Friday, July 28, 2006

Self Distracter Seeks Power Ballad Fan, No Cola Fiends

I hate auditions. It's bad enough standing on a stage, being very vulnerable and uncomfortable with new material, with a group of people watching whose only purpose is to tear you apart, but then the waiting for the judgment for days afterwards is awful. So, as I'm sure you have already gathered, I had an audition last night. I felt I did well, I got into a good bit where I was not watching myself and the director seemed to be pleased with what I was doing, but I'm also fairly certain I won't get the part. I won't know one way or the other for a few days though.

So, I'm failing miserably at trying not to think about it, and I think that the combination of this and a lack of sleep are making me a little bit loopy.

I'm afraid that I might be on the road to a soda addiction. I don't drink a lot of soda, but the last few weeks, about once a week, I get this heavy craving for one. I start sweating and scratching, I solicit folks in the 4th floor hallways to blow them for vending machine change. I get one, a cold and frosty plastic bottle of carbonated sugar water, and take it all in quickly. I then crash out in my cubicle, mumbling and drooling on myself.

For those of you who are soda drinkers, more specifically whisky and soda drinkers, George Dickel apparently does not mix well with Diet Berries and Cream Dr. Pepper. It has however helped to create my new porn name, Dr. Dickel Pepper.

Man, the nails on my right hand look shiny today! And the song The Crying of Lot G by Yo La Tengo is filing my soul with sheepish and loving grins in a way I was really not expecting. It is not however completely driving out My Kinda Lover by Billy Squier, which I managed to lodge in my own head about an hour ago.

Right up there with Def Leppard, Billy Squier was pure Skate Nite music beautiful. In grade school, I couldn't get enough of The Stroke, or In The Dark. I think I had a bit of a crush on Billy Squier, I mean we shared a name.
squier
Indifference to eighties rock and rock ballads has seemed to have thrown Billy onto the shores of the forgotten, without even a one armed drummer to rely on as a gimmick. I miss you Billy, I do.

Okay, I hope you all have a great weekend. I'm going to drown my audition anxieties in campfires and beer.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Brave New B Side

We're having an offsite "Day of Learning" today for work. I'm really excited, I'm in fact so excited that I have shaved each of the Lucky Charms' colorful, marshmallow shapes into my pubic hair. This way, when some other poor schlub who is forced to learn something about me, a complete stranger who they will probably never see again, I can merely lower my pants.

Honestly, I would be more excited if work was hosting an offsite "Day of the Dead", where we are all given a gun and let loose in an underground containment facility full of flesh eating zombies. Whoever gets through without having their entrails ripped out wins whatever the point of this exercise is...

The "Day of Learning" is being held at a hotel downtown that has always sort of bothered me. This hotel is two thin cylinders, reaching into the sky. It seems like a hotel you might see in Japan, which is not what bothers me. It seems like some lame architect’s idea of futurism, which isn't what bothers me. It seems like a leftover set piece from Blade Runner, which really isn't what bothers me. I can't say what bothers me specifically, it just seems to hurt my delicate sensibilities, and every time I see these towers I think to myself, 'Slender Fungus'.

There is a scene in Huxley's Brave New World where a character is looking down on the buildings of a city and mentions that they rise up like slender fungus. When I read this, not only did I picture the exact sort of building like this hotel, but I took particular notice as there is a Tones on Tail song entitled Slender Fungus.

I had a strange attraction to the song Slender Fungus for awhile before I realized that the name was borrowed from Brave New World. For quite awhile, the song was not available on CD. I found it on the album 'Pop', which was a difficult find, but find it I did, in a small record store inside of a remodeled house in "downtown" Gig Harbor, Washington.

It took me a little while to realize that what I liked about the song was the rarity of it and that I didn't really like the song itself all that much. And I'm afraid this has happened to me on more than one occasion. I become entranced by the limited availability of some import only B side, or one off cover that was on some compilation album. I need to remember that hard to find does not necessarily mean worth finding*.

Thank you work, but it appears I've had my day of learning.

*Then again, I have found some hard to find, or out of print songs and albums that have absolutely blown my mind and remained favorites. And it's a little psychotic that I had the obsessive need to explain that.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

A Wedding, Doom, Desert Cleaning

Big weekend, big busy weekend.

I had the late night show Friday night - a good one, lots of laughs from the crowd and not yet too hot - and then a scant 3 hours of sleep before going back to work. I left work and went directly to a friend's wedding that was apparently held in Sweatastic, Sweatavania.

I had told the groom a number of months ago that I would be happy to help them out by serving the beer and wine for them. And I was happy to do it, but what I was not happy about was being treated like "the help" - especially being treated that way by one of the groomsmen. Said groomsman pointed out the unopened cases of beer directly on the other side of the chest high cooler, about six feet away from me, and said, "the idea is to put these in the ice when you run out of beer in the cooler". I told him I understood, in my best "thanks Smartman, a retard like me is not for bright enough to understand the concept of keeping beer cold". He was also standing by with his sage advice when a young lady asked for a type of beer that we had run out of. He informed me that I could probably find some if I dug around under the ice. I gave him a 'you might want to step the fuck off, right now' glance and simply said, "Uh-huh". I turned away to help someone else out and heard him say, "You just don't want to get your sleeves wet".

But despite that, Scott and Kristen got themselves hitched and I couldn't be happier for them, they're great.

So, we rushed away from the reception, all sweaty and tired-like, so I could get back home, shower and get to the theater for the closing night of the show. Except for the fact that it was about 812 degrees in the theater and you could feel the audience energy drifting away on the rising heat fumes, I think we put on a good show.

A note about the weather: While it has been hot and uncomfortable, it has not been the sort of hot that say arrives with the coming apocalypse and mankind's doom. Nor has the sun itself set down in the middle of Seattle Center as the news would have us believe was going to happen during "Heatwave '06!"

After the close of the show, I danced to Come On Eileen in a foolish manner, performed impromptu comedy routines in a foolish manner and drank heavily in a foolish manner (note to self: beer and vodka doesn't make Billy feel good the next day, particularly when liberal shots of Irish whiskey are thrown in on top), knowing full well I would have to return to the theater the next morning to clean up and dismantle the set.

And return I did... Did I mention that we performed the show on a stage covered with sand as the main stage show took place in Kuwait? Yeah it was. But we were assured, in that perfect used car salesman voice, that we wouldn't have to deal with the sand, someone would come get it.

Lies!

I spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning up just the sand that was tracked backstage, on my knees with a shop vac - which was the name of the movie I performed in back in college, for the rent money… This was before spending an obscene amount of time sweeping and shoveling up the stage because the carpenter decided he needed to move all this sand that day.

So on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, sleep deprived, hung over, sweating more than three people fucking in a sauna, I meandered home to vomit sand. That rules!

Friday, July 21, 2006

Oh, Yeah!

I've been thinking about the things that I want to do when raising a child, things that I consider right. Things like an appropriate amount of television and instilling good eating habits and exercise. You know, the sort of things I was hoping I wouldn't have to worry about, except to condemn myself for my own poor television, eating and exercise habits.

I started thinking about the things that my parents did, and no, I did not get on a self righteous, 'boy my parents fucked up' kick. But I did start thinking about Kool-Aid, that fake fruity, chemical filled beverage. I have not had Kool-Aid in many a year so I'm not sure how it is packaged now, but it used to come in little envelopes that mom would mix with sugar and water for a tasty treat. It may be that I just have a severe case of mistrust when it comes to the products that corporate America pushes out to us, but I sort of wonder how the idea of Kool-Aid seems like a good one to adults. I mean a powdered beverage, that tastes nothing like the fruit it is to be imitating, that can sit on a shelf for damn near ever... Doesn't logically seem like a healthy thing to constantly bribe your kids into good behavior with. Why not juice? I can only assume that the price has something to do with it.

A little bit of research has shown that the original six flavors were:
Cherry, Grape, Lemon-Lime, Turquoise, Raspberry and Strawberry.

Turquoise, by the way, not a flavor. Unless it's the flavor of the gemstone of the same name, but I cannot imagine that this would make for a tasty child's beverage.

And let's talk about the Kool-Aid Man for a second. He was a big, glass pitcher with arms and legs and a face. I don't want to get into a Dane Cook thing here, but on the Saturday morning commercials he would crash through your wall every time a kid drank Kool-Aid.
kool2
I think this helped with my strange fascination with spokes-things that are made up of solid colors and black outlines for faces (see also Mr. Yuck).

They have now totally duded up the Kool-Aid Man with shorts and beach wear to keep up with today’s "extreme" kids.
kool
Like Spicoli, but filled with better tasting chemicals.

So I'm thinking about not keeping as much Kool-Aid around as was provided to me as a kid. I've also been thinking about a good place to store some of the more questionable movies in my collection for a few years. But honestly, what with the weather getting all hot and things, and thinking about a big, condensation covered pitcher of sugar water, I could sort of go for a big glass of Turquoise. That and a peanut butter and marshmallow cream sandwich. And a nap.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

The Ghost Of Kiss-Mas Past

It was a party, a party affectionately called a "kiss-mas" party. So there was a celebration of Christ and lots of kissing. And by celebration of Christ, I actually mean insane amounts of alcohol consumption. The party was being held at a house where congregated a group of Burning Man fanatics - it comes into play later...

There were a number of coworkers there, and let me take a moment to badly describe the work situation at the time. The group of us that worked on the ground floor were, as a group, some of the most deliciously hedonistic people ever to scare the bridge and tunnel crowds in North Beach on a Friday night. There was a closeness and lack of boundaries that took an ATV across the border of inappropriateness. Drunken molestation wasn't only common, it became expected. There was undressing in public places where it wasn't really appreciated. There were spankings administered by the boss, behind closed doors...

So four of us at the party, all hopped up on booze and wanton kissing, decided it would be a good idea to take over the bathroom downstairs. I can't say whose idea it was, or why it seemed like a good one, but we all got into the shower together. Nothing sexual or depraved, we just stood in the shower, fully dressed, and talked and continued drinking from our plastic keg cups.

At some point, one of us found purple hair dye, used for some arcane Burning Man ritual, and Jeben and I decided that we would dye our pubic hair this grape Kool Aid purple. Actually, and memory may be playing tricks with me here, the dye actually smelled like grape Kool Aid. I want to say it was Jeben who sagely advised putting Vaseline around the hair area so as not to dye our skin, and I want to say that because when I'm straight in the middle of whiskey soaked pube dying trip, I tend to jump in all willy-nilly and not consider consequences.

So, in a beautiful moment that was remarkably chaste considering the people involved (I mean no one saw any part of anyone else’s body that the bathing suit covers), we attempted the great purple pube experiment.

It didn't take.

But the best post party comment I've ever heard came about because of this. One of the party throwers came to work Monday and stated, "Okay, I went to take a shower and found all these muddy footprints and a jar of Vaseline."

So proud to be a part of that.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Taste The Rainbow

I first saw him on New Years Day, 2005. I was sitting at the little table by the kitchen window, finishing up some breakfast and coffee and he came walking down the street from Broadway and heading down towards the Seattle Center.

"And his New Year's resolution was to add more color to his life," I dryly said to Biff.

She looked out the window and started laughing; not at him, but at my perfectly timed and executed observational humor. The he in question was a tall and thin man, dressed all in blue. ALL in blue, robin's egg blue. Pants, top and hat (a beret if I remember correctly), all matching exactly, and all set off by the vibrantly dyed hair (both facial and on top of the head. While unable to see from my vantage point, I am assuming that the pubes were also the color of some animal from tropical climes.

He took on the temporary name Blue Guy, at least in my head. Forgive me for the obviousness...

I've seen him in the neighborhood a few times since, not always the same color, but always a color - a bright color, that is the same from head to toe - and hair adjusted to a point you would think he had stock in Manic Panic. At first it smacked of trying a little too hard, of looking for a little too much attention, and to be honest it still does a bit, but I saw him this weekend and had a little more of a charitable view of him.

The guy who had been rechristened Color Man wandered into Charlie's this weekend, dressed in a yellow that I could only think to describe as Easter bunny yellow. I'm guessing that Charlie's is a normal hang out for Color Man as I've seen him there before, and the servers appeared to know what he wanted. He gracefully walked across the restaurant, a vision in canary, and I thought...

"Yeah, he may be screaming out for attention, but he's adding this blast of color to everyone's day and not just his. And I sort of appreciate that."

So go on with your bad self Color Man, I stand behind you. And I request something in a Kelly green.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Charlie's Angels

So come Sunday morning (well afternoon, let's be honest), after some healthy drinking the night before and a 3am visit from the Pizza Fairy, we went to Charlie's for breakfast. Charlie's dining room area sort of looks like the parlor of a Victorian whorehouse, if said whorehouse had impossibly high shelves containing books no one will attempt to read.

I don't actually know what a Victorian whorehouse looks like, but I walk into Charlie's and think to myself that this is exactly how the parlor of one would be; this is the same dark wood, wallpaper and impossibly high shelves I would be nervously looking at while I tried to avoid the coquettish glances of remarkably and uncomfortably dressed ladies of the night. I would sit properly straight, hands on knees, perspiring through my obligatory wool suit and looking up about 14 feet to wonder if anyone had ever read that omnibus edition of Dickens' classics while powdered ladies did their thing.

But me and Biff and Nikki 2 K's and Jen Jen the Panda Girl made our breakfast decisions, drank our beverages and talked about stuff. At one point in the conversation, the small little lamp next to me flickered off and back on. I could tell by that look in Jenny's eyes she was suspecting supernatural means. It had crossed my mind briefly, but I quickly dismissed it as faulty wiring.

It reminded me though of one night wandering around a part of San Francisco all done up on some form of hallucinogens. This was down by San Francisco State University where the city begins to be overgrown by the jungle of suburbia. I walked down Brotherhood Lane, in a tripping group of three, passing churches and floating on a religious symbolism high when street lights began going off one by one as I passed them.

Seriously, this was not something that I was hallucinating, lights shutting off in a line as I passed them. I began to think that this was probably a bad thing, that extinguishing light was symbolically sinister. But then I rode out of a persecution moment, straight on into an ego fixing, savior complex where I thought maybe I had become so bright in spirit that there was no need for these manmade lights anymore.

Whatever dude, I was high.

So, that memory flashed momentarily and I let it sink back into the mire. We went on talking and eating, I saw the Color Man come in, I pondered the sex of the coffee carrier and finished my ice water like a good boy. But as we were leaving I was saying something mildly blasphemous, as I'm wont to do with a belly full of eggs and potatoes, when the little lamp once again flickered out. Jenny got that look in her eyes again, and this time I believed it too.

The little light didn't come back on again until I apologized.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Losing My Religion

There's a been a lot of loose talk around me recently regarding religion. Loose, dirty talk. Loose, dirty, slutty talk about religion. And I'm sure it's just another example of the blue car phenomenon, but everywhere I turn, I'm running into people talking about it, my pleasure reading at the moment is even about Jesus.

Now, I'm not a church going man, much to the shame of my born again grandparents. I'm not a religious person, but I feel I'm a spiritual person. I also feel like I'm a walking cliche for even typing that out. I would like to thank my parents for having the foresight to not force us into a religion and allowing us to make up our own minds, but I'm pretty sure it was just laziness on their part to not give us any guidance in that direction.

I understand people's desire for religion; answers, validation, comfort, some sort of warm and chubby feeling about what happens when you die versus the bleak aspect that when you're done you're done. And I'm down for doing what you need to do to get by in this life, I just begin to feel my bile rise when people start to force their religious beliefs on others, or use them to justify hate.

And this sadly seems to happen to a large number of strongly religious people. I don't know what it is about becoming a devout follower of theological ideas that makes you suddenly feel you're better than every other dumb fucker on the planet.

Now I'm not a smart man (nor apparently am I righteous one), but I believe the tenants of most religions are to teach right and wrong and to teach you to love your fellow man; well if you're a man, not to literally love your fellow man, apparently there's some sort of qualifier to unconditional love.

P.S> Unconditional: Not conditional or limited; absolute, unqualified.

We all chose a church, even if it's not one of the tax exempt kinds. Some look for answers in politics, or science, or art, or drugs, or nature... I myself have received my lessons on right and wrong from a plethora of after school specials.

I'm kind of rambling here and don't have a big point to make. I don't have any answers, but with all of this recent religion discussion around me something struck me as certain on the walk home last night. I'm pretty sure that in the last moments of my life, I will see through imaginary eyes, myself walking. And everyone on the street, riding in buses, shopping, sitting at outdoor tables drinking beers and smoking, will be all the people I've known in my life, all glancing and smiling at me one final time as I walk past.

It seems bittersweet and nice.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Gerald Gets His Rocks Off

Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, got a wild hair up his ass and hitched a ride out west. He was aiming for Los Angeles, but when it got more and more difficult to catch rides he figured he would settle for Vegas.

He woke up on a sidewalk in Reno, two blocks off of Virginia, having passed out in a car from a poorly thought out mix of bar bourbon, flea spray and some suspicious mescaline he got from a kid driving a Volkswagen bus. He knew where he was as soon as his eyes opened, and was more than unhappy to find himself in Reno again.

"Fucking Reno," he said, pulling a pair of shades from the leather travel sack slung over his shoulder. "I fucking hate Reno!"

Two sets of grandparents, dressed in whites and oversized sunglasses, were passing him at the time. One of the seventy-something women, whose hair looked as if it had been set in the early sixties with some sort of alien resin that barred the hair from moving in any way, turned her head to look at Gerald disapprovingly as she passed.

"What?" He barked at her. "Blow me!"

The group waddled on a little faster.

Gerald checked into a bargain rate motel mere blocks away from the bowling stadium. One of his first actions, aside from opening the window which served as the room’s air conditioning, was to call the number on the hooker flyer he was clutching in his greedy little paw. When she arrived, Gerald was not surprised to find that she was considerably older and heavier than the girl pictured on the flyer.

Breeze, the woman in question, gave him a hard glance.

"What're ya here for a 'furry' convention?"

"Naw baby, this is all me."

"What's that smell?"

"Before we get down to business, I need you to do a little pre game action."

Gerald lay on the bed face down and explained what he wanted. Breeze shrugged her shoulders and sagely stated, "Your hundred bucks".

Gerald awoke with a sickening pain from the base of his head, a pounding that spread up and around the rest of his skull. He groggily looked around the empty room. Breeze was gone, as was his leather satchel that carried what cash he had as well as an extra pair of socks. The last thing he remembered was Breeze doing as he had asked, removing the objects that had become lodged in the fur on his back during his travels.

He closed one eye to keep the room from spinning. On the bedside table stood an empty bottle of no name rum that she must have knocked him unconscious with. There was also a pile of burrs, a piece of chewed gum and three or four little stones. He picked up the largest of the pebbles and looked at it with a grimace.

"That fucker made every trip west of Arkansas a bitch. Worse than hemorrhoids."

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Zu Essen

Ah Germans, they make a mean Schnitzel! There's something about German food that speaks to my soul, which is odd as my soul doesn't speak German. But I think there's something about all those muddled Scandinavian/English/Irish lines within me that just occasionally craves meat and potatoes and cabbage. Oh yeah, and big 'ol glasses of beer.

Last night I had me some sausage and sauerkraut (effing good sauerkraut)
Bratandkraut
(thanks to Kyle for the picture)

I had me a number of different German beers, and Schnitzel with fries and red cabbage. Red cabbage that I wanted to throw into the middle of the table and fuck by the way, it was so good.

I was taken back to the beer hall in Munich where I gorged myself on a variety of sausages and mugs of beer nearly the size of my head. I was reminded of a birthday dinner at Suppenkuche in San Francisco where I had venison with blueberry sauce (yup, Bambi and blueberries) that made me so happy I felt like I was high.

I don't know, there's just something about German food that makes me content in a way other foods don't. I don't get the romantic satiation that I get with Italian, or the swooning sort of everything can go wrong at any moment and isn't it great feeling I get with Cajun... It's like a moment of reflection, it's like reading a good book, it's like anything done with a simple elegance that makes you quietly say, "yes".

I was beat this morning, probably because the body was busy all night trying to digest the Jurassic sized slab of fried meat I ate, but totally worth it. In my bleary-eyed preparations this morning I did also crave that European breakfast of cold cuts and bread, spreadable cheeses and strong, black coffee.

Yes.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Scream Thy Last Scream

When I was a teenager, playing around with the whole smoking pot thing, I would drive my friends slightly crazy renting all manner of cult movies. One stoney Friday night, I picked up Pink Floyd The Wall at the Tower Records video counter over on El Toro Road and my life was changed. I watched the movie over and over again, under the influence and not. It took me awhile to realize that it wasn't the film I was craving necessarily, it was the music. I got me a casette copy of The Wall and nearly wore that fucker out.

The movie acted as my gateway Floyd, and I dove in, slowly building up the CD collection. I didn't know from the get go though that Syd Barrett was the original lead singer/songwriter/guitarist for the band. Syd Barrett has left the building folks, permanently. The original leader of Pink Floyd died a few days ago.
barrett
For those of you not up on your Pink Floyd trivial history: Syd Barrett began the band with three others and helped to usher in the psychedelic movement in London. He is primarily responsible for the songs on their first album, Piper At The Gates of Dawn. But soon, through a previous condition or through the copious amount of drugs he was taking or both, Syd Barrett went apeshit nuts. He was released from the band, went on to record two solo albums, and then crashed with his mum to stew in a mess of his own crazy.

Admittedly, I was not the biggest fan of Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd; I was into the darker, harder, more nihilistic bent of The Wall and Animals. But I understand the man's influence and certainly appreciate it. Syd Barrett is almost solely responsible for the glamlicious direction that Marc Bolan would take T. Rex, and in turn provided David Bowie with the inspiration that would make him a superstar. I mean it's almost impossible to listen to sections of Barrett's The Madcap Laughs and not hear what Bowie would do with those ideas on Hunky Dory. Syd Barrett also made it possible for little talent musicians to indulge in drug use and messy playing and call it music.

"We're a little too Syd Barrett for most people to get." Yup, uh-huh...

But blah, blah, blah... Fanboy, fanboy, fanboy...

Anyway, goodbye Syd Barrett, I'm sure the ride from psychedelic pop star to cautionary tale wasn't an easy one. I hope the last 30 or so years in seclusion were nice for you, that you weren't haunted too much by the crazies. I will listen to Dominoes and think kind thoughts.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Peek-A-Boo

Okay, I didn't want to use this blog for baby stuff, didn't want to get into that all-baby talk that some parents assume is just as fascinating to the rest of the world as it is to them. But...

We went and got a sonogram yesterday. There is an actual baby inside that bump on Biffy's stomach. There are hands and feet and a freaking spine, which all things considered is a good thing, but seems a little freaky when you realize they are up inside your wife.

I was doing fine watching this fetus flicker on the screen, it all seemed a little unreal - as does this whole fatherhood thing by the by. It wasn't until we saw the brain, the two hemispheres of the brain, and the pumping heart that I got a little overwhelmed. Not in a "holy shit, I don't know how to be a dad" way, but in a "holy shit, I helped make that" kind of way. I just sat there as still as possible, barely breathing, feeling tears come.

One of the ways I've been able to sort of deal with this rationally and without taking a one way trip to Tierra Del Fuego, is to compare it to the reproduction of plants. I don't know, bringing myself down to the level of plant life makes me realize that this thing isn't a bigger deal than what we are built to do. But seeing all of these body parts... And a face!

It made me realize how amazing this is, us and plants. It made me think of our little critter all wrapped up in a mini-ocean in there, and I wondered if they would eventually have the same love of the sea that I do. It made me realize that there were so many things I couldn't wait to show them, so many people I couldn't wait to introduce them to.

Pretty wild...

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Well I've Never...

Last Saturday, the show was called due to lack of audience. It was 11pm on the Saturday of 4th of July weekend, so not terribly shocking, but still a little disappointing. To make us all feel a little better, the cast went to the bar and played I’ve Never.

If you don’t know of the game I’ve Never, it’s a simple one. A drinking game which involves one person making a statement that starts with, “I’ve never…”. If anyone in the group has actually done this thing, you take a drink. For instance, Bobby says, “I’ve never had sex while someone else watched” you have to drink if you’ve done it – Bobby too.

Drink! You know who you are!

Anyway, the game started out with your basic, getting to know you, sort of degenerate sexual habits questions, but then moved on to just bragging about bad things we’d done in the past.

I threw out a “I’ve never talked a cop out of arresting me while I was on hallucinogens”, but I was not alone on that one. I’m not going to mention any names, but there is a member of the cast that has done some livin’. L-I-V-I-N.

As the game wore on, and we all got considerably drunker, one person began making his “I’ve nevers” so freaking specific it was impossible to drink along. Example:

“I’ve never been in a threesome with the female prosecutor that had my brother put in prison the week before, in a Radisson in Santa Fe while reruns of The Six Million Dollar Man were on TV. And then room service came to the door with pizza and I had to open the door with only a pillow over my penis, and the guy glanced in and knew the other girl by name.”

I started drinking along to his stories, ‘cause it was getting ridiculous for one thing, but they started getting so long that I was parched by the end.

Anyway, we all learned a little more about each other than was necessary. And I’m now feeling a little awkward about bringing up that whole bootleg Cabbage Patch Doll sweatshop thing…


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Left Hand Luke and the Beggar Boys by T. Rex

Friday, July 07, 2006

Ode To The Gnome That Lives In My Coffee Pot

I know it was you that broke the latch that keeps the lid down.
And I know that it's you that sometimes pees in the pot.
I already told you that I was sorry for trying to wash you out with vinegar,
But you hold a grudge like nobody's business.
I'm always amazed that you don't drown up inside there,
But you're far too wily
Far too ornery for that.
I think it's mega-awesome that you often sing Karma Chameleon in French.
I know I spend a lot of time
Fussing around with the machine,
Measuring out the beans,
But I want to thank you Leroy,
For the magic you perform.
You help get my Sundays past that regretful, suicidal stage.
I'm sorry you didn't get on Rock Star:Supernova
You would have showed Tommy Lee a thing or two.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Harrah's, N.O.

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Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Ghosts Of July

I apologize, I’ve walked into a wild rat’s nest of work and angry customers. There’s much I want to write, but little time to do so.

I will say that yesterday was the 4th of July, obviously, and the highlight of every 4th previous was the same yesterday – lots of beer. And then there were the fireworks. We got to spend the evening at Mandy and Jason’s, and they have a prime view of the Lake Union fireworks. I think my personal favorites were this sort that I had never seen before.

These cones of sparkling wonder rose SLOWLY in the air, taking their time. They reminded me of Kleenex ghosts.

If you don’t know what a Kleenex ghost is, take a Kleenex (or your cheap, generic brand tissue) and make a ball out of the center, leaving the rest to hang down below the ball like a tissue skirt.
ghost

You can put tape beneath to bulbous head part if you choose, but my own preference is to draw a scary face as such:
ghostface

Voila! Happy Birthday America!

Saturday, July 01, 2006

Wild Sex (In The Neighborhood)

Okay, as the title suggests, this one will be about sex, not necessarily mine, but sex nonetheless. If you are easily offended, I'm warning you now, I don't want to hear about it later. If you're much like the rest of our society, you're probably much more comfortable with violence; go read a blog about a stabbing or someone beating the shit out of someone else.

So, I was coming home last night from the show, through a neighborhood that was much more quiet and empty than is typically so for 1 in the morning on a Friday. I heard what I at first assumed was an argument, a shrill and heated argument. As I got closer to home, I realized I was actually hearing the sounds of someone fucking.

Wow, I thought, they're right up against an open window. I mean it is warm out right now. But again no, upon still further examination, the now almost shameful sounds were coming from a house that is kitty-corner to our apartment building, and definitely coming from outside. This house has a fenced in patio area that faces the street.

I am assuming that it was in fact two men going at it.
1) Because it's a predominantly gay neighborhood.
2) Because it was a male making these sounds and they were the sort of sounds one makes when they are on the receiving end of a fuck. A particularly rough end, by the sound of things.

Now, I don't have a problem with making noise during sex. I don't tend to make a lot of noise myself, unless it's one of those nights that I like to fuck and sing the first half of Black Sabbath's We Sold Our Souls For Rock N' Roll, but I'm down. You wanna yell, you wanna scream, then fuck yes, yell and scream.

I also do not have a problem with people having sex in the out of doors, say on a fenced in patio, again I am down.

There's just something about having loud, rough sex outside in a heavily populated part of a large city seems a little... brazen? It seems like you're looking for attention a little bit. I had no problem with it, in fact I smiled at the idea of two people having a hot and heavy one in the wide open, but I was admittedly a little shocked. And then I may have been a little jealous.

And then I realized I had been standing in front of my building for about two minutes, theorizing about and listening to two men loudly fucking. And that felt a little weird.