes.
Another thing: being a fan of living in hardwood floor-equipped dwellings, I have never owned a vacuum. So if I bought me a snazzy rug, I would also need a vacuum with which to keep it looking clean and fluffy. I guess I could go around with a straw siphoning the dirt up from it, but that's just too much work.
I guess at least I didn't come home empty handed: I drowned my rug-less sorrows in a Burger King chockit shake and found a screamin' deal on some neat socks. But socks and chockit shakes don't "tie" the living room together. It's only a temporary fix. I have a feeling that I'm inevitably going to be spending $100 on a trendy asshole shag rug and will never let myself hear the end of it. NO. Not gonna do it.
Perhaps I should just go with my original idea of throwing an inch of soil on the floor and growing a lawn in my apartment. But then I'd need a lawnmower.
*sigh*
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Day Afters
Woah, I'm in a world of pain today. Played the incredibly awesome Stripped Down show at Caboobs last night and it was a hella good time, I must say. My left index finger has been bothering me something fierce the past month (from overplaying, I reckon) and of course the day of the show it suddenly felt a little numb. So for the duration of my set, I was freaking out on the inside wondering if I would make it without any "where's the tip of my index finger?" shaky hand train wrecks, only suffering 1 near one during String Poem and a few during Dog Seed. Otherwise it was all cool though, sans my geetar not wanting to stay in tune for my last number. Bitch.
How do people that go to shows night after night pull it off? After playing a short set and traipsing around like an eediot for 4 hours last night, I woke up this morning feeling like I was thrown in a garbage can and rolled down a lengthy and steep rocky hill. Maybe it's all of the standing. Or maybe it's all of that delicious tasty beer. That said, I'm sure the beer plays a pivotal role in there somewhere... but damn. By night's end, this white boy was spent.
This always makes me understand why musicians that are constantly on tour tend to develop drug problems. I'd want to throw as many illegal toxins into my system and make myself into a human stereogram as well if I were touring 6 months out of the year night after night. I personally wouldn't abuse myself like that, but I can see how it can easily happen. Me, I'd prolly just become really good at Etch A Sketch or rug hook instead.
Think about it though. Here's what 99.999 percent of musicians do on the road (this is how the average every-so-often local show goes as well):
1) Arrive at the venue 2-3 hours before The Show.
2) Wait.
3) Soundcheck.
4) Wait some more.
5) Continue to wait and wonder if you have time to leave and grab some chow.
6) Venue doors open, and guess what you do then? Wait.
7) Mingle with peeps as they arrive while you wait.
8) Continue waiting until your moment arrives and you hit the stage.
9) Get your ya-yas off playing for an audience.
10) Hurry off the stage so the next band can set up, then stand around for the duration of the evening enjoying the rest of the entertainment and screaming over it when talking with friends, fambly, and acquaintances (this is a glorified subconscious version of waiting)
11) Show ends.
12) Pack your shit up. Think you're done waiting yet? Nope. Bar has to count earnings for the night before you get paid. SO. The wait continues.
13) Collect your loot and pass go. Load stuff out to vehicle, and get the fuck adda Dodge.
14) Night's end arrives. Pass out, wake up, and do it all over again.
I don't mean to sound like a baby here. It's just how it is. I was put here to play geetar so accept that it just comes with the turf, and in the end it's all worth the price to be able to perform and hang with good people. Like life in general, standing around waiting is only as good as you make it. For example, when introducing NickM to a few of my fambly members, I kept it interesting and told him "that's my sister.. and she's also my ex-wife." Regardless, If you're with the right people, thankfully it's a blast - such as last night.
Alas, Stripped Down VI was a great time and we had a superb turnout. Mr. Folkerts, I thank you once again for the invite. I can only hope I'll be up there sharing stage with y'all when we're using walkers and Stripped Down LXII happens (FYI at that point I will call you Walkerts). And thanks a billion to everyone who didn't play for coming out - we had a jolly good time, yes we did.
Oh. And to those couple of few strange numbers appearing on my smell phone in the late evening/midnight hours such as last night... who are you? If you are one of those dialers and are reading this - yeah, it's my phone. Sorry the message on there is weird, but trust me. That's my number. Feel free to leave a message any time... homey don't answer if it's an unknown number. I'm not trying to sound like Mr. Popular 'everyone-calls-me/I leave my number on bathroom walls' here, 'cause I'm definitely not that type. I guess I'm just saying.. if you're a bill collector, piss off, please.
How do people that go to shows night after night pull it off? After playing a short set and traipsing around like an eediot for 4 hours last night, I woke up this morning feeling like I was thrown in a garbage can and rolled down a lengthy and steep rocky hill. Maybe it's all of the standing. Or maybe it's all of that delicious tasty beer. That said, I'm sure the beer plays a pivotal role in there somewhere... but damn. By night's end, this white boy was spent.
This always makes me understand why musicians that are constantly on tour tend to develop drug problems. I'd want to throw as many illegal toxins into my system and make myself into a human stereogram as well if I were touring 6 months out of the year night after night. I personally wouldn't abuse myself like that, but I can see how it can easily happen. Me, I'd prolly just become really good at Etch A Sketch or rug hook instead.
Think about it though. Here's what 99.999 percent of musicians do on the road (this is how the average every-so-often local show goes as well):
1) Arrive at the venue 2-3 hours before The Show.
2) Wait.
3) Soundcheck.
4) Wait some more.
5) Continue to wait and wonder if you have time to leave and grab some chow.
6) Venue doors open, and guess what you do then? Wait.
7) Mingle with peeps as they arrive while you wait.
8) Continue waiting until your moment arrives and you hit the stage.
9) Get your ya-yas off playing for an audience.
10) Hurry off the stage so the next band can set up, then stand around for the duration of the evening enjoying the rest of the entertainment and screaming over it when talking with friends, fambly, and acquaintances (this is a glorified subconscious version of waiting)
11) Show ends.
12) Pack your shit up. Think you're done waiting yet? Nope. Bar has to count earnings for the night before you get paid. SO. The wait continues.
13) Collect your loot and pass go. Load stuff out to vehicle, and get the fuck adda Dodge.
14) Night's end arrives. Pass out, wake up, and do it all over again.
I don't mean to sound like a baby here. It's just how it is. I was put here to play geetar so accept that it just comes with the turf, and in the end it's all worth the price to be able to perform and hang with good people. Like life in general, standing around waiting is only as good as you make it. For example, when introducing NickM to a few of my fambly members, I kept it interesting and told him "that's my sister.. and she's also my ex-wife." Regardless, If you're with the right people, thankfully it's a blast - such as last night.
Alas, Stripped Down VI was a great time and we had a superb turnout. Mr. Folkerts, I thank you once again for the invite. I can only hope I'll be up there sharing stage with y'all when we're using walkers and Stripped Down LXII happens (FYI at that point I will call you Walkerts). And thanks a billion to everyone who didn't play for coming out - we had a jolly good time, yes we did.
Oh. And to those couple of few strange numbers appearing on my smell phone in the late evening/midnight hours such as last night... who are you? If you are one of those dialers and are reading this - yeah, it's my phone. Sorry the message on there is weird, but trust me. That's my number. Feel free to leave a message any time... homey don't answer if it's an unknown number. I'm not trying to sound like Mr. Popular 'everyone-calls-me/I leave my number on bathroom walls' here, 'cause I'm definitely not that type. I guess I'm just saying.. if you're a bill collector, piss off, please.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Let's rename Muffies, shall we?
I work near a Panera that I visit every so often when I don't have time to make breakfast (i.e. pour cereal into a bowl and dump milk and sugar on it). In their bakery section is a basket of delectable looking discs called "Muffies" and I want to try one quite badly. Why? Because they look uber yummy. All they are is muffin tops.. Larry David: if you're ever short on funds, I think there's a lawsuit here that you could easily win.
Anna-hoo, I covet these little delicacies every time I go in there. I bet they're pretty damn good, especially with an iced mocha. It's the best part of a muffin (biting tongue to resist innuendo) and perfect size to not give you that yucky carsick post-pastry nausea feeling.
However, the one thing holding me back is the name. Muffie. It's fuggin' ridiculous and makes you feel like some sort of lolly gagger when you say it. Say it with me a few times here:
Muffie.
Muffie.
Muffie.
Don't you feel like you should have a harelip and be wearing bib overalls with no shirt? "Yes'sum, ah reckon ahd lahk may wunna them thar muffies. Ahl take wunna them chawk-lit chip wuns, lessen' you got any bloobarry wuns in the oven raht now, ahd be glad to wait, yes ah wood!"
The word just sounds plain obscene. I have absolutely no problem with what it insinuates, if you know what I'm sayin’ *wiggling eyebrows*. But when I'm in line like I was this morning at 6:45am after a night of knocking back a bit too much of the Champagne of Beers with the homies, it's a different story. It's really one of the last words I want to say when simply trying to order a pastry. Here's how I envision it going down (no pun intended):
Panera girl: "And would you like anything from our bakery?"
Me: "Um... er... yeah, um.. one of those.." (pointing at Muffie basket. Ugh, I get nauseous just typing that word.)
Panera girl: "Oh, one of these orange scones?"
Me: "No.. I'm sorry. Just one of THOSE." (pointing abruptly at basket-o-Muffies)
Panera Girl: "Oh, you mean one of the walnut cookies?"
Me: "NO. OKAY, I GIVE UP! A MUFFIE! I WANT A GALL DAMN MUFFIE, ALL RIGHT? YOU HAPPY NOW?"
Yeah, that wouldn’t be pretty. So here I sit at work nibbling away at an apple strudel wondering if some day I will ever have the courage to order a Muffie without breaking out in either anger or uncontrollable laughter.
Hold the phone: I think I may have just thought of a way around this..
At the coffee shop we used to get the occasional deaf customer who couldn’t read lips, so he would communicate via writings on a notepad. Maybe what I need to do is pretend that I’m in a world of silence too and write down “Can’t hear or read lips. 1 chockit chip muffie and an iced mocha please, thank you.”
Lettuce hope that works.
Anna-hoo, I covet these little delicacies every time I go in there. I bet they're pretty damn good, especially with an iced mocha. It's the best part of a muffin (biting tongue to resist innuendo) and perfect size to not give you that yucky carsick post-pastry nausea feeling.
However, the one thing holding me back is the name. Muffie. It's fuggin' ridiculous and makes you feel like some sort of lolly gagger when you say it. Say it with me a few times here:
Muffie.
Muffie.
Muffie.
Don't you feel like you should have a harelip and be wearing bib overalls with no shirt? "Yes'sum, ah reckon ahd lahk may wunna them thar muffies. Ahl take wunna them chawk-lit chip wuns, lessen' you got any bloobarry wuns in the oven raht now, ahd be glad to wait, yes ah wood!"
The word just sounds plain obscene. I have absolutely no problem with what it insinuates, if you know what I'm sayin’ *wiggling eyebrows*. But when I'm in line like I was this morning at 6:45am after a night of knocking back a bit too much of the Champagne of Beers with the homies, it's a different story. It's really one of the last words I want to say when simply trying to order a pastry. Here's how I envision it going down (no pun intended):
Panera girl: "And would you like anything from our bakery?"
Me: "Um... er... yeah, um.. one of those.." (pointing at Muffie basket. Ugh, I get nauseous just typing that word.)
Panera girl: "Oh, one of these orange scones?"
Me: "No.. I'm sorry. Just one of THOSE." (pointing abruptly at basket-o-Muffies)
Panera Girl: "Oh, you mean one of the walnut cookies?"
Me: "NO. OKAY, I GIVE UP! A MUFFIE! I WANT A GALL DAMN MUFFIE, ALL RIGHT? YOU HAPPY NOW?"
Yeah, that wouldn’t be pretty. So here I sit at work nibbling away at an apple strudel wondering if some day I will ever have the courage to order a Muffie without breaking out in either anger or uncontrollable laughter.
Hold the phone: I think I may have just thought of a way around this..
At the coffee shop we used to get the occasional deaf customer who couldn’t read lips, so he would communicate via writings on a notepad. Maybe what I need to do is pretend that I’m in a world of silence too and write down “Can’t hear or read lips. 1 chockit chip muffie and an iced mocha please, thank you.”
Lettuce hope that works.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
This dramatic movie ending brought to you by..
Being a hopeless romantic (for extreme lack of better words) I've always wanted to be in a movie like those you see with the endings where the subject is depressed at the airport just about ready to board that plane. He's depressed because he's just met the goil of his dreams and something may have just blown it all away. Not something like a bomb or a giant warehouse fan (which does a great job at blowing things away when turned on, such as dead bees and dust). I'm talking circumstance or somebody fucking up to the point of making the audience lose all hope and cry.
I guess "Garden State" would be the most recent example. Great film. Even better soundtrack. And hey, all you Imogen Heap fans out there: She existed long before that movie did. I hate those know-it-all meatheads that say "I heard so-and-so first so I'm cooler than you!" But I have to be that person and toot my own horn here; I fell in love with that sexual chocolate voice of hers on Jeff Beck's "You Had It Coming" CD in 2000 and bought the Frou Frou disc shortly thereafter. So THERE! Geez, this late in the game I reckon you're probably all becoming Johnny Cash experts now too, huh?
I digress.
So back to the airport thing. Yeah, I want to star in one of those movies. Whatever happens the first 90 minutes will be filler (with a great soundtrack at the very least). My main concern is gonna be what happens at the big dramatic ending. Well.. maybe I'd like to throw in a montage in the middle where happy music is playing and we're at the mall trying on funny hats and stuff. But other than that, let's focus on the ending.
Scene:
I'm at the airport with a duffle bag containing every last thing I own. I'm about to board that plane to nowhere. Enter: some obscure hipster music that will inevitably become overplayed and sold at Target due to this scene. I look scruffy and unkempt, because it's been a rough night and I'm sad that I'm leaving my one true love behind.
And then it happens: The Girl comes running through the airport, past security, crying with her arms outstretched yelling "WAIT!... WAIT!" One of the security dogs manages to get a hold of her ankle but she rips free and somehow makes it to me. She's gasping for air and has a desperate look in her eye.
The Audience is waiting with baited breath to see what she says.
She takes a puff from her asthma inhaler and puts it back into her purse and does one of those huge weird sounding coughs. Still huffing a little, she says "I need to give you something."
I get a nice big Sam Elliott grin on my face and hold her in my arms. "Yes...?"
She reaches in her purse and pulls something small out… "Here you go, it's a Starbucks gift card. I put $25 on it for you." She turns around and walks away feeling complete, freeze frame, roll credits.
That would be one kick ass movie ending.
I guess "Garden State" would be the most recent example. Great film. Even better soundtrack. And hey, all you Imogen Heap fans out there: She existed long before that movie did. I hate those know-it-all meatheads that say "I heard so-and-so first so I'm cooler than you!" But I have to be that person and toot my own horn here; I fell in love with that sexual chocolate voice of hers on Jeff Beck's "You Had It Coming" CD in 2000 and bought the Frou Frou disc shortly thereafter. So THERE! Geez, this late in the game I reckon you're probably all becoming Johnny Cash experts now too, huh?
I digress.
So back to the airport thing. Yeah, I want to star in one of those movies. Whatever happens the first 90 minutes will be filler (with a great soundtrack at the very least). My main concern is gonna be what happens at the big dramatic ending. Well.. maybe I'd like to throw in a montage in the middle where happy music is playing and we're at the mall trying on funny hats and stuff. But other than that, let's focus on the ending.
Scene:
I'm at the airport with a duffle bag containing every last thing I own. I'm about to board that plane to nowhere. Enter: some obscure hipster music that will inevitably become overplayed and sold at Target due to this scene. I look scruffy and unkempt, because it's been a rough night and I'm sad that I'm leaving my one true love behind.
And then it happens: The Girl comes running through the airport, past security, crying with her arms outstretched yelling "WAIT!... WAIT!" One of the security dogs manages to get a hold of her ankle but she rips free and somehow makes it to me. She's gasping for air and has a desperate look in her eye.
The Audience is waiting with baited breath to see what she says.
She takes a puff from her asthma inhaler and puts it back into her purse and does one of those huge weird sounding coughs. Still huffing a little, she says "I need to give you something."
I get a nice big Sam Elliott grin on my face and hold her in my arms. "Yes...?"
She reaches in her purse and pulls something small out… "Here you go, it's a Starbucks gift card. I put $25 on it for you." She turns around and walks away feeling complete, freeze frame, roll credits.
That would be one kick ass movie ending.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Camp Poopy
You may or may not have heard that the Mall-O-America's Camp Snoopy lost the rights to use America's most beloved sassy little beagle and his medicine ball-headed posse of Peanuts co-horts as their mascots. Camp Snoopy, once a Mall-O-America tradition, is no more. Wicked pisser, man.Yet the rides remain and they're open for business under the name "The Park at MOA" or sumpin like that until further notice. I read in the paper today that they've got some excellent leads on a new brand name to attach to this ridiculous monstrosity enclosed in a hard candy shell of frivolous retail excess.
So naturally, my mind gets to wandering as to what lucky familiar entity will be setting up shop as the next flagship identity for The Park at the Mall.
Camp Abercrombie Run by a bunch of Chad-looking guys wearing weathered baseball hats, cargo shorts, flannel shirts and flip flops. Signs in front of rides read YOU MUST BE THIS GOOD LOOKING TO RIDE and below the verbiage is a picture of 2 scantly clad waifish ambiguous models. Ugly kids will have to once again settle for the 25 cent 4 pony carousels outside of K Mart stores.
Camp Cinnabon Your ride tickets come with free Cinnabon "bons" which you have to eat 3 of before embarking on a ride, the "bon" bag which you are told to hold onto to double as a barf bag.
Camp Target You know these fuckers have to be bidding on the park. Actually that's the one thing the mall is missing right now, so it would only make sense.
Camp Sears They could just gut all of those silly rides out and set up a bunch of lawn tractors for people to sit on and do that thing where they pretend to steer the wheel like they're actually driving it.
Camp Sharper Image All rides would be operated via remote control, have ionic air purifying systems installed, and lots of life sized Darth Vader statues would be setup throughout the park.
Camp Poopy This one would of course be the way to go. A happy little turd with eyes could be the mascot, and standard employee uniform would be the POOP shirt like the one I bought last week at the SMB show.
Yeah, I like that one. It rhymes with the old name, so there would still be that phonetic thing that people could relate to for nostalgia's sake. Turd shaped Mylar balloons. It could possibly skyrocket the phony dog poo gag back into popularity.. but of course being an amusement park with a poo for a mascot, they'd have to hot glue googley eyes on it and put it in a cute package in order to move product.
How cool would it be to approach the door of one of the Camp Poopy restrooms and have a nice happy cutout of a cartoon poo above the sign on the door to greet you as you walked in? And don't even get me started on what you could buy on a stick there.
I'm putting on a suit and tie, taking a briefcase to the mall (it will be empty, but will make a good impression), and putting in an offer. I'll be sure to talk it up real good, 'cause I've only got $5 to give them and make this thing a secure agreement.
Monday, January 9, 2006
So THIS is what raw noodles must feel like while they're waiting to die
My building has been without hot water all day today - I found this out while droring a nice hot baff and doing a temperature check with my toes. If the water were any colder, I would have frozen from my foot all the way to my head and turned into an ice sculpture.. a true Micycle Icicle if you know what I'm sayin'.
Now I'm a fella who takes great pride in practicing consistent hygiene, so when I can't take a shower or bath like this, I start to get a little squeamish. I remember one time when I lived in St. Paul and the hot water was out for 3 days I just couldn't take it anymore and just went in for a cold shower. I thought it was going to be easier than hauling my arse over to a friend's house in Minneapplesauce who offered and had hot water. Let me just say I learned that lesson the hard way.. I should have taken her up on that offer. I was blue and shivering something awful. But at least I was clean, I guess. On a side note, you know those groups people that go running into frozen lakes in bathing suits to be "silly"? A person's got to be dumber than a box of shit to do that.
So I called the caretaker around 4 today upon this discovery and she said "Oh yes, we've put in a call on that, hopefully we'll have it fixed today!" I speak in caretaker tongue and know precisely what she meant by those last 6 words: Yeah, don't call back, they'll be around sometime this week, good luck, SEE-YA-BYE!
So now I'm sitting here waiting for 3 pans of water to boil and dump in the tub so's I can be Spongebath Cleanpants. I usually only boil water when cooking pasta and am starting to get hungry now. So do I boil up some Penne and whip up a nice dinner, or do I go with my original plan and use it for a bath?
I could boil up some Penne and when draining it, do it over the bathtub and soak my insomnia away in some nice fragrant noodle water. Who knows, the starch, salt, and olive oil in the water just might be good for my skin. But then the noodles would get cold as I bathed and I'd have to scurry about making a mess cooking after a relaxing bath.. bah, that's too much work.
Will just stick with one hunnit percent un-noodled water, I guess. Ah, the joy and splendor that comes with renting in a building older than my Grandma.
Now I'm a fella who takes great pride in practicing consistent hygiene, so when I can't take a shower or bath like this, I start to get a little squeamish. I remember one time when I lived in St. Paul and the hot water was out for 3 days I just couldn't take it anymore and just went in for a cold shower. I thought it was going to be easier than hauling my arse over to a friend's house in Minneapplesauce who offered and had hot water. Let me just say I learned that lesson the hard way.. I should have taken her up on that offer. I was blue and shivering something awful. But at least I was clean, I guess. On a side note, you know those groups people that go running into frozen lakes in bathing suits to be "silly"? A person's got to be dumber than a box of shit to do that.
So I called the caretaker around 4 today upon this discovery and she said "Oh yes, we've put in a call on that, hopefully we'll have it fixed today!" I speak in caretaker tongue and know precisely what she meant by those last 6 words: Yeah, don't call back, they'll be around sometime this week, good luck, SEE-YA-BYE!
So now I'm sitting here waiting for 3 pans of water to boil and dump in the tub so's I can be Spongebath Cleanpants. I usually only boil water when cooking pasta and am starting to get hungry now. So do I boil up some Penne and whip up a nice dinner, or do I go with my original plan and use it for a bath?
I could boil up some Penne and when draining it, do it over the bathtub and soak my insomnia away in some nice fragrant noodle water. Who knows, the starch, salt, and olive oil in the water just might be good for my skin. But then the noodles would get cold as I bathed and I'd have to scurry about making a mess cooking after a relaxing bath.. bah, that's too much work.
Will just stick with one hunnit percent un-noodled water, I guess. Ah, the joy and splendor that comes with renting in a building older than my Grandma.
What happened to all of the GOOD musics?
"Good" meaning music I find so interesting that I can't help but keep listening. This is all solely my musically attention deficit disordered opinion, so please read this with a grain of salt. Scratch that; what I listen to is what everyone else should like and if you don't like it, you suck.
I guess this is a side effect of being an obsessive compulsive musician whose numba one fear is writing something that's boring to me. Most of what's out there that I hear today bores me to tears and that's a bummer, because I want to like new stuff.
I'm listening to Steely Dan's "F.M." on repeat and can never get enough of this tune (go ahead and laugh, punk). It's like a really well balanced dinner for my ears all wrapped up in 5 minutes of sound. There's more interesting and groovy shit happening in this song than most bands today put on an entire CD. Why do people not make stuff like that anymore? For one thing, I guess, they'd probably get their asses kicked in and be dubbed a bunch of sissies. But who cares?
David Bowie, please grow your Ziggy mullet back and be weird again. Sting, please bury the hatchet with Copeland and Summers and get the Po-Leese back together. Frank Zappa, please rise from the dead and put out a few new albums. And for the love of gawd, dear Mike Patton: we Mr. Bungle fans are dying here. Seriously. Get back together. I hear you refuse to ever work with Trey Spruance again... Can't you just do one more album though? Pretty please with sugar on top?
Is the era of really good, interesting songwriting over, or am I just becoming a picky old fart that misses staring at big album covers and disappearing into 45 minutes of ear-tickling intriguing musics that take my imagination off into la la land?
Wait.. don't answer that question, please.
Wanted: One giant mallet with which to bash my skull in
I've been dealing with a bout of insomnia for nearly a week now which recently got kicked into overdrive. Have I forgotten how to sleep?
I am perfectly tired most of the time. Sitting at work with a Stupidface staring blankly at my monitor and suddenly falling back to Earth after a short time. Who knows how much time elapses, but I snap out of it and wonder a) Were my eyes closed? 2) If they were, did anybody see me? c) How long was I out? and IV) Was it good quality sleep?
This especially-tired-at-work thing makes me think maybe in order to be sleeping, I need to be doing something I don't like and getting paid for it. Maybe I need to be reading things on flat screen monitors from customers who are only capable of typing words like "y'all" and have the intelligence quotient of a baby chimp.
Alas, I come home, am sleepy all afternoon and POW! Along comes bedtime and the closest thing to sleep I can muster up is watching Frank all curled up in a ball. Cats sleep up to 20 hours a day or so they say, those lazy little bastards.
That said, I would like to hire a head basher-inner to come over and knock me out with a giant wooden mallet every night at say, about 10pm. It always works in the cartoons and on the Three Stooges, so maybe it could work for me? I might develop some brain damage over time. But seeing that evidently we human beans only use 10 percent of our brains, I figure I've got 90 percent of perfectly usable extra brain in my melon and can afford to sustain some irreversible damage. Just learn how to tap into that 90 percent, right? Right.
So if anyone out there is interested in the head-bashing opportunity, contact me. This will take some finesse though - I don't want you to go making my head look like a watermelon that's been dropped off the roof of a 10 story building. I just want a good enough konk to give me a hula hoop of stars and birds circling around my head and maybe the tongue hanging out one side of the mouth look.
I don't have much money that I could pay you, but there's some cheese in the fridge and you're more than welcome to help yourself to that after a job well done.
I am perfectly tired most of the time. Sitting at work with a Stupidface staring blankly at my monitor and suddenly falling back to Earth after a short time. Who knows how much time elapses, but I snap out of it and wonder a) Were my eyes closed? 2) If they were, did anybody see me? c) How long was I out? and IV) Was it good quality sleep?
This especially-tired-at-work thing makes me think maybe in order to be sleeping, I need to be doing something I don't like and getting paid for it. Maybe I need to be reading things on flat screen monitors from customers who are only capable of typing words like "y'all" and have the intelligence quotient of a baby chimp.
Alas, I come home, am sleepy all afternoon and POW! Along comes bedtime and the closest thing to sleep I can muster up is watching Frank all curled up in a ball. Cats sleep up to 20 hours a day or so they say, those lazy little bastards.
That said, I would like to hire a head basher-inner to come over and knock me out with a giant wooden mallet every night at say, about 10pm. It always works in the cartoons and on the Three Stooges, so maybe it could work for me? I might develop some brain damage over time. But seeing that evidently we human beans only use 10 percent of our brains, I figure I've got 90 percent of perfectly usable extra brain in my melon and can afford to sustain some irreversible damage. Just learn how to tap into that 90 percent, right? Right.
So if anyone out there is interested in the head-bashing opportunity, contact me. This will take some finesse though - I don't want you to go making my head look like a watermelon that's been dropped off the roof of a 10 story building. I just want a good enough konk to give me a hula hoop of stars and birds circling around my head and maybe the tongue hanging out one side of the mouth look.
I don't have much money that I could pay you, but there's some cheese in the fridge and you're more than welcome to help yourself to that after a job well done.
Sunday, January 8, 2006
Expressing one's self via cat food
Looks like I have another artistic cat on my hands. My last cat Devo was the master of making smiley faces in his cat food bowl - he always chomped away and would leave 2 "eyes" and a big smile out of the remaining food pellets.
I was strolling past Frank's bowl last night and spotted this:
Woah, It's Pac Man. Here's what he did next:
It sort of has a Mexican rassling mask look to it.
Seeing that I'm on the topic of my cat's artistic eye, as I was uploading these pictures to my PC, there were a few in my camera that I know I didn't take. Hm, looks a lot like these were taken at cat-eye level if you know what I'm sayin'. Frank.
I have no recollection of seeing him with my camera, but he must have snuck this one in when I was on the phone:
(that purple thing is a Zero Blaster)
*****
Yeah. Frank, go ahead and use the camera. Fine. Just be sure to pitch in next time I go to buy batteries. Money isn't growing on trees for us these days, you know.
UPDATE (3:24pm CST):
I confronted him and sure enough he's using my camera. Being a skeptic, I hollered "Well prove it then, I want to see this!" And I'll be damned, as an attempt to humiliate me, he got me while I was baby talking to him.
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