Song For My Penis

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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."

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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.

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

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.

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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.