Krëg

I'm A Man Of Means

2010-08-11T12:49:00.000-06:00

By no means...
King Of The Road

Rooms to let...

DO NOT ACTUALLY RENT ANYTHING TO THIS MAN.

So, I've been busy with A LOT of things lately, most of them boring and none of your business. But nestled amongst the other happenings, a few friends and I have been buying up recording equipment and instruments with the aim of recording some tunes that don't sound like the aural equivalent of a vomit and turd quiche roasting in an dry pressure cooker. Most of us still also meet weekly to blast out the best live music to ever grace the den of any residence in town. But the predominant sentiment wafting through the air lately is that we have no aspirations of playing for a live audience. Ever. Hanging out in shit-hole bars with soulless drunks is no way to live your life; even for pay. To steal a page from Danny Glover, we're all gettin too old for that shit.

So in order to take the excitement of playing in new directions, some of us have taken to recording. Thus far we've only experimented with covers such as the one above (including the snap track that I failed to forbid), but an ever-growing buzz gives rise to hope for recording original works within a few months. I'm stoked, because I think with a little studio polish, maybe my homespun track Intervention won't sound so much like it needs an intervention itself.

Hope you guys are doing well and haven't choked on your own tongues or any bullshit like that.

See you in a while.

Due For A Re-Write

2010-06-21T11:25:00.000-06:00

Somehow everything seems less ominous when sung by a kindly grandfatherly figure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnwTuDAQwN0

Catch The Fever!

2010-06-17T09:24:00.001-06:00

The contra-positive to the Page Pimp epoch has been reached, thanks to the all-encompassing lameness of soccer.
While it easily makes the worst page in the world even worse, I'm not sure if THIS works with the bacon-enhancement or not. I'm not sure I want to find out, as the two combined may cancel each other out with such force as to tear a hole in the fabric of the universe.

Old

2010-06-03T10:16:00.000-06:00

It's official. Today I am old. "Older" may be a more appropriate way to phrase it.

As usual, I don't want anything tangible for my birthday, not even a ghetto basket or a classy photo.

I just want the years to keep getting better for as long as they can. So far, they have.

Go Get Some

2010-05-21T08:22:00.004-06:00

In lieu of an exciting and detailed update about my personal life, I'm going to cop out and post about music by a cool artist: Tim Fite.

Tim Fite is quirky as hell, and worth at least a few minutes of your time. His music is simultaneously thoughtful and humorous, and often flirts with being ludicrous. He reminds me of a more accessible Frank Zappa. Damn near every entry about him on the web describes him as "eccentric". Nuff said.

We Didn't Warn You - Tim Fite

Anyhow, you're not a total child, so I'll let you go further your investigations on your own. I think you're old enough to be trusted to use the Internet on your own now. Don't disappoint me.
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Who's been rocking YOUR ears lately?

Through Rain Or Sleet Or Dark Of Night...

2010-05-14T16:32:00.004-06:00

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Have You Ever Seen The Rain
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[Most of the images below were taken Monday evening in the vicinity of Oklahoma City. The last few were from the Tulsa area on Thursday morning. Pretty much every last one was used without permission. Suck it.]

I've heard it mentioned that people in fly-over-country tend to talk about the weather with greater frequency than expected. Most often, it is just a way to idly pass the time. Other times, (as with my uncle, a farmer and rancher) the weather is a topic that directly affects livelihood, and so is a subject of extreme importance.

Occasionally, we talk about the weather because it just got done kicking our collective ass.

In case it didn't make the news in your area (and I don't see why it would), we're had some hazardous weather around these parts as of late, and it's been tearing things up like Roethlisberger tears up his ~~victims~~ dates.

Tornadoes, lightning, torrential rains, hail... Mother Nature has been piling it on.

Even the home of the Sooners, the "Never Hit By A Tornado" town of Norman, got in on the action for once.

But honestly, it's really nothing new for this area, just part and parcel of living in this state this time of year.

"Yeah, uh, gimme a pick-six lotto scratcher and a carton of Kool menthols... Wait... Something's different about this place..."

The Chicken Little meteorologists predicted this rough weather almost a day in advance, promising us all that we would die horrible, weather-realted deaths, and giving everyone ample time to feel as panicked as possible. The Monday morning newspaper actually reported that tornadoes and baseball sized hail were likely in the afternoon and evening. Not bad, considering they went to press sixteen hours before their predictions proved true.
... ... ... ...

Wednesday evening, local meteorologists were back at it again. To paraphrase their predictions: "Shits gonna get freaky overnight, fool! Only this time, it'll be all up in your face, yo! Best cover your ass!"

At roughly five yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound what appeared to be static coming from the world's largest TV. My girlfriend and I had left the windows open and the attic fan on through the night, since it was pleasantly cool outside. It turns out that the "static" noise was from the massive downpour unfolding over town. The attic fan had pulled some of the moisture in through the window and on to my leg, probably contributing to my "non-asleep" condition.

As I got up to close the window and switch off the fan, sirens began blaring through the wet morning air.

"Turn on the TV. The weather," my girl groggily advised.

"Mrghph. Guzzunh. [cough] Yeah," I replied sexily, looking for all the world like a sexy cross between Antonio Banderas and some other guy women think is sexy at five in the morning. I don't know. Brad Dourif, maybe? Yeah, women are probably into him.

"Wow! You looked sexier than Brad Dourif there for a second!" my girl exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement and lust.

"I know, baby," I coyly responded over the blaring emergency sirens. "What's that, you say?"

"I said 'quit staring at the goddamn wall and turn on the television!'" my woman said ever-so-sweetly.

On-air panic permeated every local channel, each station more alarmed and less coherent than the one before. On one station, I watched bright purple flashes dominate the footage from their "sky-cam" as the weatherperson observed that "at least we aren't noticing any of the bright purple flashes associated with high winds or tornado damage." Fucking brilliant, guy. Are you looking at the screen, or your lap?

"They don't know what the hell is going on."

"Yeah I know."

"Turn it off and let's go back to bed."

"Yeah, seems like it will be fine."

Nothing happened in my neighborhood. We both got another hour of blissful sleep while the storm mercilessly ripped apart other parts of town.

Sometimes you just get lucky.
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It warms my heart to know that no matter WHAT the weather has in store for anyone, any time, anywhere, I can still play an awesome prank on friends or strangers by mailing them live chickens or bees.

U.S. Postal Service Special Handling

"Oh, I wonder what Krëg sent me for my birthd... FUCK! BEES!"
... ... ... ...

And speaking of weird shit in the mail, I rode up a few stories on an elevator today with a FedEx guy. I was going to deposit my tax returns (I use old-school snail mail for my returns), and was pretending not to listen to the conversation between Mr. FedEx and another passenger on the elevator. The passenger had noticed the deliveryman carrying an odd shaped canister, and made the mistake of inquiring as to its nature.

"Well, some people breed horses," said the man in uniform.

"But... I don't understand. Why the funny canister?" asked the banker.

"It's to keep the contents cool."

"Huh?" queried the suit.

"Horse sperm. I'm delivering horse sperm."

I think I'm changing banks.
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I can't believe THIS exists. More to the point, I can't believe I didn't think of it first.

Again? Already?

2010-05-04T12:24:00.003-06:00

Ten Years Gone

2010-04-30T11:03:00.002-06:00

Thinking that the special effects scenes of the world ending would make up for a horrible lack of plot, I made the mistake of watching the movie 2012 a few nights ago.

Here is a short list of a few things more entertaining than watching that congealed puddle of diarrhea (in Hi-Def!):

*Drinking some or all the household cleaners under your cabinet, then calling poison control and telling them what you've done.
*Punching yourself in the face.
*Sobbing uncontrollably.
*Swallowing anything you find on the floorboards of Woody Harrelson's van.
*Headbutting a hay spike.
*Sitting in an empty closet with the lights off.
*Bronzing your genitals.
*Choking to death.
*Experimenting with a DIY-root-canal-kit.

The one thing I did learn from this movie...

SPOILER ALERT!!!

...sometimes having your young child witness the violent, graphic, and total destruction of her entire planet is the most surefire way to cure her of wetting the bed. No shit.

Contrary to intuition, scenes like this make children want to NOT piss themselves. Who knew?

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While cleaning off a cluttered bookshelf last night, I found a unlabeled CD in a dusty case. I classified it as garbage and threw it in the trash, before deciding maybe I should see what was on it first. Turns out, I'm glad I fished it out of the shitpile.

It was an ooooollllllllllld (circa 2000) recording of me playing guitar and singing three covers and one original. I had completely forgotten I'd written the original song, and realized if I had thrown out that disk, I would have likely NEVER remembered writing or recording it, and lost it forever.

Here's one of the covers from that CD, I Fought The Law by Sonny Curtis and The Crickets.

Someday I may post that original. Today is not that day.
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What's the worst thing you almost threw away?

Two Questions

2010-04-20T17:00:00.001-06:00

I only want to know two things:

1) Does that come in a female voice?

2) Where do I plug in my shopvac?

These Boots Are Made...

2010-04-19T12:30:00.003-06:00

A.A. Bondy's title track When The Devil's Loose.

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Those of you trapped behind a desk eight hours a day, five days a week, know tedium can be a killer of both productivity and sanity. The horrible slog between morning and lunch, then between lunch and quitting time are peppered with pitfalls of monotony. Everyone I work with has their own method of dealing with the workday doldrums, from banal conversation breaks to caffeine intake that borders on criminal.

I have tried these methods, and while they are a pleasant break from the routine, they don't do much to keep me energized once I return to my cell.

What I have found that keeps me on an even keel is an activity known as walking.

walk·ing - Pronunciation: \ˈwȯ-kiŋ\ - Function: noun -Date: 14th century

1 : the minimal amount of effort one can exert while still claiming it is "exercise" with a straight face.
Jared claimed walking and submarine sandwiches made him lose weight, but everyone knows it was the meth.

2 : the condition of a surface for one going on foot.
Though already difficult in the low light and haze of opium smoke, the walking was made even more treacherous by the puddles of meth-barf that Jared had spewed everywhere.

Originally championed by the elderly and those too corpulent or lazy for normal exercise, walking is quickly gaining traction as the exercise of choice among the following key demographic: people who are sick as fuck of sitting behind a goddamn desk and staring at a soul-sucking screen that is slowing eating away at the quality years of their pathetic and ever-dwindling lives. Yeah. That demographic.

At any rate, a coworker and I started walking about three or four years ago when we were seeking a place to vulgarly complain about our jobs without being overheard. The mile-and-a-half of walking (broken out over two walks; morning and afternoon) was just incidental to our insatiable desire to bitch and moan.

At first, our workstations were in close enough proximity to simply ask each other if we felt up for a walk.
"Hey, motherfucker. Walk?"
"Let's do it."

As time and advancement moved us further apart, it became necessary to email each other when the need for a walk arose.

... ... ... ...

I'm not sure when it happened, but at some juncture the phrases "walk" and "walking" were supplanted by images of Christopher Walken.

So for over a year now, I've been scouring the internet daily in search of new and unique images of Mr. Walken, and surprisingly, I have NOT exhausted all the available images.

Below are some of my favorites, organized by group.

There are Costumed Walkens:

There are Portrait Walkens:

And even the ever-elusive Mustachioed Walkens:

Honestly, all these Walken pictures are enough to blow a man's mind.

Fortunately, good ol Christopher can be there to reassemble your blown mind, should the need arise.

Nancy Sinatra - These Boots Are Made For Walken

Which celebrity have you seen too many pictures of?
(And no, for once I don't mean naked pictures.)
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Speaking of crazy mustache pictures, go check out some of the timeless classics HERE.

Grease-burned Thighs

2010-04-13T07:36:00.002-06:00

The perils of cooking bacon in your underwear should not be taken lightly, but in the race to cook three pounds of bacon in thirty minutes, sometimes one must make sacrifices.

Recall

2010-03-24T16:00:00.004-06:00

After boxing last night, I stopped to fuel up my Toyota. I had changed back into my street clothes (bluejeans, white t, cowboy boots) and thrown on a jacket to fend off the brisk evening air. I went through the standard motions at the pump: sliding my card, selecting "yes" for receipt, selecting the grade, tasting the gasoline, putting the nozzle between my legs and delicately but intimately penetrating my car's freshly uncorked gas-orifice-hole while emitting a faint moan... You know, the typical things EVERYONE does when they fill their tank.

You should see me refill the radiator...

After topping off my car, I gently pulled out the still-dripping nozzle while sweetly whispering "I love you, baby" to my car, then climbed back behind the wheel and noted my mileage on the receipt. Placing the receipt in a huge pile of its brethren (I'll update my MPG spreadsheet one day, I swear to Thor), I dropped into gear and got on the road.

Something was wrong.

At first I thought perhaps it was bad gasoline. About fifteen years ago, the same purveyor had a large batch of bunk petroleum that caused fuel pump failures in almost every car that so much as drove past the place. But the chain-store's reputation paid a heavy price from that incident, and they have had an overly paranoid quality control unit ever since. So the only bad gas in my car was probably the result of my dinner (bangers & mash). [Man, those obvious, low-hanging-fruit jokes are always the best.]

My next thought was that I needed to check Toyota's recall list once again to see if perhaps my make and model had been recently added. I guess it could happen, however unlikely, that my accelerator would suddenly develop problems after so many years and untold thousands of miles of trouble-free operation. It was possible, if not plausible.

The more I analyzed the "something is wrong" feeling, the more I began to realize that it WAS the accelerator. It was immediately popping up when I raised my foot, no matter how quickly I pulled it away. "Holy crap, my car has design flaws that have proven fatal in some instances. It's late, I'm tired, and now I'm running the risk of becoming another statistic in a massive recall campaign." My brain went from sleepy to panicked in a hurry as I contemplated my options. "Man, it's almost like the accelerator is stuck to my boot!"

Then I tried to move my boot left and right across the gas pedal. It would not budge.

Goddammit.

I stepped in gum.

... ... ... ...

But maybe that's just the fix that Toyota needs for their accelerator issues: A stick of Juicy Fruit on the soles of your kicks - problem solved.

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Help yourself to these images:

Without Warning

2010-03-17T18:00:00.005-06:00

No one told me. Seriously. I thought what I was doing was in the best interest of everyone.

You see, I have a dirty mind and a crass mouth, and a hard time reining in either one. It's not really a secret, and I make no apologies for the abominations generated by my head. And, I can still see how it could easily offend some people. In fact, sometimes that's the point.

Like how my mind instantly converts "Slippery When Wet" into

the FAR more hilarious expression "Shit And Fall Back In It."

Yet I assure you, I was looking out for the delicate feelings of faceless, nameless people when I told Blogger I wanted to enable their Adult Content Warning. "This will be great," I told myself. "I won't have to apologize to nuns or justify myself in front of a federal judge or listen to crying kids tell me how I 'made baby Jesus cry'. Perfect solution."

And so I selected the option in my settings window and never gave it another thought...

Until today. Today I decided to "View Blog" and then (after clicking through the Adult Content thing) start clicking on "Next Blog" just to see what other interesting blogs I could dig up. It's a maneuver I try about twice a year in order to see what the other random prisoners of Blogger are up to, leave a few non-sequitur comments, and try to milk a slightly less pathetic number of followers (to no avail).

Four of the first five sites I visited using the above method were exclusively devoted to spanking and leather (not either, both). The fifth was just pictures of naked women from India. Now, whether or not these sites made me uncomfortable or became instantly bookmarked is beside the point. The point is, Blogger now assumes that I'm into some kinky-sex-tricks without my specifically and directly informing Blogger ~~that~~ if I am.

Actually, I suppose that's not entirely true. There are a number of possible explanations for my adventures through assland.

The first is that everyone except Captain Paddle And The Bare Assed Bandits abandoned Blogger in favor of some other venue. Judging by the amount of complaining I hear from bloggers about Blogger for its free and functional service, that is an equally sad and real possibility. People will complain about any damn thing if you give them enough time."These free and flawless diamonds just don't sparkle much on cloudy days. They must be shitty." Still, it seems unlikely that everyone just up and left one afternoon.

A second possibility is that when I enabled the Adult Content Warning, Blogger instantly assumed I was uploading photos of my weirdly half-shaved, half-tattooed crotch. Here again, I can see the inclination to stereotype anyone using the Adult Content Warning as a pierced fecalphile; there are a lot of freaks out there, and grouping them together helps maintain order in society. However, just because I use words like "cockshits" or "dickbeard" it doesn't make me a gimp-rubber (someone who rubs gimps, not a substance extracted and vulcanized from gimps).

Third, I've been assigning choice labels/tags to a few of my posts, and perhaps that controls the direction in which the Next Blog button points me. I've decided to test that theory by including some choice labels in this very post. I'll put on a white lab coat later, and analyze the results.

Finally, the most chilling thought is that before Google/Blogger sends me on my Next Blog journey, it first scans through my previous posts and picks out keywords and themes in order to give itself some direction. Which would indicate that there is an algorithm out there stained black by my barely-coherent, half-drunk rantings...
So when SkyNet becomes sentient in 2016, the first things it may seek out are butt beads and Pabst.

"I need Sarah Connor and a tube of lube."

Anyway, that's why I've disabled the Adult Content Warning again. And just in time for this lovely post.

Happy Saint Patricks Day.

Friday Audio Visuals

2010-03-05T00:19:00.002-06:00

First the Visuals...

In addition to angering PETA, I suspect that sitting in this chair will open a gate to hell.

_________________________________________________________

...Then the Audio

In case someone has not already informed you, music totally kicks ass. Even the music that you don't like kicks ass. It may not kick YOUR ass, but then, this world isn't all about you. So stop being such a self-centered a-hole all the time. Jeez.

For example, while personally I might find the music of Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson or John Mayer to be limper than a transvestite's cock at the Playboy Mansion, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of women* out there who frequently finger their bean to the dulcet tones of this lifeless strain of acoustic adult contemporary vomit. Some people like it, some don't. I'm squarely in the "don't" camp. I like my music to fall to either side of that genre: slower and more mournful or faster with some growl and some teeth. I'm convinced that the Mayer Matthnson Band's music is what the house band plays in the musically flaccid limbo of weak-sauce purgatory, probably while everyone eats vanilla yogurt and stares into their cell phones. I can't help but think that this music is the "adult" equivalent of the Jonas Brothers; easily packaged lowest common denominator garbage. Anytime I catch a track from one of those artists, I find stirring within myself feelings that usually culminate with a huge yawn or a moderate dump.

(*Note: clearly the men who willingly listen to those artists have gaping manginas.)

But I will allow that there are people who are fans of that style of music and musician, a few of whom may even be regularly sober. It takes diff'rent strokes to move the world, Willis. Yes it does.

But just like "it's not all about you" it's also not all about me either. Except ... this is MY blog, so I guess it is all about me. So let's talk about a few songs that I like. And by "talk", I mean I'll write words, and then you'll read them.

... ... ...

Besides the ludicrous uptick in new and never used gym memberships, the dawn of the new year is also remarkable due to the engulfing flood of music blogs posting their "best of the year" collections. As such, it's a fine time to go catch up on the cream of the previous year.

Here are two of my favorites from 2009. One is by the son of actor Anthony Perkins, but totally reminds me of a dylan/springsteen/costello hybrid (in a good way) instead of Norman Bates.

Elvis Perkins - Doomsday

The other is by a recently deceased supporter of my new favorite charity, Sweet Relief. I'm kinda bummed I didn't get into this guy until after he died.

Vic Chesnutt - Flirted With You All My Life

Although both of these songs are written from a personal perspective, they approach the subject death in two strikingly different ways.

One is an upbeat, flippant-attitude, horn-heavy, toe-tapping good time (once it gets going). It is an overwhelmingly positive song that somehow gives a light feel to a very heavy topic. I'm not sure if it looks at death through the lens of naivete, or is just too damn positive to let even death kill the mood.

The other seems a good deal more personal, and (to me) therefore a bit more moving. When he sings about cancer and his mother, Vic Chesnutt pours out so much of himself that he actually makes me want to punch Death square in the cock-knuckle.

Oh, and not like you could tell from listening to that track, but Mr. Chesnutt was paralyzed from the waist down at age 18 in an accident that left him with limited use of his hands. That was in the early eighties, about six or seven years BEFORE he cut his first album. Looks like Vic grabbed Adversity by both balls and then slapped it around until it became his servant.

Kinda makes me feel like a mangina owner myself, considering what a total hack I am even with my two perfectly functional hands.

Anyhow, there's some music fo yo ass. Now you can get back to whatever self-involved thing you were doing before you foolishly surfed here.

Happy March

2010-03-01T18:00:00.000-06:00

Caption this.

Then mourn how us puny humans were not similarly endowed.

Booze, Guns, Booze, Cigars, Booze, and Booze (boozy booze)

2010-02-22T15:07:00.031-06:00

Ever since I started writing in primary school, instructors have always advised me to know my audience, and write with them in mind. That's why I composed this post specifically for Blogger, a well-known and favored outlet for literate women with still-nested children and a penchant for some thing called etsy. Because really, what better audience or target demographic exists that could so easily relate to my previous weekend's activities?

________________

I was invited by some friends to a hunting cabin for a long weekend. Leaving early Friday morning, we drove out to the exact middle of nowhere, as pavement turned to gravel road turned to dirt road turned to trail, before finally devolving into just a pair of muddy ruts with two-foot tall saplings growing between them. Somewhere between dirt road and trail, the beer drinking began in earnest.

Though comprised exclusively of mud, this is still considered a "dirt" road.
I can confidently classify it as "dirt" because I am holding a camera, not a beer.

After a few miles of tooth-rattling off-roading, we arrived at the cabin. From there, we proceeded to act like Anti-ATF Agents (the other Triple-A): Drinking copious amounts of beer, smoking ignorant amounts of tobacco, and firing MANY hundreds of rounds through a variety of firearms.

Sadly, this wasn't one of the guns.

I got to fire a sniper rifle this weekend. You know, those guns you always see in movies where some cop is on a rooftop with his cap on backwards while his lieutenant barks "as soon as you have a clear shot, TAKE HIM OUT!" through his headset. Yeah, one of those guns. What's more, the fellow camper that was instructing me on its use was an over-qualified professional with the weapon due to his exacting employment requirements. He showed me how to work the stabilizing sandbag that rests under the butt of the rifle (the more you squeeze, the further down it aims). It was super-cool. I killed a ~~bear~~ ~~mountain lion~~ ~~wolf~~ beer can from sixty yards out. I was pretty impressed with myself ... until he showed me how accurate he was at six hundred yards. Then he asked me if I needed a diaper change before I laid down for nappy-time.

Figure 3.7: a professional's perception of Krëg's firearms mastery.

I also got to fire a World War II-era Australian-made bolt action British 303, the recoil from which almost knocked me into the next county.

"He was last seen holding an Enfield rifle in one hand, a Pabst in the other, and flying ass-first towards Texas...."

The 303 was a solid weapon, and fired like a dream. I couldn't help but imagine I was plugging Nazis while squeezing the trigger. Blow ze heads off ze Germanz! Ja! Gut! But at a little over $2.50 per bullet, the owner was NOT enthusiastically handing out ammunition. So quite a few of the imaginary Nazis escaped to imaginary Argentina.

Other fine firearms I fired included a shotgun, a Beretta nine, and a Wather 22. It was speculated that the only sure way to shoot at and hit a beer car with a 22 caliber pistol is to hold the pistol firmly in your right hand and look squarely down the sights at the beer can target in your left hand.

But the camp "party" gun was the GSG 5, a semi-auto 22 with an expansive clip and a holographic sight.

Similar to this, except wielded by drunks.

Firing tiny .22 caliber bullets from a 22-shot clip as fast as you can pull the trigger, this little number is to straight adult males what the Red Ryder BB Gun was to Ralphie Parker. Except if you shoot your eye out with this thing, your brains go with it. Also, your mom isn't Melinda Dillon. Unlike pistols of the same caliber, this gun is actually capable of hitting a target further than ten feet out, and unlike rifles of a higher caliber, you won't go broke pulling the trigger.

This past weekend, the beer cans knew no end to their torment, as we would ritualistically rip their heads off, suck out their precious innards, and hang their empty husks on a nearby bush. Then we'd fill them full of holes. You'd probably think that we'd have grown bored of this rather quickly, but you'd only think that because you probably don't have a penis. It was fun on a bun.

It's been a little too long since I've spent much time away from an urban area, and I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. The campfire, the bedroll, the nickel-ante poker, the few dozen beers... [wistful sigh]
As a bonus, we were able to gloat to the people back in town what lovely February weather we had. My hometown was shivering at around 40°F and blanketed with rain and gray skies. We wound up on the lucky side of the weekend cold front, as while we experienced a brief downpour Sunday morning, the temperature hovered around sixty, and the sun made things feel even warmer.

Who knew that the iPhone was good for something other than expressing your pretentiousness.
Click this bad boy photo for panoramic goodness.

With all that drinking and smoking and shooting things and burning things, you'd think I spent the weekend at the cabin running a high risk of injury. And you'd be right. But oddly enough, the riskiest situation I was involved in all weekend occurred after we left camp and were back on blacktop.

I was riding in that red truck in front of which I am standing in the above photo, and my bedroll (fartsack!) and pillow were crammed into a garbage bag in the truck bed. Shortly after turning onto Highway 69 and blasting north out of Stringtown, we passed the prison. I had consumed a few (five) beers on the way out from camp (on private property only) because I didn't have to drive and I didn't want want those beers to get lonely in the back of the truck. So of course, my bedroll and pillow wait until the LEAST opportune moment to vacate the truckbed and onto 69. Even with the sober driver's lightning reflexes, we still rolled a good eighth of a mile further than my displaced gear. So piss drunk and filthy, wearing a jacket akin to John Rambo's in the movie with the same surname, I stumble down the breakdown lane to get my trashbag full of sleeping accoutrements. I sling it over my shoulder and proceed back towards the pickup. Only then do I notice a sign halfway between the truck an myself that issues a warning to motorists.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.

Also at this point, I notice that the weather has turned cold, gray, and windy, and that I REALLY need to pee. I was pretty sure that running to the truck would only arouse suspicion of any watching authorities, so I tried to remain calm while steeling myself against the brisk north wind.

When I got back to the truck and stowed my bag, my pilot only had one sentence for me: "I never took the truck out of gear, because I was sure the heat was going to show up and haul you in."

... ... ... ...

Three quotes overheard at camp:
"I'd suck a fart straight out of her ass." (referring to a beautiful actress)
"I've drank so much beer I could shit through a screen door." (referring to ... well you get the picture with this one)
"My last three farts had beer head on them." (Come to think of it, I'm not sure we had any conversations that didn't reference beer or farts. I may have even had one heated discussion that consisted solely of pop-top noises, belches, and flatulence.)

Two jokes overheard at camp:
funny
Q: How many Hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: It's a really obscure number that you've probably never heard of...

and sick
Q: What is so awesome about getting 14 year-old boys into the shower?
A: When you slick their hair back, they look like they're eleven.

Here's some campfire for you (smell and heat not included).

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Next time I'll remember to update Twitter when I'm out of town. No wait. No I won't.
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When Gary coyly asked his wife for meatsleeves, she totally misunderstood.

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Have a good weekend.

Lazy Post

2010-02-18T10:02:00.002-06:00

Caption this photo.
Then go wash your eyes.

Friday Audio Visuals

2010-02-12T11:59:00.005-06:00

First the Audio...

I have a massive band-crush on Spoon. It's not a new thing. I've had it about eleven or twelve years, ever since a friend pushed A Series Of Sneaks under my nose. Their new album, Transference, dropped last week, maybe the week before (or several). It is one of their better albums to date, although a bit messier and without some of the studio polish which they regularly wield like a weapon. The low-fi sound, abrupt starts and ends, and smeared vocals all add up to a positive sum and leads to a good end. It's deliberately messy, and it works.

It took me a few (seven) listens through the entire album to isolate my favorite track. At first I thought it was Out Go The Lights, for the singular reason that it contained the lyric "You became like that on which your heart was fixed," one of the most ass-wrecking lines I've heard in a while. The songwriter in me is jealous of that lyric, mostly because it accurately describes the life paths of MANY of my friends, and possibly even my own. But that song also gave me a Coldplay vibe, which is a total non-starter. So it was removed from contention along with The Mystery Zone, with it's drums and bass counter-punctuating each other to create an infectious rhythm.
Ultimately, I've settled on Trouble Come Running as my favorite, because of its tempo and ability to kick shit from wall to wall. I'd post a link to it, but I can't seem to find one. So go buy the album and listen for yourself.

Instead, here's one to Metal Detektor.

And a motion picture talkie:

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Then the Visuals...

A friend in town for NYE tested out his new camera on myself and friends. Considering how drunk everyone was, I'm surprised ANY photos came out as anything more than blurry abominations.

Have a good weekend.

Jesus Puppy

2010-02-11T17:06:00.003-06:00

People have seen the image of Christ in everything from fridge mold to French toast to the shroud of Turin.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

In order to illustrate my point for a childish email argument earlier this week, I ran an image search on Google for the phrase "Jesus Puppy".

I was surprised by the wide variety of the results.

They ranged from oddball crackpottery

To aesthetically nauseating
To slightly amusing
There were even a few cute ones

But NOTHING quite as remarkable as the image of Jesus that one day appeared on a puppy. It must be the result of the Lord's divine intervention, as a symbol for us all to have faith in him.

Pictured: Finally! Evidence of God's divine, compassionate presence.

Or maybe it's just a dog's ass.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

People need to get a grip, and quit looking for "proof" or "evidence" of God. Belief doesn't work that way; science does. For all of science's proof and evidence and hard facts, when it comes down to base motivators for human action, it cannot trump the power of belief.
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Take a gander at THESE mind-raping tattoos.

Where's The Giant Slingshot?

2010-02-09T18:00:00.000-06:00

Friday, on the property where I work there was a curious sight. A curious sight indeed.

"What the hell is that? A rug?" asks a coworker as we drive back from securing our mid-morning meals of ~~sausage rolls and caffeine~~ something healthy that all the cool kids are eating/drinking. He points to what looked like a small piece of dingy, cut-up carpet.

"Looks like a dog or something, curled up on that gravel pile," I reply as I drive through the parking lot.

"Holy shit, that's a coyote!" he responds.

"Bullshit. It looks too fat. Plus it's not covered in ACME products," says I.

"All right pull in. We'll walk over there and check it out," retorts the coworker.

In response to this comment, about four or five different thoughts jammed up in a synaptic cranial bottleneck all at once, much like that three stooges gag where they all try to walk through a doorway together. Fortunately, one mental image trumped the rest:

...And his last words were: "We'll walk over there and check it out."

My car's tires squealed a bit as I made a sudden, impulsive turn.

"Are you totally high, or just want rabies? Tell you what, we'll just drive over there, since Toyota Avalons are coyote-proof, and denim is only coyote-resistant. Whatdya think?"

"Solid plan," agrees the coworker.

So I edge my vehicle in close to get a better look at the animal. When I get within about thirty feet, the animal unfurls and stands up on super-long legs. While not exactly baring teeth, the coyote did pace back and forth atop the mound. Telltale ACME products must have been hidden in the gravel.

"See! I told you it was a coyote," crowed the coworker.

"Yes. Congratulations. And now we've not only awakened it, but apparently we've also pissed it off. Plus, I'm sure to the hyper-sensitive nose of that mammal-hunter, we both smell like giant sausage rolls."

"Shit," repeated the coworker.

"At least I can run faster than you."

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Coyotes are one of the most resilient mammals in nature, and have little trouble adapting to the very unnatural world of humans.

http://advocacy.britannica.com/blog/advocacy/2007/05/coyotes-the-wild-becomes-urban/

I'm still trying to park as close to the building as possible though.
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I'm wondering if THIS will make Oprah's book list.

Deal Breaker

2010-02-04T16:56:00.004-06:00

It's been suggested that I break up my massive, multi-topic posts into MANY smaller posts. So I'll try that for a minute and see how it goes. Here's one of my first.
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Don't go to Steve's House. Ever. It looks like the kind of place that will play host to cops unearthing corpses in another ten years. Seriously, that guy has some kinda fierce compulsive hoarding disorder. A disorder that might include hoarding human bones. Fresh human bones. You've been warned.

But hey ladies, he's single and a homeowner. What more could you really want?
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I told the woman I've been dating that I don't listen to the radio, and haven't listened in years. She sent me a text regarding Fred Flintstone and making a bed rock, and cited the radio and a guy named Lil Wayne. She was pointing out what I was missing by avoiding the radio, albeit in a cheeky fashion. She also mentioned that all the good lyrics have already been taken, which is a sentiment the songwriter in me does not share.

So, I'm wondering if I should tell her that in spite of my sanctions against broadcast radio, I'm already a Lil Wayne fan? Or just keep secretly pumping Shooter through my cans and clandestinely shaking my ass?

What do you think? Could Lil Wayne fandom be a deal-breaker?

"I turned around, I was staring at chrome (hello)"
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Birthday Reflections

2010-02-03T11:48:00.010-06:00

According to Google, today is the birthday of Norman Rockwell.

I used to think that Mr. Rockwell's paintings were overly contrived, with about four extra tablespoons schmaltz and nostalgia than ANY recipe ever called for.

I thought that for a long, long time.

Also, those little pricks at grandpa's right elbow are about to start some shit. Backhand those twerps!

It just always seemed like things were a bit too posed in his paintings. Almost fake.

... ... ... ...

My grandmother (father's mother) will be ninety this April. Born in 1920 (in case you can't do math), she's a tough lady with an even temper and an endless supply of patience. She has had the experience of seeing her corner of the world turn from agrarian to mechanized, and lived through some of the more interesting chapters of twentieth century history (including Oklahoma's depression-era dustbowl).
I can't help but reflect upon how many advances mankind has made since my grandmother was a child: splitting the atom, walking on the moon, curing polio, eradicating malaria, national highway projects, radio, television, computers, advances in medicine, civil rights, and women's lib, breaking the sound barrier, 911 service, color photography...the list goes on forever. The advances of my generation (and subsequent generations) don't really look that impressive by comparison, and seem to serve only individual selfish purposes rather than humanity's greater good. (Got cancer or AIDS? There's an iPhone app for that! ... But no cure.)

In preparation for my grandma's upcoming birthday, the immediate family (all 20+ of us) are pulling out all the stops, and our current guest list for the event is only slightly smaller than the 400 or so blood relatives who came out to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of my great grandfather's purchase of the family farm in 1898.

Fourth from left: Sweetest old lady in the world
Third from left: Some asshole blogger

My contribution (chosen for me by less tech-savvy relatives) for the party is to sift through photographs and compile a photo/video DVD as a keepsake for attendees.

And actually, most of the photos come pre-"sifted" from my other relatives, as NO ONE wants to scan and email their ENTIRE library of photo albums. So I'm only getting the relevant and most cherry of all the photos.

Like this one. Notice how well behaved children were when they were regularly beaten.

... ... ... ...

A few things keep popping into my head as I pour through the photos....

The first is what a spoiled little bitch I am. My dad spent his second (and possibly third) year of life literally living in a chicken coop, because the lumber (and ALL other building materials) from the old farmhouse were taken apart to be used in the new farmhouse. So he spent a year and a half living in drafty makeshift quarters in the middle of the windy plains. DHS was NOT called in response to these living conditions, and not just because they had no phone service out in the country. Mainly no one dropped the DHS hammer because the living conditions were not considered unusual for the area at the time. Contrast that against what gets people in a twist these days, and I think you'll agree we've all become a lot softer over the past few generations.

I think the worst scenario I've ever had to endure was when my electricity was out for a week after an ice storm. It is relevant to note that my grandmother went without power for a week and a half during that exact same storm. So she even proved herself as more of a hard ass than I in a head-to-head challenge.

NOT PICTURED: Sissified whining cowardly wimps.

Another thought is that I have a pretty long family history, and that history has only recently intrigued me. I should take a week off work, plan a lengthy visit, and soak up every last tale my beloved grandmother has the inclination and energy to share. Because while "Joseph beget Mathias beget Henry beget Mathias beget Krëg" is good to know, it lacks the colorful details that make it more than just my lineage, more than just branches on my family tree. There are things I'd like to know, blanks I'd like filled in.

... Like where my granddad got his pimpin clothes.

Seriously, where can I get some fly-ass suits like that?

Ok, so maybe I don't want to know EVERYTHING...

Finally, I've decided that while they are overly nostalgic and schmaltzy, perhaps Norman Rockwell's paintings weren't quite so posed after all. From the photos I've been sent, it appears that's how people actually behaved before the hydra of mass media began trading us fear in return for our own independent thoughts, judgments, and emotions.

"Shit! Look out! Terrorists and Swine Flu! Hide! ... Oh wait. I forgot. We DON'T panic about over-hyped crap."
"Damn straight. Pass the catsup, miss bad-ass."

If that's the case, modern society got ripped off. It seems we traded character, camaraderie, and resourcefulness for mass-produced shiny baubles and blindly following the messages of our favorite talking heads. Perhaps the technology that we praise for connecting us has also taught us that we no longer need to look people in the eye while communicating, and that the act of texting "xox-hugs-xox lol" is an acceptable substitute for the real thing. Our newest and best technological distractions seemingly only disrupt opportunities for REAL connections, and while they plug us in to a vast world of communication possibilities, they seem to leave us increasingly isolated from our immediate communities.

After looking through piles (albeit digital piles) of old photos, Mr. Rockwell's paintings don't seem quite so posed and fake.

In fact, they feel a bit like family.

Fresh Card

2010-01-07T17:53:00.003-06:00

My belated xmas card is now online. You'll have to scroll back to the 25th to see it.
Eyewash not included.

Life Is About Learning

2010-01-06T19:38:00.004-06:00

...And this past week I learned a valuable lesson: Sometimes it is best to listen to your friends.

When my friends initially told me not to watch pornography on a high-def screen, I thought they were just being cowards. "Surely," I thought to myself, "clearer, crisper picture will make ANY viewing experience better. Especially naked women being hammered by hairy trolls with horse-cocks." And I never stopped to consider that perhaps my friends were speaking from experience; that maybe they were trying to share their wisdom and spare my anguish. If I had only taken a moment to look into the frightened and bewildered eyes of my friends as they tried to warn me...

What a fool I was.

In stage and television, the fourth wall is ever-present. Some productions will poke at the fourth wall for humorous effect, but most have the good sense not to disturb the magic with which they've enchanted their audiences. High-def is making this more difficult, as the realism of the images get ever-closer to their real-world equivalents. And while high-def may be cool for some entertainment like Austin City Limits or CSI: Miami, it is less so for sweaty favorites like Justin's Titty Limits or CSI: MyAnus. As the fourth wall begins to fall away, never have I so deeply longed for a piece of glass to separate me from the greasy action. I didn't realize how safe it made me feel.

Imagine an entire person's body that looked like Edward James Olmos's face. Now image that person locked in coitus and writhing. NOT hot. Now imagine that they look SO real, that you could swear they were in the room with you. Seriously, I spent about 75% of my brain being teased and stimulated by the porno, and the other 25% wondering if the high-def images might somehow be giving my coffee table some hyper-virulant strain of herpes. (Okay, maybe it was more like 98% to 2%, but that is STILL too much "non-porn" thinking to be doing while watching porn)

If this story has a moral (and it DOESN'T, I promise), it is this: High-def pornography - Don't do it.

Happy 2010 to all of my friends and loved ones! And to you too!

Merry Holiday Card

2009-12-25T15:00:00.001-06:00

♪ ♫ "Take me down, little Suzy take me down" ♫ ♪

Try Not To Touch Your Genitals Or Eyes

2009-12-21T17:36:00.001-06:00

Today is/was the shortest day of the year. I hope you celebrated as I did; by shaking your fist at the sun and calling it a coward.

In observance of this day, here's a grab bag of random musings that never quite made it to the 'post' button.
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I. Fucking. Knew. It. Seriously. This news comes as a shock only to morons.
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Bobby Bare Jr. is just one of the many fine reasons I need to schedule a trip to Austin for SXSW within the next few years.
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After owning a cell phone for almost an entire year, I remain nonplussed with the technology. Not that I don't think it's great that the technology works in ways we could have only dreamed about even a mere fifteen years ago, or that people around the world are finding it easier to communicate. But somehow this human achievement seems like building the Taj Mahal, only to fill it level-full with excrement. Millions and millions of people, all chattering away like magpies on crack, but never really doing much other than recycling information to each other. 56 channels and nothing on.

And I feel as if I'm just left with another damn thing I have to cram into my pocket every morning.

And don't even get me started about texting.

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I'm still unimpressed with Facebook. So unimpressed that it seems the only time I'm ever there is to verify the occasional friend request. Apparently there are community groups and games and applications for the site. But since I can't get into the virtual fun of farm mafias, nor milk a sense of community from the glowing, rectangular chunk of plastic I call a monitor, those cherries don't hold much flavor. But I suppose it's just as useful of a social tool for not giving a shit about people as my current one. Although, I could argue that my current method of not giving a shit requires no electricity and has zero carbon footprint. That's right, my ambivalence has gone green.
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And while I'm on the topic of flash-in-the-pan trends of the moment, I finally had a funny idea for Twitter account that wasn't already taken and then ruined. So now my penis has a twitter page. I know ultimately, it will prove to be too exciting for you to ignore.

FOLLOW MY COCK!

I would make an impassioned plea for y'all to please stop using Twitter. That plea would include points like Twitter is not for mature, grown adults; it's for vacuous tween girls. I would argue that it's for people who would rather stare droolingly at their phones like lobotomized apes than actually notice (much less interact with) the world immediately in front of them.
I would even point out that mutha-humpin' RETAIL OUTLETS now post updates on the service, and yet no one in their right mind would ever ask Sears to CALL them every time they updated a sale in their lawn care center:
"Hi! This is Skip over at A.V. & S. phone services, and I just wanted to let you know that we're having a 35% off sale on everything in our store for the next twelve minutes!"
"How did you get this number, Skip?!? And why do you keep calling every half hour?"
"Mention this phone call and get an additional 5% off any purchase over $57.00"
"What? Stop calling me! I only wanted to know about that one sale on wireless headsets ONCE, like three years ago, but you still call incessantly! I hate you Skip!"
"A.V. & S. wants to make this a Christmas to remember."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh......." [self-inflicted gunshot sounds]

But I can't argue any of that, because twitter is now finally home to the musings of my penis, in all of it's vascular and single-minded glory.

Do yourself a favor. Take a look at the last five tweets that you received. Was it worth it? Did it make your life any more precious or memorable? Is your life fuller as a result?

The answer can only be "yes" if one (or more) of those five tweets came from my johnson.
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In case you'd forgotten, Van Morrison still rules.
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So, when a primate goes mam-grabbing, everything's cool. Smile-for-the-camera-style cool. But god forbid if I should try something that bold, suddenly I'm testing the effectiveness of pepper spray. Lousy chimp/human double standards.
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I'm getting to be quite the artist with this stuff. Although I sometimes still "color" outside the lines...
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I was cooking dinner for some friends a few evenings past, and as I cooked, I learned some new things.

It was an Asian curry dish that required coconut milk, an ingredient I had never used before. In addition to being incredibly unhealthy, it turns out that coconut milk is also overpriced and hard to locate in the grocery store (ie. not in the 'bachelor' heat-and-eat section). Yet in spite of all that, it still tastes totally amazing. I want to breathe coconut milk instead of oxygen.

Like most other "milks", coconut milk is rather bland. This is only problematic because I like my curry to have some kick. So in an effort to crank up the heat, I began slicing peppers that a friend had grown and given away. The peppers sliced and seeds removed, I stirred them into the dish, and then went back to prepping other ingredients while talking with my friends.

Five to ten minutes later, as I'm drying my hands after rinsing them off, I notice they still feel as if warm water is running over them. Twenty minutes later I'm wondering if I didn't accidentally scald myself. An hour later, I've realized why many people advise you to wear gloves when cutting and handling peppers: their oils can cause an intense burning sensation to any skin exposed to them.

Once I realized the cause of my problem, my cousin immediately began scouring the internet for any suggested remedies. I'm not a super-scientist, but I could tell as soon as she began listing off homemade cures that they were all half-baked:
"Soak it in milk." : "My hand is not a veal cutlet."
"Soak it in vinegar" : "Balsamic or red wine vinegar?"
"Soak it in gasoline" : "Absolutely not. No. Just no."

It was painfully obvious that the only tried and true remedy was time. Wait while the burning sensation abates. Wait and wait and grind your teeth and wait. And no other choice but to just wait.

So I called a friend for one last shot at a miracle cure.
"Sup?"
"Hey man, I just sliced up some chili peppers, and my hand is burning pretty bad."
"Tough."
"Yeah. I remember you said something similar happened to you, so I thought you might have some pointers or ideas."
"Here's a pointer: Don't touch your penis or your eyes."
"Yeah, that's why I remembered your story. Any particular reason you mentioned penis before eyes? "
"Last time I checked, unlike the eye, the penis is not self-flushing. Also, and this is from experience mind you, pepper oils on the cock hurt more and lingered longer than in the eyes."
"So how long can I expect this hand-fire pleasure cruise to last?"
"When does it stop? Sometimes, in the cold lonely hours just before dawn, I think I can still feel it burning..."

My hand quit hurting after about three hours.
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According to this article from BBC, for maximum matrimonial satisfaction, I should be shopping for a younger woman. Like I really needed the Fogbreather Broadcast Service to tell me that...
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Maybe It's Maybelline...
...but it's probably not.
I wouldn't think a major cosmetics retailer like Maybelline would be foolish enough to get caught up in the Peruvian human fat trade. But come to think of it, that's similar to what I said about Circuit City getting mixed up with tampering with the guinea pig genome, and look what happend there.

In case you're too lazy busy to read the above article, I'll give you a quick executive summary: Gangs in Peru are killing humans, draining their body fat, and selling it as a cosmetic that reduces wrinkles. Anyhow, I was most troubled when I read that Hilario Cudena, the group's leader, had "been killing to extract fluid for more than three decades". THREE. DECADES. Now, I don't live in Peru, so I'm not totally clear about what constitutes a criminal act in that country. But I would think murder would be on that list somewhere. Somewhere near the top. Further I would suspect that authorities would want round up anyone suspected of murder rather quickly, instead of, say for example, waiting three decades. But maybe law enforcement in that region displays an uncanny resemblance to Larry, Moe, and Curly (or Racket, Graft, and Lazy).

Or maybe instead, motive for the crime plays a part in a criminal's pursuit and prosecution. Killing for vengeance? 15-years-to-life. Killing to produce homemade Oil Of Olay? Seventy-five dollar fine and time served.

According to Hilario Cudena, this easily becomes a lifetime supply of Noxzema.

Anyhow, it might be wise to avoid unique boutique "bath & body" products for a while...
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Weird With A Beard
... http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/index.html ...
The national beard championships came and went again without me garnering any recognition for my growing the world's second mangiest beard.
Maybe next year.
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Merry Christmas

2009-12-17T13:18:00.001-06:00

Three Things

2009-12-04T14:44:00.005-06:00

1) Not dead.

2) Busy/sick lately.

3) If you want a horribly tasteless and/or inappropriate Christmas card, please email your address to me.

Blow Town

2009-10-28T12:56:00.005-06:00

Chances are looking favorable that I'll be leaving town for the weekend. And not just some two-dimensional flattened copy of me either. No, this will be a real jaunt, featuring the official human-meat version of Krëg. I'll probably do off-the-wall things like eat food and look at stuff. Possibly some walking around and drinking things. I'm a wild-man like that. An animal.

Unlike most of my attorney-encouraged "getaways" where I lurk in a cabin while searing off my fingerprints with a clothes iron, this short break is welcome and purely recreational. Anyhow, I'll try to remember to take a camera or something, and I may even have the wherewithal to use it. I promise I'll give y'all an undetailed, rambling, and sketchy account of my wanderings when I return.

In the meantime (assuming I don't post again before I leave), amuse yourselves by looking at Black And WTF or Halloween In The Time Of Cholera, and marvel at Halloween costumes of yesteryear.

Also, feel free to answer the question from my last post, if you haven't already.

"We're gonna need a bigger fly-swatter."

Terrifying

2009-10-27T14:11:00.003-06:00

If you can make it through the first 2:15 of this clip without experiencing some violent psychotropic reaction, you've got a leg up on me.

An appearance by KISS shortly thereafter saves the day. Well, as much as a KISS appearance can save anything.

Quiz time: What's your favorite Halloween memory?

I'll start...
My grandmother once fixed my plastic/vinyl Spider-man costume using blue and red electrical tape. I had somehow torn out the costume's crotch while putting it on. Anyhow, that's the day I learned that tape came in different colors, cheap costumes are problematic, and grandmas can fix anything. Even a crotchless Halloween costume.

You May Already Be A Winner.

2009-10-20T15:33:00.015-06:00

But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably NOT a winner. I'm just sayin'.
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According to highly unreliable chatter on the Interthing, I may have been either cloned or vivisected, and then mailed across the country. It's about damn time some part of me got a vacation.
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As many of you may have noticed (much to your chagrin), I fixed my comments problem, and I can now get back to peppering your comments section with my off-color contributions. It turns out that maybe it was just some user error (though I admit no guilt) of having too many accounts and passwords and being logged into too many different sites at once. Maybe. But probably it was still somehow the fault of technology, and not the result of my actions in any way.
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I know quite a few people who are in to fantasy football, and on occasion they have asked me if I'd like to join. My total lack of knowledge and interest in professional-level football notwithstanding, I have a few basic issues with the notion of fantasy football.

First, I often ask participants what they find so compelling about fantasy football. "It makes the games more interesting," is the bullsh!t reply I most often receive. I like to point out that betting on a game doesn't inherently make the game any more exciting. A checkers match isn't suddenly more riveting when there's $100 riding on the outcome. It's the same damn game, only some ignoramus decided to risk a chunk of cash on something arbitrary. And instead of/in addition to money, you're pissing away your time. [sarcasm]Whoohoo, what wild and interesting fun.[/sarcasm]

Second, if I'm going to indulge in something that refers to itself as "Fantasy Anything", that 'anything' will not involve any men other than myself. Sorry, no non-Krëg dudes allowed in any of my fantasies.

Not even this one.

Just piles of human females, Wesson Oil, and Milton Bradley's Twister. Maybe someone remembered to bring a riding crop or something. Point being, barring a traumatic brain injury, my fantasies will hopefully never include shoulder pads and jock straps.
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Two of my coworkers play a little game which they call "The Morning After Jam Night". They find a Internet article with an interesting headline, and humorously speculate that the article reflects how the neighbors/police/media found me Tuesday or Saturday morning. Last week's front runner was pretty awesome.
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This is one reason (or two) I love living where I do .
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This is one reason I despise living where I do.
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I couldn't help but notice that some television network has reanimated the rotting corpse of the old mini-series "V". Even though my health insurance has diagnosed me with the awful precondition of enjoying a piece of good science fiction (an ailment scientists have classified as "geeky" or "loser-ish"), I am still apprehensive about this new version. I was pretty damn young when the original aired, but I remember enough to realize that it was mind-numbingly terrible.

Riding the tide of Star Wars popularity, the original series featured nefarious rodent-eating lizard biped-humanoids covered in faux human flesh. So, I guess you could say it was exactly like Desperate Housewives, except set in the 80s. [rimshot] Also, apparently this post-disco Flock Of Aliens got a discount on Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller' apparel and Blublocker© sunglasses. You know, because they wanted to fit in.

A timeless look.

I'm sure much like any other 80s fad, it seemed trendy at the time.

In the new-redeux of V, apparently the people in wardrobe took advantage of a fire-sale on the glut of unemployed-executive-banker clothes at the local consignment store.

A timeless look for the colorblind stockbroker.

I'm sure, not unlike its predecessor, this new show will hold up nicely in the ensuing decades, and if humans DO ever meet aliens, scholars will marvel at how on-the-mark the producers at ABC were with their depiction of an alien species. (cough)

Having not seen the new show (but still overly-willing to bad mouth it), I can't really say how it compares to the original: if it will examine society's xenophobia, lampoon 1930s/40s era facist Nazi Germany's government, or even if it will sate the ravenous appetite of the world's reptile fetishists. Right? Because everyone knows how unlivable, overbearing and dickish ~~Fedcral Reserve Employees~~ sauro-freaks can get when they can't get a little "green scale-tail". Wait, you DON'T know? Just me? Hmm. Moving on then...

The most important question this new mini series raises is a question that society has been asking itself for quite some time now: What the fuck happened to Marc Singer?

"Yeah, what the fuck happened to me?"

Dude was pretty much on top of the world in the early 80s. Prior to his role on the original V, he played The Beastmaster, a ~~streetwise pimp high on blow~~ mystical Fabio precursor that could communicate with an array of animals because it was the 80s and people would swallow any premise, no matter how ridiculous. Video and photo records from that time suggest he managed mind control over creatures through a mysterious combination of angry squinting and chest oil, and he also rolled through town in a bad-ass Cadillac. Admittedly, I might have watched The Mack right after Beastmaster and confused a few plot points.

Here's a little something for the ladies: (sadly, that 'little something' is Marc Singer)

"I swear to Buddha, if this bird shits on my hand one more time..."
[Angry squint!]

Not long after these early eighties 'successes', he disappeared. Maybe, in what scientists term 'The C. Thomas Howell Effect', the world just quit noticing Marc. Or perhaps it was just one of society's reflexive defense mechanisms; ignoring a rising-star/hack much like they would repress a horrible childhood trauma or step over a bum on the street. Ignore it, and it will go away*.

But he's gone now, and God and the Internet only know to where. The current career possibilities for Mr. Singer are only as narrow as your own imaginations: Porn star, truck driver, kosher hot-dog vendor, chainsaw repairman, soft-spoken priest turned vigilante, forklift operator at a dildo plant, underprivileged inner-city youth, prom queen in a small Iowa farm town, Ralph Macchio's only dependable roommate, or Secretary of the Interior.

I personally like to imagine he's some combination of all of those. Plus, it's easier to imagine a new life path for him than looking up what he actually now does for a living. Wait, it isn't? Score another point for technology.

*Note: The above idiom is NOT to be used in the treatment of herpes or syphilis.
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Seriously, a little something for the ladies. No refunds.
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SUBJECT: Blogger awards

Seems like I'm always seeing people giving (or nominating) blogs awards, regardless of any actual merit.

So, I've cooked up a few of my own. Feel free to award these new and totally awesome awards to yourselves and each other. You could tell your friends some lies such as "I nominated you for a prestigious Krëg Blog Award, but I'm not sure you'll win. Competition is stiff for a KBA." Then later you can tell them they won and just email them whatever JPEG you deem most tasteless.

What are your award choices? Well, I'm glad you asked, internal rhetorical questioning narrative plot-device voice! Just take a gander at THESE:

In retrospect, I probably should have included more baby photos in that one...

Much like a handjob, this last award was really just for me to give to myself.

So, what awards did I forget? What custom award would you like me to make for YOU?

Blogger Hates Me

2009-10-08T08:43:00.006-06:00

Blogger has tweaked something within the past few days, in what I am certain is an effort to piss me off.

I don't know what they have changed, but I find myself no longer able to leave comments on anyone's page. I would suspect this "no comments" development to be the result of court-ordered sanctions against me for repeated online lewdness, except my lawyer helped me dodge that bullet by successfully arguing that I am human in no demonstrable way, and therefore not subject to the laws of people. I used the same argument to refuse his legal fees.

But seriously, Blogger has shit the bed on me, perhaps for the last time. Every few years, I get bored with a particular blog site, and move on to a new one (my ex-blog sites include MySpace and Xanga). I just get bored and need a change, so I move on and set up shop somewhere else. I have been about ready to ankle this Google-owned interface for over two months now, and the ONLY thing that's been keeping me coming back is the enjoyment of commenting on the posts of other bloggers. Such as you, dear reader.

Now I can't even do that. I don't know what is preventing my always witty (read: shitty) remarks from reaching your comments sections. Perhaps it is the crazy amount of restrictions I impose on the Internet using many Firefox add-ons (script-blockers, ad-blockers, cookie-killers, etc.). The problem might fade if I used Internet Explorer as my browser, but I'll eat a handful of soggy cocks before I use ANY version of IE.

Further, without being able to comment on other people's pages, there is little chance of increasing my readership. Not that I care about such things. But still, pretty much an impossibility.

So, until I either solve this problem, cancel my Blogger account, or put a bullet through my motherboard in frustration, please know that I really WANT to leave you some comments. But I can't.

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Meantime, here's a couple of images to reflect upon.

Mmmmmm. Baconhenge.

Peace out, yo.

Krëg

I Hope That If I Found The Strength To Walk Out

2009-10-06T09:22:00.005-06:00

You'd stay the hell outta my way.

This clip was sans our banjo player, acoustic guitar player, clarinet player, and violin player. So basically that's only half the band.

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It is apparently time for my annual PPP (Phall Phlegm Phest).

Allergies > Sinus infections > Excessive phlegm production > Chest congestion & sore throat > Me being sick as hell (physically sick ... My psychological illness is pretty much year-round)

I think I coughed up about a half pint of "fluids" Saturday alone.

On the upshot, my doc says I don't have swine flu. Yet.

Horrid Joke

2009-09-30T15:11:00.004-06:00

Horrid jokes are the ONLY kind of jokes I enjoy. The sicker the better. Therefore, I was incredibly pleased when a band mate supplied an excellent specimen last Friday.

This isn't the joke, but it damn sure has the makings of a good one...

Apparently, there is a site called sikipedia.com, which is a rich depository of awful jokes, and Jeff couldn't wait to unleash the fury.

Neither can I, so without further ado.......

Q: What does spinich have in common with anal sex?

A: Chances are, if you had it forced upon you as a child, you won't like it as an adult.

Yeah, and that is STILL not the worst joke I've ever heard.

What's the worst one you've ever heard?

Droogie Don't Crash Here

2009-09-05T01:57:00.002-06:00

Here's a thing that happens on Mondays and Fridays.

It's outta sight.

Word Week Concluded

2009-08-21T12:06:00.007-06:00

...Because 'round here, a week has ten or eleven days in it.

Today, I'd like to talk about spelling.

No, I mean the spelling that DOESN'T involve a transgendered skank-mutant.

Some people are ardent supporters of correct spelling and grammar. They will go out of their (not there or they're) way to point out the spelling deficiencies of others, often in the most dickish ways possible. They seem to take pleasure in correcting even the slightest verbal misstep.

I am one of those assholes.

It's kinda hard to make me out in the background...

I came by my quirky (read: shitty) habit honestly. My mother was an English major in college (undergrad), and has a Master's in Journalism. I wasn't allowed many liberties with language growing up. Words like "ain't" and phrases like "all of a sudden" were verboten. I was always encouraged to find another word to use in place of profanity. And so I played by the rules.

Perhaps that's why later in life I've come to enjoy playing fast and loose with words.
"All of a sudden, rules ain't SHIT, mom."

"NO DANGLING PARTICIPLES!!"

No, my mother is a very sweet woman, and thanks to her tutelage when I was young, I today find myself able to talk to a wide variety of people from different backgrounds with ease. So it worked out pretty well.

But back to spelling, and the correctness of it, and how it is one of my obsession points. I know quite a few smart people, people who have mastered smart person subjects like physics and linear regressions and chemistry. Theez peepel cannt spel fur sh!t. And it isn't even as if people have a decent excuse for misspelling words these days. Almost every computer application known to man now has incorporated at least a rudimentary spell-checker to point out any suspected misspellings (usually in red).

Hell this entry alone has a few.

Apparently, there is NO chance I was trying to spell 'skunk'.

I think Swank Shank Stank Spank is now officially the name of my fledgling rock band. Or maybe it's a children's book than I'm going to write.

But before I set off to change the world of kid's literary fiction, I thought I'd point out a few words that have caused me some problems in the past. The first is the word 'ofter'. It is an actual word, although I had no idea of that the first time I typed it by accident (I can't remember if I was angling to type 'often' or 'after'), and as such, spell check didn't catch it. But my coworkers did, and they made me feel the sting of being a grammar and spelling prick in the past, and I suppose I had earned that.
...
Still, here's the "logic" that my mind refuses to track: Some programming egghead put a never-used twelfth-century word like 'ofter' into spell-checker's library, but neglected to include 'skank'.

The other work that repeatedly caused me problems was 'inconvenience'. Not because of some corny joke like "It's really inconvenient to spell inconvenience", but rather because of what happens when you spell that word as 'inconvienence'. Back in the early part of this decade, I had my work email set up to automatically check for and fix any spelling errors. The phrase "I apologize for any inconvienence this may have caused" is what I wrote. Once the spell-checker did its job, the phrase "I apologize for any incontinence this may have caused" is the sentiment I sent company-wide.

Not my finest moment.

As this photo (sent to me from my friend's wife) clearly illustrates, spelling is becoming less important in today's society. Even in the hallowed halls of education.

Shoe polish: one of the last holdouts for intergrated spell-check.

I blame texting/twittering for the dismal state of people's attention to spelling.
But then again, I blamed my last sinus infection on that too.
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I thought of two more words that sound dirty but aren't:
Succulent
Rectify

Oh, also
Tutelage
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Word Week Continued

2009-08-19T15:12:00.004-06:00

Thermal imaging of Uranus has revealed that it is surrounded by wrinkly, stinky, inflamed rings.

For the second part of Word Week, I'd like to know what words you think sound dirty, even though they clearly aren't.

Some of my MANY favorites include but aren't limited to:

congenital
crotchety
titillating
testy
prickly
cocky
masticate
probate
duty

Which ones did I leave off my list?

[edit] I forgot concocted.
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Also, I thought of another spoonerism, but this time it is someone's name:
Kurt Cobain

My Point Is...

2009-08-18T14:16:00.003-06:00

I was talking to a friend last night, and began a sentence thusly: "I was reading something recently... No wait... Maybe I saw it in a Burger King commercial. It doesn't matter. My point is..."

My friend wisely cut me off at this point, and suggested that perhaps it DID matter where I learned whatever dubious facts I was preparing to unleash, especially if I was going to use them to illustrate a point.

I countered by pointing out that whether I gained "knowledge" from a textbook or from the ghoulish plastic grin of the BK King, if I never ran the core idea all the way back to its headwaters to check for validity, I was just taking someone else's word for it anyway.

"But Burger King always has an agenda when they 'teach you facts.' They want to sell you burgers, and are motivated by profit. Science is only motivated by more science."

"Tell that to the scientists who shouted down Wegener. At least Burger King's motives are out in the open. But my point is... Dammit, I forgot. Now all I can think of is how much I want a cheeseburger."
_____________________________________________

I sometime find it hard to put myself in another's shoes. Still, I'm fairly certain that if I was behind the wheel of that car pictured below, I'd be doing donuts on bloody monkey pelts.

Earth's two most wretched mammals interact.

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Rolling Stones - Loving Cup
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"Krëg, you're such a negative person." (said pot)
"I am NOT!" (said kettle)

Word Week

2009-08-17T15:54:00.003-06:00

This week I'm going to try and throw out a few posts centered around the theme of wordplay.

Today's topic will be spoonerisms. What's a spoonerism? Well according to the highly reliable Wiki entry, it's when you flip some sounds between two words. Some times it is inadvertent display of drunken idiocy, like when my banjo player used the expression dougle nebative. Some times it is a deliberate verbal twisting employed for humorous purposes, like when someone says 'bass ackwards'.

Every so often, a spoonerism will still be a real word once (or before) it is flipped, and I find these manifestations particularly delicious.

Three of my favorites of this last type:
sick duck
pop corn
bunt cake

How about you? Got a favorite?

Friday Photos

2009-08-14T10:30:00.009-06:00

I think Blogger has been treating me worse than the asthmatic kid in gym class lately. I have a sneaking suspicion that it hasn't been reflecting my past few updates. Even the asthmatic kid eventually gets picked for kickball. But whatever.

I was cleaning off my camera, and found a few images I'd taken with the express purpose of sharing them here.

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My dogs prepared a surprise for me Monday while I was at work. I was not as enthusiastic about the end result as they were.
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The phrase "Hey, let's go back to my place and jam for a while! We'll get some beer on the way!" sounds like a good idea when the bartender announces last call. It seems decidedly less so in the harsh light of Sunday morning.
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If you're going to be in the bathroom messing with something for a half-hour, it might as well be your heavy brass ballcock.
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After hooking up your waterline to your new refrigerator, it's probably wise to examine the first few cycles from the ice maker instead of just blindly dropping them into your drink.
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When describing your excitement over a newly acquired twenty-four channel mixer, it is not considered socially acceptable to utter the phrase "If that thing had a vagina, I'd be fucking it RIGHT NOW!" People tend to look at you funny when you say things like that. But it is 277 knobs of raw sexy.
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Have a good weekend

Weak End To The Weekend Left Me Weakened

2009-08-12T18:00:00.003-06:00

Here at this travesty of a blog, I like to stay on top of things. That's why you'll get an update about my previous weekend by mid-week if you're lucky. I'm on the stick like that.

As my weekend was long, and filled with more alcohol than I'm accustomed to drinking, I figured I'd just hit the high points.

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Friday's favorite quote:
"Nice suit." - me to the guy who wore a ribbed douche-shirt instead of a suit (or even a collared shirt and tie) to a FUNERAL. His wife looked pretty pissed at my remark, but he didn't seem to care.

Like this, except two sizes too small, so it looked like he stole it from an eight-year-old's closet.

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Saturday's favorite quote:
"My cesarean scar makes my torso look like The Joker." - a very nice girl I was talking to in a bar Saturday night. I assumed she wasn't talking about the Steve Miller Band song, but after the remark, I didn't offer to confirm that suspicion.

♫ Some call me the skanskster of love... ♪

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Sunday's favorite quote:
"We have Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, and Sierra Mist." - my waitress at the restaurante autentico after I asked her for a Coke. This would not have seemed strange if my friend had not JUST ordered a Coca Cola from her three seconds prior without incident. After my friend and I exchanged puzzled looks, I ordered an iced tea. We weren't there for the Mexican Coca-Cola anyway (made with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup), but instead came in trying to cure our hangovers with menudo.

Not this menudo, the one made from beef stomach instead of sweaty mullets.

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Other weekend highlights include:

*A trip to the local Asian market, where I discovered I could finally purchase ingredients that had eluded me at other stores. Including but not limited to: duck heads, beef spleens, and hog uteri. You read that correctly. Uteri. Asian people eat some nasty things ... said the man who ate menudo for Sunday brunch.

*The National Rifle Association called to solicit funds, and backed their pleas with TOTAL LIES. I know this because I was sitting in front of my computer when they called, and I know how to use Google. When I asked Shawn why he called me just to lie, all he could do was stammer and ask for more money.

*I fixed a Hammond 103 that one of my bandmates scored for free (because it didn't work). Twenty minutes of tinkering under the hood, cleaning old vacuum tubes, and hand-massaging the tonewheel back to life, and he had the most rockin garage on the block.

*I became debilitatingly ill Sunday evening...the one night I didn't drink my ass off.

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Here's some tracks:

John Lee Hooker - One Bourbon, One Scotch, One beer.

Todd Snider - Talking Seattle Grunge Rock Blues.

James Blunt - Fall At Your Feet (Crowded House cover).

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And here's me in PROPPER funeral attire...

What's the bare minimum you'd wear to a funeral?

Words Are Overrated

2009-08-07T15:52:00.004-06:00

Make your own warning sign HERE.

No Stone Unturned...

2009-08-06T18:00:00.001-06:00

And no turn unstoned.

I like to tell myself that I'd be willing to try anything at least once. Hang gliding, surfing, donating to charity, skydiving, voting Green Party, typing with my nose, oor unmjprotwecvtedf bjvusttrsetx wuithj strr4ipp4ers; I'll give it a shot at least once. "I'll seek adventure in ANY corner," I cheerfully tell myself, often while enthusiastically seated on the couch in my underwear.

Even still, every so often I find something like Twitter or haggis that instantly repulses me, something I can honestly say I have no desire to try even once. I generally find myself shocked that someone else not only wanted to try it, but often would do it repeatedly. To boot, these people are doing it without being threatened or compensated. My feeble mind boggles.

Such is the case with people who put massive amounts of bees on their bare flesh.

Be it camping, picnicking, fishing, or flipping on my kitchen light after three in the morning, I've been around many bugs before in many various settings. I can't say that I remember bugs contributing anything positive to any of those moments, although admittedly I get pretty drunk every time I go fishing, and I often black out for a while. I suppose bugs could do something awesome while I am passed out and silently crapping my pants.

I will grant that honey is a pretty cool by-product of bee colonies. Apparently due to bacteria's inability to grow inside of it, some honey has a shelf life of a few thousand years. Furthering honey's coolness, ancient Egyptians applied it to open wounds as an amazingly effective antibiotic ointment. Also, with the right mixture of honey, water, and brewer's yeast, you can make a mead with an alcohol content higher than Nick Nolte. Finally, it is a great way to spice up the bedroom, if you catch my meaning. So honey is pretty awesome.

But bees are not. Bees are crawly, stingy, fly-y insects. Plus, some breeds enjoy randomly killing anything that crosses their path. They're kind of dicks that way.

I understand that some bees (including the honeybee) are important to plant pollination. They fill a niche in the ecosystem that can't be synthesized. So without specifically admitting that bees are cool, I can admit that they are necessary, and see why scientists were concerned when large bee populations unexpectedly died or vanished over the past few years.

Still, I've been trying to comprehend the compulsion to cover oneself with them. I've had a June bug or two land on me in my lifetime, and I can't say that the sensation of their creepy legs gripping at my skin was anything remotely pleasant, much less enjoyable. I can't image wanting to magnify that sensation by a few thousand.

But some people do. Probably because they are clinically insane.

Speaking of clinically insane, now I'd like to take a few minutes and caption pictures of people covered in bees:

"I was going to wear a helmet, but I figured if I fell over I was a dead man anyway..."

Dave was only two swallows into his drink when he began to suspect someone had switched his Newcastle for raw nectar.

"No operator, its still there. It's more like a low-pitched buzzing noise. Are technicians working on the lines?"

At hookups.com your first five matches are free. Even so, they'll all be horrible disappointments.

Head & Shoulders new Spring Pollen scented shampoo is a bit TOO effective.

Dear Mom and Dad: Lake Chapananus Summer Camp sucks rodent dongs. Next year I'd rather stay home and take stupid violin lessons.

Look dear, all I'm saying is that maybe you should get out of the house more. You know, try to be more active. Go for a walk or hang out with your friends.

"And then I said, 'Five Dollars for nose plugs?!? What, do I look like a total pussy? Kiss my ass!' Then the guy behind the counter gave me the finger."

After seeing the photos, the judge wasted no time granting Ichiko an annulment.

Karl learns the hard way why you should never play the note Bbmin diminished when outdoors.

And why only bees? Is it because they are the only insect humans deliberately cultivate? Why don't I ever see some guy with a beard of cockroaches, or some chick covered in a seething mass of fleas (who isn't a self-proclaimed "free-spirited hippie from Oregon")?

Patience, ladybugs... Your day will come.

In conclusion:

1) Bees are not to be worn in place of or in addition to clothing.

2) I'm proud of myself for not using a SINGLE bee pun in this entire post.

3) Typing with my nose was more difficult and painful than I suspected.

No Results Found

2009-08-05T12:00:00.001-06:00

Per Google:

No results found for "mayonnaise slingshot".

Apparently, I'm the only person in the world who thinks it would awesome to pelt someone from afar with whipped sandwich spread. Or at least, I'm the only one who both thinks it would be awesome and ALSO hasn't had their access to a computer restricted by the court system.

And I have to ask myself, 'Is a slingshot the correct ballistic delivery system for weaponized mayonnaise? Would a catapult work better?'

Thank God I'm not the only crazy person on the interwebs, and most of the other crazies make me look stable and grounded.

I wish I could tell you where this came from and why, but I'm only a Level 3 Crazy, and that is more like a Level 12.

"You Shouldn't Be Allowed To Have Kids..."

2009-08-05T10:00:00.001-06:00

I was recently told that I shouldn't be allowed to have kids. Or maybe it was that I shouldn't be allowed around children. Or maybe it was both. Further, in what seems to be a common occurrence, it wasn't any physical action that precipitated the "No kids for Krëg!" sentiment, but rather the colorful selection of my few contributions to the conversation.

I was a mostly silent part of a three party conversation about someone's forthcoming planned family vacation to Branson, MO. I was mostly silent because I mostly can't stand Branson.

As a brief aside, perhaps I should throw a little candlelight into the dark corner of my mind where my feelings about Branson live. Due to cost, location, and family-themed entertainment, it is a popular destination (in these parts) for many families. The town fills a need of the people, namely that of cheap entertainment utterly devoid of anything controversial.

Branson is what happens when you take a fun, exciting "destination" town like New Orleans or Bangkok and then bleach away everything that was considered unwholesome by 1953 standards (yes, even the tranny strippers). Their nuclear age mindset is so out of step with regular society, I think they still disparagingly use the word "Negro" in some areas. However, that suspicion is difficult to gauge, as most citizens will never have reason to use that word. It isn't that minorities are not allowed anywhere inside certain sections of the county, but rather that most minorities have the good sense to avoid Branson in the first place, and instead go someplace fun.

While racial discrimination is terrible, it isn't what makes me scream internally when I think of Branson. That honor goes to the overwhelming lameness of the whole area, a lameness which for most folks is Branson's biggest selling point. Need a place to take your family that is devoid of any possible unsavory influences? Branson is the place. Looking for a vacation location with no homelessness or crime, saving you from the uncomfortable task of explaining to your children "why that man looks so dirty" or "why you locked the car doors"? Branson. Don't want to have your conservative assumptions challenged in ANY way? Branson. Think life should mirror a Norman Rockwell painting? Branson. Think your genitals are ONLY for conceiving children? Branson. Don't want to think too hard about anything you see or hear? Branson.

Quiz time!
Which of these two photos do you think was taken in Branson?

More teeth = more value. And that show is the toothiest.

Point of fact, I have no idea where either of these two pictures were actually taken, but I can say with extreme confidence that you'll find only one of these bands performing in Branson, and it won't be the Sex Pistols. In fact, I'm pretty sure Sid Vicious's death from overdose was just a clever plan to get out of having to play there. Smart move on his part.

Horrible L7 acts just litter the town. Take a look for yourself. Pretty damn terrible lineup for anyone with even a sliver of a soul. In past years, similar square talent has included Yakov Smirnoff (no relation to the equally sucky vodka), Andy Williams, ...

...and John "Mutherfuckin" Davidson.

When I think of the living embodiment of the expression "off the hook," only one face comes to mind...

"John? Yeah, we're getting some complaints about you holding a black phallus up to your face. No, no. WE don't have a problem with it, but some little old ladies are complaining. I know, I know, I thought your old-lady-hairstyle would mollify them too, but no dice. Apparently, holding a phallus that close to your lips keeps dragging up thoughts of the 'sins' of their youth, and not just because it's black. CAN SOMEONE GET MR. DAVIDSON A BOTTLED WATER WHILE I GO FIRE SOMEONE IN WARDROBE?"

"Hey! That's better! A nice, non-threatening guita... wait, why is it covered in girlish flowers? And did you put on LIP GLOSS?!? What the HELL, John! ALL RIGHT PEOPLE LET'S BREAK FOR LUNCH WHILE I HAVE A LITTLE TALK WITH OUR 'TALENT'."

Yeah, panties all over the stage. Septuagenarians climbing on top of the PA speakers and jumping off. Walkers and hoverrounds in the mosh pit. Roadies and crew threatened with knitting needles. Just the most extreme concert experience ever.

At any rate, the lameness pretty much makes Branson a non-destination for me. At least until I reach a point in my life where I have a few kids and only a handful of cash to blow on a family vacation. I'm sure I'll be singing the praises of Branson then. Alleluia. Amen.

Oddly, the post header proclamation that I should not breed did not arise from my silent fulminations about Sucktown. All the Branson conversation did was cause me to wonder how many times bile could climb my gullet, be choked back down, and STILL be considered bile. Four? Seven?

Fortunately for me, the conversation soon turned to a more palatable subject: pornography. The coworker remarked that every time they cross the border into Missouri, there are a few last stop/first stop roadside porn shacks that her two boys always point out.

Yeah, that's when I started chiming in...

"You should totally stop there, just to mess with your kids," I advised. "Wait, how old are they?"

13 and 15.

"Oh yeah, they have senses of humor by now. You and your husband should pull up to the first skin shack you see. 'You kids wait in the car! Momma and Pa are gonna go fetch some sweaty movies!'."

Yeah, that'd be pretty crazy.

"You could go inside and only ask for the largest sack they have, then act like it is weighed down with purchases when you leave the store thirty seconds later. Drag it between your legs like it is too heavy to lift."

My husband and I could each grab a handle and act like we're struggling to move it!

"Yes! Your sons would admire both the speed at which you pornshop, and the way you buy in bulk! Hey, can't your oldest drive?"

Yes. A little bit.

"You should make him circle the block, like you actually have some shame or something. I mean, he'll eventually have to learn how to drive in circles around the porn block anyway. He may as well start polishing that skill set now. Plus, think of the awesome stories he'll be able to tell his friends and children in the coming years... 'Yeah, I got pulled over for underage driving when I was fifteen. Mom and dad were buying The Legend Of Assblaster while I was circling the block.'"

You shouldn't be allowed to have kids.

"I know."

Flaps

2009-07-31T10:41:00.004-06:00

One of the funnier stories I've heard in my life was told to me by a man in the early stages of Alzheimer's. It has been a number of years since "Flaps" told this story, and time has worn smooth some of the more precise edges, but I'll do my best to push this story across to y'all as well as it was told to me.

Foo Fighters - Learning To Fly

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During World War II, Flaps was training to be a fighter pilot. He had cleared every hurdle, and was scheduled to report for duty on the USS Wasp within a few weeks. They were still training in Rhode Island while they were preparing to ship out, and they ran drills almost daily. One fine morning, Flaps was taxiing down the runway when his plane did an abrupt face-plant. Undeterred, he ran back to their staging area to try and get in another plane and rejoin his flight group. He turned a bit too soon as he was pulling the Hellcat out the line, and managed to drag the back of his plane through the spinning prop of the plane next to him, ruining both aircraft.
Not one to crumble in the face of adversity, Flaps finally managed to get airborne in his third plane of the day. That plane promptly malfunctioned over the bay, and he had to put it into the drink.

After he was fished out of the bay, military protocol required him to report to the clinic and rest for a minimum of two hours. Two hours and five minutes after he reported to the clinic, he was standing in the office of his commanding officer, inquiring about his next mission.

Without glancing up from the papers at his desk, his CO barked the following:

"Churton (Flaps), I see you're scheduled to go up again at 4:30. I'd love to let you go up this afternoon, but according to this report, we are running low on planes."

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Maybe Flaps was just trying to get all of his bad luck out his system early. It must have worked, as Flaps went on to fly Hellcats off the Wasp in the Pacific theater, and his luck held out through that war and for a long string of years and decades to follow.

Paul "Flaps" Churton, my ex-wife's paternal grandfather, passed away this morning at the tender young age of 87. He was a magnificent man with a twinkle in his eye and a warm laugh, and he will be deeply missed.

They don't make them like that anymore.
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I have this mental "trick" that I break out when I lose someone I care about. I image that person forever engaged in an activity that made them happy. Each scenario for each lost loved one is as different as the individual, and sadly my list is longer than I'd like, and will never get shorter.

So today I've been picturing Flaps, aviator's helmet pulled down over his massive namesake ears, grin on his face, and twinkle in his eye. And he's just blasting through the gap in the two blues: the sky above and the Pacific below. Sunlight glinting off the fuselage, and his Hellcat's engine a mere extension of his own ambitions. Throttle wide open, mind calm, soul at peace, and eyes on the horizon.

And for me, that's where he lives now.

Fly away home Paul.

My peoples are you wit me? Where you at?

2009-07-27T10:46:00.002-06:00

What type of fervent geek+thug combination was required to create this?

Wu-Tang Lego: Da Mystery of Chessboxin

I don't think I'd step to any fool hard enough to make that.

Holy Crap...

2009-07-21T16:05:00.000-06:00

Coolest quote I've read all day:

"We completely understand the public’s concern about futuristic robots feeding on the human population..."

Seriously.

Missionary Man

2009-07-20T17:21:00.002-06:00

Note: photo and post are unrelated, aside from the "missionary" part.

I have a friend that I've known over thirty years. Growing up, he was the voice of caution, and a model of patience: the perfect counterbalance to my half-crazed youthful exuberance. I am sure that about 90% of the trouble he was called to account for as a child was a direct result of my involvement. Even to this day, I believe his parents must think of me with some trepidation. The two times I've seen them in the past five years, they still seem a bit leery of me; as if at any moment I might start shouting profanities while flinging feces and starting fires.

But they came by their apprehensions honestly. I was (for lack of a better phrase) a total shit when I was younger: headstrong, impulsive, naïve, and shameless. I literally have the scars to prove it. I often did brainless things like removing the rubber suction cups from the end of darts and (with the help of tape and glue) replacing them with hat pins.

Like this, only extremely pointy and dangerous.

And once I learned that blow-molded plastic could be easily altered with the judicious application of heat, I set about negating the earnest safety efforts of manufacturers and parental watchdog groups while simultaneously equipping my neighborhood friends with the finest eye-removing toys I could create.

It's a miracle no one was seriously hurt.

But perhaps the greater miracle is that I was never banned from seeing any of my childhood and neighborhood friends, and to this day remain on good terms with many of them. The aforementioned friend is no exception. In the thirty years since we first met, my friend has managed to become a minister/pastor/reverend of a popular denomination, and I've managed not to shoot out one or both of my eyes. So things have worked out well for both of us.

Three or four times a year we get together and do lunch, and our conversations are always fun, even if our interests and lifestyles aren't quite in synchronization.

Typical conversation:

Rev. Friend: We're expanding the church and adding a "cry room" to the sanctuary.

Me: Hmm. Cool. I ate bacon off my counter that had been sitting out for two days.

Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. They're bringing in another pastor to help with the visitation of the hospitalized and the shut ins.

Me: Hmm. Cool. I keep noticing weird bones amongst the piles of dogshit in my backyard.

Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Blah blah blah.

Me: Hmm Cool. Blah blah blah.

And so things have gone for the past five years since he's been back in town. It's not awkward or uncomfortable; we know each other well enough by now that we aren't unsettled by each other. Plus we're both over thirty, and therefore as about as exciting as the Helen Keller Simulator. Our lives have become models of predictable banality and routine, and I think we are both thankful for the stability.

But throughout our conversations that are carried out through a series of disinterested grunts, he keeps mentioning his (and his church's) in-town missionary work. Every time he brings it up, he sees my eyes light up, and finds me listening with rapt attention (a opposed to "rapped attention," which is just Chuck D repeating the word 'attention' to a cheesy backbeat). Also, every time he brings it up, I offer to go with and help out the next time the spirit moves them to help others.

A few Wednesdays gone, he finally took me up on my offer, and I found myself leaving work a bit early, so that I might tend to my dogs before racing across town to the local John 3:16 Mission. I arrived with time to spare; time that I subsequently wasted trying to get my car alarm to engage. Up to that very moment, my car alarm had never given me a moments trouble, and it had apparently decided to wait until it was parked in the roughest area it had ever seen to leave itself vulnerable. Fine. Whatever. Now I'm late. I hurried off to find my friend.

Turns out he had been watching me from across the street, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing, what with my opening and closing my car doors multiple times. After a brief explanation, he introduced me to one of his parishioners we headed off down the block towards the Mission.

Me: Hmm. Cool. Anybody else gonna show? Or is it just the three of us?

Rev. Friend: Hmm. Cool. Well, it's summer, so most people are away on break. But we should be able to keep up with just the three of us.

Me: Hmm. Cool. What will they have us doing?

He explained that we'd be helping serve dinner to everyone, or anything else they needed. And then he clarified: The church member and I would be serving dinner - my friend would be taking prayer requests and praying with the people gathered there. I quickly realized that he had the harder of the two jobs, as I was in NO way prepared to hear about the hardships of those gathered there. Serving food should be a snap compared to that. I'd be able to keep smiling the entire time if I wanted to.

We walked in the front door and I was struck by the diversity of the people at this shelter. Racially, the shelter's occupants were more varied than this Dove ad, although not quite as female or unclothed. And even though I suspected they likely weren't, they appeared economically striated as well: some looked like they had walked straight out of a Bumfights clip, while others looked like they just finished off the back nine. All types and kinds. Even a few families.

We made our way to the back of the building, washed up, and started preparing everything for the evening meal. Apparently, we had pulled a "lucky" meal for our shift: pizza. Not much to do in the way of preparation. Load 96 trays with pizza, mixed veggies, and peaches. Place them at one of many tables, along with tea, napkins, and utensils. Pretty easy, and made even easier by the help of the mission's "students"; at-risk youth that John 3:16 was mentoring. One of the students started singing "Basketball" by Kurtis Blow, and it was all of ten seconds before I was singing harmony on the chorus (the only part I could remember). The prep and distribution flew by.

Then, as people were filing into the dining room, I was asked to serve seconds to anyone that wanted them. As it turned out, almost everyone wanted seconds. It also turned out that I had exactly 5.2 boxes of medium pizza left. Now, I've never been a crackerjack at math, but I could tell pretty fast that fifty slices of pizza wouldn't split well between 96 people, especially when the first ten or so people through the line specifically requested more than one slice. Being new to the whole "hand out second helpings at the shelter" routine and having no staff member nearby for guidance, I obliged every individual in line as best I could as I got closer and closer to the last box of slices. When I hit that last box, I just started giving out one slice at a time.

Shit, I'm going to run out and there will be an irate mob accusing me of giving out too many slices to the first people... I set my jaw and handed out the last of the pizza. Then I turned and addressed the rest of the line.

"Sorry, we're out of pizza. We still have some mixed vegetables and peaches left," I said while mentally bracing myself for a chorus of angry shouts.

They peppered me with furious shouts of "Ok, sir," or "That's all right," or "I'd love some more peaches," or "God bless you anyway."

"Uh....Sorry again," I stammered when I realized they were in NO ways angry or upset. And then I proceeded to feel like a total dick for even imagining that they would be.

.....

Later, as I was mopping the floor, my pastor friend caught up to me. He'd been busy too, seeing that anyone with a prayer request was heard. His list wasn't 96 names long, but the names and prayers on the list once again drove home how well I have things, and how I need to get up off my dead ass more often and give something back, even if it is something as simple as volunteering.

Byron – for his family in New Orleans

Derek – for his family (keep them healthy)

Bobby – for his brother, Tim, to get out of prison, and that he himself would get an apartment

Joseh – that he would find a job with work for him 5 days a week, not just 1 or 2 days at a time

Gary – lung infection

Robert – offers a prayer of thanks to God for sending His Son Jesus for our salvation

Filip – he asks for financial security, and that he would be closer to God

Larry – for his daughters (unsettled marriages), and for his son who is living with a woman though not married (that he would realize this isn’t right in God’s eyes)

Elmer – that he would find work, and that God would protect his home and family

Eric – that he would find work

Tiffany – that God would help in her relationship with her boyfriend, that He would be with her family, and that she would find a job

Brian – that he would find a job, and that he would have good health

Justin – that his doctor appointment on July 29th would go well so that he is able to get into his apartment on August 1st (the doctor visit is required for the type of housing he is trying to get)

My "unprotected" car was completely unharmed, and my alarm has worked perfectly ever since. Maybe my car was trying to set an example. You know, letting down its guard.

__________________________________

Annie Lennox - Missionary Man
Missionary Man on YouTube
I'm pretty sure her outfit in that video is the reason Annie Lennox was featured in most of my adolescent bondage fantasies. That and her riding crop from Sweet Dreams.

Here's a far less sexy video included in the "Mission" theme:

All The Pros Use It

2009-07-16T15:04:00.003-06:00

Lots of people will tell you that to properly hydrate yourself during a workout, you should drink plenty of water, or even something full of electrolytes. Those people are idiots. Only the truly professional athletes can let you in on a trade secret: Pound the Pabst. Before, during, and after the workout. Not only does the alcohol keep you loose, but fighting the urge to vomit up beer foam can be a welcome distraction from the grueling tedium of your routine. Your workout will just FLY by! And eventually so will your liver functionality.

The Eye Of The Tiger!

Seriously, don't drink while you workout. It's really difficult. And possibly counterproductive.
Big ups to Brent for capturing this hilarious photo.
_________________________________________

After chatting with my brother today, I discovered yet ANOTHER track I'd deleted back in Maypril (a new month I just invented to cover my uncertainty): Ray LaMontagne - Jolene off his album Trouble

Randomized For Your Protection

2009-07-14T12:30:00.000-06:00

Various Images, some mine, some not.

Regarding this last image: I'm inclined to crazy-glue a spread-legged Barbie to the knees of Apollo Creed, facing the character. That way every time you access data, Carl Weathers goes down for a light snack. He's the only one who would look like he was enjoying himself, and honestly Barbie deserves a man who is into it.

Mulligan

2009-07-07T15:20:00.002-06:00

WARNING: This post is NOT rated PG

The names have been left out to protect the guilty. Also, most of the people mentioned herein are now lawyers, and I know better than to go poking a bear.

Back in my college days, I had this friend. He was an alright guy, and like most of my other college friends, he was able to consume massive amounts of alcohol rapidly with almost no discernible effects. Having never been so "lucky" in that regard, I usually wound up passed out on the floor after six or seven beers (these days it only takes four).

One evening, I was well over my limit while partying with this particular friend. And his roommate. And about four other friends. And a dog. Anyhow, we all had a wild night (except the dog) that included the strip bar followed by some mild gutter-barfing. Truly, you would have been hard pressed to find a classier bunch of people wandering the streets at half past midnight. We finally arrived back at his apartment, and after belching up beer foam for about forty-five minutes, I managed to pass out cold on their couch.

Miraculously, my friends somehow resisted the urge to draw two dicks and a chinstrap on my face while I slept, but possibly only because of their own alcohol-induced blackouts.

OK, now you're ready to meet the governor!

But in retrospect, I think I would have preferred a Sharpie-cock to what actually happened. You see, even the most permanent of markers will wash off in a few days, but nightmarish memories are immune to water and soap. Even that pumice-filled Lava soap won't make a dent in those occasional life events that stain your very soul. So filthy...I'll never feel clean again.

The above expression about "alcohol-induced blackouts" was not 100% accurate. Or perhaps the blackouts were just short lived. Whatever the case, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I awoke because my organs had completely processed all of my beer and needed to give it back to nature. I didn't open my eyes or sit up, I was just awake and lying still on the couch, needing to take a wicked piss. But I couldn't move, because something was WRONG.

As an aside, I'd like to point out that it's a shame that humans haven't developed earlids. Want to stop looking at something? Close your eyelids, or just look in another direction. Want to stop hearing something? Tough shit. Short of sticking your fingers in your ears, there's not much you can do beyond humming a happy song in your head while praying for an end to the offending cacophony.

The first noise I noticed was the obvious sound of two people fucking. Assuming you're not high on glue, there's no mistaking that noise for anything else. As I had been roommates with both of the current occupants of this apartment, I had (sadly) become familiar with their wails and shouts and grunts, as well as those of their respective girlfriends. Only this didn't sound like either of them. In fact as I listened further, I realized that these sounds weren't muffled by walls and doors... Oh, goddammit! That's coming from in THIS room. A few more seconds passed before I pegged the noise: audio from a porn flick. Shit. I listened for a few more seconds, trying to pick out a noise I didn't want to hear. Fuck. There it is. You filthy bastard. During a lull in the porno's "dialogue" was the unique sound, like the flat side of a spatula repeatedly and rhythmically slapping a glazed ham.

Muthafucka!

Don't ask what's in the glaze. Just don't.

My friend thought I was passed out, so he took advantage of the opportunity to pop in a porno, pull a kitchen chair in front of the TV, and grease the weasel. I guess I should be thankful he didn't just sit down on the edge of the couch upon which I "slept".

Stroke it, baby.

Divinyls - I Touch Myself

So, there I am locked in the horns of a dilemma. Do I lie there, feigning sleep while he finishes hosting his own one-man crotch party? Or do I sit up and start asking questions I don't really want answered? Couldn't you do that in any other room? Or maybe just wait until after I stumble home in the morning? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK are you thinking? As unappealing as the second option seemed, the first scenario was even worse. I couldn't just lie there. I just couldn't. No way. Too fucking weird. And I REALLY had to pee.

I quite suddenly realized the solution to the problem. Taking care to keep my eyes as closed as possible, I stood up and staggered off into the bathroom, acting like nothing out of the ordinary was going on. After I took care of my most pressing concern in the bathroom, I loitered for a few extra minutes, making fake fart noises and throwing in a few extra flushes to try and really sell it. Three or four minutes later I walked out of the bathroom and into a living room that was now empty, silent, and dark. Not wanting to endure a reprise the next time I awoke, I decided to play it safe and I trekked home.

The next day, as we all gathered to continue our wild adventures of young ignorance, I had to confront my friend, especially since there were others present to join in the ridicule. And there was much mockery and laughing and shame. Well, maybe not shame. But as soon as our throats became raw from all the taunting, one of my other friends shared another story. Apparently, this wasn't the first time my friend's chronic masturbatorial habits infringed upon the comfort of others.

About two months prior, his roommate and another friend had returned home with a few "dancers" from the skin bar. As the roommate unlocked and opened the front door, there sat my friend, passed out in a chair with his pants around his ankles in front of a TV that was blasting out Dirty Doctors Volume Four. The "ladies" had to wait on the stoop for three or four minutes while my friend was helped to his room by the shouts and sharp kicks of his roommate.

But even that tale isn't the crown jewel of his escapades. The best story came from my friend himself. To this day, WHY he chose to tell us this story remains a complete mystery. Perhaps he was able to step outside his body, and see that the story was so fantastic that it couldn't be contained. Or perhaps he was born without a sense of shame or dignity. He did become a lawyer, after all.

...

My friend was (and still is) an avid golfer, and was constantly striving to improve his game. Hours at the driving range, some coaching from a golf pro, gimmicky products...my friend tried all kinds of ways. He even went so far as to video tape himself both putting and swinging, in an effort to see where he needed to make improvements.

So, the Thanksgiving before he headed off to college, all of his extended family was at his parents house, and he and his uncle began discussing golf. My friend mentioned that he had taped his swing and his putting, and his uncle insisted that they watch the tape. Soon cousins and aunts and grandmothers were all gathered around the television in the living room, waiting to see the golf swing tape.

They all examined his golf swing, and his uncle quickly concluded that my friend was swaying his hips too much before he made contact with the ball. They (the entire family) sat and watched and waited for the swinging to give way to the putting footage.

They were then treated to a slight amount of static, followed by roughly three seconds of my friend vigorously fingering the perpetrator, followed by a bit more static, followed by putting footage.

According to my friend, nobody talked much after that. Not even during dinner. Except for his grandmother, who burst out laughing every time she looked at him.

...

When my friend finished telling his story, every question we threw at him started with the word "why". I never did get an answer to my favorite question: "Why the fuck would you film yourself rubbing one out?" I mean, if you want to know what you look like when you're milking your own udder, get a damn mirror. Or just look down for christ sake.

I can understand why some guys feel the need to film themselves having sex with women: because those guys are horrible shitbags void of character. But solo? Filming your self masturbating is just retarded.

Rejected titles for this post:
Ease Up On Your Backswing
Loosen Your Grip
Widen Your Stance

Freak to this kickin' Billy Squire/Lil Kim/Fiddy mashup - The Stroke/Magic Stick
__________________________________

Need a laugh? Click THIS LINK and scroll down to the part labeled Anomalous Anal Ghost Phenomena. I almost wish it was a joke. Almost. That's just about the best excuse I've EVER heard.

2009-07-02T17:27:00.000-06:00

I would have updated sooner, but I really didn't feel like it. Still don't, as a matter of fact. But I figure if I don't put something out here every so often, the few eyeballs I've managed to attract thus far will lose interest and go back to surfing for goat porn.

__________________________

Thanks to all for participating in the photo caption from a couple of weeks past.
Out of all the submissions, "BEER RUN" was my favorite.

Even still, I feel like I need to throw out a few of my own. So I will...

"Hey bro, why is your van leaking all that chunky oil onto my carpet?"
or
"No, goddammit! I said get dressed for an A-LIST party!"
or
"Jerry, I don't care if we ARE a 'Full-Serve' gas station! You can fire me if you want to, but I'm not pumping that guy's gas."
or
Dave finally found a way to stealthily masturbate in public.

__________________________

While I think ponchos have their place in this world (namely Clint Eastwood movies), I've never wanted to own one myself. Until I saw this ad, anyway. Now I'm not so sure.

Bitch aint even COLD.

__________________________

So, apparently if you're a celebrity needing to kick start your flagging career with low-cost PR, dying is one surefire method.

re: the 'Inside' section... Why can't it be both? Zombie Princess in Morocco! I smell a Mike Bay movie.

Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays, and MJ have all recently cashed in on the "free publicity" death train. A bunch of whore mongering, prima donna media sluts, if you ask me. Obviously their deaths are just transparent last ditch efforts to reignite guttering careers. And apparently, I'm not supposed to say anything unkind about ANY of these people now that they're gone. Not even the awesome food poisoning joke about trying to swallow an 8-year-old wiener. Somehow, their recent passing temporarily shields them from our scrutiny and mockery, as we try to remember the good things they brought to this world. Even that alleged child-rapist, Billy Mays. [\sarcasm]

Quite a few people have told me over the past week that they felt emotionally effected by the passing of Michael Jackson. I would wrinkle my nose and comment that I was more broken up over the passing of Ms. Fawcett, which would typically elicit confused looks from whomever I was talking with. But Michael Jackson was the KING of pop! or Thriller was the best selling album ever! or He was so dynamically talented! or some variant thereof is usually thrown back at me. And I'll grant that those things are true.

But here are the twin forks of my counter argument:
1) Farrah Fawcett never (allegedly) molested children.
2) I've never tossed off to a picture of MJ in a red bathing suit (also allegedly).

But now that MJ has passed, it occurs to me that I might actually be able to listen to his music without thinking about the horrors he inflicted on others (allegedly). Maybe.

MJ's Wanna Be Starting Something and a 1978 lo-fi demo of Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough.

__________________________

While recuperating from sinusitis/summer cold/H1N1 on the couch yesterday, I attempted to watch television between the hours of noon and four. After flipping between the talking heads on the various cable "news" channels (and an occasional stop on MTV to watch some show about women who are into douche-bag guys), I was about ready gouge out my own eyes. Then, I rediscovered CSPAN. No commercials, no scrolling distractions, no shouting matches, just experts dully covering facts about issues. I hadn't watched CSPAN in about ten years, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. And how easily it can lull me to sleep.

I think I'm in love with that channel. If I could find a way, I'd totally fuck CSPAN. And it would be hot, and sweaty, and droning and dull.

__________________________

Mark Mawson's photo study Aqueous is pretty cool.

__________________________

Try not to blow your thumbs off this weekend. Contrary to popular belief, they won't grow back for at least a couple hundred years.

From someecards. Just like it says. Duh.

And some old 90's vintage Grunge, themed for the holiday....

Caption This

2009-06-19T09:03:00.002-06:00

If you can...

Manly Grooming Tips

2009-06-17T14:31:00.001-06:00

Dear Krëg,

Being a man, I'm not sure how effeminate it is to show concern for grooming my nails. Can you advise me on the proper way to make sure my hands and feet always look their best?

Thanks,
Fic Tishuss

Dear Fic,

No. I honestly have no earthly idea what you're talking about. Like the ten-penny galvanized nails I keep in my toolbelt? They're galvanized, so they're permanently "groomed".

The best way to make sure your hands and feet look their best is to make sure you look as manly as possible by always holding one of the following in at least one of your hands: Beer, pistol, your own cock, cheeseburger, still-beating heart, Zeus's lightning, tit (or 'tits' if you have a huge hand ... or small tits), someone's fate, steak, circular saw, claw hammer, or guitar.

It occurred to me that you might be seeking grooming tips for fingernails or toenails. But that seemed like a sissified question, since the fickle public's fascination with the "metrosexual" fad has long ago evaporated from society's collective consciousness, like so much piss from the top of a hot desert rock. Real guys have reverted back to the time-honored tradition of not giving a shit about things like "products" and "grooming", if they ever pretended to care at all.

Even so Fic, here are a few quick manly grooming tips for your finger/toenails...

1) Bite your damn fingernails off and spit them out, like the rest of us men. Preferably spit them someplace awesome like a NASCAR track or your buddy's bowl of chili or some snooty prime minister's face. Or, if you're truly uninspired, just spit them onto the filthy floor of your poorly-lit dwelling like you always do.

2) Toenails do not need to be trimmed. At least not in the traditional sense. A really macho man will find the most studly way possible to control the length of his toenails. My personal preference is to use furniture to this end. See, first you put a piece of heavy furniture in an unexpected place. If you can't do it yourself, have one of your dogs do it when you aren't looking. Put their bed near said heavy home furnishing, and let them kick it around in their sleep. Then, early one morning, you can reduce your field of vision by carrying a basket of laundry back to your bedroom. This will help you to not notice your relocated furniture, so you won't alter your stride or direction in any way. Now deftly smash at least two of your toes into the leg of said furniture. If you get the angle just right, at least ONE of your toenails should shatter, greatly reducing its length while simultaneously exposing tender nail bed.

See? You don't need expensive pedicures or nail care equipment. Just a chair leg.

That image above is what flew off from the piggy that "stayed home" with just one simple treatment of blunt force chair leg trauma. Glorious. You really can't get results that close with traditional methods.

It takes a fair degree of mastery before you'll be getting the results you want, such as also knocking "roast beef" into "had none", and flaying "had none" with "roast beef's" disgustingly long nail.

Click that photo to remove the band aids and show the wounded toes covered in Neosporin, dog hair, and band aid goo. Mmm. Foot close-up!

But just stick with it, and you'll be proficient in no time flat. Soon, you'll be able to trim the nails off of all ten toes in a matter of minutes, using nothing more than ordinary household objects.

3) Men who are married, engaged, or have been "dating" the same woman for more than three months should disregard these instructions and instead refer to the handbook that their significant other gave them in trade for their own free will.

Good luck Fic!

Regards,
Krëg

Man Man - Top Drawer
Shivaree - Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough

Ice Station Zebra

2009-06-16T12:17:00.000-06:00

If at first you don't succeed, get drunk and blow it off for a day or two. Then sober up and try again.

My weekend company was incredibly forgiving about my inconsistent climate control. Friday evening saw eight or nine different people wandering through my house (not counting myself), and nary a complaint among them. At least, none that I could hear over the roar of my attic fan and ceiling fans. And guitar. And piano. And drums. And Hammond. And drinking. The roar of the drinking is always the loudest. It was almost pushing 80 degrees a few times.

Despite my late night liver abuse, I still managed to roll out of bed at a respectable 9 am on Saturday morning. After spending a half hour jawing with a neighbor I hadn't seen in three or four months, I set myself to the task of A/C repairman once again.

After brief breaks listen to my guest's piano playing and inhale some caffeine, we set off to get the CORRECT parts from the parts supplier. After a quick stop at the donut shop, my guest and I hit the parts store, and I asked the first person who offered to help me why they sold me the wrong motor earlier in the week. An employee took my old new motor away, and brought out the exact same model motor again.

"Um, I'm pretty sure I already tried this motor. It failed to hold up under even my most lackluster scrutiny."

"Sir, this is the replacement motor our computer recommends."

"This is a one-quarter horsepower motor."

"Yes sir."

"Just like the last one you sold me?"

"Yes sir."

"The one that failed."

"Uh huh."

"Even though my old General Electric motor was a one-fifth power motor?"

"Sir, that's what my computer tells me you need. Its actually a MORE powerful motor."

"Yes, I can 'do' math."

"Anything else I can help you with sir?"

"Hmm. Apparently not."

I didn't see the point of arguing that MORE power isn't necessarily always an improvement. The cooking directions call for 300° for sixty minutes. I'm going to try 3000° for six minutes. I'll bet my results will be just as good. Or even better, this Ferrari engine will make this go-kart haul some ass. But whatever. I'm no heat and air expert.

I went to another store to get a replacement capacitor, as my faith in the first place had spiralled out of existence. I asked what kind of replacement motor they recommended, and was shown the exact same overpowered motor I'd already seen twice. Fine. Maybe that is the replacement I need. Hmm. That meant the capacitor was probably bad, not the motor. Except I'm certain that the old motor was ruined. The bearings were shot. Which means that BOTH parts had failed originally, and I'd only changed out one. Which still meant that the motor I'd returned was probably fine. Which ultimately meant that I have no clue and therefore no business tinkering around inside my HVAC unit. Yay!

But now I had new replacements for both parts.

By one o'clock, I had replaced the fan and capacitor

By four that afternoon it was below 70 in my house.

By the following morning it was below 60.

My guest finally complained about the cold.
"Krëg, I'm afraid to stick my tongue to metal in your house!"
I just looked over and arched a brow.
"Well, now I'm even MORE afraid to stick my tongue to any metal in your house!"
"Why don't we go ahead and extend that fear to all of my property? Is there still some part of my house of which you remain unafraid to apply your tongue? I hope its not the bathroom or garage."
"I'm just saying its cold, man."
"Yeah, I sure did fix the ever-loving-fuck out of that air conditioner," I replied through chattering teeth.

Quoted cost of repairs = $400
Cost of parts = $115

Saving almost three hundred bucks made me feel even more manly. At least I think it did. Its difficult to tell through the hypothermia.

Do You Know What Time It Is?

2009-06-13T09:00:00.001-06:00

The same time it always is...

Man Up

2009-06-11T12:51:00.006-06:00

Before I dive in to the "story" part of this post, I had to share these two photos I found after using the search term "muy macho".

If you don't maximize this photo and read the text, you don't deserve eyeballs.

Muy macho, indeed!

And now that that's out of the way...

In order to simultaneously fulfill my monthly quota of manly actions and indulge my passion for thrift, Wednesday evening I attempted something I'd never done before...
"You thought about monster trucks while masturbating onto a pile of junk mail, for inexpensive, fuss-free cleanup?" asked my mocking mental peanut gallery.
"Shut up," I mentally replied. "You know I only do that on weekends."

No, instead I did some manly home repair.

My air conditioner is probably twenty five years old. I say 'probably' because there is no marking on the unit that would indicate an install date. I've tried estimating the age by cutting a cross-section and counting the rings, but it turns out that only works with trees and Liberace.

Whatever the case, Ronald Reagan was president when it was installed, and Bill Cosby was probably considered cool. People owned "disk" cameras. I may not have had pubes then. Breakdancing was still popular. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the guy or gal that installed the behemoth was breakdancing while they worked. Possibly in spandex, and with back-up dancers.

Hopefully, you've clued in to what I'm driving at. Namely, my air conditioner is old and the damn thing needs to be replaced. It has a slow freon leak that necessitates a service call every spring, and has chewed through capacitors/solenoids and other parts like a smoker hell bent on quitting goes through Juicy Fruit. But over the five or six years that I've had the "privilege" of owning it, I've learned a few things. One of the first lessons I learned is that my DOGS can (and do) turn off the gas to the furnace due to the terrible location of the unit (its a package unit, so furnace, blower, a-coil, fan, and radiator are all in ONE location). After watching a parade of repairmen tinker with the unit over the seasons, I've also figured out what I can repair myself, and what is best left to the experts. (Very little, and damn near everything else)

But I had three different people tell me that my fan motor was cooked, and one of the was an EXPERT. So in a pouring rainstorm, I went out and unhooked the old motor, took it to a parts store, bought a new one, made all the adjustments, and installed it myself. Again, this was all in the pouring rain.

Net savings = $300
Everything worked perfectly when I finished Wednesday evening, and I had cold air flowing like manna from heaven. I felt like the king stud of home repair.

Yesterday my new fan motor quit running.

It is hot, and I'm expecting company in about an hour. Company that plans to stay until Sunday.

I hope your weekend is better than this king stud.

I'm off to "sort through" the junk mail.

Congratulations

2009-06-09T14:27:00.003-06:00

My parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. My mother even wore her old wedding dress for the occasion. We did NOT serenade them with songs about that fateful summer.

May the next 40 be as good as the first 40.

All this talk of 40s is making me thirsty.

Friday Fun

2009-06-05T17:30:00.000-06:00

Here are a few things for your amusement:

First up, a classic video of boy meets girl, they both fall in love, and as their passion and feelings grow they grow to understand each other better. Enjoy.

___________________________________

Ever wonder why you are fat? Answers are HERE. The Clogger and Breakfast Sushi look pretty kick ass.
_______________________________

Sometimes mothers have to do some regrettable things to feed their cubs:

_______________________________

Finally, for your interactive portion of this post, please caption this photo:

The winner will receive an all-natural mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and carbon dioxide.

Have a great weekend.

Hooray! I'm Old!

2009-06-03T11:21:00.003-06:00

Dammit, I KNEW I should have asked for something other than socks and guitar strings.

Act Now!

2009-06-02T15:58:00.002-06:00

You have precious little time left to get me a kick-ass birthday present. Better move quickly. Things on my "desired but not acquired" list include: world peace, total enlightenment, end to world starvation, Liv Tyler, reduced pollution, and increased compassion for all the planet's creatures.

Big props to your fellow reader over at SHST. He sent me these über-cool origami dollars.

Pictured: Demonstrable skill

Pop that photo up to big size, and check out the TINY folds he made on some of the feet and noses/trunks. I don't think I could make folds that small without lathroscopic surgery gear.

Seriously, if y'all wanna do something cool in celebration of my birthday (and I know you do), find a local charity you believe in, and give them something nice. Or just give a small wad of cash to the nearest homeless person. They'll know what to do with it.

____________________

Tom Waits - Gun Street Girl

Roll Me Over In The Clover

2009-06-01T14:32:00.002-06:00

So, after reading the blog of one of your fellow readers, I was reminded of some "fun" I had last week.

Like many of you homeowners with lawns have discovered, lawns are ~~a total pain in the prolapsed sphincter~~ a wonderful blessing. Occasionally (or every other day, depending upon your springtime precipitation), lawns need to be mowed. Last Friday was one such event down at the Krëg Ranch.

As I was pulling the mower out of the shed, I noticed that my Saint Bernard had followed me out, and was sniffing around in the overgrown clover nearby. After about three seconds of nose-investigation, he then flopped over onto his side and began rubbing his body into the clover. He continued, rolling over onto his back, with all four legs in the air, but still grinding his body into the clover. He concluded the puppy-like display of happiness by flipping to his other side and wriggling around some more.

That's cute, I thought, he still has a puppy's heart and despite his old age, he really just want's to frolic in the clover until h ... wait. What's going on?

He had completed his little happy "dance" and was now standing up and sniffing the ground again. In the EXACT same spot as before. Odd. My subconcious floated the theory that perhaps there was something on the ground there.

Oh, you little son of a ... If you're rolling around in your own fecal matter I'm going to g...

My thoughts evaporated as I shooed the dog away and began looking for the offending turd that he had been trying to body-slam.

Oh THERE it is ... No, wait. That's not dog poo. What the fu¢k IS that?!?!

After I fetched a good poking stick, and shooed the dog away again, I began my CSI-like investigation of the clover.

"Oh you nasty, NASTY fu¢ker! You're getting a bath first thing tomorrow. And sleeping outside tonight!"

I'm not sure (I really couldn't tell) what creature originally housed them, but my Saint Bernard had been rolling around in a tiny pile of half-eaten critter guts. I could see small intestine and what I believe to be a singular kidney or a liver. I assume all the rest of the evidence was eaten.

The next morning, I discovered that no amount of dog shampoo can wash away some mental images.

Aww, dammit!

2009-05-29T13:51:00.004-06:00

So, I'm working my way through my iPod, putting together a new playlist, and I keep finding more and more artists that I inadvertently deleted a few weeks back. Traveling Willburys, Tom Waits, The Boss, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Lenny Kravitz, M. Ward, Violent Femmes, Leadbelly, Pixies... The list goes on and on.

_______________________________________________

I found out today that Jimmy Strader (a local musician) died. He passed on earlier this month. I used to catch him with the rest of The Lifers at 6C on Sunday evenings. No cover and cheap drinks to sit and listen to a sh!t-kickin' little blues band. It was always a great way to wrap up a weekend.

For some reason there never were more than ten or eleven people in that bar, no matter what the line up.

Anyhow, Mr. Strader (the big guy in the middle) will be missed.

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Interesting side note: This video was shot while I was at this bar. I had brought a date, and we were just kicking off what ended up being the WORST date I've ever experienced.

Because I Care...

2009-05-28T12:41:00.003-06:00

One of your fellow readers mentioned to me that today was her birthday. So the image below is my birthday gift to her. And it truly is a thoughtful gift, since we all get to enjoy it together and discuss the unholy feelings it instills in our souls.

Don't say I never got you anything. Because I got you horrible nightmares.

I have a great (read: lame) story about midget strippers and birthdays, but that tale will have to wait for another post.

Meantime, here's Salami Fever by Pepe Deluxé.

In case you were wondering...

2009-05-27T15:25:00.002-06:00

In case you hadn't already picked up a gift for my upcoming birthday (a week from today), you could always snap up this "Cascade" blue Kustom Kombo Organ/Amp from eBay. It is actually pretty severely overpriced (actual value about $900), but when you're spending money on someone you love as much as Krëg, price shouldn't really be an object. Ideally, you would know that I REALLY want the Kombo L-1595 (any color), not the L-1295. But since you waited until the last minute to get me a gift, you'll (and I'll) have to settle for what is available.

SHST is excused, as he timed the arrival of my caption prize winnings to coincide with my birthday. Or close enough anyway. At least, I think he did. It hasn't actually arrived yet, so I may be issuing immunity too soon.

For all the rest of you, just remember the name "Krëg", and don't try to fight the overwhelming compulsion to buy many lavish birthday gifts for him (me).

FYI - I am also accepting gifts in the form of single, attractive, horny, intelligent women aged 24-36. Oops, soon to be 25-37 (my ceiling is always two years older, my floor is ten years younger, and you don't want to hear about my walls).

The Problem...

2009-05-26T14:02:00.002-06:00

Go find out what the problem is with young people today.
http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com/

Shift + Delete

2009-05-21T15:40:00.000-06:00

I move and manage computer files at work on a regular basis. There are often duplicate files, and I regularly modify them and erase the originals. In the course of doing this for multiple years, I have fallen into the habit of using shift+delete. You see, delete all by itself just sends things to the recycle bin, which must be emptied periodically. But shift+delete instantly and permanently eradicates whatever file is selected.

This has never been a problem for me with any of the work-related files that I manage. I am meticulous, and I have developed a system that while boring, greatly reduces my chances of accidentally erasing vital data. So the act of using shift+delete has become a healthy habit for me. Or so I thought.

It turns out that what is sound practice in one area, is folly in another. If perchance you don't own/operate an iPod, let me fill you in on a little secret. Even if a song is listed on a playlist AND your main library (and twenty other places), accidentally using shift+delete instead of regular delete to remove a playlist will also remove all those songs from your iPod. Forever.

And so when organizing one of my favorite old playlists, I instinctively hit the shift+delete combo. It took me about seven seconds to realize what I had done, and by that time a playlist of 400 of my FAVORITE songs had been reduced to 150. I quickly unplugged my iPod from the PC, and followed up that action with yells of displeasure. I even looked into the end of the connector cable, to see if perhaps a few of those deleted songs weren't still stuck in the wires. Then I shook my head and called myself a dumbass.

I plugged in the cans and dialed up the old playlist. It still listed 396 songs, but when I tried to play them, it skipped every other one. Among the casualties were some of my Kings Of Leon b-sides, and The Way It Is by skate punk band Zero Down. I thought about writing down as many as I could as the list of the lost scrolled through one first and final time. But I decided instead to seek out new music to replace the old. Time for a change.

Besides, I can't remember most of the old tracks now anyway, even though I'm fairly certain that a few of them may have actually been original recordings of my songs.

Zero Down - The Way It Is via Battle of the Midwestern Housewives
Kings Of Leon - My Third House via real Horrorshow tunes

What's the worst thing you've ever accidentally deleted?

Fives

2009-05-18T17:00:00.001-06:00

My good friend Zakary hit me up to do one of these fill-in-the-whatever survey things. While I am not a fan of the structure or format of such things, they do make for easy filler when there is little else about which to post.

5 years ago: I was chin deep in the worst personal tragedy I have yet to experience.

10 years ago: I had just started working for the company I am still with today.

15 years ago: I was a college Freshman majoring in drinking and partying balls.

20 years ago: I had been back from Florida less than a year, and didn't even play guitar yet. I may have had a mullet.

25 years ago: I was nine (almost ten) years old and I had just finished the third grade.

Five yummy things:
(Easy now Krëg. Don't make some sexist or misogynistic crack about women being yummy. Women aren't "things," and shouldn't be objectified as such. Even the really sexy ones.)
Salmon sashimi (from Fuji)
Chorizo tacos (from Rio Verde)
Me Mum's w/ egg (from The White Lion)
Gyros plate (Jim's Never On Sunday)
Kate Beckinsale

Five songs I know by heart:
Sh!t, only FIVE? I've only been playing guitar for 20 years. I've learned at LEAST nine or ten songs by now. How about: 'Five songs I know by heart that are my favorites of the ones that my band and I played Friday evening and will probably play again tonight'?
Roger Miller - King Of The Road
Felice Brothers - Frankie's Gun
Thao Nguyen & The Get Down Stay Down - Bag Of Hammers
Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt. 1
Johnny Cash - Thirteen
And just for a lark, here's Five songs I know by Heart:
Baracuda
Dog And Butterfly
Heartless
All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You
Never

Nancy Wilson is STILL looking ridiculously sexy. She was 20 when I was born.

Five places I would like to escape to: (or 'to which I would like to escape', for all you like-minded grammar nazis. Also, I object to the word 'escape', as it implies that I am a 34-year-old single man who feels horribly trapped in the blissful life that is his bachelor paradise. But whatever.)
Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas
The Grand Tetons
Austin's SXSW festival next spring
To see my good friend Zakary in CO and buy all kinds of fantastic things from her store
Kate Beckinsale

Five things I would never wear:
Tampon
Brassiere
Anything "strap-on"
A condom in Haiti
Briefs

Five favorite TV shows:
Tom & Jerry
Cheers
Simpsons
Top Gear
Austin City Limits

Five things I enjoy doing:
Laughing
Playing musical instruments
Making others laugh
Sleeping
Thinking

Five Favorite toys:
Condenser microphone (phantom power not included)
Accordion
Piano
Hammond
My brand new Telecaster

I'm supposed to tag someone else to do this thing, but I'll spare y'all the fun. Make up your own instead.

Post Jump

2009-05-15T16:09:00.001-06:00

Today's post is over at Mindscrapes. They haven't had an update in over a year, and I finally had an odd dream that I actually remember.

Have a good weekend.

No One's Pimp

2009-05-14T08:00:00.001-06:00

I am not prone to push upon you good readers any product that I myself wouldn't use. So when I tell you that the music bursting out of Daytrotter is some of the best music I have ever heard in my life, you can rest assured that I have done my homework.

Read their 'About' section to see how they have turned a novel concept into what I envision must be the world's greatest job. Hell, I'd PAY someone to have a job that cool.

Don't recognize any artists listed there? Don't panic, since your good friend Krëg is here to steer you in a righteous direction. Look up J. Tillman's performance from May 8th, and see (hear) how one man and his guitar single-handedly stomp the ever-loving sh!t out of anything you've heard in the last few months.

Although their work is derivative of Lou Reed and/or Eels, Leatherbag's session is also worth a look.
Spoon is always decent.
Thao Nguyen works it.
My band covers a Mountain Goats song, but I'm not familiar with most of the rest of their work.

Hit their archives, and find a new favorite band or two.

Go. Get. Music.

Dump Clog

2009-05-13T12:29:00.005-06:00

In lieu of an actual post about an actual subject, I thought I'd clog the interwebs by dumping all the crazy images that were emailed to me by ONE person over the last month. I have received many more images from others, but those may wait until another post. Mind you these are all from the same human.

Sorry in advance about the one with the snake in the toilet.

Enjoy,
Krëg

Photos. Me. Naked. W/ Guitar.

2009-05-12T10:19:00.006-06:00

No, seriously. Stark naked.

I am seldom at the cutting edge of anything. I usually find out about anything "cool" or "hip" from friends with their (collective) "ear to the ground" or "finger on the pulse".

But even in light of my trailing-edge tendencies, I'm certain I beat this guy to the punch: And not just by a little bit either. I had that idea over thirty years ago, back when country wasn't even cool.

I just didn't stick with it long enough to be recognized for my genius. Time went by and I began to conform to society's expectations to separate my moments of nudity and guitar playing, and for that I really have no one to blame but myself. Myself and the man. Damn the man, always keeping me down. Down and/or clothed.

Another possible reason I failed where others have succeeded is that then as now, only the creepiest of people are interested in being "fans" of a naked two-year-old.

I was a southpaw when I first started playing

Oh, and if for some reason you failed to experience the seventies, here's two things you might not know:

1) Shag carpet feels AWESOME on your bare ass.
2) The cameras of the seventies weren't much different than the cameras of today. It's just that reality was more orange and yellow back then.

What trend did you invent?

Oh, THAT Alphabet...

2009-05-11T15:12:00.003-06:00

Saturday, I went to BuyShit to pick up a CD for my mother for her gift the following day. She has been a Van Morrison fan for almost as long as I've been alive, and is always happy with almost anything he does. As I had been hearing nothing but rave reviews for his 2009 live version of Astral Weeks that he ripped up in the Hollywood Bowl, I thought dear ol' mum would get a kick out of that.

I walked into the retail nightmare of BuyShit and wandered around looking for the music section. I was forced to turn up my iPod TWICE in order to drown out the various crap blaring from different departments, but fortunately for me, the mightiest of their in-store audio propaganda was no match for Jamie Liddell's Hurricane at three-quarters volume. I have defeated yet ANOTHER marketing atrocity! Mwah ha ha ha!

So, after finally locating the dusty corner of the store that still sells those archaic plastic disks called CDs, I started my hunt for mom's gift. Maybe..No. Or it's...No. Behind the..No. I was flipping through disks for about a minute and a half, and beginning to get mildly flummoxed, when a sales associate came rolling up (literally, their EOE policy landed them a gentleman with CP).

"Can I help you find something sir?" he asked.
"Well, yes actually. I'm trying to find the latest Van Morrison album."
"Well sir, I'm fairly certain we'd have that in 'M' section, not the 'V' section. Good luck!" he said as he wheeled off to help someone a bit less stupid.

Oh, and the album DOES kick ass, once you find it.

What's the stupidest thing you've ever done in a retail outlet?

I Am Just A Poor Boy...

2009-05-07T18:21:00.003-06:00

So down in the belt post, one of your fellow readers, Le, requested photos showing what eight months of boxing "training" does to the physique. Being the unabashed exhibitionist that I am, it was no mean feat to oblige.

Pictured: bizarre, "unexplainable" white stains on my shirt.
Not pictured: marriage gut.

Although it requires at least two people, the workout is brutally simple:
* Multiple sets of multiple reps on the ab wheel counter balanced by push ups.
* Three minutes of jumping (weighted) rope non-stop.
* Catch your breath while wrapping your hands/wrists.
* One person straps on a set of gloves, after helping the other person into the body armor and mitts.
* Three minutes of punching fury for the person wearing gloves. The person in the mitts and armor calls out the punch combinations, trying to break the will of the person in the gloves by varying the calls in the most excruciating way possible (my personal favorite is the left head jab, left body hook, right uppercut, left head hook, straight right head, straight right body).
* One minute of rest.
* Three minutes of punching.
* One minute rest.
* Three minutes of punching.
* Switch body armor and mitts for gloves and repeat for another eleven minutes.
* Go to local English pub to eat bangers and drink Fullers.

While the punching is most assuredly tiring on the arms and shoulders, wearing the armor and mitts is no picnic either. The armor only mitigates about half of the punching force (and that's why the ab wheel is important), and I actually had a gut bruise the first time I wore it. Holding out the mitts can be brutal as well. If you'd like to get an idea how it feels, stand up and hold your arms out in front of you like a zombie, then bend them at the elbow so your hands are pointed at the ceiling. Hold a soda can in each hand while you do it. Oh, and do it for a total of nine minutes, only taking two short breaks in between. Then try and throw punches for another nine minutes (or vice versa).

Being an uncoordinated goober, it took me about an month and a half to figure out how to throw a punch without falling on my ass, and another two months to figure out how to get power behind my punches. But the nice thing is, even though my form was awful for the first three and a half months, I was actually having fun the very first time I tried it. And it immediately kicked my ass. I can't say the same for most other exercise regimens I've tried.

I've had a few jackass friends ask me if I've considered trying my hand at actual sparring or even full-fledged boxing. Once I stop laughing, I tell them that getting hit in the face and head a few times makes a person a bit uglier, and multiple times a lot uglier. Get hit in the head for years and odds are good you will suffer neurological damage. But just pound the mitts and armor in your buddy's garage, and you might gain some balance while erasing the six-to-eight years of chub that marriage piled on to your midsection.

Additionally, you can (and I did) pick up an ab wheel and jump rope for less than thirty bucks to keep after it on the in between days.

And if I ever need to, I can apparently hit a few rounds on the heavy bags underneath my eyes.

_________________________________________________

Two Old Dudes That Still Kick Ass - The Boxer

All The Chinese I Need

2009-05-07T13:50:00.003-06:00

I enjoy many variations of Asian cuisine, including my hometown's single Cantonese & Dim Sum restaurant, and my favorites from the many Thai restaurants, sushi joints, Japanese Teriyaki houses, and even the occasional MSG purveyor.

Invariably, the climax of many of these meals is heralded by the presence of a fortune cookie. These days, the fortune cookie is the ONE food item I will no longer put in my mouth. It irks me that after all the tasty Asian food I've eaten, they hand me a funky cookie that sticks to every exposed tooth surface.

Did the Broccoli Beef stick to my teeth?
No.
The Pad Prik?
No.
The green curry?
No.
The sukiyaki (w/ raw egg, of course)?
No.
Not even the damn sushi STICKY rice sticks to my teeth.

But I eat one tiny fortune cookie and I spend the next half hour using six toothpicks to knock that bastard loose.

So about four years ago I just quit eating them. However, due to my love of reading things and smashing things, coupled with my desire to know what my fortune is, I now just use my fist like a hammer to shatter them to bits (or use more delicate methods when decorum requires) and pluck the fortune from the wreckage.

I sometime find the fortunes themselves to be amusing, and the "...in bed"-suffix game is always fun. Yet I've never been too taken with the 'Learn Chinese' side of the paper. That is until I cracked open two last week (we had an excess due to a catering mistake) and beheld all the Chinese I would ever need to know.
Shanghai here I come.

What's your favorite fortune cookie fortune story?

The Vanishing Man

2009-05-06T11:09:00.001-06:00

Dear Belt,

What's the deal? Did you not get the memo? You are supposed to hold my pants up. That's why I bought you. Now, I know you come with a mere five holes, and are only capable of so much, but meet a brother halfway.

When I selected you over all the other belts, it was because you fit the best. Your clasp hit right in the middle, leaving me equal room to grow or shrink.

But lately I've been starting to suspect that you're moonlighting somewhere else. When I hang you in the closet every night you are one length. When I retrieve you the next morning, you seem a bit longer. Are you sneaking out and leading a second life? Do you rush to accident scenes to see if anyone needs to use you as a tourniquet? Are you assisting some swashbuckling actor/actress shimmy up a tree or slide down a cable? Are you helping people pull a Michael Hutchence?

Your third (and middle) hole is now completely ineffectual, and your fourth hole is beginning to slip as well. Be warned that you only have one hole left before I discard you in favor of a smaller and more effective model.

I would just start cutting new holes in you and slicing off your ever-growing end, but according to Dr. Phil, that's really no way to manage a relationship.

Get your shit together or be replaced.

Love,
Krëg

The Lisping Jedi

2009-05-04T09:46:00.001-06:00

Just in case anyone was thinking I am NOT a total dork.

Let's hear it for jokes that are only funny once a year!

Oh Yeah

2009-04-01T17:28:00.003-06:00

I was supposed to mention that I guest posted at Shindig today. You should go there and read stuff, even though you probably already have.

............................................................

Rejected April Fool's blog pranks:

"I'm quitting the Internet because people here are SO mean!" (like a bitchy teenager)

Translate all my previous entries to Spanish.

Homosexual Leather Erotica themed background.

Something serious and heart-felt.

Disabling the comments section.

Hanna Montana superfan page.

Detailing my recent conversion to Scientology.

What's your favorite April Fool's prank?

Pessimistic Cynic?

2009-03-31T12:51:00.000-06:00

Or cynical pessimist?

I don't consider myself to be a negative person.

But as it turns out, I may be one anyway.

I frequently catch myself judging others before getting to know them; judging people based solely on easily observable characteristics. And I'll often assume the worst about someone if they display a trait I consider undesirable. Tattoos visible on your hand or face? Loser. Talking with a thick southern accent about an episode of American Idol? Idiot. Slack-jawed, 300 pound, mu mu wearing woman that looks like if she showered at all, she did it in the bed of a truck rolling through a car wash in fourth gear? Pariah.

My mental judgmental checklist just goes on and on and on and on.

And then, recently, for no discernible reason, I had it out with myself.

"These people are just humans, just like you," my mind told itself. "Nothing more, nothing less. Just people." My brain continued lecturing to itself, "Just like you, they were all born from a mother, and must cope and live in this same world of heartbreak and splendor. You should cut your fellow humans some slack."

"But those people are obviously different from me!" protested negative Krëg (Krëgative). "I'm pretty sure that means they are flawed or evil or retarded or something."
"Right. Shall I run through the lengthy list of the ways YOU are flawed and evil and retarded?"

"Now who's being negative? I thought you were supposed to be some helpful internal monologue of tolerance and reason, not some nagging asshole."
"Quit being a smart ass and listen to yourself (me) for a minute. You need to shut down this judgemental 'holier-than-thou' mentality that's crept into your life as of late. It gains you nothing."

"But don't you think that in some ways my skepticism has protected us? I mean, we (I) haven't made many poor decisions with Mr. Judgmental at the helm. It's not like our friends are crackheads or Libertarians or something. I think my skepticism has put us on the right path."

"There's a difference between being a healthy skeptic and being a horribly negative pessimist. You're (I'm) sliding in the wrong direction. Further, I challenge you to prove any actions put you (me) on the path you're on right now. I'm pretty sure it was just a combination of dumb luck and good timing."

"Hmm."
"And let's not even get into some of your trust issues..."
"Hey! I come by those honestly. You remember when..."

"Yes, of course I do."

"Or that shitty year when..."

"Yes, yes. It's not like we inhabit different skulls, dumb ass. Those two events were pretty brutal. And I'm not saying that you should just start running up to random strangers and giving them hugs and pouring out your soul to them. Just maybe lay off the thinking the heavily pierced guy behind the counter at the gas station is a failure. Chances are, he's better than you at four or five things."

"Like mopping up puke or chain-smoking?"

"There you go again with the smart ass cracks. Look, all I'm saying is that perhaps you should just try observing others without assigning judgment. Because if you don't ease up, you stand a strong chance of dying alone and bitter, with people queuing up to water the non-existent flowers on your grave with warm streams of their own urine. And tell me champ, where does THAT little scenario fit into your judgmental world view?"

"Fuck you."

...And so the struggle continues "silently" inside my head, but I'm hoping the tide is turning in favor of a more optimistic Krëg.

Baby steps.
............................................................................................

Queen's greatest song. Ever.

Chow Down

2009-03-30T17:28:00.003-06:00

Much like the rest of the non-starving segment of society, whenever I am not asleep I have always tried to eat foods that I enjoy. On occasion, I have even combined a few of my favorite foods in an attempt to create even tastier super-foods (although baconcicles were a disappointment).

But I still can't imagine the depravity necessary to conceive this abomination.

I recognize the individual components as edible, but when combined in this manner they tally up to some incomprehensible un-food. Nothing there looks appetizing. The photo conjures up the exact opposite hunger. It looks like someone barfed on Abe Lincoln's hat.

Perhaps that is one of the tricks to Weight Watchers: make food look so unappealing that people lose the will to eat.

What's the worst combo you've ever seen?

World Wide WTF

2009-03-27T13:31:00.002-06:00

Monday evening, the internet was fully functional at my house. Tuesday evening I was cast out of high-speed Eden and left to wander in the darkness. I don't know why or how it stopped working (and I actually know a thing or two about those magic boxes called "computers"). The computer shows that I am connected, but NO browser (Firefox, IE, Opera, etc.) will connect. So posts here may be short, infrequent, and reflect my grumpy attitude. Pretty much just like always.

The most disgusting development from my lack of home internet is that I've had to substitute imagination for pornography, a choice NO man should ever have to make. The horror.

I'm wondering if having no home access to the world-wide-boobs might be a blessing in disguise. It isn't as if I sit around doing NOTHING other than surfing the net; probably only 10-15% of my at-home, awake hours are spent online. But I've often walked away from the computer feeling that I've accomplished nothing noteworthy. One cannot build meaningful memories in front of a computer monitor.

So I think I'll see where this hiatus takes me. Perhaps in another week, I'll be calling the phone company to pull their service from my house.

...Or maybe I'll be begging them to "Please make the magic box work again!"

Just depends on how well my imagination treats me.

Bicycle Built For Two

2009-03-23T09:31:00.007-06:00

Daisy, Daisy
Give me your answer do

Lots of great answers to the caption/quiz about that flower. Most importantly, THREE of the answers involved breasts. Keep up the good work, gang.

But y'all must not know (or have forgotten) that I'm much more of an ass man (and legs man). When you realize that, the answer becomes obvious. Or maybe it doesn't.

That daisy image is a clinically accurate depiction of Hello Kitty's butthole, rhoids included.

Not pictured: stenches, hemorrhoids, or toilet paper.

Apparently, it's acceptable to sh!t your coveralls, as long as you are on the toilet when it happens.

I'm half crazy all for the love of you

Caption Quiz

2009-03-18T12:04:00.003-06:00

Can anyone tell me what this is?
Best comment gets the prize of knowing you did better than everyone else. What could possibly be more gratifying than that?

Names On The Brain

2009-03-13T10:29:00.004-06:00

Don't know why I've had names on my mind so much lately. Just the craziness of springtime I guess.

For all you expectant white trash mothers, I have compiled a short but excellently themed compendium of suitable names.

Car names that can double as names for your bratty, white trash baby:

Mercedes
Cherokee
Chevelle
Sierra
Tacoma
Ranger
Bentley
Silhouette
Lancer
Blazer
Yukon
Chevette
Hummer
Pinto
Pacer
Viper
Liberty
Wrangler
Jetta
TL 500

Contrary to popular belief, Honcho is actually an elitist name.

What possible car/baby names did I forget?

Nothing To See Here, Move Along.

2009-03-11T13:11:00.001-06:00

My world has been fairly predictable and static as of late. As I have nothing new to report, I'll just drop a little funk on you.

Sayonara

2009-03-06T17:03:00.002-06:00

Some may recall that back in September I went to a funeral for a friend and co-worker's mother. His father followed his mother into paradise last night. Greg had been openly optimistic about Gibb's chances for recovery once his health began failing last December. Greg also remarked back in January that 2009 couldn't possibly be as bad as 2008.

Here's hoping 2010 stops shitting directly down your throat, man.

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One year ago today I brought home the ugliest damn piano I'd ever laid eyes on. Happy Anniversary, you magnificent atrocity.

What's In A Name?

2009-03-03T11:21:00.004-06:00

Throughout my life I have had the pleasure of hearing some pretty horrible/awesome names, either through my work, or just from meeting new people in social situations. I don't want to strain my shoulder patting myself on the back, but I managed to not burst out laughing or shoot back with a disbelieving "Fuck you!" when I encountered the owners of these bizarre monikers. I'm rather proud of my restraint, especially when I consider how ludicrous (not Ludacris) some of these names are.

My top 5:

Landon Dick
Rodney Woodrow Bohner
Sharon Dix (still my favorite)
Shirley (working for the City of LaVerne, CA)
Major Woodie (a police major)

What's the craziest name YOU'VE ever encountered? Is it worthy of a velvet painting?

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Skynyrd's What's Your Name.
Bob & Gene's Your Name.

Song For My Penis

2009-02-27T16:38:00.003-06:00

+

=
My horribly altered version of Willie Nelson's Always On My Mind that I re-wrote exclusively to sing to my penis:

"Baby I could have rubbed you,

All those lonely desperate times,

Maybe I should have drugged you

I'm so sorry that you're mine

If I had a tube of Astro-Glide

I would stroke you till I'm blind

But you were always on my mind

You were always on my mind"

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Here's a Willie track that DOESN'T suck. That pedal steel is pretty sweet.

Dude, You've Got A Little Something Right There...

2009-02-25T13:50:00.003-06:00

As I returned from the microwave with my lunch, a co-worker stopped me with a quizzical look on his face.
"What's up with Igor's face?" (Igor is not his real name)
"Uh... What do you mean?" I replied, instantly thinking of about twelve ways I could make fun of Igor for being born ugly and aging poorly into an even more hideous visage.
"It looks like he has a marker smudge on his forehead."
"That's weird. Oh wait! It must be Ash Wednesday."
Additional confused look from Nikolai. (Also not his real name)
"You know, Ash Wednesday?" I asked.
No look of comprehension from Nikolai.
"The beginning of Lent?"
Still no recognition. Seriously? Dude, you're 40 and live in a state where phone books list more churches than bars. How can you NOT know about Ash Wednesday?
Hey, it must be time to fuck with Nikolai.
"Ok, you've heard of Mardi Gras, right?"
Instant recognition.
"Cool. Well the reason everyone parties balls on Fat Tuesday is because the next day, Ash Wednesday, is the beginning of Lent. Lent is that long period of time between Ash Wednesday and Easter where people make promises to God to do or not do certain things, but only during that short time period instead of year round, because apparently everyone's willpower sucks over the long haul. So everyone switches their shit fully on during Fat Tuesday and Mardi Gras and they get tore up like a burning pub full of Irishmen in a hurricane. Because starting the following morning, they have to clean up their act for two months."
Nikolai is nodding his head.
"Well everyone smears ash on their foreheads to help them remember that Jesus gave up smoking for Lent, but the night before he quit he tried to smoke an entire carton of Parliaments. The next morning, he woke up passed out in an ashtray full of puke, ash and cigarette butts. No one told him he had that crap all over his face and stuck in his beard until a few days later. So now everyone smudges ash on their foreheads to honor that memory."
Nikolai is no longer nodding his head, but is instead looking at me through rapidly narrowing and suspicious eyes.
"Hey man, my lunch is getting cold. Good talking to you."

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While Tim and Tubbs were here this weekend, we made a few trips around town. Tim observed aloud that there sure were a lot of churches in town.
"Church is big business around here," I replied.
"Shit, speaking of church and business, have you heard about the mega-churches that are putting ATMs on premises so that parishioners can donate that way?"
"What? That sounds....wrong."
"Yeah apparently the machines don't dispense money. You just get a receipt for your donation, which you then toss into the collection tray."
"Wait, isn't there some allegory about 'money changers' in the Bible? I seem to recall there was some anger and muttering and stuff. Don't these people READ the book they follow?"
"Apparently not," replied Tim, "Or at least not the part where their hippie leader, old Capitan Whatshisname, threw a bitch fit on the church bankers."

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If you're going to hell anyway, you might as well angle for the good seats.

Here's some relevant Jethro Tull.

2009-02-23T14:52:00.003-06:00

A friend turned me on to ZDZISŁAW BEKSIŃSKI, so I thought I'd share. I think he may be more disturbing than Mark Ryden.

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Just like a midget stripper, my weekend was fantastic, but far too short. Tubbs and Tim and I managed to consume 95% of my kitchen's edible matter (and 3% of it's non-edible matter) by late Friday evening, so Saturday morning (read: noon) included a trip to the grocery store.

Somewhere in the past years of marriage, I had forgotten that food comes in prepackaged, ready-to-eat form. My friends reminded me by example that a person can live for quite a while on such food, even for days at a time if necessary. "Open package, pour contents into mouth. Repeat."

Even so, I did end up doing a bit of cooking, as did Tubbs, who took it upon himself to purchase and cook three pounds of bacon. We had eaten it all by about eleven that evening.

As for the music and recording and all that affiliated nonsense, well we did a lot of that too. Even the accordion got a little action. I managed to get Tubbs to do a little guest work on a song I've been spitballing. It's now a thing of wonder. In return, I showed him 75-80% of what I know about recording. A bargain at twice the price.

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Here's Rip This Joint by the world's greatest rock band.

Everybody's Working For The Weekend

2009-02-20T13:14:00.004-06:00

A few friends are coming in from out of town for the weekend, including the guy who got the best Valentine's Day gift(s) in recent memory. That gift consisted of roughly 1K worth of musical recording equipment, equipment which he is bringing to my house for instructions on how to operate. I hope I can figure it out quickly, because I'd rather spend the time ACTUALLY RECORDING the music we play instead of setting up his system. Tube preamp, recording/mixing software, shock-mount condenser mic, new laptop, and cables and a mic stand. His mixing board hasn't arrived yet, but we can use mine for the weekend.

Maybe I'll have some recordings to post here after the weekend is over. I promise it won't sound like Loverboy.

Pray for my liver.

Gonna Be A Big Star

2009-02-18T11:45:00.002-06:00

This morning, coworkers and I had a conversation about the merits of owning a crocodile instead of a chimpanzee, which obviously segued into the merits and pitfalls of being Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice.

From there, we posed an interesting question to one another: If you could lead the life of any fictional TV persona, whom would you chose (the character, NOT the actor/actress)?

I momentarily found myself torn between longing to be Mr Roarke from Fantasy Island or Buck Rogers. While the prospect of ordering a midget around using my sexy Latin accent and getting to peek into peoples disturbing fetishes was very appealing, it didn't stack up to 80s era Erin Gray in skin-tight "Futurewear". Not even close.

The future never looked so bright.

I had the most massive crush on Col. Wilma Deering in the late 70s and early 80s. She was smokin' back in the day. Come to think of it, she's still smokin' hawt.

Who would YOU be?

Kittens

2009-02-12T12:46:00.002-06:00

See, it's awesome/dumb stuff like this that makes me want to actually have children. For a few minutes anyway.

Dysfunctional

2009-02-10T14:11:00.003-06:00

The Dysfunctional Family Circus Archives are hilarious. Do yourself a favor and pay them a little visit. Here's an example:

"Okay. So we all eat rat poison so Daddy will feel bad about spending the night with his secretary. I got that part. What I want to know is why there isn't a bowl for you."

or....

"So what I'm saying is don't you feel your life is an endless, meaningless parade of preparing meals for ungrateful children and a distant, unspeaking spouse?"

Page Pimp

2009-02-10T13:59:00.002-06:00

I've found a link that makes ANY webpage better. Even if the webpage is already the pinnacle of Internet achievement. I can already smell the improvement.

Friday Fotos

2009-02-06T17:43:00.014-06:00

Various photos taken at various times and places and then presented in no particular order and without explanation.

The Perils Of Inbreeding

2009-02-02T09:50:00.009-06:00

It is well documented that I have a small portion of my brain devoted exclusively to Gary Busey. So imagine my delight when I opened an email Friday afternoon and beheld the jewel pictured below.
I particularly relish the way that "mom" Busey looks more disheveled and frazzled than the rest, as if "mom" has run herself (himself? hermself?) ragged trying to look after three other rambunctious and clinically psychotic Buseys all while dealing with herm own internal batch of nuanced psychoses.

Further, that image is a master stroke of humor and insanity. I am fairly certain that image is the EXACT pinnacle of Photoshop, and precisely what developers had in mind when they created the program. "Dude, you could like, take a shitty Olan Mills portrait, ya know? And like, put a bunch a Busey heads on em! Fuckin' sweet, right?"

My clearest revelation came when I tried to polish the image using Paint Shop Pro. You see, I noticed that there were some pixel discrepancies that I wanted to clean up. So I tried an old standby, the "One Step Photo Fix" command.

Nothing happened. A bit confused, I tried it again. Still nothing.

And then it hit me: THERE IS NO FIX FOR BEING BUSEY.

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Here's Palmitos Park by El Guincho