I have a black belt in Weird.

I have a variety of bad habits. It's no big secret and usually they come back to bop me on the bean like a boomerang more than anyone. One of my particularly annoying habits is acquiring and/or listening to CD-Rs and with no place to house them, I put them in the jewel case of a "regular" CD.

While it may make sense in the moment, it proves to be a pain in the ass in the grand scheme of things. I will eventually want to hear a particular CD-R and this involves going through a shitpot of spindles and various cubby holes to find out where I hide the shit from myself. It's like some kind of existential hide and seek. Eventually, I realize that it is likely in the multitude of CD cases in my possession, say "Fuck it", give up and hope that the musical choice of the moment passes quickly so that I don't obsess over it. Of course, I do obsess over it. I don't need the world to drive me nuts, because I've always got me and insanity can easily be an inside job.

After some period of time, I will pull some dusty nugget from the collection and out will pop the formerly MIA CD-R. It's like a magic show only different. It has happened more times than I can count. I should have learned a lesson from it, but one of my personal quirks is that I am a jackass and a dumb one at that.

During the holiday season, I really wanted to find my burned copy of Tiny Tim's Christmas Album to annoy people with it. If they force me to listen to Christmas music, then I am going to return fire with the big guns. Hell's bells, that disc can not only peel paint, but it could cause folks to no longer observe Christmas and switch over to Festivus or something else. The last time I went looking for ol' Tiny, he was hiding in Slayer's Diabolus In Musica CD case. When I saw that, I damn near wrecked the car in a fit of laughter. It was like Slayer had been outgunned in the evil department by a creepy guy with a ukulele.

After the respective worlds of Slayer and Tim collided, a sane person would think that I would find a better place to put a musical gem like Tiny Tim's Christmas Album. Apparently I did. I just didn't know where that place was located...until today, May 29.

I was so disappointed that I couldn't share the wealth that is Tim with my co-workers, because quite frankly, they need a little Tim to add extra shine and glow to their holiday season. I was digging through a box of CDs looking for the first Kix CD so that I could hear the classic "Yeah Yeah Yeah" and in the process, I found a few other CDs that wanted to go along for the ride.

I get to the workplace and hear a loose CD rattle in one of the cases and I'll be damned if my sacred (and simultaneously profane) copy of Tiny Tim's Christmas Album didn't fall out of the case of...

Snoop Doggy Dogg's Greatest Hits.

Yes, someone that is a whiter shade of pale than Johnny Winter can legally own Snoop Doggy Dogg's Greatest Hits. It's not illegal, but probably immoral or just plain wrong. While I am not a fan, it was relatively cheap when rescued from a used shop and it amuses me from time to time. In the waning days of wanting to listen to Kiss (the Ace Frehley era, not that gay ass pseudo Bon Jovi crap they tried to pass off as Kiss in the 80s), I dug out the two Public Enemy discs that I own in order for me to hear "By The Time I Get To Arizona" and Snoop decided to hitch a ride. Maybe it was fate so that I could get a giggle and a YPS!! post out of it.

I just feel like someone should play Peaches & Herb's "Reunited" for this occasion. For the record, if you think it requires a psychotic mind to spin Tiny Tim during the holidays, it takes on an even more insane sheen when it happens in May. I am just that kind of weirdo. I have a black belt in the weirdo arts. I'm like the Bruce Lee of fucked up shit.

Saying Goodbye

Over the years, my odd phone habits have increasingly made themselves aware to me. As I always have, I ignore them, that is until today.

You see, I hate going to the dentist. I know, bla bla bla, we all hate going...but see, this is slightly different. With my hatred towards the dentist visits, I avoided going for oh, let's see, maybe 5 years. Of course this has come back to haunt me.

I began my search for a new dentist (thankfully the last one retired immediately after giving me a root canal, the bastard) via a discussion with a co-worker who does HR stuff. She offered that on our list of accepted dentists was one her husband goes to. It seems he doesn't like dentist visits either, but was actually okay with this lady. Sold!

So, about a month later (what? I told you I hate going!) I phoned her office up. Immediately the warning bells went off, but I ignored them. I knew as soon as the receptionist picked up the phone that I had made a terrible choice in dentists. She's one of those terminally chipper people that, with that first morning inhale, spring to life at 90 smiles-an-hour and take it upon themselves to brighten YOUR day. Fucking great.

I thought maybe it was just my broken-tooth-mood and at the end of the conversation I suddenly realized I was off the phone. Had we finished? Let's see...yes I had the directions and I had the time of the appointment...but I didn't say "bye." Or did I? Meh.

I made the appointment, she was more annoying in person, and they set up a follow-up appointment to be had after my new root canal I needed (oh, joy). I made that appointment and even though my follow-up wasn't for 4 weeks, I had a call from the annoying receptionist wanting to know if I wanted to move up my appointment. I lied and said I would not be able to make it. (I don't know, I just wasn't feeling it. Ya know? We had this date in the future, why fuck with it?) She said, "Ok, I just wanted to make sure to offer that to you if you were available." I said thanks and realized I was off the phone again.

I then began to avoid her calls. Thank you caller ID for letting this woman know for me that I was only interested in the future appointment, not one scooted up "for my convenience" (which I take it to mean "we'd really like to have your money this week"). Today she calls the cell phone, which doesn't always get a signal in certain spots of the building. That was the case today because the phone never rang, but I did get the beep that I had a voice mail message.

"Hello, this is Sherry from Dr....." Good. Gawd. She was just confirming the appointment for Thursday and could I please call her back. Well, dammit. I was very tempted to just appear on that morning to see what would happen, but I want to get this out of the way. I phoned her back and said who I was and was calling to confirm. "Oh! Thank you so much for [gag] calling me back so quickly. Yes it's for 9:20am on Thursday. Thanks again for calling back..." I said, "You're welcome." and found myself off of the phone again.

That's when I realized the problem! I'm a Television Actor Phone User, or a TAPU! Gah!

Well, maybe not all the time, because sometimes I can't shut the hell up and it takes me too long to eventually say the final bye. I don't know what my deal is. I go from "ok. See ya later. ok. bye. BYE!" to just the standard click-in-yer-ear of a TAPU. Whoa. I'm a fricken TAPU!!

So, now the thing is, had I realized I was doing it, I'd be more like you know, the Fonz or some one cool. But just doing it makes me more rude and jerk-like and sort of an Andrew Dice Clay.

I think I need to shower.

I must be insane.

For years, I have heard of folks that "see" images of Jesus or Mary in their corn flakes or in a bag of potato chips. While I am not qualified enough to say that it's just coincidence, it's sort of like being able to see the Snuggle Bear in a specific cloud formation. Maybe it's wishful thinking or maybe it's divine in nature. Again, I'm not qualified to say one way or the other, so I will shut up about it.

Perhaps it was Thursday's trot down Nostalgia Lane or maybe I have finally gone the full monty and lost my mind. While hanging out at a friend's place recently, I looked down at an area of a blanket and I'll be damned if I didn't see...

GENE SIMMONS.

Yes, this is apparently my lot in life. Some folks see cool deities and I get to see an image of some tongue-wagging, clunky shoe wearing jackass in a blanket. Had this happened when I was a lad, sure, it might have been pretty cool. As a tattered and torn geezer who claims to be a recovering Kiss fan, well, it's not quite as cool as finding a $5 bill on the sidewalk or a day old donut on a plate just for me. I'm guessing it ranks just above a broken shoe string or getting a cold sore.

For those having trouble seeing Chaim Witz (a/k/a Gene $immon$), let me help you here.

If this isn't a cry for help, I do not know what is.

Help me. Help me, please.

A good day in a mine field of bullshit, frustration and bitterness.

It's been a long time coming, but perhaps the musical journey has officially come full circle or maybe it's just a big highlight on the highway of life. It's one of those good days in a mine field of bullshit, frustration, and bitterness. The kind of day that convinces the soul that it just might be okay after all.

As a young lad, I became borderline addicted to the band Kiss, which was fairly common among young men growing up in the 1970's. I've often said that music really didn't exist for me until I discovered Kiss. Prior to them, it was just those lame ass songs that we sung in school, which were suitable for campfires and church socials. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it just didn't rock my boat even as a pre-teen.

To trim the story to a tolerable level, the addiction really crawled under the skin when my mother took her ten year old son to see Kiss and Judas Priest in 1979. That one show pretty much rearranged the contents of my skull and made me the social deviant that I am today. As I got older, the infatuation with Kiss faded as my musical tastes broadened and I discovered that there was more to life than wagging tongues, platform shoes and intense makeup. Nostalgia resurrected the whole thing when their reunion tour took place and nostalgia proved to be a fleeting thing when attitude and greed killed a good thing for the second time.

As an aging recovering Kiss fan, I realized that I was pretty much over that part of my past. I was okay with it, but it wasn't anything that I particularly wanted to nurture for any extended period of time. Well, there was one piece missing from the puzzle. As a major fan of the band's guitarist, Ace Frehley, I had never seen the man solo. This is a big deal as it was his guitar sound that pretty much made me want to pick up the guitar in the first place.

Word trickled into the backwoods of Kentucky that the one and only Ace Frehley would be coming to Nashville. As the initial tour dates were announced, it looked like the closest show would likely be outside of St. Louis and I have only been to said city a few times in life. Only once in the past (Social Distortion) with another in the near future (Tom Waits). Not only would the space man be playing in a town within an easy drive, but there would also be a meet & greet. I was on this thing like stink on shit.

Tickets were scheduled to go on sale on a particular day and I had things planned to be by my work computer with credit card in hand. Things got busy at work and it got tense when, for no reason whatsoever, tickets did not go on sale as announced. To quote Jed Clampett, the venue's website was about as helpful as a high wind on a prairie fire. Eventually the show date got moved as did the on-sale date. Tickets were acquired with the swanky ass meet & greet option.

Being the cynical pessimist that I am, I figured that something would screw up this blessed event. It was simply too good to be true as my luck tends to run a tad shitty for the most part. I tried not to dwell on the meeting and greeting for fear of the obligatory jinx. Last night shot the jinx down in flames.

Our travel party made its way south and invaded the Wildhorse Saloon like sailors on shore leave. The opening band was more of a distraction than anything. They weren't bad, but just not my thing. When Ace Frehley and his band took the stage playing songs that have been practically etched into my DNA, it was damn near magical. If not magical, it was pretty damn cool to say the least. Oh to hell with it, it was magical.

While the man's former band flogs the dead horse to a fine powder by playing essentially the same show since 1996 (if not 1978) and insist on putting replacement members into the characters of the original band members, Ace is moving on and dipping a little deeper into the musical catalog which is something that Kiss could certainly do themselves. Enough about Kiss.

Ace and his band kicked out the jams (muhfuggers!) and it was one of those shows that I really hated to see end, except for the fact that we would be able to rub elbows with the man himself. The line formed and somehow, three of us ended up at the front of the line with Tommy Lee's Scrotum being the shepherd leading the flock. After winding our way through the bowels of the Wildhorse Saloon and doing a lot of hurry up and waiting. We finally got escorted into the room where Ace and his band would be meeting and greeting the unwashed masses.

It wasn't quite the geek out and talk for days with the man 98% responsible for making me a fan of the rock and the roll. In the name of fading dignity, this is probably a blessing in disguise. One item signed, pose for a photo with the man and be gone. Well, I did take the time to shake his hand and thank him for providing a lifetime of great music and putting the train on the very rails of which it travels to this very day.

In other words...

I MET ACE FREHLEY!!

Ace Frehley - Wildhorse Saloon, Nashville TN May 22, 2008

Rip It Out/Hard Times/Parasite/Snowblind-I Want You/Rock Soldiers/Breakout/Into The Void/Strange Ways/Shout It Out Loud/New York Groove/2000 Man/Shock Me/Rocket Ride/Love Gun/Cold Gin/Black Diamond Outro

Foreshadowing.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go...

I wanna see

New Product Name

Announcing, the new foamie "FauxMe" made by Foe Me.


Now, all we need to do is come up with the actual product and company now that they have both been named.

Pringles...

YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!

After consuming my convenience store hamburger on the way back to the workplace, I sat down at the desk with the remainder of my foodstuff. As you can see, it consisted of a can of Pringles Grab & Go (which I did, but I also paid for them) chips, Diet A&W Root Beer, along with a little Corrosion of Conformity to soothe the savage beast.

(Maybe my root was tainted, but it appears that the C.O.C. disc is floating in mid-air to me.)




When I got into the can, I realized that I was dealing with some sucky packaging™, because the protective can didn't do much in the way of keeping my product safe from damage. The sad reality is that the chips looked like they'd gone through a bar fight or at the very least, a righteous ass whipping.

The vast majority of the can looked a lot like this...

I have no clue what the hell happened here, but obviously this is not potato chip bliss. I'm no potato chip snob, but this is what is commonly known as "Bullshit."

I won't hold it against Pringles, Inc. because they make a fine, fine product and while they've broken free of the chip bag stereotype, this still makes me say "Your packaging sucks!!"

(and who says we don't cuss and discuss packaging around this place?)

the fade out

Many moons ago, I was young and full of life (both of which have been beaten out of me) doing slave labor at the TV studio at the local community college. I was only being paid a fraction of the hours that I worked, but it was okay, because I was being creative and the hours flew by faster than they do now.

Eventually, I began to realize that the position wasn't going anywhere and I was basically getting screwed without the magic moment and the accompanying afterglow smoke. It was career coitus interruptus minus the sturm und drang of coitus.

I found myself sans gig and as luck (good or bad, depending upon when asked) would have it, I got a call one day from what would become my current employer asking me if I was interested in a job. It was kind of a head trip to get such a call out of the blue for a job that was essentially being created for me. Judging by the phone call, I had the job without so much as an interview.

As it turns out, I went in for training and before the technical aspect commenced, I got hit with a barrage of questions (again without a smoke and blindfold) and I soon realized that I was being interviewed in my Rollins Band "Silence Sucks" t-shirt. Long story short, I got the job that was being created for me in spite of my wardrobe. The game plan (and I use those words in the loosest sense because I tend to wing it after having my plans shot down in flames countless times) was to stay there a year or so. That was August or September of 1993...I'm still there.

When I made the change of gig, I sort of hated the idea of going from the Owensboro idea of a college campus to an old, run-down (in my mind) building that certainly had some questionable vibes going on. The building was built in the 1930's and has had quite a history from housing an elementary school to the homicide that happened at the building in 1972. After I settled into my surroundings, I grew to appreciate the building. Sure, it had it's faults--no elevator (which meant a student and myself had to get a lady in a wheelchair upstairs each week for her class without incident or litigation)--but I got used to it. Creepy as a motherfucker at times, both myself and the building, but I got used to the building.

At some point in the 00's, we packed up the plantation and moved our show to the community college campus. We would share the space until we get our own campus (which will hopefully happen before I check out). After the initial feelings of working at the Longfellow building, I began to hate the idea of moving out. There were a shitpot of dreadfully boring and brutal times spent in the building, but there were some good times, too. Plus, it was the first time that I had an office to call my own and hang a Motorhead poster on the wall.

Disgraceland was born.

After making our move across the one-horse town, it became pretty obvious that the Longfellow building's days were numbered. The city school system was pretty much hell-bent on tearing it down to make room for their expansion. I am one of those that tends to question "progress" as it usually means destroying something with character for something bland that will eventually get recycled in time.

On Thursday, word circulated through the office that there was an open house event at Longfellow where folks could tour the building one last time, bid on furnishings, and revisit the past before it gets gutted like a deer. Initially, I didn't plan on attending, because I've been in enough of a mental and emotional funk lately that this kind of thing would likely just shove my head deeper into the shit and I can do that well enough on my own. Like a lot of work-related events, I somehow get roped into things that I don't particularly want to do.

I caved in and decided to go. It's not like I had anything else to do, so why not revisit the place where I spent the better part of ten years of my life and get even more depressed. Whoopie! Walking up the sidewalk, I was reminded of the thing I used to say (and still do now and again) once I got into the loving (?) arms of the workplace--"I entered the building with all the enthusiasm of a convict going to the electric chair." This time, it wasn't too far from the mark.

Rather than a thriving building with various activities going on and voices echoing through the halls from morning to night, the building just seemed tired as a glorified storage area and dumping ground for the high school's crap. It's kind of like an older person who can no longer take care of things and begins the downhill slide to their demise. Maybe it's how it has to be, but it always sucks.

It was kind of weird walking through our old interactive television classrooms. There were some bits and pieces of our past left behind and it was a little odd to find an envelope with my name on it sent from the main campus. It was amusing to find the thermometer that I taped to the wall at some point in the 90's to still be clinging to the wall. I wasn't able to get into my old office because the door was locked and maybe that was a good thing. I might try chaining myself to it like the Fonz did on Happy Days. Probably not.

The area outside my office ("My waiting room") was filled with junk and not quite as comfortable as it used to be. The original Disgraceland is the door on the left marked "Data Entry" as I took my signage with me to Disgraceland Mach II.









After we'd soaked in enough nostalgia to last us until our own demise, it was out the door like I'd done so many times in the past only this would be the last time.

Bloggy Goes Political

The real reason Bill Clinton continues to visit Owensboro, Kentucky?

One of the poll locations here just happens to be the The Cigar Factory Mall.


*crashboom*



Thank you, I'll be here all week.

To the Blonde Hottie that Rear-Ended Me This Morning

Dear Blonde Hottie,

Luckily the weather this morning, at approximately 8:02 am, was such that I was able to have all four windows open to allow fresh air to circulate the vehicle. Also fortunate was that I had on low volume the new Tom Petty/Mudcrutch CD such that I was able to immediately detect the rather audible screech of all four of your tires locking up in unison. If you were wondering what was going through my mind at that time:

Well, judging by the angled descent of her front end, and the amount of time that has passed since the breaking began, I'd say if I were to lift my foot off the break right about...NOW...the minimal impact made should be fine. But how fast could you possibly be going? We just left a light not too long ago, and we're in a fricken school zone. SLAM! Hand in air to indicate "thank you very much". I can't really see clearly through my misted back window, but you appear to have "the silhouette" that attracts me so, but, and to be quite frank, I don't give a fuck.

So, there we are. Those were my thoughts, and that explains why I simply drove away. My car sustained no damage, not that you likely care. Oh, and if you did manage to hear me mumble under my breath, which I seriously doubt, you are correct in assuming that I did in fact say, "Fuck you."

I hope you have a pleasant day.

All my lovin',
-Mr. Bloggerific Himself

Would You Like To Partake of My Pee Can Pie?

These idle hands, they do a whole lot worse...

They say idle hands are the devil's workshop. If that is indeed the case, I am in deep shit. In order to avoid shit that is even deeper than the variation that I am currently treading, I figured I had best do something to keep the mind from thinking about how much everything sucks. I do that all too much anyway and a few moments reprieve would be swell. There's enough festering and obsessing going on and even a gloomy, dismal and overall negative person like me gets sick of it from time to time.

Looking around the surroundings, there's not a whole lot with which to work even in the swanky accomodations of Disgraceland. I stop at the same old truck stops on the information superhighway and can't afford most of the items in the general store. The mind continues to churn until it needs some kind of cerebral antacid to keep things from burning a hole in my brain.

Paper, writing utensils, time, and a bunch of tired shit in my office...

"I'm bored. I'm the chairman of the bored." --Iggy Pop

Is this legal?

Setting the mood for feisty goats since 1085 AD.

Speed and the Whole Racer Family

Ok, here's my take on the new Speed Racer movie.

The boy loved it and I liked it more than I thought I was going to. There are a few good laughs sprinkled amongst the action, which is sprinkled amongst the background story of the family (with a few changes of course, but not enough to damage), which is sprinkled amongst the "current" day story.

They held pretty true with the characteristics of the old story and the people in it and managed to do it in a way that was just campy enough it gave me images of the cartoon I watched as a kid, being meshed in with the old Batman television series. No, not the BIFF!, and the POW! stuff, but just the odd clothing and hairstyles of the non-essential actors. Even some of the voices were campy enough to give you that old-school Batman/Speed Racer feel.

I think some of the visual affects are lost on a non-Imax 3D screen, though. Some of the racing action feels a little flat, and some of the framing of the characters (like when they're on the floor of the racing arena and the crowd is in the stands, or fireworks are going off). I haven't been to an Imax, but imagine if these things were given even a little more depth in 3D, it would be rather amazing. As it was though, some of the images and coloring are like WHOA! (And not to the ad nauseum extreme the critics try to make you think.)

Emile Hirsch and Christina Ricci do a fine job as Speed and Trixie (thank you Christina for that one particularly short and very pink number, "hubba hubba" yourself). Emile pulls off Speed quite nicely, and to see an actual human in Speed Racer's clothes is just too cool. Susan Sarandon and John Goodman are Mom and Pops Racer, both do an ok job. Not really much room for them to do a lot really. And Paulie Litt did a great job as Spritle. (Not sure of the monkey's name that did Chim Chim, but he gets two thumbs up for flinging poo.)

But this is a fun one for the kiddos and since the grrrls in the movie are no wimps, even the grrrls might like it. Not an Academy Award winner, but I don't think anyone was honestly trying to shoot for that, except for the visual affects department.

Go! Speed Racer, GO!!

In the Lobby, Just Before My Recent Root Canal

I snapped this photo in the lobby, and then went in to have my root canal a couple of days ago. They talked, took x-rays, talked some more, and then began to numb the innards of my pie hole. Just before they began the real work, one song on the Muzak system ended, and another began.

As the chair reclined, I sighed and said aloud, "Dear God. Phil Collins and a root canal in the same damn day. Welcome to America."

Afterward, I motioned to this work of art and asked the receptionist, "Do they...the other patients...do they...do they comment on this statue?"

"Oh yeah. They comment."

"Good. I'm not alone. It is holding its JAW after all."

Parking Lot Douche Bag

Once upon a time, there was...the Parking Lot Douche Bag.

Who was this mysterious douche bag you might ask? Well, hold on, dammit, I ain't got to that part of the story.

As memory is willing...I believe Bone Machine and I were dining in the lovely Panera Bread when all (highly evolved) conversation came to a halt. For there, alone in the parking lot, did I spy, with my little eye (no, not *that* little eye)....the Parking Lot Douche Bag.

What seemed to go on for a solid 120-180 seconds, was a thing of amazement and confusion. Of course, this is Owensboro, Kentucky, so it's a daily occurrence of amazement and confusion. (Mostly confusion, as I've become a bitter old man thanks to my second root canal.)(OK, I was that way before the second root canal, but work with me here, bitches.) As I was downing my Turkey Bravo and green tea, and making with the standard merriment that is the keen comedic timing of Mr. Bloggerific Himself, *coughs*, out of my peripheral I noticed him. He was standing there at the end of an empty parking space, between the van that you see, and a sedan. I noticed, later on, that the trunk on the sedan was actually popped open an inch or two. Which, in conjunction with this dude, made it seem all the more odd.

Basically, he just...stood there. He had both hands on his ass (yes, I looked) and as he held on, he was looking North. This was odd because, the entrance and exit to the bidness was...West. So yeah, there he was, by his parked car, trunk ajar, hands on ass (not hips) and just frozen there, motionless, catatonic. He was STILL dammnit, didn't move a fricken inch. I'm not even sure the fucker inhaled.

He was so motionless, I was afraid to move.

Hell, I was afraid to even tell Bone to check him out. I sort of whispered it out of the right side of my mouth (which makes sense, because that's where my new root canal took place). Quietly and rapidly I said, "Bone...checkitoutcheckitoutcheckitout!!" I think he must have thought I was zoning in on some Panera Bread Hottie because he spun around all quick like and said, "WTF?"

"Dude has NOT moved, for like 2 minutes."

"No shit?!"

"No shit."

"WTF?!"

"I have no idea, but he's got his hands on his ass. Oh, and look, that's got to be his car, the trunk is open."

"Shit."

"He's still not moving. Should I tell the manager?"


And the intriguing exchange went on. We discussed how clear the picture would be that I took with my cell phone for showing to the cops after he came in and killed all of the employees after demanding a free cinnamon scone. We discussed whether or not this license plate would show up in the photo clearly (it did not). Even after The Parking Lot Douche Bag moved. Yeah, like POOF, I looked up and it was like somebody hit the play button on the DVR or something. Fucking crazy. And it wasn't one of those cool flash mob things 'cause, even in Owensboro, it takes more than one to mob and you're not exactly flashing anyone if you have your hands covering your clothed ass. Literally.

Eventually a young lady appeared and the Parking Lot Douche Bag once again appeared and got all lovey dovey with his woman and I realized he wasn't a Parking Lot Douche Bag after all.

He was a Straight Emo Boy in L.U.V.... love. (Sounds like a fucking Jackson Fucking Brown song, don't it?)

So, there you go. From douche bag to ever lovin' Emo in one fail swoop.

Nothing to do in Owensboro?

The hell you say!

How about a two hour show of shoes?

Word on the street has it that countless innocent bystanders were trampled during this blessed event. Whether they were trying to get into the show or fleeing the area is anyone's guess.

Your Confused Packaging...SUCKS!!

Your Trusting Packaging....SUCKS!!

Assholes CAN'T Sway.

While there has been an amazing resurgence in the interest of non-swaying assholes, there comes a time when it's no longer a personal choice but a decision made for me. This is where I find myself at the current time.

At some point last week, I noticed that I had some issues in my lower back. It was fairly subtle at first, but by the time that Friday rolled around, merely getting up from my chair felt like a bolt of lightning (take 2) shooting up my lower back. This is about as unfriendly as pain gets. I have no clue if it was/is a kidney infection, kidney stone or boulder, skeletal in nature or maybe I pulled a muscle in my sleep while doing my W. Axl Rose serpentine dance fronting my dreamscape GnR tribute band. Everyone knows that if you try to whip that shit out without properly warming up, it will fuck you up. Headband and kilt optional. It remains a mystery since I have yet to talk myself into going to an emergency room type place and I can't get in to see Dr. McCoy (no relation to the USS Enterprise proctologist dude) until Friday.

Even if I wanted to break into spontaneous swaying, it likely wouldn't happen now, because of the overwhelming paranoia that currently accompanies any and every movement. Will it lie in wait like a stalking butler and make me shriek out vulgarities like a sailor with Tourette's when it hits? I have found that it's best to just sit incredibly still to avoid that kind of risk.

There really is no major point in this shit except to say that some folks are resurrecting the "Assholes Don't Sway" story and that in my current state of decline, swaying is not even a possibility. However, one thing that I would like to make perfectly clear is that this is not the result of doing naked figure 8's on the office furniture or line dancing at the UFO show at the Wildhorse Saloon in Nashville.

I can promise you that.

(Updated! Gov't Mule in Owensboro, Kentucky July 12. Will the asshole sway?)