Going out of business.

Nothing Like It

Nothing like waking up just in time for a Hershey squirt slam dunk, & hoping the cheeks meet the seat before the shit hits the feet. Hot damn!!

-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, 07222009

my packaging sucks.

It's been a long time coming and up to now, I guess I've tried to avoid objectively looking at the stone cold reality of my own existence. Apparently, all it took for it to happen was believing in a myth that has since proven to be nothing more than a series of ongoing half-truths and lies. In the aftermath, the soul searching began.

I am old. I am fat. I am diabetic. My hair is tattered and falling out. My skin remains a sickly shade of pale. I am melancholy by nature and prone to depression. I am emotionally fragile. I am broken. Needless to say, self-esteem has been completely destroyed.

In recent times, there has been little in life that brings me any significant contentment. When something or someone comes along to break the cycle, it will only dissolve into confusion and frustration before slowly fading to black. My daily cynicism, sarcasm, and vain attempts at humor cloak a damaged soul like throwing a sheet over a piece of aged furniture.

Rather than point an accusing finger at external sources of my pain, I am now pointing the finger of guilt at myself. I have cared for people that do not care about me and I have put my hope in things that are hopeless. I accept the blame for my own suffering. Now that I understand and accept these facts, I hope to one day accept life for what it is and not attempt to enhance my world with things that are perpetually just outside of my grasp.

So yes, my packaging sucks.

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Free Shit.

These are confusing times, YPS!! enthusiasts (including those who fake it). Truth be known, they've probably always been confusing times and I've never taken the time to notice due to my overwhelming personal confusion.

For the sake of brevity and to avoid pissing readers off to the point where they are throwing staplers at my knee caps, I won't provide an itemized list of things that confuse me. Instead, I will just cuss and discuss an individual concept that bamboozles me.

What is it about the concept of free shit that warms the cockles of people's hearts? You could be giving away a Q-Tip caked with ear wax from Y2K or a used bandage with Fred Flintstone on it and people would throw hockey elbows and trample their sainted grandparents in order to get it simply because it's free.

Several weeks ago, I was forced to don gay apparel (khaki pants) and represent the workplace at a Chamber of Commerce hootenanny. Normally, I keep a list of excuses to spare me the indignity of attending such an event but on this day, I was caught like something other than the proverbial deer in the headlights because that metaphor desperately needs to be retired. (Ditto for "Thinking outside the box" as using that phrase is anything but thinking outside the box) So I was trapped like a fly on the wall.

The point of the event was for businesses to slap together a booth to promote their wares and everyone waltz around pretending that they were interested in the company so that they could scope out and hopefully score, you guessed it, free shit. They couldn't care less what kind of message was on the free shit as long as the shit was free. It could be a promotional set of JC Penney sheets with a KKK logo on there or sun-dried something-something that dropped out of the south end of a north-bound dog packaged (because it's all about the packaging) with a decorative doily and people would line up for days to get, well, you know.

Well-to-do adults acting like children going crazy ape bonkers at a Christmas Parade just to get a free piece of peppermint candy. I've witnessed this phenomenon as well, so I am fully qualified to compare. No outside the box thinking required here. My thinking is boxed in packaging that really sucks(!!), but it means well...for the most part.

What kind of prize would reduce a local dignitary to the state of standing in line doing the pee-pee dance with excitement? Well, it could be something as highly-prized as a free, canvas recycle bag (well, they are red, after all) or an entry level ink pen (black and white, rather Shamu-esque in nature) or perhaps even a foam stress ball lovingly hand-crafted in China. Yes. All of which no doubt fetch big coin on eBay if you were to buy on the collector's market.

Let there be no confusion. I use a fair amount of the very same ink pens in my day-to-day life and I am so stressed that I could probably defy some kind of scientific law and reduce a stress ball to a state of nothingness. Maybe I'm just jaded and yes, this is an incredibly safe bet.

I just can't say that I get all that excited over something like an ink pen. It is what it is and it is just an ink pen. Yes, it is better to have one than to not have one, but it's just a writing utensil after all. No sooner than the ink is gone, all of that initial enthusiasm will be a thing of the past. The upside is that it would fit nicely in a recycle bag with room to spare rather than relocating to a landfill.

The most recent event where free shit was distributed occurred on Friday. Our group convened on the riverfront to promote our cause and whip some swag into the throng of drunk Kentuckians. The most appealing part of the process was the promise of throwing things at (uh, make that "to") the natives. This shindig promised to be even more interesting since the excited pee-pee dance of the recipients would be enhanced by the consumption of alcohol.

I guess I should point out that the vast majority of the alcohol consumption was done by those in the crowd. Although I didn't turn down the free cup of beer that was given for the purpose of the sunset toast, I would like to point out that I didn't trample anyone to get it and the only enthusiasm exhibited was slinging it back after the brutality of the week. Said enthusiasm was very fleeting and there could very well have been a pee-pee dance later on, but that falls into the too much information category.

It was rather entertaining to see a group of drunk and/or drinking Kentuckians going berserk to try to catch the flying free shit and some looking quite sad when the supply ran out. The consolation prize was the distribution of coupons for $1 off drinks and to the folks gathered, this was probably more precious than the possibility of snagging a free t-shirt, frisbee or stress ball (thank you, China) from the air. If you didn't get any of the above, well, I guess you're just SOL, pal.

By this point you are probably starting to get testy trying to glean some kind of point in all of this crapola. I guess the point is that people will do damn near anything for free shit. In fact, you just weeded through many paragraphs of shit (coincidently, free) and I don't have slightest clue why.

(As horrendously bad as my life seems right now, I guess I can find solace in the fact that I am not forced to suit up like a low-rent superhero to peddle my shit to the masses)

Fool's Gold.

The quiet moments are the worst.

That's when the voices in the head reverberate like firing warning shots in a concrete room. Nothing will stifle the white noise of the mind. Sorrow of the past, heartache of today, and fear of the future overwhelm the senses in the darkness and sleep is no longer an option.

Walking into the light of day simply exposes the ugliness of the world. Darkness' despair is amplified in the light and can easily render you blind. Pain and suffering circle the wagons like predators following a trail of blood. Whether or not it is your blood makes no difference, because your time will come. Hopefully the moment will pass quickly and not involve a lingering period of suffering. There's more than enough suffering in the world.

So much worthless banter constantly pollutes the air to the point where silence is apparently no longer golden. Then again, gold doesn't hold the precious value that it once had. Even shallow greed must have a shelf life these days as society implodes. I never thought that it could possibly go out of style, so it must simply be a moving target or seeking out bigger and better things to sink its fangs.

All of these things make the surroundings practically unbearable. I don't want to be here, I don't want to be there, and it's not like my opinion amounts to a hill of shit anyway. My thoughts and feelings are just as worthless as the banter outside my door about the chill in the office air. Flashback to weeks ago and the same people were complaining about the heat. The concept of sensible clothing is thoroughly lost when fashion rules the world. It's much more productive to gripe about the climate day in and day out rather than wear socks. Besides, where is the fun in settling into the semi-comfortable chair and just being quiet?

If the quiet moments are the worst, then things must really be looking up. I'm not sure why it still feels like the world is crumbling around me.

Don't Forget to Dust Beneath the Finger Puppets. kthxbai

Bloggy gives an official SAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-lute! to the cleaning staff. They dust beneath the finger puppets, but leave the webcam alone. Awesome!

Ballpark Vulgarity.

"I have a keen eye for vulgarity." --Senor Bone

A little soap and water never hurt anyone...much.


















Dude. You've got to put that thing away. It's going to scare the children. Sheesh.

The Bosse Field tribute to Madonna, who was here to shoot A League Of Their Own back in the day.

Twit this up yer khaki-clad ass.

While the MyTwitFaces of the world seem to be robbing the blogging world of creativity, humor, anger, and reduced everything to 140 character bursts of lame bullshit, I am making a stand to actually post something beyond the pathetically dainty 140 and I'm doing it without the aid of motivation or artistic vision. If that long ass sentence isn't a declaration of war on your senses, then I may have to show up to personally piss on your rug.

Yes, folks, I'm working without a net. Hell's bells, I'm not even working with a clue. I'm flying blind and I don't even know how to fly in the first place.

Speaking for myself, I can say that I've been lacking a real motivation to work up new material. It's difficult to say where my head is at these days. A safe bet is that it's been up my ass, but that doesn't explain how I manage to make it to the workplace each day. I am guessing that it's mighty difficult to drive with one's head betwixt the Valley of the Buttocks. Although this would certainly why most Owensboro natives drive so poorly.

In the absence of real content, it's not like the piss and venom flowing through my veins at a rapid clip has slowed to a molasses flow. On the contrary, my own slacking has been a thorn in my own saddle. There are enough thorns in that saddle to make it look like Sonic The Hedgehog swag or perhaps some kind of sexual apparatus for those with a black belt in kinky.

There have been so many storm clouds in my mental sky with the occasional majestic burst of rainbow goodness that the overall pissiness really hasn't materialized into something resembling coherency. I've never been overly concerned with coherency in the past, so why it's an issue now is anyone's guess.

Since I haven't really said anything in what would amount to a baker's dozen or two of Twits, I should probably offer you a cold compress and a comfortable chair in order to make it to something that might seem like a point in all of this rambling mess of oral defecation. Lest anything that I don't know that posts on Twitter are called "Tweets", let me just say that I think calling them "Tweets" is gay and "Twits" is much more accurate. Just be thankful that I've gotten over calling it Shitter. That, too, seems more accurate. Twitter sounds like some kind of slightly veiled slang term for female genitalia. Hmmm, I suddenly have a new appreciation for Twitter.

Now that we've managed to get through the painfully long introduction to weed out the riff-raff who might actually be reading YPS!!, let's finally get to some of the things that have been pissing me off lately.

Humidity. I'm sure that it serves some purpose other than making life in the summer absolutely miserable. The entire concept of humidity needs to be reworked into something more pleasing. As it stands right now, it's about as pleasant as hearing a block of Huey Lewis & The News songs in the year Y2K+9. No one needs to hear that shit and no needs to walk through the world feeling like they're sporting a wet blanket like some kind of low-rent Obi Wan Kenobi. "Help me, Obi Wan. This humidity is kicking my ass." "This is not the climate that you're looking for." "You damn right, Slappy."

Clothing. I had a great long run of avoiding this particular fashion staple for decades, but it finally came home to roost and I think it damn near wrecked my wootzer rooster from the sheer shame of it all. Yes, I had to wear khaki pants. I'm not proud of it, but hopefully by cussing and discussing it I can get some sense of closure.

You see, the khaki thing can be subdivided into a rant about the workplace, but I'm going to retain some level of focus here and rant on the concept of khaki. Anytime you have to give a pair of pants an overly pretentious name like "khaki" then I want no part of it. Forget this khaki shit. They're tan. TAN. I have no earthly clue what a khaki is, but I think it's surely a synonym for "gay," because that's what it is. In fact, "khaki" is probably doing deviantly questionable things to the south end of a north bound tweet, repeatedly, and it may involve some kind of thorny saddle for added kicks and kink. Giddy up!

So yeah, I had to wear khaki pants. In order to wear khaki pants, I had to buy khaki pants and that definitely killed a part of my soul. I might as well have purchased a shirt with an alligator or some other critter on it to match. Sassy. Upon the arrival of a new work-related shirt and a social gathering of local head honchos, big wigs, and a shitpot of yuppies, it was decided by one of the office ladies that it would be swell if we all wore our matching shirts and khaki pants. Zippity doo! I usually associate matching outfits with 50's singing groups and/or cult activity. Unless I am the Diana Ross of the cult, then I want no part of it.

Somehow by the grace of God above, I managed to survive this brutality without developing a lisp, a fondness for leather gear, or show tunes. Although the whole process was sort of similar to those people who castrated themselves before seeking the UFO behind the comet. Thankfully, I was able to re-attach little sparky with a bit of velcro and some duct tape. That's American ingenuity right there.

The phenomenon of the pre-order. I think I preferred the old days of being able to wander down to the local merchant to pick up an album (CD or illegal digital download for you youngsters). These days, everything has to be made entirely too complicated. First of all, there has to be the limited collector's edition which automatically jacks the price up 2-3 times the already rather hefty price or sell it exclusively through some hideous, non-musical place like Walmart. These things automatically suck some of the life out of the process.

Having been a Cheap Trick fan the majority of my life (excluding those years where they were putting out some pretty shitty, khaki if you will, music), I did my civic duty or pre-ordering their upcoming album, lovingly entitled The Latest. Figuring that it would be best to show support via their official store, I got out the plastic money and placed the order while grumbling over the $7 price tag for shipping. No sooner than I placed the order, word goes out via khaki tweet that Amazon would also be accepting pre-orders, because a regular order just isn't cool enough in the 00's. The kicker is that Amazon's shipping was a bit cheaper than the seven bones. If that wasn't enough of an insult, then I get a message saying that the discs would delayed in shipping. The only way to salvage this mess is for me to win the Gibson Explorer signed by Cheap Trick that some lucky pre-ordering fool is going to win and if the album doesn't blow like the previous two.

In the same vein with a slight variation, I also did what I could to support the indie music industry by buying some kickin' tunes from an indie label/store, who shan't be named. Not only did they have the disc that I wanted, but also had it packaged in a bundle featuring two additional CDs, a t-shirt, 2 LPs, a poster, and maybe a parakeet. I have no clue what all was offered for the $30 but it was a pretty nifty deal. I could have ordered the single disc that I wanted from a store out of Louisville on Half.com but no, I was trying to be hip by supporting the indie industry. I should have known that I would soon be neck-deep in bullshit, but oh hell no, I'm a dumbass, baby. Order was placed on May 29. I got an email on June 11 asking what size of t-shirt I wanted, even though I included this information in the special instructions with the original order. As of today (June 18), I have yet to see this package of goodness. Next time, I will order my Two Cow Garage shit from Ear X-Tacy in Louisville and forget this insanity.

So yeah, I'm still a bitter old man.

Strangers

Below are two experiences from today. The first on the way to work this morning, and began as a text that was posted on Twitter, broken as you see it below.
The second on the way to work after lunch. I guess sometimes, I'm just not a very nice person. Don't we all have days like these?
No. I guess we don't.

She shoved a needled fist up to her lip, forced a cough & then produced a manly spit...Her saddlebags in tow.

She weren't no beauty queen, as she wobbled side-to-side. More of a Miss Jane (of reduced stature) and recently shaved burnsides.

She were pushin' down that sidewalk & it were pushin' right back. I spied her from my rear view, & saw decades lookin' back.

Sweet Sassy Sandy. Khaki & navy blue. With a heavy, heavy load, her shoulder it was cuttin' through.

Strap it was strainin' ...to get out from under that view.

Sweet Sassy Sandy, won't you put yo burden down?

I said, won't you put yo burrrrrden down?

/end.

_____________________________________________

You’d finished your awkward meal like it was a pair of pajamas you’d long outgrowed.

You’d questioned yourself on the whys and the hows, and muttered to yourself why would God allow.

You reached for the time, and pulled it up real tight, rose from your chair, with jokes all around.

Time to get wit’ it, choke the pride on down, like some goddamn clown.

You thanked ‘em for this, and you thanked ‘em for that, when you felt like spitting. (Are you the Shat in the Hat?)

Made for the exit, ‘bout to exhale, made for your car when a stranger did hail.

“Excuse me mister, but can you tell me who, who has the money, money for some food?”

“You see I’m working in town, and my boss done left. Just some money for groceries. Just money for medicine.”

Your heart grew cold, like it did in the day. Grew rock hard. Wanted it that way.

Your expression never broke. Never sputtered or stuttered. Looked him in the eye and suggested a church.

You turned your back on him. Boned him out a wish of “Good luck”.

And then the rain came down.

/end.

What the hell...

What kind of product uses a battery like this?

Hopefully, it keeps going and going.

Is it that time of year already? (slight return)

The latest masterpiece added yesterday to the already spectacular art show.

This one is mixed media (stryofoam and cardboard) and lovingly entitled "Trash Bag."

I call it that, because that's what it is.

Oh hell yes!!

I have been a Cheap Trick fan since I was about ten years old. Unlike Kiss, I can still listen to these gents without a trace of guilt. Unfortunately, I was pretty disappointed in the last couple of albums and I hate to say that about one of my all-time favorite bands. However, if the rest of The Latest has the energy of this tune...




I think I will have to change my pants.

Is it that time of year already?

An odd thing happens about this time each year.

When we acquire new equipment at the workplace, it has a tendency to come in styrofoam packing material (a rare example of packaging that doesn't suck!!). Rather than instantly plug up a landfill with the styrofoam and environmentally-hostile crapola, some social deviant (no names, please) commandeers the art gallery that is vacated for the summer and puts on an impromptu art show...until the real art folks come over and remove these masterpieces and put up some inferior crap in its place.

The first year was the best, because so many people walked by and didn't know what to make of it. They would stop and cautiously poke at it to confirm that it was indeed styrofoam. This was usually followed by a puzzled expression before they walked off in a complete state of bamboozledness (patent pending). I have to wonder how many of them thought that it was an actual work of art and not some kind of performance art/bad comedy.

Perhaps the best part is when the art department show up to put student work on display and throw away the styrofoam works of subgenius. What they may not realize is that my "artwork" will outlive their art in the landfill, so in the end, I win.

This year, I gave it a little credibility by titling each work and printing up name tags. Of course, these works are for sale to anyone with a keen eye for art and a large amount of ca$h that they're willing to share. We'll see how long the show lasts before the art cops show up.

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro" --Hunter S. Thompson

On Today's Hit Parade

It's growing harder and harder for me to post here, folks. Sorry, but I guess my interest waned, waxed and went to Halifax.

What you may not know is that I sat down several times and actually typed up shit, saved it, only later to decide to just not post it at all. I typed up a fine Mr. Bloggerific Himself-styled post this very morning, about 99% complete, edits and all...and just chose not to post it. Not sure what it's about completely, maybe I'm just being selfish in my old age.

Completely unrelated to the above, and unrelated to that "unpost"...the last few days I've held some strange conversations with people. That's not new for me, at all, but looking back they seemed oddly connected, like there was a message I'm supposed to be getting and I'm just. Not. Getting it. One of these conversations I had with somebody close to me, shot me ahead to a future I know is coming, but not planning for. I could give you every word of the conversation and it wouldn't likely indicate anything out of the ordinary to you, but it wasn't the wording, it was the feeling of powerlessness I got from it. If that's not odd enough, I was somehow also feeling "I know it's coming, I know I can't change it, so while it won't be fun, I'm about as ready for it as I'll ever be." Not that I'm trying to hurry that along by any means, but more of "go away powerlessness, don't bother me".

So, um, there you go. Some out-and-out WTF brought to you by Your Packaging Sucks!!

Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, play us out, won't you:

(good vid, but embedding disabled on this one)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UOJUbiWC5M

(good song, but bad vid on this embedding enabled one, go figure)

the golden age of paranoia

I'm not sure when it happened. Perhaps it's always been this way and I was too busy doing whatever it is that I do and didn't notice. Regardless of when it happened, it is clear that we have officially entered the golden age of paranoia. It's true. Just look around you. Listen to the news channels. Fear and paranoia are running rampant and they're out to crawl up your ass and get you. It begins with a little speck of fear and it blossoms into full-blown paranoia. When that happens, it's all over for you, pal.

I think a lot of it goes back to the September 11, 2001 attacks and that makes a shitpot of sense to me. Prior to that horrendous morning, we were fifty feet tall and bullet-proof. In the post-Cold War world without the threat of the Russians putting a nuclear (or "nucular" if George W. Bush is reading) piledriver on us, we were damn near footloose and fancy free. We didn't take shit, we didn't give a shit, we weren't in the shit business. The really bad shit was someone else's problem. The worst thing that could happen to us was hearing some shitty Hall & Oates song on the radio and believe me, every Hall & Oates song is shitty.

That has changed. Now any little blip on the radar instantly becomes a major blop, if not a big ass fargin' dot. Maybe someone spilled some chili on the screen and a wayward bean is causing a false reading. Damned if I know. It's been a while since I've consumed chili and I couldn't tell you the last time I saw a radar screen.

The paranoia du juor is the swine flu. Everyone is petrified of the shit and maybe with good reason. Again, damned if I know.

A few folks die and a handful of others feel shitty and everyone is ready to run for the hills all decked out in haz-mat suits in fear. I hate to tell you, folks, but there's shit like ticks and snakes in those hills that are more likely to fuck your shit up. I'm thinking that more people die from car wrecks, falling from ladders, White Castle food, a drive-by in Beverly Hills and a truckload of other ways

Unfortunately for me, my semi-annual bout with sinus issues occurred right about the time the swine flu hit the media and people began clenching their ass cheeks in fear. In other words, it was a bad time to be a person with coughing fits, clogged nasal passages and a funky throat. Never mind the fact that these symptoms have been going on for ages, back when they were just called a cold (or the COMMON cold even), sinus infections, allergies, hay fever or just plain feeling like shit. It wasn't a major cause for alarm unless you coughed so hard that you sprouted a curly-Q, Arnold Ziffel-esque tail or even worse (in my mind), you coughed so hard that you shit your pants and then sprouted a curly-Q tail. That is commonly what is known as adding insult to injury.

I made the mistake of intermingling with fresh air and nature a bit on Saturday and as we all know, nothing good can come from fresh air and nature. By the time that Monday rolled around, I was a miserable bastard (more so than usual) with a nose full of snot and throat issues that made me sound sort of like Tom Waits (perhaps the upside to this downside). I walked (50% strut, 50% stagger) into the workplace and mentioned that my throat was jacked. Immediately and with no trace of hesitation, I was asked if I had the swine flu.

"Uh no, but I did have a piece of sausage for breakfast yesterday."

After the throat declaration, people avoided me like I had the plague. Hell, I haven't had a good plague in years and if I could avoid the office banter, the avoidance could be transformed into a win-win situation for me.

With this rationale, I was clearly suffering from menopause as I was having hot flashes later in the day. Then again, maybe it was just the fact that the air conditioning was off in the workplace. Nah, it couldn't be something as simple as that. Where's the fun in looking at things sensibly and rationally?

In the end (pun somewhat intended), I assure you faithful YPS!! readers that my coughing fits have not resulted in me sprouting a curly-Q tail nor have I shat my pants. However, I like to keep my options open.

Pre-pubescent packaging to the geezered-out packaging of today.

You wanted pre-pubescent, you got pre-pubescent...BOOM!

When I was a boy, music was pretty much limited to my parents' collection and the songs that I heard in elementary school music class. Neither one exactly floated my boat. In fact, music as a whole was pretty boring until I discovered Kiss. Yes, Kiss. You see, when you are an eight year old boy, any band that breathes fire, spits blood, blows shit up, and clomps around in clunky shoes like loud mimes was the absolute shit. Oh yeah, they wore wild ass makeup, too.

The first album that I bought by my choosing and wasn't a Walt Disney or some kind of kid's album was Alive II by the aforementioned loud mimes. Even before the needle found the groove, I was hooked. Ironically, it was the packaging that lured me into the lair of smut and danger.

Back in the day, music wasn't found on one of those damn downloads or even a compact disc. Music was typically sold and bought on a big ass slab o' vinyl enclosed in a (by today's standards) huge 12" x 12" album cover. Not only was the cover art big and bold, but you could actually read the liner notes without the aid of a jeweler's glass.

The front cover of Alive II was pretty cool but in all honesty, the real coolness was lurking inside. After peeling away the shrink-wrap, I was in no way prepared for the photograph inside the gatefold cover. This photo still blows my mind some 32 years later. It pretty music sums up the entire Kiss experience in one fiery shot. Looking at a shitpot of fire, smoke, and loud mimes striking rock and roll poses, the music almost didn't matter. Thankfully, the music was just as big and bold as the packaging itself. The sound of those guitars still triggers something in the dark recesses of my DNA and no matter how much I say that Kiss is a thing of the past for me, it's still a part of me. It's not something that I am necessarily proud of, but I'm not exactly apologetic either. It beats listening to the Captain & Tennille or the Doobie Brothers.

If the music and the overall ass-whoop of the gatefold photo wasn't enough, lovingly tucked inside the cover was a booklet filled with past and present photos of the band, a sheet of temporary tattoos (because real tattoos are damn difficult to squeeze into an album cover), and the obligatory merchandise order form as Kiss really like to pimp the swag.

The point of this crapola isn't really about Kiss (although they consistently had a lot of cool album covers and nifty inserts). It's about...the packaging. Yes, packaging. The '70's and '80's delivered many examples of supremely cool music packaging. From the el gigante rolling paper in Cheech & Chong's Big Bamboo to countless Alice Cooper covers (a calendar with an image of a hanging Alice on Killer, paper panties wrapped around the School's Out cover, the simulated wallet of Billion Dollar Babies, etc.) The LP format was geared for kick ass packaging and boy howdy, did it deliver. However, seeing some of those really fucked up album covers in the 12 x 12 sizing was quite terrifying.

Although I have grown to embrace the compact disc format, my initial reaction to the small cover was probably easily summed up in a WTF moment. This is a prime example of shrinkage without the aid of cold water. At the time, CD's came to be the only way to buy music locally since vinyl was allegedly a dead format...HA! Cassettes don't count.

Once CD's became the norm, record companies eventually began to experiment with some oddball packaging, usually in some kind of limited edition thingy that worked completist bastards like myself into a froth. These items also came with a price tag that would prompt only the most devout of fanboys and fangirls to drop coin. While these things were cool on many levels, they weren't always kosher when it came to travel. That is the magic of the traditional jewel case packaging.

With the jewel case, you could travel from here to Yang City through various forms of inclement weather and your CD booklet and the disc itself would be protected from the elements. You could easily chuck it into your purse or man-purse (see also--backpack) and other than some residual jewel case cracking, your shit was good to get up and go again. Sure, you might need a microscope to read the liner notes, but the format is convenient for upwardly mobile folks on the go, go, go.

The downside to the jewel case occurred when companies introduced the first version of clear plastic trays. Apparently clear plastic automatically makes the inner spindle prone to breaking, where the black counterpart was a bit more resilient. Sure, you can add an additional photo beneath the tray, but when the spindle is broken away to a gaping hole, your CD is in for a ride similar to that of Mr. Toad.

When the first CD's hit the shelves, they were packaged in a cardboard long-box. This form of packaging was called a long-box because it was (hit me with a drumroll there, Bun E.) a long box. This box was mainly used to cut down on thievery (pre-illegal download) since I am guessing that it was difficult to use ye olde five finger discount to snag an LP versus the smaller CD counterpart. Everything was kosher until folks commenced to pitching a bitch over the environmentally-hostile long-box as they were apparently becoming a menace to society by clogging up landfills.

In recent days, I have encountered cheap-ass eco-packaging that is somehow "better", ecologically-speaking. Basically, these discs have been stripped of their jewel case (and there are few things in life worse than having your jewel case stripped) and thrown in a cardboard cover. I'm not exactly sure what makes this more pleasing to nature as I assume that most folks aren't throwing their CD's with plastic jewel cases into the trash. If this is indeed happening, one can hope that it is an example of deranged individuals finally coming to their senses and putting their Creed and Toby Keith CD's in the trash where they belong. Although putting that shit on a bus ride into a landfill would definitely make Mother Nature more than a tad pissy.

While I was reluctant to hop on the compact disc bandwagon in the 80's, I have become quite the fan of the jewel case over the years as they make storage and stacking of music peachy keen. In my mind, nothing good can come from these eco-packages except for bent covers and packaging in decline.

That takes us to the concept of downloading music. I can see some positives to it and if that's all it takes to float someone's musical boat, then I say more power to them. I just prefer the idea of a physical product with actual cover art, liner notes, and other assorted eye candy when I plop down my moulah rather than some mythological file that lives on the magical Never, Never Land of a computer or MP3 player of choice. It's packaging that sucks because it doesn't actually have any packaging at all. Yes, even non-existent packaging can suck.

Since this has been about a shit-storm of musical packaging, it would be swell if the YPS!! patrons would throw out some examples of their own favorite musical packaging, album/CD covers. I will do my best not to ridicule anyone's submissions. As a recovering Kiss fan, I obviously have no room to make fun of anyone's musical taste...except for Creed and Toby Keith fans.

Hit me!

Voice Recognition and Stuffed Nasal Passages

And yes, every time I read the word "passages" I hear that annoying line from that old annoying song "TIME passages...." And yes, that's another sign I'm getting old. When you realize a song reference is obscure just based simply on its age alone, yer ass is old. (I actually went up there and edited in "old" before the "annoying song" part with a sigh.)

Anyway, back to voice mail, and stuffed nasal (TIME!) passages.

I have a cold. Plus, just like anyone else, when I speak for the first time of the day, my voice lacks that certain clarity. Until I get the throat sleepies out of the way, I ain't no Sebastian Bach. Now, like a slave, let's get back to the grind.

This morning I thought I'd call Mom and let her know that since I have a cold, I was going to stay home and cancel our weekly movie date. I knew she probably didn't want this cold any more than I do. Being that I'm a nerd, I decided to use the voice recognition on my cell phone. To me, voice recognition is a fun little invention that's like a new employee. You can give an instruction and be amazed at the occasionally odd results you get in return.

So, I pressed the little button with the microphone on it and listened to the sultry and sassy little Virtual Vixen voice say, "Please say a command." and then got the BEEP to let me know the system was waiting for my verbal command. As I mentioned in the crud above, neither I nor my voice were fully awake and as I began to speak like Gary Busey in an all night yodeling contest with Grace Jones I also began to cough.

Into the phone, thusly I spoke: "Call. Mom. Dad COUGHHACKCOUGH!! Welllll, shit."

Apparently my nekkid Virtual Vixen (yeah, she's nekkid inside my cell phone) didn't approve of my foul language and indicated this by telling me, "WARNING: Contact not recognized, please try again."

At that point I wondered what my little nake nake Virtual Vixen must have interpreted all that coughing sound as, followed by "well, shit." So, after I called Mom and relayed my thoughts about the day, I did a little test.

I hit the microphone button on the phone and said, "Call. COUGHHACKCOUGH" and the little cell phone skinny dippin' Virtual Vixen asked, "Did you say TwitPic?" I said, "No."

"Did you say, Book Broker?" (which is a darn fine little place in Evansville, IN)

"No."

"Did you say, Gcast.com?"

"No."

Then she asked me to try my command again so I said, "Call. Time Pass...ages." You know, just like in the song. She came back with "Did you say Creme Coffee Shop?"

I said "No" because I think I've already had too much for the day.

So, there you go folks, a short trip around the tiny brain that is....Mr. Bloggerific Himself.

As a bonus, I'd just like to say that Old El Paso packaging sucks!! The company doesn't care about you or your culinary needs, if they did, they'd put their tortillas in a damn resealable bag instead of that cheap plastic they use. Not only can you NOT close it up easily to keep their product fresh, the plastic is so brittle it breaks when you try to fold it over on itself in a lame attempt to keep in moisture. So, to you Old El Paso ....Your Packaging....SUCKS!!

My Fortune is Fiction

(The title of this post also serves as Fake Band Name for the Day.)

as beautiful as a foot

Awwww shit. It must be that time of year again.

It's no secret that I often bitch and gripe about winter, but the dead season does offer one perk that I tend to overlook while I am at war with the cold, snow, ice and the gayness that is winter.

What the hell is that perk, you ask?

Prior to my divine revelation this morning, I used to say that the only thing that I like about winter is that there are no bugs. Now, I can say the two things I like about winter is that there are no bugs and people don't wear flip-flops in winter. Well, reasonably sane and fashion-equipped people don't. Reasonably sane and fashion-equipped folks flat-out refuse to wear them at any time.

Listen up, flip-floppers, and let ol' Bone let you in on a little secret.

I don't give a flying figtree of a fuck how allegedly comfortable and/or cool you think this apparel spawned from the ass crack of Satan may be, there ain't no one out there that wants to see your nasty-ass little piggies. They just don't. Of course, this does exclude those foot fetish fuckers. If a foot does it for you over engorged genitalia, then you got some issues, champ (or champessa).

This whole point was driven home yet again just yesterday as I wandered into the workplace break room to offer some brilliant (?) insight or maybe I was just lost. Regardless, it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I was pretty much stopped in my tracks when I noticed a co-worker with her bare feet up in a chair while reading the newspaper. While trying to share whatever tidbit of information I had or act like I really wasn't lost and simultaneously trying to stifle my gag reflex, I was amazed that people could actually eat with this kind of crime scene lurking across the table from them.

I'm not really out to smother someone's good time, but shit, use some common sense here, people. If you absolutely must wear those lame ass shoes or expose your hooves, then you've got to do a little (or a lot, as the case may be) maintenance. I don't mean just slapping a little Sears indoor/outdoor paint on your toenails and easing on down the road. You've got to get them sandblasted, exfoliated, spackled or whatever it takes to make that shit presentable to society as a whole.

Flip-flops and sandals are a lot like spandex--incredibly tacky and most people should think twice and then think again before wearing the shit. More often than not, it's just better to wear sensible shoes than sashay around in public with ventilated shoes showing off your fucked up toenails of various shapes, sizes, and discolorations.

If you want to go all naked-foot in your own home, then by all means, make yourself happy and get your unshoed, podiacal rocks off. Just remember that horses have hooves and a cultured equine keeps them trimmed and wears shoes.

If this shit keeps up, I think I may have to declare war and walk around with the drawers at half-mast. That will give them something to talk about around the lunch table.

After the Storm

Yep, we had another storm. Bone Machine and I had some grub (coffee and steak & eggs for me) at the local Bob Evans on Saturday. During our visit, Bone Machine gave the play-by-play of the cloud formations. We left our tips and as we paid the little lady at the counter, we noticed the clouds were getting darker. As we stepped out the door toward the car, we heard a voice from the sky announcing the forecast. We made our way across town as the shit began to hit, trying to get some photos with a cell phone. Within a few blocks from the house, the pooring rain turned to hail and began to cover the pavement as the curse words covered the car's interior.

It didn't last long and we proceeded to bi-monthly fun of blowing shit up. In the Xbox 360.

But between Mother Nature's storm and the one we whipped up within Halo's Forge, I did manage to grab a photo I liked.

Here she am, cropped & edited.

yet another sign of the impending apocalypse

I was minding my own business as I tend to do in the workplace. It's generally easier that way because mingling will just lead to trouble and questions. Answer one question correctly and/or favorably and you're marked for death and susceptible for additional questions. Nothing good can come from it.

As I was wandering aimlessly and simultaneously minding my own business (which we established right out of the gate), a co-worker entered my no fly zone (which has nothing to do with a zipper, button, or any other contraption) and asked if I could help her identify a song. Considering the musical tastes of most co-workers, I was inclined to say "If you listen to that lame ass shit that everyone else enjoys, I probably can't or won't help you." Being not so feisty today, I met her halfway and suggested that she give me what she knew.

"...Make a joke and I will sigh
And you will laugh and I will cry..."

I instantly knew that I knew it, but I could not believe that one of my co-workers was coming to me quoting lines from a Black Sabbath song. I had to go through a few more lines to assure accuracy and confirm that it was Paranoid. I was pleased as punch that someone within this shithole would even know the lines of a Sabbath song, even if it wasn't a personal favorite like Hole In The Sky, Megalomania, Hand Of Doom, and a shitpot of other tunes. Considering what I have to work with (literally and figuratively), I would settle for "I am Iron Man" and Paranoid is a notch or two above that one.

Long story short, she was asking for the song ID so that she could play it in the class that she teaches tomorrow, which adds additional glitter to the gold. In the moment of shock and awe, I told her that I keep the first eight Black Sabbath discs in my office at all times and could easily hook her up in order to wake folks up to the magic that is Black Sabbath. The irony is that I was listening to them just yesterday and there was still a biography atop my desk about the lads from Birmingham.

I wish I could say that the rest of the day lived up to the coolness of that very moment, but that would make me a liar. Other than some kind soul bringing chocolate long johns to the staff meeting at 8am, the rest of the day was moment after moment of me shaking my head in disbelief.

Anonymous co-worker: Do you work a class tonight?

Senor Bone: No, I have no other place to go so I'm just sitting in this classroom waiting for the dancing girls with loose morals and skimpy clothing to arrive or the Mayan calendar to expire...whichever happens first. Most days I would take either option, but today, I think I might prefer the calendar option. It seems like less trouble in the long run.

Although a more accurate answer would be that I left office early to put an end to his asinine conversation which apparently followed me down the hall. I'm not sure why my personal schedule is so interesting to this jackass, but I get asked that same question damn near daily and the answer is always the same. If I didn't have to be here, champ, I likely wouldn't be here.

In addition to that, we got a box of coasters with our new building printed on a ceramic tile and a non-skid backing. The secretary directed my attention to the box o' coasters and asked what I thought about them. Having been pegged as a wiseass years ago, I said "These are really nice bathroom tiles for the new building." I give answers like this in hopes that people will eventually give up on asking me questions altogether. It hasn't happened yet.

weekend shi(f)t

Help! I'm being held captive by the workplace. It's not fair and it's not right, but it is what it is and it is bullshit. While my co-workers went trotting home after their obligatory 37.5 hour work week, some of us were left behind. It's like a dress rehearsal for the rapture or something. I've got to change my evil ways and I've got to find a form of employment that doesn't involve me spending 62-ish hours in the workplace for the same salary if I was fortunate enough to merely clock in at 37.5. There's really no point in bitching about it, but I will do it anyway. It's what I do. I bitch, therefore I am. I work with a few too...both male and female.


To add insult to injury, they apparently drop the temperature when the blue-bloods aren't here in order to conserve funds for gala balls (make yer own joke) and the like. Of course, I didn't think about this when I was choosing the formal wear for the day--a Rolling Stones t-shirt, because I was enjoying the hell out of Gimme Shelter (as I always do) on the morning drive. For the 45 minute lunch break, I briefly considered heading home to correct this fashion faux pas with a sweatshirt. I decided that I'd rather just put on the leather jacket and save the gasoline. The other idea was to syphon some go-go juice from the vehicular device and set myself ablaze. Thus taking care of the chill in the air and reducing the work day considerably. I guess the downside is the flaking of charred flesh getting ground into the carpet. Not that it would necessarily be my problem at that point.


It's hard to believe that this is the same building that was all abuzz when they screened The Wizard Of Oz a few weeks ago, complete with a few folks in costume. It was about as abuzz as a library in Kentucky can get, which is to say that it was actually more of a barely audible murmur with some dude dressed up in aluminum foil pretending to be tin. The sole purpose in mentioning this event is to tell the story of how I walked up to the head honcho of the library and with no trace of comedy, I asked her at what point I should show up in my flying monkey costume. I think her reaction could best be described as "bamboozled." Although she did manage to work up a semi-uncomfortable chuckle and I wondered if she thought I was going to really jump over the rail in said costume. Maybe next year. It was just another example of me fucking with people. The cool part is that after telling the office manager the story, I found a flying monkey figure on my desk the following Monday. It fits in nicely with the feng shui of my classy ass office.


When this blessed event broke for lunch, I retreated to my office to enjoy the lunch of champions--a peanut butter sandwich (sans that jelly bullshit), a pouch of Funyuns, and some Crystal Light cherry-pomegranate (a/k/a "Coagulated Crystal Light" as that is what it looks like before becoming fully mixed) mix intermingled with some fresh water fountain product. I thought the office would be somewhat tranquil without the usual office banter and shit-talk that goes on during normal business hours. Of course, this was not to be. That would make too much sense and hell's bells, it might make me happy.


I can only hope that I didn't shriek when I opened the office door and saw the co-worker with the office next to mine digging through the break room snacks like a raccoon coming off of a 30-day fast. To say that this person and I are complete and total polar opposites is an understatement and a half. I often say that he is the bright ray of sunshine and I am the storm cloud. With only a wall separating our offices, it should be pouring rain in between. At least it was too late for his patented "Good MOR-ning!" greeting and I think he was too busy with shoving wavy potato chips into his mouth to speak. I was more than okay with the lack of greeting and responded in kind by simply walking into my office to do up my eats and hang out with the Smoking Donkey.


So wherever you are, be thankful that you're not here. If you're not wherever you are, be thankful that you're not there either. In keeping with the theme set by the fashion mentioned in paragraph #2, I will add that I really like this version of the song and I really just needed a reason to add that link to the post. It serves no purpose other than it kicks ass and it's floating through my head at this very moment.


Peace out, motherscratchers.


(Quote of the day - "I'm running around like a douche without a bag.")















Buddha, Bugs, and the blue flying monkey.

50th Wedding Anniversary

Many thanks to the Rolling Pin Pastry Shop for a beautiful and tasty cake!


This is us. Me, the sibs, and the guests of honor.


______________________
Whew! I'm beat, but it was all worth it! SO worth it.

We had a pretty darn successful party I think. The sibs were a big help and I really think everyone had a good time, including Mom & Dad. We had a really good size turnout. We didn't do anything fancy, our goal was to get as many people together as possible for cake, punch and a few finger foods...and a good time. We had music, OLD family photos projected on a screen and lots of of them.

Happy Anniversary, Mom & Dad! Love ya!

_______

PS The Gcast player to the left has a "technology isn't for everyone" audio post of one of the guests attempting to RSVP. No editing was done except to remove her last name.

Sponge...in a world of human wreckage

SPONGE
Phoenix Hill Tavern
Louisville, Kentucky
March 14, 2009

By Any Means Necessary.

Just the other morning (Monday, if I'm not inaccurate), I was trying to break and enter my way into a package of Gillette Mach 3 razor blades (sans scissors, I might add, which have been MIA since the ice storm bullshit) and I thought to myself "This is some serious packaging that sucks!! Someone should invent a forum to expose those products that make a person say 'Your packaging sucks!!' It would be the best ever."

Thanks be to God that I found this very site to curse, complain, bitch, whine, and gripe about this example of packaging that really sucks. Otherwise, I would just be pissing in the wind and considering the level of indifference hanging over this muhfuggah lately, I may very well be doing just that very thing. The upside is that we've got one of those windy-ass, click your red heels together and proclaim that "There's no place like home" kind of days brewing in this here Bluegrass state. A stout and righteous piss stream could very well reach the plains states with a good tail wind to enhance the flow. Look out, Kansas. I'm aiming at you.

So while I was chiseling my way into the damn razor blades in slow and deliberate fashion with a set of tweezers, I felt like I was that guy on Escape From Alcatraz trying to get my way through the wall. Hell's bells, it might have actually been easier to cut through concrete over this variation on the old blister pack. Desperate times call for desperate measures as my implement of choice was a device used to tweeze rather than cut through some hellacious plastic wrap from the colon of Hell itself. If only I'd ordered something from Ronco prior to the midnight deadline, I could have scored a set of ginsu knives that would no doubt laugh at the mere Gillette Mach 3 packaging before slicing through a brick and bringing it all home by dicing up some tomatoes. It's a real show-stopper.

Sure, a smart man would have saved the time and effort and just sought out another pair of scissors and cut that bitch seven ways from Sunday. However, the challenge was thrown down and I rarely, if ever, take the easy way out because that would be, well, that would be easy and I'm not happy unless I'm pissed off. With this line of thinking, I should be shooting sunbeams out of my ass and pissing rainbows. Look out Kansas, I'm aiming a rainbow at you people and I am the man with a giant silver nut...on his desk.

Fret not, I'm mostly harmless.

Really.

Once the challenge was issued, I was hell-bent on tweezing my way into the razor blades and mow down my two-day stubble like busters gang. Looking back, I might have also saved time by using the tweezers to pluck each and every beard follicle, but that seemed rather painful. While we're looking back, I could have possibly used one of those razors to help gain entrance into the treasure chest, but they were tucked away safely in packaging that sucks.

There is no stunning climax to this story, unless someone in the reading audience is without pants. If that is indeed the case, I say you'd best mop up when you're done. This is a family establishment and we've got health codes to uphold in this beotch. Not to mention that we don't want to slip, fall, and break a hip on your good time. That would be an uncomfortable situation for all parties involved, including the one with the afterglow smoke.

Even though it lacks a big O (or two or three...), I will say that at the very least that it does have a happy ending. I finally tweezed my way to victory and removed the razors from this prime example of packaging that sucks. Do you think anyone noticed and complimented my close shave and the effort it took to achieve? Oh hell no. Pissing in the wind, I tell you.

Next time, I'm using dynamite.

By the way, Gillette...

Your

Packaging

Sucks!!

Within a Few Years

You never really know about life. I mean, not really. Oh, you can plot and plan and hope and pray/prey, but I haven't seen many solid gold guarantees. Have you?

Before you know it, you can go from having your aunt pose you in a photo scamming somebody else's icing with all the bestest stuffed buddies a boy could ask for, to...playing in a box. It's not like you had to, by that time, you WANTED to play in that box. That box was FUN. That box was a fort and a spaceship and a castle, all rolled up in one. One time that box was a car with a rumble seat! When it came to playing in a box, you weren't messing around (watch it, filthy people, watch it!)!

But then, somewhere along the way, you'd mess up. Yep, you'd make that one false move that everyone seemed to be waiting for. That's right, you'd think you were being cute, or that maybe nobody was watching at all. Oh, but they were, and how! You thought you'd just whip out the Monkeyboy Face, put it away, and all would be said and done. But oh no, they saw, and for years you'd be poked and prodded and encouraged to "make that monkey face." Dammit! You'd say to yourself. WHY oh why had you ever done it?!?

The latest addition to Disgraceland...

It's a big silver nut.

I blow minds for a living...(slight return)

Anyone that is around me more than 3 minutes probably gets the idea that I am a wiseass. I often do it for my own entertainment as well as attempting to entertain others in the process. I appreciate when other folks sprinkle a little of the magic on my own day. It breaks the monotony and reduces the bullshit. It's a welcome thing and it is goodness.

On this day, I was working a class and on someone's Power Point presentation, I saw the following question:

"Why do you think that writing has a more advanced presentation than speaking?"

I thought for a moment and then said to the lone local student "It's because you can't speak in cursive." Rather than laughter, all I got was a confused expression with the obligatory furrowed brow and a head tilted at a jaunty angle like a dog hearing some odd sound.

Sometimes, that reaction is even better than laughter.

don't call it a comeback

Since there were at least two aborted audio posts on my work-related road trip on Friday, I figure that the least that I could do is re-enact a few of the things that snagged my attention while pretending to be driving.

The drive south was rather uneventful. I think that is largely due to the fact that I was legally asleep and what better thing to do than to drive. Hell's bells, I've done my best driving while nearly asleep. Well, my most creative driving anyway. There was once a time while driving back from Cincinnati to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers/Smashing Pumpkins/Pearl Jam in 1991 where I literally remembered nothing between Cincinnati and Louisville. We stopped in Louisville for refreshments and a porcelain-chipping urination, which seemed to be the key element in the rejuvenation process. I was good the rest of the trip. I drove like a damn champion.

And speaking of champions, where else would I park once arriving at my destination but the Avenue Of Champions. Yes, it's a rather shitty photo, but how much did you pay to read this hogwash? So the price is just about right.

After attending a meeting (which was the official purpose of my trip) where I got to use my fancy ass planner/organizer thingy for the first time. I felt like a complete douche even owning it (it was provided by the university...I didn't buy the shit)and even more so, actually using it. I guess it adds to the air of professionalism, especially when one is wearing a skull ring and Motorhead necklace. Hopefully I won't suffer the indignity of having to use it again.

The real reason for me going on this hayride to hell was getting to stop at Great Escape for the first time in a long, long time. Since I was on the clock and had no real reason to hotfoot it home, I took my time to really scour the shelves for musical goodness within my price range. It was a treat to score a couple of Bottle Rockets discs that my collection was lacking and which provided a nice soundtrack to the drive home.

On the highway, the faithful YPS!! readers should have had the privilege of hearing takes one and two of the 73 mph audio post. However, it appears that the dickhead in the Verizon commercials with his network has yet to sufficiently staff the Natcher Parkway as my calls were aborted and trying to check email via phone was a lost cause on the entire trip. Thank you, boys!

Along the way, I saw a big ass tour bus with the haunting words "Visit Owensboro" painted on the side. First of all, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to visit Owensboro, Kentucky. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. As soon as most Owensboro-wegians are ripped from the hotel womb, the goal is to get out of this no-horse, suck ass town. It's just the way that it is. Those of us that don't make it out will suffer in this geographical purgatory. I did find it mildly amusing that the "Visit Owensboro" bus was headed away from Owensboro rather than going to the city that puts the "ass" in "bluegrass."

By the time I got back to town, I was pretty ripe for the picking and recuperated in my office for a while until the time was right for me to make a jailbreak. The best part of said time was when the newly-appointed office manager had some internet radio station going as the head honchos were also out. When I heard the Who's Who Are You commence playing on her computer, I sat in my office just waiting for the magic moment when Roger Daltrey dropped an F-bomb. When it occurred, a disembodied voice spoke from my office and said "I heard that!" At which point, the panic seemed to rise in her voice. "Why didn't you say anything?" Why would a noted vulgarian such as myself intervene in the transmission of an F-bomb? After a recap meeting with the local non-Springteenian boss, I used my stone cold serious voice and told her that we'd discussed her vulgar music and quite frankly, neither of us was happy about it. About the time that she started to squirm, I assured her that similar language spilled out of my own speakers on a near-hourly basis. Ah, the fun of being a wiseass.

After shooting holes in the "Visit Owensboro" slogan, I was reminded of the old radio jingle that said "Owensboro has it!" Whatever Owensboro has, I can only hope that it can be cured with a stout dose of penicillin. If Owensboro has it, I don't want it and neither do you. Trust me on this one.

On Saturday, I returned the Gimme Shelter DVD to the library before they sent someone to break my knees or whatever it is that the library cops do these days. Since discovering that the Owensboro-Daviess County Public Library actually has a great deal of cool shit on their shelves, I've made semi-regular trips to check out the goods. This trip's haul seemed to focus on my current musical discovery--Townes Van Zandt. I regret not checking him out sooner as his songs are filled to the brim with sadness and to a melancholy jackass like myself, it's hellaciously good shit.

The sabbath is a day of rest, so I did.

On Monday, I did the decent thing and went to the funeral home since my former guitar teacher's father died. Although I was a wee lad when I took those lessons, I've literally known the dude 75% of my life. When I got there, he seemed shocked that someone so indecent would do something so decent. Maybe he was offended by it. I really don't know. As I told him, "I've known you damn near 30 years and you taught me how to play Back In Black." That seemed to put things in perspective and for the record, I've never been able to play the diddly-diddly bits of the song to this day.

While at the funeral home, something grabbed my attention and after asking around if it was immoral to take a photo at a funeral home, I went out on a limb and snapped away. I guess this one is rather self-explanatory. Mind you, I didn't actually see any food and I really didn't want any food since funeral homes and cuisine really don't seem like a winning combination to me. It's another of my personal quirks. Of which, there are many. I know that will come as a shock to many as I surely seem like a well-adjusted kook.

The only thing baffling to me is why anyone would get a vanity plate that said "38 SPCL" or some form of fucked up spelling of "38 Special." I can only hope that it was a tribute to the gun and not the band. This being Kentucky, I could guess that it could go either way. However, I have a feeling that it's all about the band. Sad. I guess paying homage to Dexy's Midnight Runners would require way too many characters. In theory, it would be much easier to just get a plate that says "DOUCHEBAG", because that seems rather accurate with no offense intended to producers of said feminine hygiene product.

Speaking of crappy music, I have always wondered why those people with the worst musical taste always seem to have the loudest car stereo systems. They just seem hell-bent on sharing the fact that they have absolutely no musical taste with the rest of the world. It's bad enough that Kanye West (or any of those pseudo neo-R&B/hip hop fecal artists) walks the same planet as myself, but I shouldn't have to hear the shit. That is a prime example of cruel and unusual punishment.

I'm still waiting for the hip-hop thugs to try and corner the religious market with gangsta gospel. That might be kind of cool in a completely uncool way.