Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
World Gone Wrong (antisocial commentary)
(Uh oh, someone is off his medication again)
I’m pissed.
Beneath the semi-mellow veneer is a seething, snarling, angry and bitter bastard that can’t take a lot more of the bullshit that is going down on the planetary orb these days. Sure, most of these things are easy targets and some have even been previously cussed and discussed in the archives, but the shit is still running rampant and fair game.
Besides, I don’t have any new material.
Another season of American Idol is upon us. It’s not upon me, because I’m not allowing it to hump my leg like the rest of the world. Even though I do what I can to avoid it and ridicule it to the point where no one will want to bring it up around me, I still hear about the shit and I still don’t understand the appeal of it all. It’s a glorified Star Search, which was basically a televised county fair talent show. The problem is that no one brought the talent. No matter who wins, the world still loses. We ended up with a goofball that looks like a gay Johnny Rotten, some prematurely graying dude that sucks like the rest of them and a whole bunch of other musical visionaries ready to unload their “genius” upon the (m)asses. If someone can sufficiently explain it to me, I will be more than happy to listen. Plead your case, please. All I see and hear is a bunch of here today, gone later today generic assembly line crapola. As I have told anyone that shows any enthusiasm whatsoever for the show, “Anytime Paula Abdul is a barometer of success and musical talent, our civilization is doomed.” Don’t even get me started on that feisty cad British fucker playing the part of the douchebag. He shot his credibility in the ass when he made comments about Bob Dylan. You may not like the man’s music, but you can’t really argue with a 40-ish year recording career. Unlike the American idles, some musicians strive to have a career longer than a year and a half and have the vision and desire to work at creating their own material rather than churning out someone else’s blood, sweat, and tears.
While I am on the subject of music in general, I guess I can’t completely point an angry finger (you’ve got five to choose from, care to guess which one I’m pointing with?) at American Idol for fucking things up. Most of the newer mainstream rock music isn’t really music and it sure as shit doesn’t rock. A bunch of pansy ass posers striking sub-Creed poses and cranking out lame shite that would make Scott Stapp proud. Hinder? Nickelback? And can Gwen Stefani’s songs get any worse? I’m inclined to say no, they can’t. Country artists are working hard for that pseudo Bon Jovi sheen and classical, well, that’s always sucked. However, it sucks symphonically. With a conductor, even. Thankfully, there are still artists that work diligently at their craft of learning to play an instrument, writing their own songs, and doing something other than shoving out the same old shit through the sphincter of a musical Fun Factory. Of course, their albums won’t reach double plastic status and the world greets it all with a vast indifference. See the thread about Tommy Womack for the evidence.
What could possibly follow the brilliant majesty that is American Idol? You guessed it. MySpace. Once again, if someone can sufficiently explain the appeal of this fucking trainwreck, I will be happy to listen. All I am seeing is a bunch of cheesedick bubbleheads slapping up gay ass graphics with hollow sentiment like “Have a great weekend!” or the obligatory “Thanks for the add!” As a non-member, maybe I am missing a substantial amount of valuable comment and only getting the fluff. It’s not worth hopping on the bandwagon to be cool like all of the other MySpace cadets to find out. I’d rather be a non-trendy crusty old bastard than succumb to the fecality of it all. Someone else can have my space and shove it up their e-ass.
Forwarded e-mail. Does anyone actually read this shit? Really. If they actually read the stuff, does anyone find the “funny” messages in any way amusing or find the strength to carry on in the alleged inspirational material? Like American Idol and MySpace, I just don’t comprehend the concept. Unfortunately, I can’t automatically delete American Idol or MySpace from my sight like I do e-mail messages with the “FW” in the subject line. I figure it must stand for “fucking worthless” because it is. It’s not funny, it’s not inspirational and no matter how many of your friends you send it to, an ailing child in Guatamala won’t receive a miracle because you forwarded some crap to acquaintances. Chances are good that the only miracle is that people will eventually realize that folks who send forwarded e-mail devoid of any personally typed material aren’t really friends. Friends should use the technology to communicate original ideas rather than pass along some half-wit’s idea of comedy and shit that is supposed to induce the warm and fuzzies. That’s some more shit that you can take and shove up your warm and fuzzy. Sideways. Repeatedly even.
I don’t mean to cut the knees off of your sacred cow, but dammit, I want a hamburger. And anyone that even threatens to put cheese on that burger will receive a steady stream of forwarded e-mail until doomsday. If I can get a reliable internet connection in the after-life, it may very well carry over throughout eternity. The line is drawn in the sand, wanna play Tic Tac Toe?
My remedy for all of this shit is to acquire a copy of Skull Ring by Iggy Pop. Find the hidden track called Nervous Exhaustion. Play loud and drive fast. Repeat as needed.
I’m pissed.
Beneath the semi-mellow veneer is a seething, snarling, angry and bitter bastard that can’t take a lot more of the bullshit that is going down on the planetary orb these days. Sure, most of these things are easy targets and some have even been previously cussed and discussed in the archives, but the shit is still running rampant and fair game.
Besides, I don’t have any new material.
Another season of American Idol is upon us. It’s not upon me, because I’m not allowing it to hump my leg like the rest of the world. Even though I do what I can to avoid it and ridicule it to the point where no one will want to bring it up around me, I still hear about the shit and I still don’t understand the appeal of it all. It’s a glorified Star Search, which was basically a televised county fair talent show. The problem is that no one brought the talent. No matter who wins, the world still loses. We ended up with a goofball that looks like a gay Johnny Rotten, some prematurely graying dude that sucks like the rest of them and a whole bunch of other musical visionaries ready to unload their “genius” upon the (m)asses. If someone can sufficiently explain it to me, I will be more than happy to listen. Plead your case, please. All I see and hear is a bunch of here today, gone later today generic assembly line crapola. As I have told anyone that shows any enthusiasm whatsoever for the show, “Anytime Paula Abdul is a barometer of success and musical talent, our civilization is doomed.” Don’t even get me started on that feisty cad British fucker playing the part of the douchebag. He shot his credibility in the ass when he made comments about Bob Dylan. You may not like the man’s music, but you can’t really argue with a 40-ish year recording career. Unlike the American idles, some musicians strive to have a career longer than a year and a half and have the vision and desire to work at creating their own material rather than churning out someone else’s blood, sweat, and tears.
While I am on the subject of music in general, I guess I can’t completely point an angry finger (you’ve got five to choose from, care to guess which one I’m pointing with?) at American Idol for fucking things up. Most of the newer mainstream rock music isn’t really music and it sure as shit doesn’t rock. A bunch of pansy ass posers striking sub-Creed poses and cranking out lame shite that would make Scott Stapp proud. Hinder? Nickelback? And can Gwen Stefani’s songs get any worse? I’m inclined to say no, they can’t. Country artists are working hard for that pseudo Bon Jovi sheen and classical, well, that’s always sucked. However, it sucks symphonically. With a conductor, even. Thankfully, there are still artists that work diligently at their craft of learning to play an instrument, writing their own songs, and doing something other than shoving out the same old shit through the sphincter of a musical Fun Factory. Of course, their albums won’t reach double plastic status and the world greets it all with a vast indifference. See the thread about Tommy Womack for the evidence.
What could possibly follow the brilliant majesty that is American Idol? You guessed it. MySpace. Once again, if someone can sufficiently explain the appeal of this fucking trainwreck, I will be happy to listen. All I am seeing is a bunch of cheesedick bubbleheads slapping up gay ass graphics with hollow sentiment like “Have a great weekend!” or the obligatory “Thanks for the add!” As a non-member, maybe I am missing a substantial amount of valuable comment and only getting the fluff. It’s not worth hopping on the bandwagon to be cool like all of the other MySpace cadets to find out. I’d rather be a non-trendy crusty old bastard than succumb to the fecality of it all. Someone else can have my space and shove it up their e-ass.
Forwarded e-mail. Does anyone actually read this shit? Really. If they actually read the stuff, does anyone find the “funny” messages in any way amusing or find the strength to carry on in the alleged inspirational material? Like American Idol and MySpace, I just don’t comprehend the concept. Unfortunately, I can’t automatically delete American Idol or MySpace from my sight like I do e-mail messages with the “FW” in the subject line. I figure it must stand for “fucking worthless” because it is. It’s not funny, it’s not inspirational and no matter how many of your friends you send it to, an ailing child in Guatamala won’t receive a miracle because you forwarded some crap to acquaintances. Chances are good that the only miracle is that people will eventually realize that folks who send forwarded e-mail devoid of any personally typed material aren’t really friends. Friends should use the technology to communicate original ideas rather than pass along some half-wit’s idea of comedy and shit that is supposed to induce the warm and fuzzies. That’s some more shit that you can take and shove up your warm and fuzzy. Sideways. Repeatedly even.
I don’t mean to cut the knees off of your sacred cow, but dammit, I want a hamburger. And anyone that even threatens to put cheese on that burger will receive a steady stream of forwarded e-mail until doomsday. If I can get a reliable internet connection in the after-life, it may very well carry over throughout eternity. The line is drawn in the sand, wanna play Tic Tac Toe?
My remedy for all of this shit is to acquire a copy of Skull Ring by Iggy Pop. Find the hidden track called Nervous Exhaustion. Play loud and drive fast. Repeat as needed.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
A Day With Tommy Womack.
An interview with the artist and here's your chance to buy his new album...
(click it. you know you want to.)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The sun sets on Kentucky High-Rise.
As I enter and leave the parking lot at the workplace, I've always noticed an old barn on the farm adjoining our campus. For some odd reason, I found some level of comfort and enjoyment in seeing it each day and I started calling it the "Kentucky High Rise". On a warmer day in January, I took a walk and snapped a photo of it and figured that I would take more as it got warmer and the skies were a tad more blue.
As it turns out, I am glad that I took this one when I did, because when I went to lunch today, I noticed something missing on the horizon. Where a kick ass barn once stood is now an empty plot of dirt. I'm sure the owner is making way for something grand (heavy sarcasm), but sometimes, "progress" sucks ass.
And since I had no other smooth segue way to include a photo of a sunset in the fuckered up shit that I post, this is the sunset that occurred on my birthday.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
UPDATED: What Comes Around, Goes Around, I’ll Tell You Why!!
Ok, on second thought I’m too busy singing Ratt tunes, I ain’t telling you people shit. Well, except for the following:
I bought some new shoes today. Apparently 37 year old divorcee fathers of one go shoe shopping on their mother’s fourteenth day of being in the hospital. (I say fourteen without doing the math because I’m a lazy slacker, but I think that’s pretty damn close.)
We’ve snow on the ground here, and I think it got to the low 30’s today while I was watching a pack of black birds swoop around like charlatan snowflakes as they dived and soared for more pepperoni. You see, some enterprising soul on some floor of the hospital must have realized that (at the time they were finished nibbling on their pizza) the hospital windows in the patient’s rooms can actually be opened. To this person that doesn’t seem to be able to appreciate a good pizza, “no window screen”=”fire in the hole!” to the rooftop below. I’ve been looking on for days as a four pack of the Charlatan Snowflakes Brigade have gone on scouting missions to first, locate the foo, and second, to determine if said food is fit for eating and of proper temperature. It would seem that blackbirds prefer their frozen pizza to be in direct sunlight for they chose not to partake until the time of day when the sun swiveled just so.
While watching these vile birdies, I’ve also had my eye on something else. Well a few somethings else, but I don’t want to get all hot and bothered by the nursing staff at this time. During my rotations at the hospital, I’ve had my eye, for whatever reason, on the shoe sale at Shoe Carnival. I don’t know why really, but I’ve been thinking for a couple of years it’s time to replace my now 7 year old white “tennis shoes” (“sneakers” to some of you). I found the $5.00 strangely compelling and had been discussing the possibility that I might make an investment with Mom, Dad and any (cute) nurse that cared to listen. One nurse went so far as to talk herself out of going. “Well, I work until Monday.” I let her know the sale went on through Monday. “Well, the coupon probably expires before then.” It, in fact, it did not as I raised my powerful and potent Eyebrows of Persuasion. “Those in the ad all look like men’s, from here.” Actually, most of them were women’s. I’d won! She was out of excuses and new shoes for her were just a visit to the store away. BUT she’d left the coupon behind.
This morning when I came in to stay with Mom, the four pack of Charlatan Snowflakes Brigade began circling and grew to as many as twenty or more as I learned of Mom’s status from no less than three doctors. She continued to be in improving condition, her heart catheter was a success – no full blockages found and the partial ones can be treated with medication, her kidneys are in fact better than they were before the catheter AND she’s been cleared by the neurosurgeon to have her neck surgery. Awesome news! Sure I’d heard the same information the day before, but it’s great to hear it a second time (and third and fourth as each doctor came in).
Also, and thankfully, a crisis was averted today. You see, just moments before the first doctor came in today, one of the nurses came in saying they were preparing the paperwork so Mom could receive the BLOOD her doctor had ordered for her. Mom groggily said, “Ok” and the nurse left. I was a little surprised, as I didn’t recall anyone mentioning BLOOD last night. So of course I was determined to ask the doctor when he came in. He did and then left with me thinking, “oh shit, I forgot to mention the BLOOD.” The second doctor came and left with me thinking, “Oh SHIT, I forgot to mention the BLOOD!” As the third doctor ended his update I, *I*, mentioned the blood. I could see the surprise and concern as he assured me, PROMISED me, he’d follow up and let me know. Ten minutes later he informed me my suspicions were correct and that the BLOOD (Fricken BLOOD people!) was meant for someone else. Whew! I could safely go back to my shoe coupon and begin to find ways to rationalize to Mom why we needed to watch more episodes of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge on the Spike channel.
About an HOUR AND A HALF after the time I normally eat lunch, my sis shows up with some barbecued mutton sammiches. Oh, I know what you’re thinkin’ you outside-of-Owensboroeons. “Mutton? What kind of bass-akward people are these?! Eatin’ mutton in a HOSPITAL of all places!?” Well, I’ll tell you what kind of people we are. Well, I’ll tell you what kind of people I are, er, am.
I’m the kinda person that, after my mom’s been in the hospital for two weeks and I’ve had the bah-jeebers worried out of me, finds comfort in a second new pair of tennis shoes in nearly 2 decades. I’m the kinda person that, after assisting my aging mother with a bedpan, finds mutton sammiches more than comfort food, I find them goddamn fine cuisine. I’m the kinda person that, after finding the actual images that Bone Machine and I created for use in the PC game “NASCAR” (back in 1995 or so), I feel that posting them is also telling of who we are.
These images were painted in the game NASCAR all those years ago. One painted for me, with Dr. Pepper all over it. It also had my name with double-exclamation points…I decided to just leave the points. One Bone Machine painted up with foretelling colors (his actual car is now that color) and still using the same screen name all these years. One painted for Dad because that was around the time he was going to retire. And one painted for Mom, who sells Mary Kay Cosmetics.
There you have it. An incoherent post that says nothing and everything from one tired, but less worried, son.
Mom, get well soon. And please approve of my new shoes. They’re Nike, not Converse (like the ones you made YOUR mom return to the store after she bought them for me when I’d already been told I couldn’t have them. Sorry about that, triangulation didn’t always work back then, did it?) Oh, and please quit asking the nurses (even the cute ones) about their marital status. At least while I’m in the room.
{{Neck surgery to take place on Tuesday. Keep your fingers crossed, folks!!}}
I bought some new shoes today. Apparently 37 year old divorcee fathers of one go shoe shopping on their mother’s fourteenth day of being in the hospital. (I say fourteen without doing the math because I’m a lazy slacker, but I think that’s pretty damn close.)
We’ve snow on the ground here, and I think it got to the low 30’s today while I was watching a pack of black birds swoop around like charlatan snowflakes as they dived and soared for more pepperoni. You see, some enterprising soul on some floor of the hospital must have realized that (at the time they were finished nibbling on their pizza) the hospital windows in the patient’s rooms can actually be opened. To this person that doesn’t seem to be able to appreciate a good pizza, “no window screen”=”fire in the hole!” to the rooftop below. I’ve been looking on for days as a four pack of the Charlatan Snowflakes Brigade have gone on scouting missions to first, locate the foo, and second, to determine if said food is fit for eating and of proper temperature. It would seem that blackbirds prefer their frozen pizza to be in direct sunlight for they chose not to partake until the time of day when the sun swiveled just so.
While watching these vile birdies, I’ve also had my eye on something else. Well a few somethings else, but I don’t want to get all hot and bothered by the nursing staff at this time. During my rotations at the hospital, I’ve had my eye, for whatever reason, on the shoe sale at Shoe Carnival. I don’t know why really, but I’ve been thinking for a couple of years it’s time to replace my now 7 year old white “tennis shoes” (“sneakers” to some of you). I found the $5.00 strangely compelling and had been discussing the possibility that I might make an investment with Mom, Dad and any (cute) nurse that cared to listen. One nurse went so far as to talk herself out of going. “Well, I work until Monday.” I let her know the sale went on through Monday. “Well, the coupon probably expires before then.” It, in fact, it did not as I raised my powerful and potent Eyebrows of Persuasion. “Those in the ad all look like men’s, from here.” Actually, most of them were women’s. I’d won! She was out of excuses and new shoes for her were just a visit to the store away. BUT she’d left the coupon behind.
This morning when I came in to stay with Mom, the four pack of Charlatan Snowflakes Brigade began circling and grew to as many as twenty or more as I learned of Mom’s status from no less than three doctors. She continued to be in improving condition, her heart catheter was a success – no full blockages found and the partial ones can be treated with medication, her kidneys are in fact better than they were before the catheter AND she’s been cleared by the neurosurgeon to have her neck surgery. Awesome news! Sure I’d heard the same information the day before, but it’s great to hear it a second time (and third and fourth as each doctor came in).
Also, and thankfully, a crisis was averted today. You see, just moments before the first doctor came in today, one of the nurses came in saying they were preparing the paperwork so Mom could receive the BLOOD her doctor had ordered for her. Mom groggily said, “Ok” and the nurse left. I was a little surprised, as I didn’t recall anyone mentioning BLOOD last night. So of course I was determined to ask the doctor when he came in. He did and then left with me thinking, “oh shit, I forgot to mention the BLOOD.” The second doctor came and left with me thinking, “Oh SHIT, I forgot to mention the BLOOD!” As the third doctor ended his update I, *I*, mentioned the blood. I could see the surprise and concern as he assured me, PROMISED me, he’d follow up and let me know. Ten minutes later he informed me my suspicions were correct and that the BLOOD (Fricken BLOOD people!) was meant for someone else. Whew! I could safely go back to my shoe coupon and begin to find ways to rationalize to Mom why we needed to watch more episodes of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge on the Spike channel.
About an HOUR AND A HALF after the time I normally eat lunch, my sis shows up with some barbecued mutton sammiches. Oh, I know what you’re thinkin’ you outside-of-Owensboroeons. “Mutton? What kind of bass-akward people are these?! Eatin’ mutton in a HOSPITAL of all places!?” Well, I’ll tell you what kind of people we are. Well, I’ll tell you what kind of people I are, er, am.
I’m the kinda person that, after my mom’s been in the hospital for two weeks and I’ve had the bah-jeebers worried out of me, finds comfort in a second new pair of tennis shoes in nearly 2 decades. I’m the kinda person that, after assisting my aging mother with a bedpan, finds mutton sammiches more than comfort food, I find them goddamn fine cuisine. I’m the kinda person that, after finding the actual images that Bone Machine and I created for use in the PC game “NASCAR” (back in 1995 or so), I feel that posting them is also telling of who we are.
These images were painted in the game NASCAR all those years ago. One painted for me, with Dr. Pepper all over it. It also had my name with double-exclamation points…I decided to just leave the points. One Bone Machine painted up with foretelling colors (his actual car is now that color) and still using the same screen name all these years. One painted for Dad because that was around the time he was going to retire. And one painted for Mom, who sells Mary Kay Cosmetics.
There you have it. An incoherent post that says nothing and everything from one tired, but less worried, son.
Mom, get well soon. And please approve of my new shoes. They’re Nike, not Converse (like the ones you made YOUR mom return to the store after she bought them for me when I’d already been told I couldn’t have them. Sorry about that, triangulation didn’t always work back then, did it?) Oh, and please quit asking the nurses (even the cute ones) about their marital status. At least while I’m in the room.
{{Neck surgery to take place on Tuesday. Keep your fingers crossed, folks!!}}
Friday, February 16, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
How I turned into a fish...
As a diabetic, I do what I can to eat somewhat healthy. Sure, I fall of the wagon more often than Otis the town drunk at Oktoberfest, but I try. Dammit, I try. I have fantasize about being able to eat dozens of Krispy Kreme donuts, firing down leaded carbonated beverages (as opposed to the unleaded variety that is the norm these days), and eating Hershey out of chocolate. The list could go on and on, but I won't work myself into a froth over it.
Since the vending machines at the workplace are loaded with sugary goodness and other items that only nutritional daredevils like me will consume (vending machine hot dogs, sausage biscuits, hamburgers, bootleg McRibs, etc.), I do what I can to avoid their products. Besides, it gets pricey over time. In order to keep some food on hand that I can eat relatively guilt-free in the event of nuclear war, natural disaster, or an unscheduled riot (we all know how annoying it is when riots break out without advance warning, sheesh), I keep some peanut butter in my file cabinet at Disgraceland. It's in the second drawer, so if you pay me a visit, help yourself should I be a poor host and not offer some tasty snacks to you.
Since the vending machines at the workplace are loaded with sugary goodness and other items that only nutritional daredevils like me will consume (vending machine hot dogs, sausage biscuits, hamburgers, bootleg McRibs, etc.), I do what I can to avoid their products. Besides, it gets pricey over time. In order to keep some food on hand that I can eat relatively guilt-free in the event of nuclear war, natural disaster, or an unscheduled riot (we all know how annoying it is when riots break out without advance warning, sheesh), I keep some peanut butter in my file cabinet at Disgraceland. It's in the second drawer, so if you pay me a visit, help yourself should I be a poor host and not offer some tasty snacks to you.
Knowing that I have a stash of peanut butter in my swankier than swank office, the secretary came into my tranquil (?) surroundings in a near panic. "THEY'VE RECALLED PEANUT BUTTER BECAUSE OF POTENTIAL SALMONELLA POISONING!!" Well, hot damn. Settle your ass down and enter my palace more respectfully next time. This is a respectable joint for fuck's sake. Damn. Before I could say "Your Packaging Sucks!!", she had the drawer open and sure enough, I might have three jars of Salmonella in my file cabinet. One of which is about 66% gone and another one which is mostly untouched because it was fat-free and nasty.
Figuring that this means I am either on my last leg or that I am on my way to becoming a super-hero or the arch enemy of a super-hero as I grow gills and feel the urge to swim upstream. The irony is that I am one of the three people in the civilized world that cannot swim and refuse to learn how. Not to mention the fact that I'm not cut out for wearing tights without doing some serious exercise routines to induce body parts of steel. However, I will be going for the ever important codpiece.
Whatever the outcome, I have come to the conclusion that I should have just gone to the damn vending machine and chewed on some of the finest eats that change can buy instead of trying to do the right thing. Since I have yet to show any symptoms, I figure it is my years of eating truck stop chicken salad sandwiches, vending machine bootleg McRibs (more bootleg, less Mc), and other oddities will kick the shit out of any old salmonella.
Quote Of The Day
After having my first apple in years...
"I didn't know they still made these things.
"I didn't know they still made these things.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Happy Birthday, Henry Rollins.
Until the government declares the day a holiday, they can kiss my ass. Henry looks a tad annoyed by it, too.
On relationships...
But he's a liar...
On James Brown...
Old school ass kicking (shot mere weeks after I saw the show that converted me to a fan)...
Reunited and it feels so good ass kicking...
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Friday, February 09, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Done Got Old.
"Don't ever get old. It ain't worth a damn." --George E. Hill
It happened. I got old. In spite of the words of my grandfather, it happened. I'll never know when the transition took place, but apparently, I wasn't paying attention when the deal went down. Perhaps it happened while I was sleeping. It might explain my borderline insomnia at times, because I'm guessing that kind of monumental transition would definitely wreck the sleep patterns of a rat bastard like myself.
The fatigue goes hand in hand with old as they trot down the lane clutching digits and trying to refrain from breaking into a full-blown bout of skipping, because that would likely lead to a broken hip at the very least.
Most days, I'm dusted before I even get out of bed. This tends to kick the shit out of the morale before it even gets flown up the flag pole for the day. There isn't a lot of choice in this situation, but to kick your own ass into motion and shut up about it. That self ass kicking requires that you be a bit of a contortionist, but I'm sure everyone is fully capable of that shit. If you're not, what's a groin pull or broken bone to a bad ass like yourself?
On those days when my energy is depleted before I even get a chance to deplete it, I think about the launch footage of the little rocket that couldn't. It so wants to propel itself up, up, and away to rip a hole in the sky, but instead of sky hole ripping, it plummets to the ground into a flaming ball of hell. Thankfully, that kind of thing isn't an every day occurrence and more often than not, I'm able to launch my rocket out of bed and jack myself up on Honey Nut Cheerios. Just enough rocket fuel to get my carcass to the workplace and do whatever the hell it is that I do. It remains a mystery even to me and I am the one sleepwalking through the shit...figuratively speaking, of course.
The point in all of this verbal wreckage is that I'm not really sure when we officially get old. Maybe it's not something that is bestowed upon us, but a self-inflicted wound that will eventually take us out once all of the youth has been siphoned from our veins. What I am positive of without any shadow of a doubt is that numeric age has absolutely nothing to do with spiritual age. Otherwise, someone like Iggy Pop who is 20+ years older than myself wouldn't zip up, down, and around like a young gazelle on speed and a yonker like myself wouldn't mutter "Oy!" when I pick my bones out of a chair.
It's not my place to judge anyone or comment on shit, so all I am going to do is warn you good people that old is out there and it's gunning for you. It does not want good things for you. Stay low to the ground; stop, drop, and roll, and maybe you can stay out of its range.
"Live long. Live strong." --Henry Rollins
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
So....Your Birthday Is Coming Up And THIS...Is How Your Friends Honor You? With Birds and...CHEESE?!?!
Happy Birthday Bone!! Sorry my ugly ass mug is screwing this post up, but that's the breaks man. Don't forget to say CHEESE!!
Friday, February 02, 2007
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Misc. Debris.
The fountain of youth is freezing up...
and check out the swanky ass carpet.
(No, that is not a mold culture but honest to God carpet.)
(I promise.)
(I wouldn't lie to you.)
Friendly advice.
In order to have a successful winter, it is essential to wear leather gloves. Leather gloves allow the user to wipe snot from their (or someone else's) nose and it can easily be wiped away. Cloth gloves, on the other, will absorb the snot and eventually get crusty and nasty. This isn't good for anyone, but it looks kinda cool.
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