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4/1/07
I went out to hear music the other night at Caledonia, and Dan Geller was standing in front of me. Very big deal, let me tell you. Dan Geller is in the band I am the World Trade Center and he also DJs at the Go Bar. One time I went to the Go Bar when he was DJing and he played the song "Crazy" by Gnarles Barkley. The song had just come out, and it made everyone dance, and I overheard Dan Geller say to someone, "This song slams!" or something like that. He bounced his large head around when he said that. Two weeks later I was at the Go Bar again and he was DJing and I recalled my previous positive experience there with "Crazy," so I went up to the DJ table and requested "Crazy," assuming that my request would be honored since that song "slam[med]" and all. But Dan Geller looked at me and rolled his eyes and said, "Ugh, that song's so played out," and I walked away feeling really good, because it always feels good to have a short man with a large head speak to you condescendingly about music that he can't seem to make up his mind about.
Anyway, I was thinking about this as I was standing behind Dan Geller at the Caledonia. He was standing with one of the musicians from the band that I wasn't there to see, and looking around a lot. I could barely see around his large head.
 
3/16/07
You can now view my blog entries, along with profiles of young professionals and old sleazebags alike, here. I will still post here also.
3/13/07
I had an hour to kill and found myself with a choice between making sweet corn, which is obviously delicious and healthy, and sweet porn, which is delighfully bohemian and cutting edge. Sorry I could not make both and be one man, long I stood and considered each. Oh, I saved the corn for another day, yet knowing how porn leads to porn, I doubted if I should ever come back. I decided to make the sweet porn, and sweet porn I made. Sweet country porn. And that has made all the difference.
3/11/07
 Ethanol, which makes up about 10% of the fuel in most people's cars (the other 90% is gasoline) is currently on the rise. In fact, Detroit automobile manufacturers are already making cars--millions of them--that will run on Ethanol-heavy fuel (85% ethanol and 15% gasoline) due to political nods to and subsidies for alternative fuel methods. And farmers in the Midwest are sending billions of bushels of corn to refineries that turn it into billions of gallons of fuel as we sit here typing and reading. The bad news? Apparently, ethanol production--that is, the work, resources, and energy involved in the process of planting the corn to getting fuel into your automobile--is extremely inefficient compared to gasoline production. While tailpipes that run on ethanol emit much less smog than their gasoliney counterparts, some argue that it takes nearly as much energy to produce ethanol from corn than the energy that you get out of it. The good news (and why I'm praying that corn-based ethanol goes full steam ahead)? As I see it, we will, almost definitely, start calling gas tanks "cornholes". And that's a world I want to live in. So yes, please, to corn-based ethanol.
2/5/07
 My new deodorant smells so good that, given the opportunity, I'd have sex with me. On more than a lot of occasions recently I've been out socializing and I've moved my arm in a way that has released the sub-molecular deodes from my shirt, and I've had to stop and comment, sometimes aloud, "Someone in here smells so fuckin' good that it's making me want to have sex right now." Looking around for the sexy bitch source of this smell, I find myself amazed (and incredibly turned on) that it's me.
2/4/07
 ...that I'm in a classroom, sitting in the back of the second row from the left. The kid next to me, in the back seat of the first row, has been saving his saliva in his mouth for nearly 40 minutes. He shows me by opening his mouth and I see a large puddle of thick spit surrounding his tongue. And suddenly, I'm the teacher, standing at the front of the room, turning my back to write an equation on the chalkboard. There are snickers from behind me, over my left shoulder. When I turn around, all of the boys in the room are pinching their ties over their noses. And then, I am the chalk, and the teacher is writing equations with me, and I am overcome with panic, and whenever I scream, many people in the room become uncomfortable and shift in their desks.
1/29/07
I want to take a big dump and go to sleep.
12/31/06
Pet Sounds makes my sniffles go away.
Pet Sounds makes the blinds work again.
Pet Sounds opens my beer.
Pet Sounds makes you nice.
Pet Sounds finds my keys.
Pet Sounds makes pets quiet.
Pet Sounds.
12/24/06
I am not. My song was not good. Things did not go how I imagined them in my head. My song sounded better when it was in my head. When I imagined the song throughout the day in my head, it sounded very good. The crowd cheered for me very loudly when I sang the song in my head. Their cheers made me win karaoke. Outside of my head, the song was only fine, and the crowd clapped a lot in the beginning, but less and less as the song continued, until, finally, I think most people wanted the song to end. Eventually, the song ended, someone clapped, I drank many beers, and a middle-aged man with a pencil mustache won karaoke. The karaoke lady used the microphone to say that judging all of the singers was very difficult because everyone was very good, and that nobody should feel like a loser because there were no losers there that night. But I disagree--I think that the guy who won was kind of a loser, pencil mustache aside.
12/19/06
Seriously. I am. And I think I might win. And if I don't, I'm gonna tear that place apart.
12/14/06
 I don't know to what I should attribute it--probably something biological--a rush of seratonin, positive ions, a pocket of dopamine in my brain--but for 3 seconds today, I became completely overcome with joy. Everything in the universe aligned itself with everything else. Perfect order was mine, as I stood in absolute euphoria. And then it passed and everything was totally fucked again.
12/10/06
...people seem to like me. "Tell me more about your job," I say, and they tell me more about their job. "Do you like what you do?" I ask, and they tell me that they like what they do. "Will you go out of town for the holidays?" I wonder, and they tell me that because they went to their parents' house for Thanksgiving, they will go to their wife's parents' house for Christmas. Later, at their home, they tell their wife that they enjoyed talking to me, and their wife says that I am "a nice guy," and then they consider friends of the wife with whom I might go on a date. It is at this point that I call them on the telephone. When they answer, I tell them to kindly put me on speaker phone. Once I am on speaker phone, I say, "You are undoubtedly the most boring person I spoke to tonight. You sell retractable shelves. And you spoke about them tonight for nearly thirty minutes. When I was talking to you, I was thinking about ways of killing myself. In one scenario I hanged myself from a retractable shelf. Your wife must know what I'm talking about. She has a very large bottom and very small boobies. Do you like her combination of a large bottom and small boobies? When you went to your parents' house for Thanksgiving, did you give thanks for her large bottom and small boobies? Did you feast on her plump ass? Her cornhole-a-copia? Did you put cranberry sauce and stuffing on her big buns? When you go to her parents' house for Christmas, do you look at her mom's large bottom and small boobies and think about how your wife's parts are going to age?" And then they don't like me anymore, because it's true: he sells retractable shelves.
12/1/06
 My favorite doo-wop group and your favorite doo-wop group are the same doo-wop group. This fact makes me wanna doo-wop you -- doo-wop you good.
11/24/06
 On the way to My Favorite Bar I caught a green light just before it turned yellow and commented to myself, "That was the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for." By the time I arrived at My Favorite Bar, I had just overcome my laughter at this comment, and as I made my way through the night, rather than tell everyone about the funny comment that I had made to myself on my way to the bar, I decided to reuse it in conversation with, well, everyone I spoke to. After all, none of these schmoes were with me in the car when I used it the first time, so it was a perfect steal (and, p.s., it wasn't even really stealing, as I was the one who came up with it in the first place).
And my "Thanksgiving miracle" line got some laughs early on. When I ordered a Guiness and Bill brought it to me, I proclaimed, "Thanks, Bill -- this is the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for!" Laughs from Bill -- check; laughs from the couple sitting within ear distance -- check; laughs from me -- check. Later, in line for the men's room, I didn't think I'd be able to hold my bladder much longer. "I might piss my pants right here," I remarked to the fellows in line with me. But just then, the men's room door opened, and it was my turn. I wasn't going in there yet, though -- not before I said, "This is the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for!" and ran into the men's room to the cheers and laughs behind me.
But some people just don't understand irony, I guess. After enough bad songs hd been played on the juke box to warrant the complaints of the people seated around me at the bar, the song "Rico Suave" came on. Yes, "Rico Sauve"--by Gerardo--huge hit in 1991--parodied by Weird Al's "Taco Grande"--and, (not a big deal or anything, but) whose video, with its scantily clad Latino lay-deez, pretty much got me through Freshman year of high school. So when it came on after the string of musical slop that had preceded it, it seemed somewhat appropriate to say, you guessed it, "This is the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for." Only, the boyfriend of the girl who played that song on the jukebox didn't think that was that funny. He spun to me--spun to me--and said, "What's your fuckin' problem with this song?" I explained to him that I had no problem with the song--that, in fact, the video had quenched my adolescent hormonal urges--that I loved the song and would never speak badly about it. He backed off, and as we shook hands, I proclaimed, "This is the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for!" I thought it was hysterical, but he apparently didn't, and he punched me in the face. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor begging this guy to stop hitting me. I'm not a fighter, I'm a talker. "You better take it back, you motherfucker!" the man demanded. "I take it back--Jesus Christ, I take it back! I'm sorry!" This seemed to convince him, as he turned away from me, which, in turn, convinced me that "This [was] the Thanksgiving miracle we'[d]all been waiting for!" Oh, Jesus, had I really just said that out loud? The man, grasping the front of my shirt with one hand and punching me once again in the face with the other convinced me that, yes, I had indeed said it out loud. When Bill the Bartender pulled the man off of me, my face hurt a little bit, but I was drunk, so I didn't care. "Bill, my friend," I said putting a hand on his shoulder, while avoiding the swings of the angry man, "thank you. This is the Thanksgiving miracle we've all been waiting for." Bill told me to (and I quote) "Shut the everlovin' fuck up," while a patron who I didn't know said to Ray the Landscaper, "Why does he keep saying that?" to which Ray responded, "I don't know--guess he just loves Thanksgiving miracles." Right you are, Ray. Right you are.
11/18/06
 I am sitting in the back row, third from the left. All of my stories have fallen out of my left ear and onto the floor. I ask Timothy if he will please reach down and pick up my stories for me. He shrugs. I point. He shrugs again. I point again, this time with my eyebrows too. He looks back at the board. I stare at the floor.
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