Dump Clog

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.

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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.

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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?

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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?

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?

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

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

Song For My Penis

+


=
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...

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."

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

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."

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

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

Here's some relevant Jethro Tull.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dysfunctional

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

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

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

The Perils Of Inbreeding

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.

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

Here's Palmitos Park by El Guincho

Snow Daze

Informer
You no say daddy me snow me I'll go blame

This week contained a bonus weekend, as Tuesday and Wednesday were days off with pay due to the inclement weather that hit our area. I made the most of my time off by working on my ass-dent in the couch, making about two gallons of chili, and practicing the accordion. Truer personal improvement has never been so totally realized.

An old friend of mine has THE coolest wife ever. I really doubt either one of them reads this blog, or is even aware of its existence, but I'd still feel like a jackass if I spoiled his Valentine's Day surprise by specifically naming his gift(s). She emailed me asking my advice about her proposed VD gift, and I quickly roped another old friend into the conversation. We ended up putting together a very nice group of gifts, and I think my friend will absolutely shit himself when he sees them all.

If I had THAT kind of thoughtful (ex)wife, I'd probably still be married. Most of my married friends find their spouses to be a source of constant annoyance, or at least that's all I ever hear about. But Amanda really stepped things up for my old friend, and may have renewed my faith in the institution for the time being.

The event also reminded me that Valentine's Day is approaching. I managed to drift through the "holiday" last year completely oblivious to the occasion. I'm hoping to repeat that performance this year. Or perhaps get a call girl and a bottle of scotch. Calling all sluts!

Check out No One's Better Sake by Little Joy. It reminds me of Sublime for some reason.

It does NOT remind me of the rapper Snow.

A licky boom boom down

Stalking Made Easy

While it isn't so reliable that I'm throwing out my ghillie suit or firing my shamus, PIPL.com is pretty good at helping you cyberstalk locate individuals. It can even find hard-to-find people. But it doesn't give you tips on how to lurk in the bushes unnoticed, or how to explain yourself to the police when you are caught pantsless in Harry Anderson's backyard.

Heil To The Chief

Are you totally crazy about Obama? Can't get enough of the guy? Does the mere thought of him take you to some heightened mental state?

Then why not take your feelings to the next level while showing your support, using THIS one-of-a-kind apparatus. Order a few extras, as they make great gifts.

Worst I've Seen

This is the cruelest and funniest image I've seen so far this year.


But the year is young.

While I am not the most refined conversationalist, I generally try to fake a certain level of professionalism when talking with most co-workers. So it surprised me when I accidentally gave myself what I imagine will be the best laugh of my week.

Female co-worker: "Hey Craig, you got a sec?"
Me, talking before thinking: "I have LOTS of secs."

I hope I don't pinch my junk.

I don't know what's come over me. Over the past year, I can't seem to stop buying musical instruments. Some of them I have taken to rather quickly, while others (like the banjo) are a constant struggle and the source of much disappointment.

But even knowing all that, I'm fairly certain I'm going to buy this:
It's affordable and nearby. On the downside, it may guarantee that I will never get laid again.

But I suppose the banjo was doing that already...

By The Chimney With Care

Since we were both too lazy to attend to matters last year, my ex wife and I waited until this past December to split up our old Christmas decorations. This worked out well for me, because at the same time we were dividing the spoils, I was also classifying my remaining decorations into three piles; garbage, sentimental but not my favorite, and cool enough to make an annual appearance. The first pile went straight into a trash sack, the second went into various boxes and back into the attic, and the third stayed out for a few weeks to celebrate the season.

Now my annual decorations all fit into one box, simple and organized.

Part of the small third pile was my Christmas stocking that I have had since I was two or three. As the nails are present year-round on the mantle, it was a simple matter to hang up my stocking, and I did exactly that. My ex asked me why I was hanging it up, with the added comment of, "It seems kinda lonely and pointless to hang it up all by itself." While I couldn't verbalize why I felt the urge to hang up my stocking above the fireplace during Christmas, I could and did mentally call my ex wife all manner of unkind names.

Christmas Eve, I went to my parents for dinner (homemade fried chicken). After the meal, I loafed on the couch watching A Christmas Story on the channel that plays it on a loop all day long. After being away for few and a half hours, I returned home to feed the dogs and continue my loafing. I dozed off on the couch (again watching A Christmas Story), and was awakened at about 11:30 by my Saint Bernard brushing past me. I hadn't opened my eyes yet, but it was apparent from the sounds that Ike was sniffing something. I cracked my right eye open to behold a Christmas miracle. Ike was sniffing my stocking, which appeared to contain items other than the usual air.

I laughed into the empty room, knowing that one of the two groups of friends with a key to my house had paid me a visit while I was away. I think I might have also muttered a cheery "Fuck you!" to the memory of my ex wife asking why I was even bothering to hang my stocking. The contents of my stocking are as unimportant as the identity of the culprits (which I later determined by checking my caller ID and counting the beers in my fridge). The important thing is that I have some INCREDIBLY thoughtful friends that went out of their way to make a difference in my life.

That pretty well trumps anything you can wrap up and stick under a tree.

Heres some music:
The Gaslight Anthem – Great Expectations
Cheers.

And we talked about some old times

And we talked about some old times
And we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy after all these years
- Paul Simon (not the senator, that other one... the singer guy)

I've had a house guest for twelve days. I enjoy my good friend's company, as I haven't seen him in 2+ years. I invited him to stay as long as he wanted, and he took me up on the offer. He stayed for the Sooner game Thursday night, and left Friday.

I haven't been around any person for that amount of time since my ex-wife moved out a year and a half ago. I didn't realize that I've come to cherish my solitude. Fortunately, D is an agreeable fellow with tastes similar to mine (with the exception of his avoidance of Thai food).

We played guitar/piano/bass/banjo/extra-guitar until almost dawn a few nights running, and I was beginning to fear that when my vacation expired, I would have inadvertently reset my body-clock to Greenwich Mean Time. But, in yet another sign that I am getting old, my body remembered it's routine without incident, and I slipped right back into the work "groove". I'll throw some photos up here when I get damn good and ready.

Go Big Red

Oh wait. I suppose that image doesn't get EVERYONE into the spirit.

Maybe this one...


Or this one...


I'm still partial to the first one though.

Boomer Sooner.

Not Dead

Contrary to groundless speculation, I have weathered the changing of calendars in spectacular health, temper, and company.

I'll post more about my twelve days of vacation later. For now, I'll set off 2009 with some Girl Talk.

Peace.