MetalMasturbation

No Fucking Way

2005-10-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

I just pissed all over my fly when using the bathroom. If I was a writer I would say that is somehow a good metaphor for this week, but unfortunately I don’t have the literary prowess to pull those thoughts together. Sorry I haven’t rapped at you in a while, things have been a little busy at the Casa de Tool. BigChurch.com is still blowing up my Inbox like Al Qaida, but sadly enough I haven’t even ventured over there as of late. Possibly the funniest for you (and saddest for me) recent event was that my mother called about three weeks ago and told me that if “you are not married in a few years you should really consider adopting”. Not only was this out of the fucking blue, I still haven’t figured out why she thinks she has a say in this process at all. Granted, I did pop out of her vagina, but I don’t really think that gives her any sort of input on me bringing some Ethiopian or Chinese kid back to my 1.5 room apartment.

It is not that I am against adopting, personally I think that every kid deserves a great childhood and I am even happy that those out there attracted to like genitalia are getting the chance to adopt (at least outside of Texas) because kids need loving parents. That being said, how the fuck do I even remotely fit into that equation?! I am 27 years old. While I can see having kids some day, when I think of “some day” I think of some time in the distant future, not signing a release form tomorrow. I have noticed a strange sense of grandparental entitlement in adults with kids above 25. We know that having kids was something you enjoyed and that some of us will probably get the same joy out of it (whatever the fuck that means). However, lay off. There is nothing more fucking annoying than people who can’t have kids anymore telling people who are still young enjoy for binge drinking and casual sex to not enjoy those things. Hell, I just started to do the things I was “supposed” to do in college. I am still waiting for my first STD, I haven’t felt that burn the films in sixth grade warned me about. Maybe next time I should just tell mom how every now and then I enjoy a nice J- I think that would shut her up for a bit, or at least make her think I wasn’t quite ready to be rearing a toddler.

Jesus Rock

2005-10-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Things are heating up at BigChurch.com! Today I received an email from “friggy” a twenty-seven year-old single female in the Baltimore area. Sounds promising, no? Listen to this clever message from her:

“Your profile sounds interesting. Mine may sound slightly tame, but let me say that I love your attitude. Go full throttle! I became more serious about God 5 years ago after some hard experiences and now I feel on fire for God! Right on!”

I will be up-front and say that for one of the few times in my life I feel a little bad for making fun of someone. But hey- fuck it. As much as I wouldn’t mind getting laid right now, something in the back of my mind tells me that this would be a bad idea. See if you can pick out the bad musical taste in the next sentence:

“In my free time, I like to listen to contemporary Christian music--I've recently discovered I love the stuff! Switchfoot, Caedmon's Call, Third Day, Chris Tomlin, Michael W. Smith, Sarah Groves. If it's filled with Spirit, I love it!!”

Did you see it? If not, I will pass along a clue- all of the music sucks. My guess would be that she needs some strange shit like Lords of Acid to enjoy while screaming “Jesus Christ” in a different context, but like the King of the Jews I don’t judge, I only infer. But hey, at least her mom doesn’t tell her to adopt like mine did on the phone yesterday. I will leave you with that cliffhanger for the next time I write for no one.

Let's Get Physical

2005-10-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't about Olivia Newton-John or how the only way she will find the guy she was banging is with a rod and reel. I really need to get my heart/blood pressure medication filled. I took the low-grade prescription that my doctor gave me in May and when that didn’t work the dose was doubled. I never got that stronger dose filled, maybe it is because I get swollen ankles that hurt when I walked on them and the medication read that it caused “impotence and loss of libido”. Some days it made me feel like Jason Leigh in Mallrats when Shannon Doherty told him that he had “no libido to attack”. I suppose I should look into getting that taken care of soon, since I do want to live past 28, but I will take my time getting over to Rite Aid.

I decided to do my other heart-healthy initiative and finally join the gym like I have talked about for about two months now. With the cold weather setting in and my gut looming like The Blob over my belt it is time to hit the pool for the winter time. I am one of those people that can’t do treadmills or exercise bikes. It is just too difficult for me to run in place for an hour on end. The multitudes of hyper-bikers around me all seem to be working harder and are in-shape for this sort of thing, so a picture of me huffing and puffing while “Hit Me Baby One More Time” plays over the sound system just isn’t appealing. At least with a pool I can pretend that no one else is around. I am joining Merritt, which has a multi-ethnic group of people pointing at me every time I go to the website. I don’t know if this is Rainbow Coalition circle jerk or a collection of people telling me they won’t talk to me once I enroll. Apparently the multi-hued clique will simply point at and openly mock me at every turn. After looking at the offerings I am pretty sure I will not consider enrolling in any of the following classes:

Body Pump

AB Blast

Power Yoga

Super Body Sculpt

City Rhythms

I might have to buy a pair of tight biker’s shorts for when I play racquetball with my friends so I can disgust them into a forfeit, but that will come with time.

The J Man Has to be Embarrassed

2005-10-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

I always say that if you are going to go big, you gotta go Big Church. However, before we hit up the house of God it is time to return to Match.com. I just got “winked at” by a 29 year-old woman. Let me first say that I think she mis-read her birth certificate because there is no way this woman is 29- no way. She has enough wrinkles in her face to be a stand-in for the Grand Canyon. She just finished reading Harry Potter and she enjoys hiking and Yoga. She cast a pretty wide net as her heights and weights were everything from a skinny midget to Hulk Hogan (brother).

Now that we nixed that it is off to my favorite website, BigChurch.com. I swear, the laughs here never stop. Some of my !!!NEW MATCHES!!! include:

-An eighteen year-old who is “sick of the same thing”. How can you be sick of the same thing at eighteen? You haven’t seen enough of the same thing to be tired of it, let alone sick of it. Call me when you’re forty.

-One woman had a clever quote that read, “Ask me about the time I got stuck behind the toilet.” You obsess over Jesus and you’re a fucking moron, that is quite the strong one-two punch.

Of course the best part of my favorite website are the blogs. There are the intelligent people, like cocky cocksucker fullofwisdom who says, “God, You are the potter; I am the clay.” Hopefully God will shape him into something with a modicum of intelligence, but I think this guy baked in the kiln too long. But, we have the real intelligentsia of BigChurch over at Ruthsheart’s blog. Here she advises us that, “Many of our young people are being taught that there is no God, no Divine Law, no accountability, no purpose in life, and that they are the result of some primordial, random collision of molecules and descended from apes. Is it any wonder that many have no respect for life, either in the streets or in the womb?” Of course she dreams about drinking “this strong drink (spirit), it is - bitter, sweet and very strong to my mouth and stomach.” It sounds like Ruth really wants to give Jesus oral and that is definitely her prerogative. Of course, jjjireh replied that sometimes he wakes up speaking in tongues, so he gets the fucked up award for the day.

FogHat

2005-10-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

My hour-long drive to work can sometimes be arduous. However, yesterday was great. A low fog hung in the air and blanketed everything for miles. But, the best part was crossing the bridge right near my work. It stretches for four miles and is beautiful on summer evenings. However, it was even better yesterday because it felt like I was driving through the sky with nothing around me. I had a visibility of about 10 vertical feet and 100 horizontal feet. The superstructure appeared in pieces around me and it felt like I was on the only one on the road. One of my Deep Dish albums opens with a song called “Driving to Heaven” and that is exactly what this experience felt like.

I really hope I can sell a lot this fall and winter so I can get the dog I have been wanting for some time. I have wanted a dog of my own for some time. I always had one growing up and they just seem to make a house (or in my case an apartment) a lot more fun, albeit a bit smellier. It will be nice to come home to something alive in my apartment besides the fruit flies that appeared last weekend- something happy to see me, what a concept. I have put off getting a dog for some time because I wanted to make sure that I could afford one. But, since I am getting to be an older fart (or, as my friends point out, an old fart in a twenty seven year-old’s body) I notice that I would like a little more company in life. For most people this is a fucking no-brainer, but for someone like myself who (over)values their independence it feels strange to want something else.

Out in the Burbs

2005-10-03T18:02:00.000-07:00

I fucking hate suburbia. Not long ago I was thinking that my disdain for these bland regions was pure urban snobbery, but today cemented it. I am spending the night in Powell, Ohio which is just off the northern part of the Columbus beltway. There is no identity of any sort out here. All I see are chains. Applebees, McDonalds, Houlihans, Ruby Tuesdays, Lowes, Home Depot, Barnes and Noble, Borders, the list go on and on. I tried to find someplace here where I could enjoy a beer and watch Monday Night football, but there is no place for community or uniqueness here- just a road to nowhere that is full of mediocre food and buildings that all look the same except for the signs. Thirty years ago Gordon Lightfoot said he was stuck in “Somewhere U.S.A.” because it was so quiet and non-descript. Now the areas around the country are built up and full of people, but they are still non-descript. They are the same no matter where you go. One of the people interviewed in Morgan Spurlock’s “Supersize Me” called it the “McDonaldization of America.” Right now I could be in Arizona, Tennessee or Kansas. The obvious question is, if nothing is special about a place, why would you want to visit, let alone live there?

Just last night I commented to a friend that the neighborhood eateries where we live have few chains, short (if any) waiting times, better food, and costs less money than the Olive Gardens and Arbys that dot the burbs. Granted, I will admit that my income level affords me some things that others cannot get. But, I will never understand why someone would make the conscious choice to live in such a bland area. Is there some allure to the faux mansions, beltway traffic and SUV dealerships that I can’t see? I enjoy the fact that there are businesses outside my door and my city works for the people that live there, not only the people that work there. There are few gigantic intersections where the elderly have trouble crossing and pre-1900 landmarks let me know I am home. I won’t ever get off a highway exit content in the fact that plastic discount signs light my way home.

Stuck In the Middle With Me

2005-10-02T09:06:00.000-07:00

I am getting sick of waking and seeing myself in the mirror everyday. For some reason I still harbor the delusion that awake and see someone else in the mirror staring back at me as I brush the choppers. I was raised on a diet of Grimm fairy tales, so perhaps the magical mirror has been in my subconscious since my youth. Whatever the reason, I have often thought it would be great to be somebody. Perhaps if God wanted to prove to me that he existed, a trial of sorts (but much less stressful than Jonah), or maybe God felt the need fuck me over (I never could figure that cocksucker out). Whatever his motivations, I wonder if he could flip the switch like that.

For starters, it would have to be someone more normal. They would definitely not open their mouth as often and when they did said mouth wouldn’t say the first thing the brain transmitted to it. The “momentary lapse of reason” that David Gilmour sought would finally be fulfilled and everyone would be happy. Strangely enough, I wouldn’t change my body. I have never been comfortable in my metaphorical skin, but my literal bone covering has served me quite well. From the oversized legs to the skinny arms to the random backne, it all seemed to work quite well together. One thing I wouldn’t mind picking up some self-confidence. I don’t know what I would be self-confident about, hence the crux of the original problem, but I am sure it would be there. Hopefully this correction would assist several of my other current head case issues, the collection of which make my cranium a primordial ooze of manic moodiness some days.

The problem is that all this is a happy fantasy and I don’t know quite what I am going to do in the interim. I could Jim Morrison myself but that would take quite some time and I don’t know if I could do that many liquor-induced hangovers day-after-day. But, I don’t have to be happy with what I have. First, I think that’s bullshit advice. I am not Freud, or for that matter Jung, but contentment with one’s self seems like such a bullshit exercise that I won’t enter into it. That feels like non-denominational Christian suburban mega church bullshit that doesn’t fit neatly into my day. But then, neither does waking up as someone else. I hope to find a happy medium one day.

I Cut You

2005-09-29T20:30:00.000-07:00

I woke up in a cold sweat the other night. I was dreaming that (for some unknown reason) I was throwing a knife into someone’s stomach. I hit him, but as he was dying he tossed his knife back at my. Through a conveniently-placed window in said dream I saw it slice my spinal chord in two and my legs slumped as I woke up. Luckily the only thing actually asleep was my hand (it has done that a lot lately). My brain definitely needs an off switch during the night. No more death, no more violence, just a nice peaceful sleep where I woke up happy. Believe it or not that has happened a few times in my life. I can count those dreams on one hand, but the mornings when I wake up with the smile of a stoned man are always nice.

Like most four AM dreams this one resulted in me staring at the ceiling for a good half hour. These dreams are not only great because they give you insomnia, but because you also feel really depressed for no reason. It is quite the one-two combination. Seeing some strange combination of the fan and the ceiling caused me to reflect on what has been a favorite thought as of late- aging. I have no idea why this has grabbed me so much but it seems to pull on my brain like a crack whore on her dealer’s dick. I realize that ruminating at twenty-seven about age is a self-indulgent exercise in depression, but I revel in it all the same. I really feel adrift some days, but it probably doesn’t help that my parents (or should I say my mother?) wrote up and executed a rather perfect Reagan-era Beaver Cleaver family plan (married ten years before having two kids, had the dog and the nice house [albeit with shitty cars] in suburbia and now live in a place they will retire in). I have yet to understand why I feel like my life is in their shadow because I chose a purposely different route than they did, but I feel their path calling for some unknown reason all the same. Hopefully tonight’s dream will be happy thoughts and little lost sleep, but somehow I doubt it.

The Church of What's Happening Now

2005-09-28T09:04:00.000-07:00

I recently signed up for the personals at BigChurch.com (for comedic value only). What can I say; it was one of the funniest fucking things I have come across in some time. Holy shit, I didn’t know people were so strange. Their blogs make me look normal. This only compounds my belief that getting sucked into any religion too much isn’t good for you. I don’t know what frightens me the most. Some great items are:

The Blogs. One says we need to “Wrestle with Jesus like Jacob, get physical.” That is gayer than anything I have heard in my neighborhood and I live in a GAY neighborhood. Of course, the women want to bang Jesus too. One quoted one of her favorite letters to the man on the cross, which said, “Jesus, my Love, Oh.......to be in the arms of My Love. You are even now whispering sweet love words in my ear.” Apparently she thought both Jesus and the cross were made of wood. It also says that a man needs a woman that can do a litany of things, one of which is “makes linen garments and sells them and supplies belts to the tradesmen.” Call me crazy, but I really don’t know how that’s going to help me. I don’t need a woman to be a leatherworker, holding down a decent job is fine with me.

Some of the !!! NEW MATCHES !!! in my Dove Report (yes, that’s what they call it) in the personals section included come-ons like:

“I'm looking for a God fearing man.”

and

“Waiting to meet that special someone who loves the Lord as I do."

Then there is the poster child Christian they have blown up in the email who is twenty-seven and says that part of her daily routine is to “Spend time in prayer and Bible study before the work day starts (we get to work early to beat the traffic).”

It will be an adventure.

The Melody of Riot

2005-09-27T05:43:00.000-07:00

I have been in a strange socially-aware world this summer and it has only depressed me. I tore through “In Sam We Trust” by Bob Ortega, “Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser and today cracked “What’s the Matter With Kansas?" by Thomas Frank. They tell different versions of the same story as the Wal-Mart and McDonald’s books parallel each other in their tales of corporate greed; sucking at the tax-free tit while doing “cost-cutting”. The Frank book ties everything together with a look at why people enjoy voting themselves into economic oblivion. Some days it makes me depressed, others it makes me want to stand up and shout “What the fuck is going on?”, even though no one is listening. I just know it would be much easier to be a NASCAR neophyte, but I can’t help the fact that none of the things Rummy, Ashcroft, Rove or the rest of the Klan believe is important strikes fear in me. Gay marriage? Abortions? Making sure people say “pleasuring myself” instead of masturbation on television? I really wish the same God that talks to James Dobson spoke to me, because it would be a lot easier to take advice from the man upstairs directly, I just have a hard time believing that Pat Robertson is one of the Almighty’s chosen mouthpieces.

My recent musical choices have even had similar messages. Green Day’s year-old “American Idiot” and the recent Son Volt release “Okemah and the Melody of Riot” have definite (and similar) political undertones. The Green Day release is rather good, with the opus “Jesus of Suburbia” so far being my favorite. I have always been someone who believed that people should (for the most part) live where and how they choose. But, the more I think about the suburbs the more I can’t see myself as part of them. Granted, part of it is sheer urban snobbery, but underneath the façade is the fact that I would not be comfortable there. I still remember my third or fourth-grade textbook. It featured an overhead view of Levittown and after quoting the Monkees said that many “of the families were very happy to live there.” While I am sure some families were happy to have new houses, it doesn’t make the underlying concept of SUV Land any more appealing to me. The Son Volt album, in many ways a Jay Farrar solo album with the Son Volt name slapped back on, is a similar attack on Bush’s fucked-up America, just through a different musical avenue. Farrar moans that “the words of Woody Guthrie are ringing in my head” and I can’t help but agree.

I Wanna Rock (Rock!)

2005-09-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

Few things are as difficult as air guitar. I play the instrument, along with a mean air bass and air drums (my Tommy Lee drumstick toss up at the end of a song is always on time), but the air guitar is a challenge song after song. Obviously first you have to pick your axe. Mine generally is a Fender Strat, I just like that old-time feel. The prime spot for practicing ones technique is in a room where no one can see you. Unfortunately my den is next to a large wall of windows that face a church and people walk only a few feet below the bottom of the window. I believe several people have probably seen me play in my underwear, an unfortunate event for everyone involved. Still, I enjoy cranking up the tunes. If you are reading this and thinking about playing air guitar for the first time please let me dispense the following recommendations for trying your style.

AC/DC, Back in Black: “Dunh, dunh-uh…du na na.” Yes these crunching sounds of guitar are the way to go if you want to become an air guitar virtuoso. There is a rhythm and lead guitar that are both fun, but obviously if you want to rock there is no part to play but Angus Young’s (the school boy uniform is optional). If someone is singing please make sure that they don’t pull a Bon Scott and kill themselves during your rock fest.

Def Leppard, Photograph: Part rock, part pop and all ass kicking, Photograph is a tour-de-force of another five-piece band breaking through. This is one of those songs where it is OK to perform Joe Elliot’s vocals while rocking out. “All I’ve got is a photograph…its not enough.” To fully complete the song it is recommended that you copy the video by having a torn Union Jack t-shirt, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike and perform the song in an abandoned (but well-lit) warehouse.

Def Leppard, Pour Some Sugar On Me: “Hit me like the bomb, baby come on get it on.” The dueling licks on this song are impressive, but not as impressive as seeing the Leppard “in the round”. For those kids of you out there, DL used to have a gigantic stage that stood in the center of an auditorium or stadium and rotated throughout the show so that everyone enjoyed an Elliot’s-eye view. I would really advise that you let go on this one and rock out on the bridge.

Guns ‘N Roses, November Rain: While this song isn’t a complete ass-kicker, the guitar solo is first-rate. This is Axl Rose’s homage to feeling pain and he does in typical GNR style. While the beginning is a soft piano-heavy kick off, it moves on. The highlight is Slash going to town in the middle of a field outside of a small church. He lets his freak flag fly by dialing every sound he can and at the end we slowly hear Axl ask, “Don’t you think that you need somebody, don’t you think that you need someone?”

Scorpions, Rock You Like A Hurricane: These crazy Germans wanted to not only rock you, they wanted to rock you like a natural disaster that leaves thousands dead and causes millions worth of property damage- that is brining the pain. The guitars howl, but you don’t need a cage filled with women and an alien life pod like the video. All you need to do is “speilen dienem Guitar” and rock the fuck out. As Klaus Meine said, “the bitch is burning, she needs to kill.”

Van Halen, Panama: “We’re riding a little bit hot tonight.” Spandex is the material of the day if you want to do Van Halen. Again, this is part singer and part guitarist as playing David Lee Roth is even more fun than being Eddie Van Halen. Case-in-point: After he left VH the DLR released the album “Skyscraper” with its hit single Just Like Paradise. The video showcased him rock climbing as he sang (I am sure there were some groupies to service Roth after he was done with his workout). Back to Panama, Eddie’s driving guitar riffs on this song show that even though his music sucks now, it used to be cool to like Van Halen.

Warrant, Cherry Pie: Ah, Warrant. While the group did have three official hits (Cherry Pie, Heaven and Down Boys) I still classify them as a good representative of the power ballad/hard rock combination (if you are wondering, Down Boys is removed to fulfill that equation). Any song that starts with the words “Dirty, Rotten, Filthy Stinkin’” has to be good. Apparently the vagina of Bobbi Brown, the chick playing with the fire hose and various red items in the video, was indeed good enough to “put a smile on your face, ten miles wide” because singer Jani Layne started banging her (don’t ask me how I know this). How can you not playing some mean air guitar to this song?! The way Layne wants us to believe that this woman makes him think things like “I scream, you scream, we all scream more” let us know that this pie is not ordinary, it is, in fact, cherry.

New York, New York

2005-09-25T10:22:00.000-07:00

What can I say; I am a sucker for history. This is a large part of the reason that I recently chose to travel to New York City by train instead of car or plane. I had a client in-tow this weekend for a quick tour of the Big Apple and insisted that we take the train up. I am a lover of (well-run) rail transit, but because Amtrak is so damned expensive I don’t get to do it very often. I have come to the conclusion that we in the Northeast corridor get to pay the price for Amtrak’s incompetence in the rest of the country. To me, few things are better than splitting my time between looking out the window and reading as the world speeds by. Apparently I am in the minority as Americans prefer sitting behind the wheel on the Jersey turnpike while traveling south. The only negative I know about train travel is standing up to pee while speeding over some switches; it was a bit messy in there.

We hit NYC in blitzkrieg-like fashion. Our train got in at one in the afternoon and we proceeded to hit Times Square, lunch, Central Park, the Battery, a beer, the financial district, ground zero and be back in our hotel by six. Then it was off to Gallagher’s at 6:30 for dinner (my filet wasn’t as good as I hoped). After that we saw Radio City, Rockefeller Center and had a few drinks before heading back to the hotel. On the way I picked up my traditional Times Square gigantic pretzel and a Coke from the street vendor. I snacked on it while watching the beginning of SNL and then went promptly to sleep. I believe this is the first night I have had over six hours sleep in the last week- it was a good feeling. This morning we woke up, took the C train to Penn Station and hopped on a southbound Amtrak at 10:05.

I still don’t understand why I am drawn to the Northeast, the New York/New Jersey area in particular. My mom has always said that it is my father’s blood in me. He grew up in Chatham, New Jersey and both of his parents were very working-class and very “Joisey”. Most people in the U.S. are moving West to Phoenix, Albuquerque, or (God forbid) Colorado Springs. While those might be great places to wither before one dies, they’re not for me. I like the congestion, I like the old industrial feel, I even like the way one can get lost in the crowd of the East. It isn’t perfect out here, but it is the best definition of America I have found.

Branson Beauty

2005-09-23T07:20:00.000-07:00

I went on one of the strangest hikes of my life yesterday. Still stuck in Branson and not interested in seeing pathetic washed-up “stars” or doing a shopping trip to a shitty outlet mall in Eureka Springs we opted for a hike. Everyone recommended a place called Dogwood Canyon so we drove for a half-hour past trailers and pick up trucks to one of the most beautiful spots in the area. After seeing the sign I was excited it looked rustic, but promised to be a good time. After paying $7.95 for the privilege of walking the trail we set out. For that price I figured we would be climbing up and down hills, in and out of the valley and enjoy some rugged terrain. None of those things happened.

If you have been to Central Park you know the beauty of constructed nature. This is land that was never beautiful, but later made into a dream world of trees, bushes and topiary that enthralled visitors. While it is nature, in many ways it is a faux-nature. There are natural items inside, but they are carefully groomed and taken care of. The strange thing about Dogwood Canyon is that it is set in the middle of a beautiful region, but the owners have taken great pains to remove the nature. The facility sports a 3.2 mile dead-end hike that parallels a stream in a valley. Walking along the valley floor there is a paved path and ninety-five percent of the trees are removed. It feels like a bad slice of suburbia and looked awful. Every few hundred yards were signs that talked about the unique things that happened on site. Dogwood Canyon has fabricated its own interesting history. The extended cab pick-up truck that pulls a trailer full of people too lazy to walk the trail has a loudspeaker so that the driver’s booming voice can be heard telling passengers about the local “artisans” that carefully created the bridge. Another one of their masterpieces can be found inside the Bass Pro Shop in nearby Springfield. The only thing I noticed about the bridge was the strong chemical smell emanating from the stone. Later that day I saw some of the men responsible for spraying down the bridge so that nothing grew on it.

This experience only re-affirmed my belief that we should have visited a state park. It wouldn’t have had the fancy gift shop or the pavement. But, what is the point of nature if it is manicured and stripped? I can visit a nice looking lawn any time I visit the burbs. Perhaps the most ironic statement is that Dogwood Canyon bills itself as having a “devoted love of nature.”

Vat a City

2005-09-20T07:32:00.000-07:00

Branson Fucking Missouri. Home to Yakov Smirnov, Shoji Tabuchi, Ray Stevens and Andy Williams, this jewel of the Missouri Ozarks has to be one of America’s great armpits. For those of you who haven't been, I really don’t know how to describe it. I guess the key ingredients would be:

*One part white trash
*One part washed up country/variety act stars
*One part pseudo-suburban tourist shithole
*One part Focus on the Family wet dream

If the Republicans keep running America I have a fear that the entire country will look like Branson. It will have delightful urban sprawl and outlet malls as far as the eye can see. NASCAR will proudly wave under the stars and bars, and Toby Keith will let us know that we need to “Put a boot in your ass, It’s the American way.” Forget Hemingway, this man is the genius. The area outside of Branson used to be beautiful, but now they are just trees waiting to be torn down. The entire town has a creepy Mayberry feeling. Everyone here is very nice, but you know they are convinced in their heads you are going to hell. While Evangelical Christianity does a lot of terrible bad things, it does give people confidence that everyone not like them is roasting in eternal damnation (of course Goebbels had a lot of confidence, too).

This morning the Glen Campbell song “Galveston” keeps running through my head. The only difference is that I keep hearing “Branson, oh, Branson” in the old noggin. I am sitting on the front porch of a very nice hotel right with a beautiful view. My only wish is that I could get back to my most recent book acquisition, “Fast Food Nation”, which I tore through about a third of on my flights yesterday. There is something depressing about getting on a plane at 1:00 in the afternoon and not stepping off until nine at night when you were supposed to land at five. Instead of writing I am working, walking and kissing ass. What a beautiful day to be in the town that demonstrates the worst of America.

Up All Night (Sleep All Day)

2005-09-15T17:08:00.000-07:00

Why can’t I get a good night’s sleep? Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights this week I fell asleep watching TV and woke up around 2 in the morning to “go to bed”. The problem is that I can’t just go to sleep after being fully awake for ten minutes as I go through the motions of getting ready for bed. After I lay back down my mind starts running like Jackie Joyner-Kersee* on crack. To see the orb that is my cranium picture the stereotypical “Times Square” style news ticker. The only difference in my head is that there are about ten of them and they figure out the most worthless things to print. It is not unusual for me to be up at least an hour before I fall back asleep.

The only thing worse than these fits of brain spasms are the commercials by Lindsay Wagner for the Sleep Number Bed. Lindsay, please hear this, I don’t give a fuck that your sleep number is 35. Generally speaking, I don’t take advice about any part of my life from someone whose claims to fame include “Fighting for My Daughter” or “Frog and Wombat”. I am sure it is great to be able to dial your bed any way you want to, but I can’t get into it. I sleep on a futon and love it. I still haven’t figured out why all these couples have trouble finding a bed they like (although if you want a bed that can be jumped upon without a glass of red wine spilling then yes, that can be a touch difficult).

*Back when I was a junior in college my genius alma matter decided to give Jackie Joyner-Kersee a chance to speak at the graduation of the class in front of me. While one might think this would be unique, well-written or even inspiring- it wasn’t. Most people agreed that she was the worst commencement speaker that had ever heard. So, if you need someone to talk to a group don’t hire Jackie, a syphilis-ridden homeless man will have better life insight

Online Dating- Not Just For Losers and Serial Rapists Anymore

2005-09-14T09:50:00.000-07:00

The other day I canceled my Match.com subscription. I guess I didn’t feel like it was worth twenty-two dollars per-month. After all that cash could go to better things like paying down credit card debt or Oreos. I know the women in my town are sobbing to themselves that I am off the Match market, but don’t worry, I am still here. In fact, I will be in a bar not talking to you very soon. But, I have not given up on the online dating. I may look for someone over at eHarmony.com next, that would be a fucking blast. Before I leave the Match world I would like to share you with some of the insight offered up by the profiles and quotes of the ladies that were kind enough to email or “Wink” at me.

Her insight:

“I'm definitely looking for a swing dance partner, so if you know the basic steps, and you love dancing, maybe we can get together and cut a rug.”

My thoughts:

You’re right, that sounds great. There are few things I enjoy more than skipping going out to get drunk because swing dancing is on the agenda. I can’t wait to be Fred Fucking Astaire for the night and hold you awkwardly in my arms.

Her insight:

“My friends have described me as thoughtful, fun, and creative.”

My thoughts:

My guess is that they have also described you as a man, because you look like one in the photo. There have to be some grooming issues if the best picture you could find makes is a dead ringer for Jason Bateman in Teen Wolf Too.

Her insight:

“I want someone who can make me laugh and believes that the little things in life can be just as meaningful and important as the big things (i.e...a little note wishing me a good day...just a phone call to say hi and that's it....a smile from across the bar when we're out with friends...you get the picture!!).”

My thoughts:

That’s a lot of work considering I don’t want to talk to you. But, you’re right. The big things in life like my paycheck and donating to the victims of Katrina are just as meaningful as smiling to you from across the bar.

Her insight:

“Right now I'm looking for someone to have a good time with who is open to the possibilty of falling in love. (No commitments unless, of course, we sweep each other off our feet! Wouldn't that be great?!)”

My thoughts:

Yes! Almost as great as going to jail for a year and being sodomized by Tyrone and his bitch Stevie on a daily basis.

Her username:

Softsuppleone

My thoughts on said username:

Why not just post a picture of some “horsies”, troll dolls, teddy bears and be done with it?

Her insight:

“I'm a true-blue Cancer, sometimes moody, always generous, often lazy, seldom restless.”

My thoughts:

I don’t give a fuck what your sign is. Get off your lazy ass and write something that makes sense outside of a Darwin’s Creek chat room. I know you are challenging yourself by picking up the difficult Harry Potter series, so I don't want you to tax ye olde' noggin too hard.

Praise Jesus

2005-09-13T12:18:00.000-07:00

Living next to a predominantly African-American church for the last 15 months has been interesting. Not so much because of the racial make-up of the church-goers, but because the atmosphere is very “Southern Southern Southern Baptist”. Apparently the house of worship used to be Episcopal, but all of the parishioners hit the road when the crackers flew the coop for the suburbs. Now that whitey is coming back into town it is creating some interesting situations, not the least of which is me often forgetting that there are fan-waving, big hat-wearing women about 15 feet from my window and the only thing separating us is stained glass. I have a brain fart and don't remember the masses (or mass) next door when waking up and I end up walking around in boxers (or tighty whities on the bad days- those are really fucking hot).

My favorite part of the day is when the preacher next store is screaming about the evils of Satan and I wake up hung over. I feel like it is a nice little “fuck you” to organized religion. Of course, while I am the one that had the great time the night before, in the morning I have the unfortunate headache and make the bathroom smell like small woodland creatures died in there a few weeks ago. Stench aside, I always thought Jesus would have been a cool guy to hang with. He probably liked jam band stuff like the Dead and Phish, but I bet he would also get down to some progressive house music and trip on some ex. Either way, I know he enjoyed rockin’ a fat doob when the time was right. As much as I despise religious extremism I know I would be good at exploiting other people’s belief in it. I would make an excellent televangelist like Benny Hinn. A career in sales has taught me to lie to people’s faces, but I could do really well in a tax free setting. Just give me a tv show, a few busty blonde Texas women with big hair, some pseudo-cripples, a speech writer and I will be ready to roll. Satan, be gone!

Nice Pair

2005-09-11T17:57:00.000-07:00

Few things are as awkward for me as getting my hair washed at the salon. In fact, I always avoided getting my hair shampooed until my current hair snippery. After moving last summer I just gave up the battle, atrophy had worn me down. Why don’t I like the shampoo experince? Breasts. It has always been weird for me to have a nice-looking woman’s boobs hanging down in my face. Strange, I know, but, I am a strange guy. It is a nice mix of guilt and the feeling that the woman is thinking, “Great. This fucker is checking out my tits. I don’t get paid enough for this.” Today, for example, the woman was probably 23 or 24 and attractive. As usual, I did my awkward dance of the eyes trying to find someplace to put them. Do I look at the ceiling? Nope, there’s not much to look at. Do I close my eyes? Nope, that just makes me seem stranger than usual (its not like I’m a fucking Zen master). Do I look at her breasts? I do, but then I only make it too obvious by darting away quickly. Shit, I fucked that up. After a few minutes and an excellent scalp massage my time in the electric chair is done. I was finally able to get my hair cut with no knockers in my face.

I have never really been a breast man. They’re fun, but once I have access I really don’t know what to do with them. It is like when I see a movie I have wanted to watch for some time- anticipointment sets in fast. During the few times women have felt sorry enough to expose themselves to me, which is usually after the half hour it takes me to get a lock picking kit to get their bras off, I just turn into a twelve year-old and stare. I would like to say, “I am so touching your boobs right now,” but what little instinct I have about women tells me that they might not like that. So, I do my usual thing and pretend that I really know what I am doing. The Casanova of the mammary gland goes to work and disappoints whoever is on the holding end of said items. Most of the time I wish things would just end there because my skill level with the hardware reduces exponentially the more clothing is removed and I am lucky if there is some semblance of an erection after 10 minutes of playtime. It seems to fall asleep faster than my grandfather after a big meal and takes forever to wake back up. Maybe if I put firecrackers under my nuts it would spring forth, but generally it mimicks R.E.M. when they sang “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight.” Isn’t it time for bed yet?

This should cheer you up for sure, see I've got your old I.D. and you're all dressed up like the Cure

2005-09-10T07:34:00.000-07:00

My stomach is in a bit of a shambles this morning. A little bit tipsy last night I resorted to doing something I haven’t done since college- eat a lot of food late at night. Around 1 AM I enjoyed a Gyro (no sauce), a coke and two pieces of deliciously greasy pepperoni pizza. The nice thing is that since I wasn’t drunk I got a good night’s sleep. This morning I just got some fresh juice and a cup of coffee, which provides a nice combination of vitamins and the caffeine I now find necessary to get through life. At the coffee shop I got a nasty look from one of the women working there. Granted, I might have been staring at her too much, but I have never seen anyone dressed like a Cure fan at age 30 (or she was younger and I couldn’t tell- who knows). I have always been bad at telling people's age. Guys don't care, women I usually either guess a lot lower than they are or I wander higher, either way it is usually seen as insulting. The barista, as Starbucks call them (a term I will use despite the fact that I was not at the coffee conglomerate) was definitely unhappy that I was checking her out, even though that was not the case. I am always a fan of women who sport the post-Goth look. The ones that turn a corner in their late twenties and realize they have to get a job, but they still dress different enough to make sure that people know they “were once cool”.

This morning I had the distinct pleasure of doing what has become one of my favorite weekend activities- the lazy sleep in. Few things in my rudimentary life bring me as much pleasure as waking up, looking at the clock, and slowly falling back to sleep. This happens a few times over the morning and I can’t help but enjoy that transition between being awake and asleep where I know I am going to float back into my dreams. Last night they involved me being back at my elementary school. Perhaps all the “humorous reflection” reading I have done lately has really put me in a nostalgic mood, even though elementary school was pretty vanilla for me. I just remember using a lot of macaroni to make presents for my parents that they acted really excited about.

Serial Pisser

2005-09-09T10:47:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning and took a leak it smelled like Super Golden Crisp. As Sugar Bear used to sing, “Can’t get enough of that Super Golden Piss.” Oddly enough I have never had my morning shit smell like something Count Chocula would enjoy, although I have pleasured myself to a box with Frankenberry on the cover. I only had a four-day week but I feel really fucking beat down for some reason. Maybe it is because my food today has consisted of a large cup of coffee and half a bag of Reese’s Pieces which was left over from my trip to see my second viewing of “The 40 Year-Old Virgin” last night. I saw the movie and finished Paul Feig’s “Superstud : Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin” within a few weeks of each other. Both have a lot of very funny highlights that are depressingly familiar.

Hopefully I can enjoy the beautiful weather before Frosty the Snowman’s wintry hands grip this city by the balls. One of the reasons why I have grown to love spring and fall so much is that my energy bill drops like a rock. Only a little AC or heat is needed during each season, the rest of the time I can coast on the sweet, sweet love from Mother Nature. I enjoyed the weather on my first official bike ride yesterday. Now that my running days are over I get the privelage of almost being flattened by cars as I pedal on what the Talking Heads called “The Road to Nowhere.” I have never been a big biking fan. I don’t like helmets, tight pants, other bikers who want to race, and not being able to think while I exercise. My favorite part about running was the fact that I could mull over work and every other fucking problem in my head. With a bike all I can do is make sure the guy driving the Iroc-Z doesn’t get so lost in “Gimme Three Steps” that he breaks my legs. But hey- my heart is going, my knees are gone and the only wood I get lately is in the morning because my bladder is going to explode. If things continue like this in a few years most of my limbs won’t be working so I can just wheel my crippled ass in front of a Hess truck on Fort Avenue and be done with it.

The Single Guy

2005-09-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

I was always impressed with my dad’s collection of 45’s. He had some great stuff on small vinyl, from The Coasters’ “Charlie Brown” to The Beatles’ “Revolution”. The only thing that never made sense was his inclusion of the “Curly Shuffle” in the bag of 45’s that sat on a shelf in my basement. It was some piece of shit song that probably ran on Dr. Demento. Larry, Moe and Curly aside, I always enjoyed opening the old brown bag of 45's and looking through them, even though I knew almost every title in there. When I was a kid I had always hoped to have a single collection of cool songs that equaled my dad’s. Sadly, I failed. Below are the singles (well, cassingles) I bought growing up. Some were quite good while others were not so great. I tried to put them in the order in which they were purchased, but I can’t remember exactly (numbers 1 and 2, 3 and 4 were purchased together).

1) R.E.M.- Man on the Moon (off of Automatic for the People): I was coming around to good music (i.e. no more Lionel Richie) when R.E.M. was hitting their commercial stride in the early 1990’s. About six months after picking this up I bought both “Automatic” and “Out of Time”. In fact, they were two of my four first cd’s (the other two being Pearl Jam’s “Ten” and Harry Connick Jr.’s “When Harry Met Sally” soundtrack, all of which I still own).

2) Cranberries- Linger (off of Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We?): This is one of those groups I am surprised I never got into more. They were great and had a sound which was part indie and part alternative, not that I knew what either of those words meant at the time. I will say that Dolores O'Riordan scared me a little bit in the Cranberries’ video for “Zombie”, so maybe that is why I shied away.

3) Motley Crue- Without You (off of Dr. Feelgood): I know I bought this with the Aerosmith song below, so it must have been because this was still sitting overlooked in Wal-Mart’s singles aisle some four years after it came out. I don’t know why I picked this up as opposed to “Dr. Feelgood” or “Kickstart My Heart”, perhaps it was because as a fifteen year-old I related to the video’s images of lace, chicks in lingerie and AquaNet so well.

4) Aerosmith- Livin’ on the Edge (off of Get a Grip): I must be one of the few people my age that doesn’t suck Aerosmith’s dick and think they are the greatest rock band of all time. What can I say; I was never that into them. I bought this single for two reasons:

A) there was a creepy artistic pinhead on the cover
and
B) the video was cool (and rockin’)

As of today I would much rather put on a bad Stones or Zeppelin album before a good Aerosmith one.

5) John Mellencamp- Human Wheels (off of Human Wheels): I will be honest, when I first heard this song on the radio; I thought it was done by R.E.M. I don’t know how I confused Johnny Cougar and Michael Stipe- but I did.

6) Red Hot Chili Peppers- Soul to Squeeze (off of the Coneheads soundtrack): I still really like this song today, even though I only have it on mp3. I never figured out why the terrible Coneheads movie came away with what I thought was a decent soundtrack, but they did and got the Peppers to write a song for it. It came out in 1993, which was in the middle of the “Blood Sugar Sex Magic” uproar. The video featured some sort of freak show theme, but what made their sound really cool was a shirt my friend Julie wore that had the RHCP logo formed by sperm swimming to an egg.

7) Blackstreet- No Diggity (off of Another Level): “No diggity, no doubt, ugh.” I must have been pretty damn cool when this came out. After all, I bumped this in my POS Jeep Grand Cherokee senior year of high school. How could I not be cool? I still don’t understand what the song is about (i.e. “I’ve got to bag it up”), but this was technically my third rap/r&b purchase after Eazy-E’s “Easy Does It” and Dre’s “The Chronic”.

8) Paul McCartney- My Brave Face (off of Flowers in the Dirt): While this came out in 1989, I picked it up in 1994. That year Rush was touring and I wondered why a lot of kids had their concert shirts on in my high school. Now that I think about it, even some of the popular kids at my school liked Rush, apparently it wasn’t limited to nerds like myself. At church my mom was in charge of an item drive for the underprivileged. Someone, probably a nerd’s mother, dropped off almost every Rush album through “Power Windows” on cassette. Since I had heard they were a good rock band I “traded” with the church and gave them some tapes, such as Huey Lewis and the News’ self-titled debut, which I wasn’t listening to much anymore. I saw the “My Brave Face” cassingle in and picked it up with the Rush tapes. I always liked the song, which is a remembrance of sorts for McCartney (much like George Harrison had “When We Were Fab” on his Cloud 9 lp, which was released the same year a Flowers in the Dirt) and had a video depicting Beatles fans stealing his personal memorabilia.

9) Chumbawamba- Tubthumping (off of Tubthumper): This was not a purchase, but arguably my most embarrassing singles moment ever. For some reason I really liked this song. So, the spring of my freshman year of college I thought it would be really cool to get the song and make a one hour tape of nothing but Tubthumping. I should learn that anytime I think something is “really cool” it probably isn’t.

Slider...you stink

2005-09-07T18:22:00.000-07:00

I recently found out why I have smelled so bad lately. Apparently I mistakenly bought deodorant, which masks my BO, instead of anti-perspirant (my usual purchase), which knocks it out. Last night at Target I went all out and bought some Arm & Hammer Anti-Perspirant/Deodorant, which I imagine will destroy the silent army beneath my arms and should any of that stank escape, it will crush them with the deodorant side of things. It should be an effective two-pronged attack, much like Skid Row had both “18 & Life” and “I Remember You” on their debut album. Hopefully my post-frisbee clothing will smell less like death himself used said items for toilet paper before heading out with scythe-in-hand, but only time will tell.

The worst part of all this is that the entire process took me way to long to figure out. I had a few nights over the course of my deodorant stick where I would wake myself up because I smelled so bad- that’s a gift. The good news is that the dreams where legions of people are trying to kill me or my family have taken a break for about the past six months. It is always nice to get through the night without ending it in a movie that combines the worst of Wes Craven and anything from the Vin Diesel or Ice Cube “XXX” films. There is nothing quite like unexplained mental issues to help one get through life.

As a kid I always thought Joe Elliot sweated a lot during the “Pour Some Sugar on Me” video. I felt sorry for the dude as I knew it had to suck to be a human waterworks. When I got older and found out that they had legions of women waiting to perform any act requested (and according to VH1’s “Behind the Music” this includes mother/daughter stuff) I felt a bit less remorse. It had to be hard on the one-armed drummer though. After beating up his girlfriend he must have been at the bottom of the backstage skank food chain. I bet even Tesla, who was opening for the Leppard at the time, got to pick the women before ole’ one-armed-Rick did. I never could figure out why people liked Tesla- were “Signs” or “Love Song” really that memorable (especially since “Signs” was a cover)? I always liked how they released a live version of signs, to show that they were a band of the people. Leppard must have rocked their asses off on that tour. “We’re gonna rock it baby- come on!”

Party people it's your party Tag Team is through (Whoomp there it is I thought you knew)

2005-09-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

I often wonder what happened to DC the Brain Supreme and his man Steve RollIN. They were kicking the flow and it went a little somethin’ like this:

“Whoomp there it is.”

Yes, the cries of thousands could be heard in stadiums around the world as people got down to the funky sounds of Tag Team. A sonic force to be reckoned with, this duo came out with not only, “Whoomp! There It Is”, but also: “Addams Family (Whoomp)”, “Bulls There It Is”, “Here It Is, Bam!” “Whoomp! There It Went”, and “Pig Power”. I really don’t understand how the last one fits in their stylistic mold, but who am I to doubt the Brain Supreme? It does sadden me that we had to wait until 2000 for "The Best of Tag Team" to come out, they should have had at least enough hits for a greatest hits disc by 1992. I do remember when two white trash morning dj’s also named Steve & DC that I used to listen to got all excited when the song came out. That was probably the most excited I have heard a morning zoo, except perhaps when the “man in the box” does traffic.

This was one of the songs that my father inexplicably learned the words to. He sounds like the whitest man alive when singing this or the “Macarena” (he bought the single to the latter). For a guy a bit on the quiet side he was always willing to make an ass out of himself for the amusement of his children, such as when he would get on one knee and do an imitation of talent-less Molly Shannon doing her Mary Katherine act. I somehow got the gift of my mom’s loudness and father’s unabashed take on life all in once foul swoop. If you doubt me come see me rock a sweet karaoke rendition of C.W. McCall’s “Convoy”. Your life will never be the same.

Life as the Third Wheel

2005-09-05T07:14:00.000-07:00

Being “the single guy” was something has been a permanent state with me. I was about 25 when I noticed that more often than not I was the dreaded “single friend”, the obligatory invite to couples events and the guy whose only family to discuss at business events was his parents. While other people’s lives were in a state of flux I always seemed to be the constant. Every transition period in life has proved to be a chance to regroup that has not gone too well. I wasn’t surprised when I was equally nerdy after moving up to high school from junior high. However, I had hoped that some magic transformation would occur between high school and college or liberal arts and life. In many ways I feel that I am in the same skin I was in during freshman year of high school. I am still awkward, but everyone else has grown out of it (or at least into being themselves).

In many ways I wish I was in some sort of complacent relationship that wasn’t that good just so I was in one. It would be nice to be less of a tag-along burden, but that doesn’t appear to be in the cards. Some nights, like last evening (where I thought about this for a few hours before falling asleep) I do wonder where I fucked up. Was there something I did that changed how I thought, or some reason why I have trouble imagining the “weird” idea of pair bonding that everyone else seems so jump into? It is strange that neither singularly nor collectively have the prospects of sex, relationships or not having to buy too much food because I am only cooking for one person caused me to venture out. My life in a nutshell does make me wonder if I have any sort of tipping point. The only thing more frightening to me than any of this is contemplating what I will be like in another ten or twenty years. I hold out hope that things will change, but if the past is prologue I have to believe it will be me, just older, more out of touch and engaged in some pathetic attempt to reclaim a lost youth I never experienced.

Brick House It Was Not

2005-09-04T06:51:00.000-07:00

Most things in life we forgive each other for. My sister has been especially kind and allowed me to pass on most of my youthful transgressions such as when I tried to steal all of her glory at every birthday party she had until she was roughly sixteen, the time I chased her into the oven door (which shattered all over the floor) and when I hit her in the head with a baseball bat (that one was actually an accident). But the one thing she will never let me live down are my two first musical purchases. I have always enjoyed music. While sweltering in the back of my mom’s Chevy I could recognize ditties like Neil Diamond’s “Heart Light”, Journey’s “Lights” and “Sussudio” by Phil Collins. While my mom has since grown into someone with very good musical taste (i.e. a lot of Motown), back in the day she listened to a terrible soft rock station that played the “latest from today’s best artists”. I didn’t understand anything about singing, songwriting and the music industry, but I understood that I liked good music. But, I have never been able to understand why I bought my first albums and Lu has never let me forget the tittles.

The two cassettes in question were purchased at the now-defunct Streetside Records on the traffic hellhole that is Manchester Road. The store now houses a Mattress Giant, as the name implies a business that sells mattresses (my sister got her current mattress there) and is known in the St. Louis area for having their tagline read by a woman who sounds as if she spent the last hour in the bathtub with a removable showerhead because on the commercial she moans her way through, “Only at Mattress Giant…Ohhhhhhhh Ahhhhh.” The purchase on that fateful day consisted of Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling” and The Jets’ “The Jets”. Obviously Lionel was the better known of the two, so why don’t we start there? Perhaps it was the sophisticated Jerry Curl look, perhaps it was the white suit on the cover, maybe it was the catchy hit song that was playing on the radio at the time. At least I could say I knew a Lionel Richie song (not that it makes him good). But, the Jets? Who the hell had heard of The Jets at that time? Hell, who has heard of The Jets before or since? I remember the color being yellow, the script being red and all of the band members hanging out on someone’s burned-out porch in the hood for their cover picture. Their gimmick was that they were all siblings, a veritable bonanza of Jerry Curl and synthesizer talent. To this day I have no fucking clue why someone would pick up an album by the Jets.

What disturbs me more than my actual purchases were the fact that my parents let me carry through with the transactions. There was no review, no quality inspection. The only thing she checked was that there was no sort of parental warning. Cursing was bad, but bad taste was acceptable. My mom could have pointed me to Motown, my dad could have sent me in the direction of Sinatra. (the first white pimp) Instead I took home two albums that I tried forcing myself to like, but they eventually went in the Famous Barr bag kept in a corner of my room that housed objects I didn’t want to throw away but never used.

The real tragedy in all of this is the fact that the cassette I got before these two (a birthday gift, I believe) was Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. I spent a lot of time walking around with my brown Fisher Price tape player in hand listening to Michael lament about things I did not understand. That was a very cool first tape (bought as a birthday present), it is too bad my first purchases were not so hot.

That's the lamest story I ever heard, and I read the entire Sweet Valley High Series!

2005-09-02T12:21:00.000-07:00

I got a reprieve of sorts yesterday. The doctor told me that what was supposed to be a chondral defect was now just deep bone bruising. I still can’t run distances anymore, but obviously the prospect of not having surgery (at least in the immediate future) is a nice one. Going from having 4-6 months of recovery to no surgery is a change of course that I will gladly accept. There was no official response from the doctor, but I think that someone mis-read my MRI.

While I am thrilled that no one I know will have to take any time out of thier lives to help me, I am a little sad at the prospect of not having the anticipated downtime (and not getting a pimp cane to use during my recovery). I was going to use that period to work on my book and wrap up all the loose ends that always seem to float around. Obviously I would much rather have things as they are, but I can’t help where my brain wanders sometimes. Now that I don’t have to have the surgery I am contemplating getting a dog again. I will get it next year if I get a raise and some other things fall in line. I have to be able to afford to have others take care of it when I travel for work. But, it will be nice to come home to an apartment that has something alive besides myself and a mouse I saw scampering around a few weeks ago. Maybe it is just another sign of me getting old, but I want something else around for once. Who knows, in ten years I might be comfortable having other people in the apartment.

It is kind of spooky that as I write this Death Cab for Cutie is singing “Then Labor Day came and went, and we shed what was left of our summer skin” in the background. Perhaps it is a prelude to the weekend. I don’t know why but I feel pretty fucking old today. Something washed over me and I feel lethargic. I almost want to head home, go to bed and just let the weekend float by. That won’t happen, but on Sunday I can see just sitting on the couch watching the DVD version of Entourage’s first season, my sister’s birthday gift. Whatever it is, I need something to sweep me away from life for a little while.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

2005-09-01T13:14:00.000-07:00

This is a PSA for any guys reading this blog. You can be straight, guy, or even confused (and a big fan of Morrissey). Whatever your orientation I have some pretty important information to share. Ladies, I don’t know what to say to you today. Feel free to:

A) Read on about a pretty embarrassing situation for me growing up.

OR

B) You can completely ignore this and move on to find out that Space Aliens Are Demons From Hell

Ladies, you chose B? Great. To paraphrase Eazy-E, “Now I’m gonna break it down and tell a little story. Straight out the box, from the whacking category.” Rewind to about 1990 or ’91. Vanilla Ice was rocketing up the charts, but Snow’s “Informer” had yet to inform us that he wanted to lick some young woman’s “boom boom down”. I was home alone so where do I head- the shower. So, hop in, turn the water on, get ready to rub one out like any 13 year-old would, and then I noticed a bottle of shampoo. The voice in my head, someone that I learned is a complete moron, thought it would be a good idea to involve some shampoo in the whacking venture.

I won’t get into the niceties, but let’s just sat that things were progressing well and I was getting close to the finish line. I can’t remember the fantasy, but it was probably my usual adolescent one where some random naked woman knocked on our basement door and wanted to have sex with me. I have never quite figured out why a busty blonde would be wandering our neighborhood naked (and if she was doing that why she would go to our basement door), but when the penis does the thinking it is never logical so I learned to run with it. I was slowly starting to see stars and made it over the mountain. However, just as I was wrapping things up I realized something- this didn’t feel good, it hurt like hell. It felt like I was shooting fire and I doubled over in the shower. At first I thought that God was finally punishing me for masturbating. He had let me get away with it for a while (just to get a taste, if you will), but now he wanted me to know that he could bring the pain if necessary. After my head cleared a little I realized that it was not the almighty, but rather the Pert Plus, that had foiled my good time. I haven’t had enough sex to get the Clap, but now I don’t have to, because the burn I felt that day taught me a valuable lesson- stroke safely. So, for all of you out there thinking about using Head and Shoulders, Suave or even the venerable Pert Plus, I urge you to reconsider.

If You Get Caught Between My Nuts and New York City

2005-08-31T13:03:00.000-07:00

Apparently Christopher Cross was the next big thing in music in 1980. While I was young at the time, many a writer and commenter on some VH1 show have noted that his looks really did him in because videos were all the rage after the album “Christopher Cross” came out. In the early Eighties he had hits like “Sailing”, “Arthur’s Theme”, and “Ride Like the Wind”. The last of the three was probably the most insulting. The singer/songwriter not only had his terrible sound on the track, there was a guest spot from equally-awful Michael McDonald (Robert Downey Jr. could offer more help to a coke fiend). If Kiss could survive the “Lick It Up” video, one in which they took off their make up, paraded around an industrial area as they invitingly stuck their tongues at the cameraman, I would think Chris could have overcome his ape-like features. His unfortunate appearance aside; I don’t think Monsieur Cross made it mostly because his music sucked. Granted, I may be biased because most of my memories surrounding his short-lived reign at the top of pop involved riding in the backseat of my mom’s POS four-door blue Chevy Malibu through suburban St. Louis. The rear windows in that fucking car didn’t roll down. Instead, it featured the rather novel concept of 6 inch triangular pieces of glass behind the main window that rotated 45 degrees. Those of you that have traveled throughout the Midwest with its roasting summers can feel my pain on some level.

Getting back to Chris Cross (not the one with the backwards pants who filmed “Jump” at Coney Island, that’s Kris Kross) I really think his music sucked balls. Most of it was pretty whiny, synth-backed garbage that sounds as disposable today as it was when it was written. Sadly enough, I think the man won a Grammy. I am not saying he was Air Supply, but if we are going to turn back the clock to the early-to-mid eighties we’re going to crank a little of Van Halen’s “1984” (specifically Panama). That song reminds people of being young and rolling down the window (or in my case, angling the window to promote a two-degree temperature change). Cross’s albums probably just remind men of the woman they married in 1982 and got a divorce from fifteen years later as she took the kids and moved in with the wealthy guy who was boning her for two years on the side. There has to be nothing worse than mailing alimony payments to some guy fucking your (ex)wife. Well, perhaps putting on “Sailing” as background music while you write the next month’s check.

Take off, to the Great White North

2005-08-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

Oh, Canada, you northern temptress. I am currently on a prop plane operated by Jazz, Air Canada’s puddle jumper brand, flying back home to the states. I don’t know why I got so excited about the fact that I get to travel on a plane with propellers, this is only my third, but it has me very happy.

I really like this country. It feels 75% European and 25% American, making it a great northern stew. The people seem similar to Americans except that they say “eh”, aren’t puritanical and are generally more laid back. Canada doesn’t only rock because Rush wrote a song with Toronto’s airport code as the name (YYZ), it is cool in non-nerd ways, too:

*I saw a store today called “The Beer Store”.

*The slogan for their largest sub sandwich shop, Mr. Sub, is, “There’s always something good going down.” I have yet to find that to be the case.

*I find women with Canadian accents just a bit more attractive (not as exotic as British women, but much more exotic than Tennessee women).

*No George Bush (Rove, Rumsfeld, Cheney, etc.)

*If I talked to women I think I could do quite well here (I am not sure where the sudden burst of self-confidence came from, but let’s run with it).

*They have soft-core porn on after midnight (no whacking fee in hotels…although few things are enjoyable as expensing Spectravision).

*Toronto is as cool as New York or Chicago, just cleaner.

This morning’s 8 AM flight from Chicago to Toronto turned out much better than expected. The plane was half-empty, which meant that the handicapped guy who was mistakenly in my seat (yes- I made him move, no- I didn’t know he was handicapped at the time) had a window seat that separated him and myself. So, this morning I was dozing off in the plane, trying to add to the five hours of sleep I got. I was in that delicious state between consciousness and sleep when I felt it. At that moment I would have testified that a beautiful woman was rubbing and kissing my neck- aggressively. As I woke up I pulled my head off the headrest (one of the nice ones that rise vertically and have “fins” to hold your head in place) and the feeling was gone. Perplexed I lowered my dome back into the headrest and shortly thereafter I felt it again. After repeating this a few times I figured out that one of the air seats serving a row behind me must have been angled so that it was spraying forward and channeled under the headrest directly down my neck.

I spent the next hour and a half rolling in and out of sleep. Whenever the captain or stewards woke me via an announcement I wandered back to LaLaLand, never having to count sheep because my cadre of women straight out of a James Bond film lulled me to slumber. Yes, Domino, Pussy Galore, Honey Ryder, Megan Donglicker (I will have to check IMDB to verify that the last woman was a Bond girl) were all fighting each other to give me a backrub. While the rest was excellent, there was a slight problem when I awoke- I was highly aroused. Seeing as I landed at 10:30 I have to call it a Brunch Boner (too late for Morning Wood, too early for Afternoon Delight). I have been dealing with inopportune erections for some time so this general scenario was nothing new. However, the issue was that I had a suit on. The males out there who have worn a suit (and the females out there that have undressed a man in one) know that we are not talking about the thickest of fabrics here. After the seatbelt sign turned off I grabbed my backpack and hiked down the concourse as if I did not have a lead pipe in my pants. I fooled no one.

An Addendum:

I lied in the first paragraph. My flight home on a prop was not as good as I had hoped. The flight was fine and had the usual fun air pockets. However, the problem was my seat- 10-C. The plane was arranged in ten rows, with four seats in each row (two seats on either side of the aisle). However, row 10 had five seats. 10-C happened to be at the back of the plane sitting where the aisle should be. The plane was full and hot, plus I had no reading light or air vent. I was not happy.

Chicago, Chicago (that toddlin' town)

2005-08-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

Let me start for the 0 people that enjoy the blog that the passport did arrive after the series of adventures mentioned in the previous post. Overall I think today was a pretty good day in Chicago. I had breakfast with several friends from home who were in town for other things and had lunch with Lu. In between I enjoyed the city. I walked down the Magnificent Mile, through Millennium Park and finished by eyeing the Rookery’s lobby. In between it all I took several half-hour stops to read through my recently-acquired copy of Paul Feig’s “Superstud : Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin”, an author recommended by the Barons (of Chicago fame).

The little sister’s acclimation to Chicago over the past few years has been impressive. Over the course of our lives I set out on my own a little more than she did, but, since she was the popular one and smart one I had to do something unique. I don’t know if being independent counts, but it is really the only thing I can think of aside from my rather large train set in the basement (sadly enough I still think it was pretty fucking kick-ass) and the fact that since I could drive I have spent too much money on music (I bought 5 cd’s at the Virgin MegaStore today- couldn’t resist the $10 sale).

While it still seems strange that my “little sister” is doing all these “adult things” nothing struck me quite as much as her offhand comment yesterday that if she, “hasn’t moved in with someone in a year or so she will start looking for a place to buy.” What gave me pause was not the concept of my sister investing in real estate because, while I do not practice fiscal responsibility (I bought the DVD of “Dumb and Dumber” today, even though I have it on VHS), I do preach it. Nor was it the “sibling having sex and/or moving in with someone else” thing because I am as comfortable with that as a big brother can be. What I found odd was that I don’t think I have ever casually thought to myself that "in 1, 3, 5, or some number of years I will live with someone." Sure, maybe I thought about the whole marriage thing when I was five, but that was also when I thought best boogers were the “gooey ones” because they rolled off the tongue well. I think about co-habititation about as often as I ponder ALF moving in. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t mind his company for a week or two (and we both profess to enjoy pussy), but somehow I don’t think it would work in the long-term because he is pretty fucking annoying. For reasons I don't understand I still feel a little strange when friends and family spend the night in my place- and I want them there. The thought of pair bonding simply blows my mind. Perhaps that part of my brain never developed. I guess I just find it kind of sad that in a few years she is going to be passing me by in life. As the first child, I can’t recall that ever happening before.

Tuck Fexas

2005-08-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

I flew into San Antonio yesterday and boy are my arms tired. So, before my flight on Southwest I was waiting in line, all proud that I had stayed up until 12:01 to check in online and get my boarding pass- Group A, bitches. As my father eloquently put it, “I like to get in the ‘A group’ so I don’t have to stand in line and can tell the B’s and C’s to ‘suck it.’” Well, as I was halfway onboard I thought to myself, “I wonder what would have happened had I forgot my passport?” (I am going to Canada Tuesday). But then, I realized I really had forgotten my passport. “FUCK,” I noted, perhaps a bit too loudly to the other people in the elite A group. Yes, my dumb ass left it sitting on my desk, out in plain view. So, I thought about this all the way on the flight to Houston. Once there I put the following string of events into action:

1) I called Sally (my mom to the rest of you) to see if she could look up my rental company’s phone number online (she is almost always at her desk).

Note: It was at this point that BOTH my Blackberry and cell phone reported “Low Battery”, so shortly afterwards I had to use a pay phone (and their usual great reception).

2) I called my apartment rental company and they said they could let someone in to retrieve said passport.

3) I called one of my best friends. He happened to be home. He drove up and got my passport from my apartment. It is important to note that my place was not the cleanest at this moment in time. In addition, I was severely hung over Wednesday night (it was my birthday, two cheers for me). So, both Wednesday and (inexplicably) Thursday night my ultimate frisbee clothing sat in a bag. With the rivers I sweat, the smell coming from a pair of socks, underwear, shorts and two sweat-soaked shirts was not roses. No amount of Fabreeze could make this concoction smell better as it dried in my bathroom.

4) I called Lu (my sister to the rest of you) because I will be visiting her on the middle leg of this trip. She gave me her work address so I can have my passport UPS’ed to her work.

5) I called the friend back and gave him all of the pertinent info. Assuming he can take a 10 minute break from sex (and there is no reason to assume he can’t as he has been quite reliable until now) between eight and noon today the elusive passport should be overnighted.

Back to things that matter, Marriott has a really large selection of porn. Some of my favorite titles were, “Secretary Suckfest,” “Fresh Asses,” “Cream on My Face,” “Ass Class,” “Malibu’s Tightest THONGS” (the capitalization was theirs). I can’t believe I am going to pay about $12 for 5 minutes of movie use. That equals about $2.40 a minute or $144 an hour. At that rate I should just buy a hooker, Texas style.

(I Can't Live Without A) Mediocre Erection

2005-08-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

I will get this out of the way and say it- Nelson was the bravest rock band of their era and quite possibly all time. Fuck Bon Jovi, fuck Ratt and motherfuck those pussies in Nirvana. Matthew and Gunnar were some guitar gods. Before I rap to you about the sonic qualities of the dynamic duo, allow me to drop some mass-media knowledge on you. First there was Ozzie and Harriet, who were a married couple on radio. They moved to ABC (the weakest of the three networks) and debuted in 1952 on the boob tube. The couple brought with them sons David and Ricky. Ricky eventually had a decent music career, one that seemingly ended after the rather excellent “Garden Party” in which he lamented about fans only asking him to sing songs from his younger days.

Apparently Ricky had good sperm as they swam to form Matthew and Gunnar Nelson (it also helped create that somewhat attractive chick that played a nun on the “Father Dowling Mysteries”, but who remembers things like that?). While the twins had played in other groups, they finally struck out on their own, much like a two-headed dragon. Their debut cd dropped in 1990. Called “After the Rain” it sported two singles, one was the title track and the other was “(Can’t Live Without) Your Love and Affection”. I could be wrong (and one of my two readers can correct me) but I believe Love and Affection was the first single. Led by a powerful flitting of the guitar strings we hear the twins' smooth vocal stylings sing lead-in lines like “Here she comes” and “There she goes”. At 2:09 they go into a rocking bridge where the guitar is just straight shredded. The second song (in the video for which I believe they were running around a sound stage dressed up to look like a rain forest, but you [the viewer] were supposed to know it was a sound stage and not the rain forest) was equally as heartfelt. Here the song rocks to start things off and then we learn “After the rain washes away the tears and all the pain…you will live again.” Christ that’s deep. (You can listen to more here).

I know that by now you’re thinking, Masturbating Hair Metal Blog Man, you have wasted two minutes of my time. But, I will disagree. The most important part of the story is yet to come. What makes Nelson amazing is that they rocked right down the middle. Let me explain- during the late 80’s and early 90’s bands discovered that the power ballad/rocker combination was a potent one. With the rocker you could reel in the guys and with the power ballad you got chicks who would give you head under a rotating stage (ala Def Leppard). Some examples (note, R stands for Rocker and PB denotes a Power Ballad) include:

*Warrant- “Heaven”(PB) and “Cherry Pie”(R) (I could use "Down Boys" as the rocker to get both songs on the same album, but I won’t)

*Def Leppard- “Love Bites”(PB) and “Pour Some Sugar on Me”(R)

*Winger- “Headed for a Heartbreak”(PB) and “Seventeen”(R)

*Motley Crue- “Dr. Feelgood”(R) and “Without You”(PB) (and to a lesser extent “Home Sweet Home”(PB) and “Smokin’ in the Boys Room”(R) off of Theater of Pain)

But what did Gunnar and Matthew do? They turned a blind eye to 18 months of hair metal tradition and issued two songs that that were part Power Ballad, part Rocker and all Hair Metal. That is some bad-ass, rebellious shit. They managed to split the middle and jump the proverbial "hair metal shark" in one leap. To quote Matthew and Gunnar from one of their two videos, “This one’s for her.” Never stop making marginal (at best) rock, my blond brothers.

Romance Is a Dish Best Served Cold (wait that's Revenge, stupid Khan references)

2005-08-25T05:52:00.000-07:00

I recently signed up for Match.com. Well, I did it two months ago. Granted I did it mostly as a joke, but the pathetic responses I got were quite depressing. The only mildly attractive woman that “winked” at me was twenty-six, divorced, had two kids and a pretty terrible profile. I axed that one because, needless to say, decision-making is not her strong suit. The rest of the lot were a pretty pathetic bunch. There was the skinny girl from most “Breakfast Club”-era movies I have seen, one or two of the fuglies, but most were simply that annoying pile of fun that has zero personality, often the tag-along friend that whines about pointless shit and just might have a Disney jean jacket (the kind with Eyore or Tigger emblazoned on the back) hanging in her closet. Ten to one she also gets aroused by Captains Kirk or Piccard which, as history shows, is not a good trait. I have conceded for some time that I have the drawing power of Kevin Costner, but this definitely lowered me a notch. As I have never been good at playing games I should have just been a little more direct, so here is my new profile:

About my date:

*Can put a fucking sentence together and reads occasionally

*Does some exercising (I am not saying you need a body like a heroin addict, but a little work never hurt anybody)

*Doesn’t need a walker

*Has a sense of humor, if I found blandness attractive I would just continue to fuck my couch

*Knows who Axl Rose is and can either: a) do the Axl snake dance OR b) sing something from the G ‘n R catalog, preferably Sweet Child of Mine

*Wears binoculars during sex so I look well-endowed

Let me get the ropes out, because with descriptors like that they’ll be lining up in front of my pimp pad.

Back in the Day (when I was young, I’m not a kid anymore)

2005-08-24T03:28:00.000-07:00

Why am I supposed to be happy today? It is my birthday and I can’t say I am thrilled about it. Now, I am not like Billy Crystal “City Slickers” where he sees it as another year closer to death, in part because I don’t own a minivan that can fit a cow. At one time I hoped that my existence would mirror Ice Cube’s (“life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money”) but both of these items are much more difficult to attain than I previously thought. Of course, it didn’t appear that Cube had all the money he wanted as he signed on to do things like “Anaconda” and “Are We There Yet?”. It is too bad he didn’t have one of his bitches read the scripts first, assuming that he hangs out with chicken heads that can read. A minivan with kids that have to get someplace- great fucking premise. Perhaps he and Vin Diesel are fighting to see who can make a worse action movie/baby sitter comedy 1-2 punch.

Getting back to the birthday, what can I say, it is an interesting time. I don’t really feel young anymore, but I am not how I picture my parents at the same age. Of course, they were apparently having an argument about Jesus Christ Superstar on vinyl at the time (my dad bought it, my mom was mad he wasted the money). I was never quite sure why my dad felt the need to pick up some show tunes. I would at least have had an argument about Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” or even the Stones “Exile on Main Street”. But JC? I never thought anything Andrew Lloyd Weber did was worth mentioning, let alone arguing over. Speaking of the parents, I will be interested to see how long it is before my mom brings up the fact that I need a girlfriend/wife/fuck buddy (she never specifically mentioned the last of those). She has been pretty good for a while, but we will see how the next few months go. Once she realizes that I am less than three years from thirty and there are no grandkids (or the hint of a chance at said grandkids) in sight she could bring the worry machine up to full speed. 27 years-old motherfuckers. Suck on that.

This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine

2005-08-23T04:47:00.000-07:00

I mused the other day that I turned out relatively normal for someone that listened to Rush in junior high and high school. I did not know I was at a crossroads at the time, but upon further inspection I definitely could have gone to a bad place. I don’t know why I enjoyed their music so much, perhaps it was because they had the reputation as musician’s musicians. I guess I wanted to feel as if I listened to something only other deep people enjoyed I would somehow be more special than the masses. What happened, of course, is that I slowly realized that other fans of Rush, while probably nice people, were either mullets that enjoyed crunching guitars of any sort and nerds.

These weren’t your run-of-the-mill nerds either, these were your Dungeons and Dragons (or later, Magic) nerds that today probably LARP and make more money than I do typing lines of code for a decent chunk of change. Growing up I also listened to Billy Joel and Pink Floyd, which made for a strange trifecta of fun. Joel was pop sung from the perspective of a failed boxer and Pink Floyd was four (then three) tripped out Englishmen making acid trips available in music form (that’s the only way I can explained Animals…and I love the album).

I guess I just always considered myself to be too cool to be part of that nerdy group and too normal to be part of the semi-Goth crowd that listened to Skinny Puppy (at least at my high school). Our Goth kids couldn’t be like those other Goth kids and listen to decent depressing music like the Cure, they had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Of course, these were the same people that had Master Locks around their necks on a chain. Needless to say, that makes for an interesting statement.

I'm The Illest Motherfucker From Here To Gardena

2005-08-22T20:26:00.000-07:00

I appear to come to most crossroads in life too late. I didn’t start wearing Skidz until they were almost out of style and Z-Kaverichis were the hip new pant, I was the awkward person I was supposed to be in high school during my first three years of college and was the alcoholic freshman my senior year. So it is only natural that I catch onto the fad of blogging a day late and a dollar short. For a while several people told me I should write one, because apparently my cynicism and depressing nature is enjoyable to those around me (albeit on a limited basis).

I racked my brain to come up with a clever name for this. At first I thought of something along the lines of a priest/pedophile joke, but since I wasn’t raised Catholic and fucked in the head (literally or figuratively) by the church I had no bitterness to impart. I ended up with MetalMasturbation because I enjoy both more than someone my age should. The latter is pretty self-explanatory, the former is an anomaly. I was really caught in the tail-end of the hair metal craze. It past most of my junior high/high school friends by and my sister, who is two years younger than me, probably wouldn’t know Photograph if she heard it, or even the fact that it came from Pyromania. I thought changing Mark Slaughter’s lyrics to “Whack all night, sleep all day.” would make for a clever tagline, but the more I thought that concept over the less I liked for the long-term.

We will see how long this goes. Hopefully this won’t turn into a blog rip-off of Chuck Klosterman’s rather excellent brand of personal/musical/random shit writing. Sadly, I can’t make any promises about that. I would hope I can keep it updated a few times a week at least through my surgery. But, with as much shit as goes on in life I will be impressed if I stay focused that long.