12.3.2015 (first published this week in 2005)
I know how much it would suck to be friends with Brittany Spears.
It
would be Thursday night and Alan would be in LA and the rest of us
would be standing around having beers and trying not to stare at the TV
behind the bar and Spears would walk in and we'd buy her a beer or mebbe
she'd refuse because she got plenty of beers paid for by Lovely List
Members the week before and she'd pony-up funds for beers and we'd stand
around and drink beers and talk. SOON ENOUGH she'd say something like,
"Hey you wanna hear the song I'm working on?" and before anyone could
say HELL NO she'd launch into an a capella (loud a capella as she's
singing over the din of the crowd and likely the juke) version of her
shitty new pop song so awful you want to take a hostage. Some times
she'd rough-out the ridiculous dance she'd eventually do to the song
onstage. It would be embarassing. "Yeh, she's with us. Yeh, she's
drunk."
Or mebbe it would a Saturday night and we'd be at the
bowling alley eating crappy pizza and drinking pitchers of Bud and
rolling Turkeys and SOON ENOUGH she'd say something like, "Hey you wanna
hear the song I'm working on?" and before anyone could say HELL NO
she'd launch into an a capella (loud a capella as she's singing over the
din of the strikes, spares and gutterballs and likely the juke) version
of her shitty new pop song so awful you want to take a hostage. Some
times she'd rough-out the ridiculous dance she'd eventually do to the
song onstage right there on lane 22. Some times she'd step over the
foul line. It would be a scene.
Or mebbe it would be a beautiful
afternoon when my brother and I are indoors watching the Cubs play the
Pirates while we enjoy snacks and a shitload of beer. We'd be laughing
or crying at the poor play of our shitty teams and she'd come over and
within a few minutes she'd say something like, "Hey you wanna hear the
song I'm working on?" and before we could say HELL NO she'd launch into
an a capella (loud a capella as she's singing over the din of the TV)
version of her shitty new pop song so awful you want to take a hostage.
Some times she'd rough-out the ridiculous dance she'd eventually do to
the song onstage right there next to the couch. Sometimes during
commercial breaks we'd have to watch her. It would be excruciating.
Or
mebbe it would be a beautiful afternoon when my brother, wife and
whoever else would be in the backyard, barbecuing burgers and dogs,
drinking beers and enjoying the day. She'd come over, have a beer,
enjoy a dog and soon enough she'd say something like, "Hey you wanna
hear the song I'm working on?" and before we could say HELL NO she'd
launch into an a capella (loud a capella as she's singing over the din
of the firestation next door) version of her shitty new pop song so
awful you want to take a hostage. Some times she'd rough-out the
ridiculous dance she'd eventually do to the song onstage right there on
the lawn next to the Weber. At times we would fear her wild gyrations
would knock over the grill. We hoped she wouldn't spill any more beer.
It would suck.
Tonight - Last official meeting of 2015: Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Thursday, December 10, 2015
DMSR REDUX
12.2.2015
(Originally published 10 Sep 2009)
I lived in this courtyard bldg in Chicago ... I was at one end of the horseshoe and one night - long after midnight - this racket erupts from the middle of the U ... I came to learn it was the song "Sexy MF" by the one-and-only Prince.
Srsly ... when the lyrics "You sexy motherfucker" emit from the inky black of night at high volume in high fidelity, asleep or not, it will get your attention.
Nothing else was going on. No lights coming from the place. No party going on. Just darkness and the dulcet tones of perhaps the raunchiest of raunchy Prince songs.
I have to believe someone was getting it on.
Tonight - Jay n' Bee Club
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
(Originally published 10 Sep 2009)
I lived in this courtyard bldg in Chicago ... I was at one end of the horseshoe and one night - long after midnight - this racket erupts from the middle of the U ... I came to learn it was the song "Sexy MF" by the one-and-only Prince.
Srsly ... when the lyrics "You sexy motherfucker" emit from the inky black of night at high volume in high fidelity, asleep or not, it will get your attention.
Nothing else was going on. No lights coming from the place. No party going on. Just darkness and the dulcet tones of perhaps the raunchiest of raunchy Prince songs.
I have to believe someone was getting it on.
Tonight - Jay n' Bee Club
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 03, 2015
Lemons
12.1.2015
Do you remember where you were on July 30th, 1994? I do, because it was one of the most epic, one-night adventures I've ever had. It started like many nights back then did: We went to the bar.
Let me back up a sec. I lived in Chicago at the time. I was with my girlfriend and my sister, and it was a hot, humid Saturday night and we were waiting for a pal from out of town to meet us at my apartment. We were supposed to be coming up with ideas on where to take my pal, Derwood, when he arrived. We could do no better than "the bar" when he got there.
Derwood was in town for a bachelor party. A family friend was getting married soon and Derwood, his father and several other blokes played golf and whooped it up at the club, then went to dinner. Derwood escaped to my pad at this point.
There were dozens of bars in our neighborhood, so we tried to figure out one that we hadn't been to recently and that had food. Derwood said he didn't care about food, so we set out on foot for a nice place called "The Jury Room." We chose this because Derwood's father and the rest of the bachelor party was going there after dinner. I knew Derwood's dad and thought it would be nice to see him again.
Halfway there, we saw a poster on a wall announcing a new album by a band we all really liked. "Split" was a new record by Lush. None of us knew of this new release. There was a banner on the poster: "See Lush LIVE at the Vic! 7/31/94!" Sweet! That's tomorrow! There was a banner on the banner: "Sold out." Shit!
We trudged on thrilled about the new record but bummed that we couldn't go to the show the following night. We reached the bar and passed its large front window to reach the door. As I passed the window, I noticed few people in the bar, but sitting at the bar itself were two people. One of them was a young woman with cherry-red hair. I had a thought.
We entered the bar and headed for the tables in the back. Passing the couple sitting at the bar, I heard the cherry-red haired woman speaking to her companion. She had a British accent. I glanced at her and she was, indeed, the guitarist and singer from Lush. We sat down and the waitress came to take our orders. We ordered and asked her to put the couple at the bar's next round on us. She did. We watched as she told them and they both turned to us. We raised our glasses and they sheepishly toasted us back.
A while later the bachelor party arrived. Derwood's dad came over and we chatted a bit. The bachelor came over and we discovered that he was the President and CEO of the hospital that both my girlfriend and my sister worked at. Also that Derwood's dad knew my dad, and that my dad knew the bachelor. The circle was complete. Almost.
That's Miki. Most well-oiled bachelor party attendees would notice a girl like her and a few might attempt to talk to her. Our bachelor party had a few of these fellows. One of them was Derwood's dad. After a bit, he came back and said, "She said thanks for the drink. She's really nice. Do you want to meet her?" We stammered out a "yes."
So, he did what some guys do. He went over to the bar and brought Miki and her companion back to our table. And they sat down.
So for a couple hours we sat and drank with Miki and her friend. And Derwood's dad. And the hospital president. It was quite a group. I have no idea what we talked about.
Later, as she was leaving, she asked if we were going to the show and we said, no. We'd only learned of it earlier that night and also learned that it was sold out. She asked if we wanted to go to the show. We stammered out a "yes, please." She took our names and we said good night.
(The night wasn't over for us: Sans Miki, we went back to the hospital president's SWEET air-conditioned pad. It was in an old Coke bottle factory and it was swank. We drank his expensive booze and stayed up real late.)
The next night we went to the show. It was rad. We had "After Show" privileges, so we got to hang with the band. It was rad.
Lush has recently announced a reunion. They're working on new material and have announced a few live dates in the UK. I hope like hell that they will cross the pond and come to my town.
Tonight - The Phone Booth
(1st-time TNSC visit to this glorious dive)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Do you remember where you were on July 30th, 1994? I do, because it was one of the most epic, one-night adventures I've ever had. It started like many nights back then did: We went to the bar.
Let me back up a sec. I lived in Chicago at the time. I was with my girlfriend and my sister, and it was a hot, humid Saturday night and we were waiting for a pal from out of town to meet us at my apartment. We were supposed to be coming up with ideas on where to take my pal, Derwood, when he arrived. We could do no better than "the bar" when he got there.
Derwood was in town for a bachelor party. A family friend was getting married soon and Derwood, his father and several other blokes played golf and whooped it up at the club, then went to dinner. Derwood escaped to my pad at this point.
There were dozens of bars in our neighborhood, so we tried to figure out one that we hadn't been to recently and that had food. Derwood said he didn't care about food, so we set out on foot for a nice place called "The Jury Room." We chose this because Derwood's father and the rest of the bachelor party was going there after dinner. I knew Derwood's dad and thought it would be nice to see him again.
Halfway there, we saw a poster on a wall announcing a new album by a band we all really liked. "Split" was a new record by Lush. None of us knew of this new release. There was a banner on the poster: "See Lush LIVE at the Vic! 7/31/94!" Sweet! That's tomorrow! There was a banner on the banner: "Sold out." Shit!
We trudged on thrilled about the new record but bummed that we couldn't go to the show the following night. We reached the bar and passed its large front window to reach the door. As I passed the window, I noticed few people in the bar, but sitting at the bar itself were two people. One of them was a young woman with cherry-red hair. I had a thought.
We entered the bar and headed for the tables in the back. Passing the couple sitting at the bar, I heard the cherry-red haired woman speaking to her companion. She had a British accent. I glanced at her and she was, indeed, the guitarist and singer from Lush. We sat down and the waitress came to take our orders. We ordered and asked her to put the couple at the bar's next round on us. She did. We watched as she told them and they both turned to us. We raised our glasses and they sheepishly toasted us back.
A while later the bachelor party arrived. Derwood's dad came over and we chatted a bit. The bachelor came over and we discovered that he was the President and CEO of the hospital that both my girlfriend and my sister worked at. Also that Derwood's dad knew my dad, and that my dad knew the bachelor. The circle was complete. Almost.
That's Miki. Most well-oiled bachelor party attendees would notice a girl like her and a few might attempt to talk to her. Our bachelor party had a few of these fellows. One of them was Derwood's dad. After a bit, he came back and said, "She said thanks for the drink. She's really nice. Do you want to meet her?" We stammered out a "yes."
So, he did what some guys do. He went over to the bar and brought Miki and her companion back to our table. And they sat down.
So for a couple hours we sat and drank with Miki and her friend. And Derwood's dad. And the hospital president. It was quite a group. I have no idea what we talked about.
Later, as she was leaving, she asked if we were going to the show and we said, no. We'd only learned of it earlier that night and also learned that it was sold out. She asked if we wanted to go to the show. We stammered out a "yes, please." She took our names and we said good night.
(The night wasn't over for us: Sans Miki, we went back to the hospital president's SWEET air-conditioned pad. It was in an old Coke bottle factory and it was swank. We drank his expensive booze and stayed up real late.)
The next night we went to the show. It was rad. We had "After Show" privileges, so we got to hang with the band. It was rad.
Lush has recently announced a reunion. They're working on new material and have announced a few live dates in the UK. I hope like hell that they will cross the pond and come to my town.
Tonight - The Phone Booth
(1st-time TNSC visit to this glorious dive)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
WNSC?
** In an unprecedented maneuver, in lieu of a "secret" Thursday
Thanksgiving meeting, we're holding a requested Wednesday Night Social
Club. I guess there's a first for everything.
But read on.
11.4.2015 (first posted this week 2003)
So I had to submit to a urine test the other day. I'd been accused or using performance-enhancing drugs during the last Scrabble tournament I'd won and I had to clear my name. Boy is it a cutthroat world! Anyway, I don't know if you ever had to pee in a cup for anything other than normal reasons (?), but when you're a suspect, they treat you a lot different at the clinic. They're not nice. They're cold, they're quite rude and their stares burn a hole right through you. The clinician I was lucky enough to get was as big as a house and scary looking. He breathed through one nostril and squished his face into a scowl worthy of a Halloween mask. He ordered me to empty my pockets into a clear, lucite box. When I'd finished, he spun me around and fuckin'-A FRISKED me. "Jesus, buddy, watch yr hands," I said. He grunted a shutthefuckup. When his full-cavity search turned up nothing, he slapped a padlock on the lucite box and then handed me the box and thrust a piss cup in my hand. "Go in dere," he said, motioning to a room with a unisex symbol on the door, "and you gots fifteen seconds only. And yr being watched through the cameras and such. Don't do nothin' funny or I'm comin' in." Jesus, I thought, going into the room, no pressure or nothing.
I managed to fill the specimen cup in the alloted time and capped it. I opened the door and handed it over to the Neanderthal. "Here ya go, Piss Man," I said, "now unlock my shit, yo." I thought it was funny to call him Piss Man. And I aced the test. My pee was squeaky clean, yo. Don't need dope to throw my BCHSXYZ into _EN_O___AMP_OR_ to spell BENZOXYCAMPHORS and score 1830 points, yo.
Tonight - The Homestead.
Everyone have a very happy Thanksgiving Holiday!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
But read on.
11.4.2015 (first posted this week 2003)
So I had to submit to a urine test the other day. I'd been accused or using performance-enhancing drugs during the last Scrabble tournament I'd won and I had to clear my name. Boy is it a cutthroat world! Anyway, I don't know if you ever had to pee in a cup for anything other than normal reasons (?), but when you're a suspect, they treat you a lot different at the clinic. They're not nice. They're cold, they're quite rude and their stares burn a hole right through you. The clinician I was lucky enough to get was as big as a house and scary looking. He breathed through one nostril and squished his face into a scowl worthy of a Halloween mask. He ordered me to empty my pockets into a clear, lucite box. When I'd finished, he spun me around and fuckin'-A FRISKED me. "Jesus, buddy, watch yr hands," I said. He grunted a shutthefuckup. When his full-cavity search turned up nothing, he slapped a padlock on the lucite box and then handed me the box and thrust a piss cup in my hand. "Go in dere," he said, motioning to a room with a unisex symbol on the door, "and you gots fifteen seconds only. And yr being watched through the cameras and such. Don't do nothin' funny or I'm comin' in." Jesus, I thought, going into the room, no pressure or nothing.
I managed to fill the specimen cup in the alloted time and capped it. I opened the door and handed it over to the Neanderthal. "Here ya go, Piss Man," I said, "now unlock my shit, yo." I thought it was funny to call him Piss Man. And I aced the test. My pee was squeaky clean, yo. Don't need dope to throw my BCHSXYZ into _EN_O___AMP_OR_ to spell BENZOXYCAMPHORS and score 1830 points, yo.
Tonight - The Homestead.
Everyone have a very happy Thanksgiving Holiday!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Kennedy
11.2.2015
Baka guy!
In 1992 we were sitting around watching "120 Minutes" on MTV and Dave Kendall told us of a "hot new all-girl act from Japan" called Shonen Knife. They had just released their first major-label
record in the US, "Let's Knife." One of the tracks on the album was, "Antonio Baka Guy," and Dave explained to us that "baka" in Japanese means, "stupid." Baka Guy = Stupid man. We loved it.
The "we" I'm referring to is Jimi and me. Jimi and I had gone to school together in Phoenix and while I moved away to Chicago, he moved to California. At some point, he decided to move to Chicago and boxed up all his shit and moved there. He stayed in my apartment for a while, as he tried to find a job and a place of his own to move his boxed-up shit. It was winter and it was really cold and it's no fun to slog around looking for work and apartments. Jimi's Chicago experiment did not last long. He was back in sunny California by Spring.
But in the meantime, we watched MTV and learned exciting new foreign words like, "baka." We wore that word out. Replacing a word like, "stupid" demonstrated how frequently the word came up. Baka snow. Baka cat. Baka ice. Baka broken TV. Baka this. Baka that. I remember ordering a pizza and upon delivery, opening it and it wasn't what we ordered. We looked at each other and Jimi simply said, of the situation, "Baka."
I try not to say, "stupid" around my kid, as it's not a really nice word and I've proved it can apply to many people, places and situations. I don't like him saying it either. But, "baka?" Some day I'll teach him that.
Tonight - Club Deluxe.
TNSC Founding Member John Metsker's Birthday! Come on out and help him celebrate.
Of course Little Minsky's Burlesque will be performing, so bring $5 for the cover charge and enjoy!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Baka guy!
In 1992 we were sitting around watching "120 Minutes" on MTV and Dave Kendall told us of a "hot new all-girl act from Japan" called Shonen Knife. They had just released their first major-label
record in the US, "Let's Knife." One of the tracks on the album was, "Antonio Baka Guy," and Dave explained to us that "baka" in Japanese means, "stupid." Baka Guy = Stupid man. We loved it.
The "we" I'm referring to is Jimi and me. Jimi and I had gone to school together in Phoenix and while I moved away to Chicago, he moved to California. At some point, he decided to move to Chicago and boxed up all his shit and moved there. He stayed in my apartment for a while, as he tried to find a job and a place of his own to move his boxed-up shit. It was winter and it was really cold and it's no fun to slog around looking for work and apartments. Jimi's Chicago experiment did not last long. He was back in sunny California by Spring.
But in the meantime, we watched MTV and learned exciting new foreign words like, "baka." We wore that word out. Replacing a word like, "stupid" demonstrated how frequently the word came up. Baka snow. Baka cat. Baka ice. Baka broken TV. Baka this. Baka that. I remember ordering a pizza and upon delivery, opening it and it wasn't what we ordered. We looked at each other and Jimi simply said, of the situation, "Baka."
I try not to say, "stupid" around my kid, as it's not a really nice word and I've proved it can apply to many people, places and situations. I don't like him saying it either. But, "baka?" Some day I'll teach him that.
Tonight - Club Deluxe.
TNSC Founding Member John Metsker's Birthday! Come on out and help him celebrate.
Of course Little Minsky's Burlesque will be performing, so bring $5 for the cover charge and enjoy!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, November 05, 2015
It's a Jelly (REDUX)
11.1.2015 (first posted this day 2005)
Ya hear that one about varying yr routines so yr enemies don't know where and when to find you? I used to live like that. I used to exit the back door from work, ride a different bike to the bus depot, snag one of many routes that come near my place and then skitch a ride on a garbage truck. Or recycling truck. Or a cardboard-collector truck. See? Varying the mode can be easier than you think. If you say, "I have to skitch to work," I say, "so be it." Yr enemies will know where to look for you. UNLESS you vary the vehicle you skitch from. Skitch off that beer truck. Skitch off that Mission Uniform supply truck. Skitch off that UPS van (always a good skitch, that brown van), skitch off a bicycle, fer chrissakes (I done it.) Yr enemies will miss you if you skitch home off a Safeway Home Delivery van if they're looking for you skitching off a Entemen's bakery truck.
Tonight - Orbit Room
Yes... you read that right. It's the grand re-opening of the TNSC ground-zero. It might be packed, but TNSC is always "makin' the scene" (as kids say nowdays.) If all else fails, it's only a 3 block walk to Elixir.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Ya hear that one about varying yr routines so yr enemies don't know where and when to find you? I used to live like that. I used to exit the back door from work, ride a different bike to the bus depot, snag one of many routes that come near my place and then skitch a ride on a garbage truck. Or recycling truck. Or a cardboard-collector truck. See? Varying the mode can be easier than you think. If you say, "I have to skitch to work," I say, "so be it." Yr enemies will know where to look for you. UNLESS you vary the vehicle you skitch from. Skitch off that beer truck. Skitch off that Mission Uniform supply truck. Skitch off that UPS van (always a good skitch, that brown van), skitch off a bicycle, fer chrissakes (I done it.) Yr enemies will miss you if you skitch home off a Safeway Home Delivery van if they're looking for you skitching off a Entemen's bakery truck.
Tonight - Orbit Room
Yes... you read that right. It's the grand re-opening of the TNSC ground-zero. It might be packed, but TNSC is always "makin' the scene" (as kids say nowdays.) If all else fails, it's only a 3 block walk to Elixir.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Ka-Pow!!! (REDUX)
10.4.2015 (first posted 2002)
My dad told me a story about a job interview he once had. He said it was going well, as a friend of his was the HR director and was conducting the interview, and the other stuffed shirts in attendance seemed at friendly and slightly less formal than the situation suggested. My pop was a corporate labor lawyer and he was interviewing at Chicago’s biggest fireworks manufacturer’s headquarters. This outfit produced the popular Martian Starbursts, the Incandescent Swarms and the crowd-favorite Flaming Ass Ponys, and while it was very successful, its factorys were rife with worker’s comp cases. They needed someone with a lot of experience and my dad had a ton. The interview was coming to a close, or perhaps it was over and some smalltalk-pleasantries were being exchanged, hands were being shaken and such, when, quite naturally my dad said the word "fuck." His HR-pal went white and someone ripped the needle across the record; s c r e e c h i n g the post-interview gab session to a halt.
I stopped my dad’s account of the situation and asked him the context of his usage. He’s got an interesting way with words at times and he said something like: "Well I didn’t goddamn say I wanted to fuck the old guy’s wife or anything. Not even, 'I’ll git them slacker-fucks for ya.' No. It was 'Fuck yes, I think the Bears look bad.' Not my problem the guy’s some Christian anti-abusive-language ... um ... 'fuck'" I had to laugh. Then he said he's glad he got the info about the undocumented No Swearing policy. Had he been hired he'd have had to quit. He said something like, "I wouldn't work a day in a place where you couldn't say fuck." I agreed. Shame about all them fireworks, though.
Tonight - Homestead
Whole bunch of new folks on the list tonight. Work mates. They say fuck every other word. Thank fucking Christ. The venue has lots of booze and a killer juke. Bring yr friends. I know I will. The cell will be on. See you there! bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
My dad told me a story about a job interview he once had. He said it was going well, as a friend of his was the HR director and was conducting the interview, and the other stuffed shirts in attendance seemed at friendly and slightly less formal than the situation suggested. My pop was a corporate labor lawyer and he was interviewing at Chicago’s biggest fireworks manufacturer’s headquarters. This outfit produced the popular Martian Starbursts, the Incandescent Swarms and the crowd-favorite Flaming Ass Ponys, and while it was very successful, its factorys were rife with worker’s comp cases. They needed someone with a lot of experience and my dad had a ton. The interview was coming to a close, or perhaps it was over and some smalltalk-pleasantries were being exchanged, hands were being shaken and such, when, quite naturally my dad said the word "fuck." His HR-pal went white and someone ripped the needle across the record; s c r e e c h i n g the post-interview gab session to a halt.
I stopped my dad’s account of the situation and asked him the context of his usage. He’s got an interesting way with words at times and he said something like: "Well I didn’t goddamn say I wanted to fuck the old guy’s wife or anything. Not even, 'I’ll git them slacker-fucks for ya.' No. It was 'Fuck yes, I think the Bears look bad.' Not my problem the guy’s some Christian anti-abusive-language ... um ... 'fuck'" I had to laugh. Then he said he's glad he got the info about the undocumented No Swearing policy. Had he been hired he'd have had to quit. He said something like, "I wouldn't work a day in a place where you couldn't say fuck." I agreed. Shame about all them fireworks, though.
Tonight - Homestead
Whole bunch of new folks on the list tonight. Work mates. They say fuck every other word. Thank fucking Christ. The venue has lots of booze and a killer juke. Bring yr friends. I know I will. The cell will be on. See you there! bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Batter Up!! (REDUX)
10.3.2015 (originally posted this week in 2005)
I seen some pretty neat things while away in Greece and had time to reflect on things over there different from things here in the USA. As I have copious notes on this subject and will share some with you today, I know you all hate to read and many of you can't read at all so for those few who care (if that's the right word), I've picked and will limit this to three things.
1. Americans in America are retarded. (Note: Americans abroad as you all well know have and deserve the reputation as being utter retards - loud, obnoxious fools with no manners, big mouths and shitty taste. I'm talking here of Americans at home.) Americans in America are retarded because they drive huge fucking cars and don't have any use at all for that much machine. Really! I didn't see any Suburbans, Escapes, Exploders, Escalades ... uh ... any Lux'ry Japanese SUVs, Korean or German SUVs. What these people got by with were scooters, motorcycles and ittybitty little cars that can circle the islands they live on a hundred times on a tank of gas. Even downtown big city Athens, nothing but two-wheelers and tiny cars. We can't even buy a midget car if we wanted cuz thar ain't any demand. I spell that RETARD.
2. Americans in America are retarded. They are because they are afraid of titties. No titties on the beaches, none on TV and, oh yeh! the former Attorney General of the country had the exposed titties on the STATUE of Lady Justice in the Dept. of Justice building covered up. What is the problem here? Tits are fucking great. And if you go over to Europe and see 'em all over the place you might wonder what the big deal is back home and come to the same conclusion I did: RETARDED.
3. (This is the observation that hit me the hardest) Frito-Lay makes a shitload of different flavored tater chips! My god I had no idea! Sea salt flavor. Garlic-salt flavor. Celery-salt. White pepper. Red pepper. Black pepper. Black pepper with sea salt. Ketchup flavor. Mustard flavor. Tarragon-mustard flavor. Oregano. Olive oil and oregano. Pickle. Cabbage. Cheese. Sizzlin' Bacon flavor. Mushroom and spring onion flavor. God damn the variety makes Kettle Chips' catalog look like child's play. And then there's the most compelling flavor of all ... the flavor that at once made me laugh and cry, made me salivate and gag, made me dance and flee: Prawn flavor. I gave in and scored some, and as I wasn't too peckish, I snagged a can of local brew and called it dinner:
Tonight - Gino & Carlo (North Beach)
Get your Eye-talian on!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I seen some pretty neat things while away in Greece and had time to reflect on things over there different from things here in the USA. As I have copious notes on this subject and will share some with you today, I know you all hate to read and many of you can't read at all so for those few who care (if that's the right word), I've picked and will limit this to three things.
1. Americans in America are retarded. (Note: Americans abroad as you all well know have and deserve the reputation as being utter retards - loud, obnoxious fools with no manners, big mouths and shitty taste. I'm talking here of Americans at home.) Americans in America are retarded because they drive huge fucking cars and don't have any use at all for that much machine. Really! I didn't see any Suburbans, Escapes, Exploders, Escalades ... uh ... any Lux'ry Japanese SUVs, Korean or German SUVs. What these people got by with were scooters, motorcycles and ittybitty little cars that can circle the islands they live on a hundred times on a tank of gas. Even downtown big city Athens, nothing but two-wheelers and tiny cars. We can't even buy a midget car if we wanted cuz thar ain't any demand. I spell that RETARD.
2. Americans in America are retarded. They are because they are afraid of titties. No titties on the beaches, none on TV and, oh yeh! the former Attorney General of the country had the exposed titties on the STATUE of Lady Justice in the Dept. of Justice building covered up. What is the problem here? Tits are fucking great. And if you go over to Europe and see 'em all over the place you might wonder what the big deal is back home and come to the same conclusion I did: RETARDED.
3. (This is the observation that hit me the hardest) Frito-Lay makes a shitload of different flavored tater chips! My god I had no idea! Sea salt flavor. Garlic-salt flavor. Celery-salt. White pepper. Red pepper. Black pepper. Black pepper with sea salt. Ketchup flavor. Mustard flavor. Tarragon-mustard flavor. Oregano. Olive oil and oregano. Pickle. Cabbage. Cheese. Sizzlin' Bacon flavor. Mushroom and spring onion flavor. God damn the variety makes Kettle Chips' catalog look like child's play. And then there's the most compelling flavor of all ... the flavor that at once made me laugh and cry, made me salivate and gag, made me dance and flee: Prawn flavor. I gave in and scored some, and as I wasn't too peckish, I snagged a can of local brew and called it dinner:
Tonight - Gino & Carlo (North Beach)
Get your Eye-talian on!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Who can you trust?
10.3..2015
Some of you might remember when I reported that the gardeners, or yardmen, or "goon squad" (as I now refer to them) of my little rented house harvested the chiles from my jalapeño plant. They were there one minute and gone the next. Of course they denied doing it, but the list of suspects started and ended with them.
The chile caper happened some time ago, but the goon squad is here every Monday, so they have weekly chances to lie, cheat and steal. And they took one this past Monday.
I heard the truck arrive and they goons unload, start-up, and start pushing their mowers, blowers and whackers around. I heard them go in the back and I heard the truck leave. They will often use their bigger equipment first then leave a man to mop up or do some hand trimming while they take the mowers and such to another client's location. I looked around for any guy left over, didn't see one, and figured they didn't leave anyone this time.
Soon after all this, I began to hear a faint "chuk, chuk, chuk" sound. I peered out the window in the front, nothing. I checked the side, also nothing. I gave up and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then I heard it again, and zeroed its location. I looked out through the shutters and saw a guy, fully in the bushes at the front of the house, gently hacking at the base of the large bird-of-paradise plant that's there. "Chuk, chuk, chuk." I watched as he removed a good third of the bush, gently lay it on its side, then backfill the hole he just made. Then he took the bird and put it in his bin and dragged it and his shovel to the corner, presumably the pick-up spot. That's when I moved.
I went outside and found he spoke no English. I pointed and said, "¿que pasa?" He said it's basura. I didn't buy that it was trash (if it was trash, he'd put it in our green yard refuse bin). I said, bring it to the back. He did. I took it from him and closed the gate.
I reported this to my landlord and he said the guy was probably taking it to another client and would charge them for it. He wasn't happy about it but was glad that I didn't let it happen.
I dug out the hole in the back yard where the tree was before it fell and I now have a nearly-stolen bird of paradise in it.
Thief thwarted!
Tonight - Black Sands Brewery. (by request)
Note that they close at midnight, but Toronado is just a block or so away for you night owls.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Some of you might remember when I reported that the gardeners, or yardmen, or "goon squad" (as I now refer to them) of my little rented house harvested the chiles from my jalapeño plant. They were there one minute and gone the next. Of course they denied doing it, but the list of suspects started and ended with them.
The chile caper happened some time ago, but the goon squad is here every Monday, so they have weekly chances to lie, cheat and steal. And they took one this past Monday.
I heard the truck arrive and they goons unload, start-up, and start pushing their mowers, blowers and whackers around. I heard them go in the back and I heard the truck leave. They will often use their bigger equipment first then leave a man to mop up or do some hand trimming while they take the mowers and such to another client's location. I looked around for any guy left over, didn't see one, and figured they didn't leave anyone this time.
Soon after all this, I began to hear a faint "chuk, chuk, chuk" sound. I peered out the window in the front, nothing. I checked the side, also nothing. I gave up and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then I heard it again, and zeroed its location. I looked out through the shutters and saw a guy, fully in the bushes at the front of the house, gently hacking at the base of the large bird-of-paradise plant that's there. "Chuk, chuk, chuk." I watched as he removed a good third of the bush, gently lay it on its side, then backfill the hole he just made. Then he took the bird and put it in his bin and dragged it and his shovel to the corner, presumably the pick-up spot. That's when I moved.
I went outside and found he spoke no English. I pointed and said, "¿que pasa?" He said it's basura. I didn't buy that it was trash (if it was trash, he'd put it in our green yard refuse bin). I said, bring it to the back. He did. I took it from him and closed the gate.
I reported this to my landlord and he said the guy was probably taking it to another client and would charge them for it. He wasn't happy about it but was glad that I didn't let it happen.
I dug out the hole in the back yard where the tree was before it fell and I now have a nearly-stolen bird of paradise in it.
Thief thwarted!
Tonight - Black Sands Brewery. (by request)
Note that they close at midnight, but Toronado is just a block or so away for you night owls.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 08, 2015
Laid (REDUX)
10.2.2015 (originally posted this week 2001)
I wish I was born in a donut factory. That way I would have eaten so many I’d certainly be sick of them by now. I ain’t, though. I’m not at all sick of donuts. I could eat donuts from now till doomsday. I was sittin’ on the bus the other day and passed one “HappyDonutChineseDinner” after the other and that got me to thinking about the almighty Donut.
If yer one of the two dopes that reads alla way through this mess each and every week you might remember a short time ago when I pledged my love and devotion to the brownie. There was a sad tale about a brownie that went missing? Anyone remember? Yeh, well, if you read that and remembered it while you were reading the previous paragraph you might be thinking about a conflict of interest. Like, “Oh, what a fickle Robot: One moment it’s the brownie, then it’s the donut. What’s next? The Bugle filled with Rooster sauce? The Number 11? Another story about fuckin’ nachos instead about my fucking belly-dance troupe? What, Robot, is the junk food of choice? And why write about that crap anyway? Some other worthy subjects come to mind immediately: Beer, scissors, buttons, sleeves that are too long, pencil cacti, webcams, quilts, lighters, booty calls, saying “oof” in the middle of the night, film festivals, iron on’s, morning wood, and asparagus-pee-stench.” (All this begs the question, did anyone read the previous paragraph in the first place?) Robot answers his self-perceived critics: Donut is worthy subject matter. Read on and see the influence Donut has had over the years …
When I was a child I saw some after-school special that had this donut machine going shit-crazy-nuts and spitting out enough donuts to fill one room, then another, then the whole building, eventually flooding the world with donuts. That scared the shit outta me, but also inspired me to vow not to ever let that happen. With ample supplies of hot black coffee and ice-cold milk I would lead a group of volunteer 2nd and 3rd graders against the rampaging toroidal carbohydrate units!
When I was a 7th-grader, I had a knack for diagramming sentences. You remember that shit? Here’s a refresher:
I ate a bunch of donuts and gained about a million pounds.
I could diagram sentences like there was no tomorrow. Sadly for my best friend Phil and a lot of other 7th-graders, they were not so lucky. The kick to the nuts was that we had to diagram sentences from the first day of school to the last day of school and every day in between. Phil and the rest of the poor bastards had salvation, though: Tasty Pastry. Oh my gawd the glazed donuts from Tasty Pastry bakery were the best on the planet! They came in these wax paper bags and would kinda get squished and stomped in kids’ backpacks on the way to school. Why were they bringing donuts to school? Let’s just say that for a Tasty Pastry glazed I might let Phil have a look at my paper. Them donuts were legal tender.
My pal in high school who was to become the rock god known as Bob Log III had a cool old car with this bitchin hood ornament. I looked like a jet plane with a long nose-section and fuselage sticking out (kinda phallic-like) and the wings of the jet incorporated in the hood. My friend Danny put a donut on the hood ornament with the plane nose going right through the hole. Ha! Bobby liked it so much he left it until some bird ate it.
Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti brought a mess of donuts (from the Sanitary Bakery no less) in to work the morning his co-workers needed them most. The jelly-filled and long johns soothed anxious ex-employees.
Booze from this joint is sure to soothe too:
Tonight - Hi Dive
The ships are in!! Come on out and buy an able-bodied seaman a drink!
(note parking meters enforced until 9pm)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I wish I was born in a donut factory. That way I would have eaten so many I’d certainly be sick of them by now. I ain’t, though. I’m not at all sick of donuts. I could eat donuts from now till doomsday. I was sittin’ on the bus the other day and passed one “HappyDonutChineseDinner” after the other and that got me to thinking about the almighty Donut.
If yer one of the two dopes that reads alla way through this mess each and every week you might remember a short time ago when I pledged my love and devotion to the brownie. There was a sad tale about a brownie that went missing? Anyone remember? Yeh, well, if you read that and remembered it while you were reading the previous paragraph you might be thinking about a conflict of interest. Like, “Oh, what a fickle Robot: One moment it’s the brownie, then it’s the donut. What’s next? The Bugle filled with Rooster sauce? The Number 11? Another story about fuckin’ nachos instead about my fucking belly-dance troupe? What, Robot, is the junk food of choice? And why write about that crap anyway? Some other worthy subjects come to mind immediately: Beer, scissors, buttons, sleeves that are too long, pencil cacti, webcams, quilts, lighters, booty calls, saying “oof” in the middle of the night, film festivals, iron on’s, morning wood, and asparagus-pee-stench.” (All this begs the question, did anyone read the previous paragraph in the first place?) Robot answers his self-perceived critics: Donut is worthy subject matter. Read on and see the influence Donut has had over the years …
When I was a child I saw some after-school special that had this donut machine going shit-crazy-nuts and spitting out enough donuts to fill one room, then another, then the whole building, eventually flooding the world with donuts. That scared the shit outta me, but also inspired me to vow not to ever let that happen. With ample supplies of hot black coffee and ice-cold milk I would lead a group of volunteer 2nd and 3rd graders against the rampaging toroidal carbohydrate units!
When I was a 7th-grader, I had a knack for diagramming sentences. You remember that shit? Here’s a refresher:
I ate a bunch of donuts and gained about a million pounds.
I could diagram sentences like there was no tomorrow. Sadly for my best friend Phil and a lot of other 7th-graders, they were not so lucky. The kick to the nuts was that we had to diagram sentences from the first day of school to the last day of school and every day in between. Phil and the rest of the poor bastards had salvation, though: Tasty Pastry. Oh my gawd the glazed donuts from Tasty Pastry bakery were the best on the planet! They came in these wax paper bags and would kinda get squished and stomped in kids’ backpacks on the way to school. Why were they bringing donuts to school? Let’s just say that for a Tasty Pastry glazed I might let Phil have a look at my paper. Them donuts were legal tender.
My pal in high school who was to become the rock god known as Bob Log III had a cool old car with this bitchin hood ornament. I looked like a jet plane with a long nose-section and fuselage sticking out (kinda phallic-like) and the wings of the jet incorporated in the hood. My friend Danny put a donut on the hood ornament with the plane nose going right through the hole. Ha! Bobby liked it so much he left it until some bird ate it.
Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti brought a mess of donuts (from the Sanitary Bakery no less) in to work the morning his co-workers needed them most. The jelly-filled and long johns soothed anxious ex-employees.
Booze from this joint is sure to soothe too:
Tonight - Hi Dive
The ships are in!! Come on out and buy an able-bodied seaman a drink!
(note parking meters enforced until 9pm)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 24, 2015
I hate Florida. (REDUX)
9.4.2015
(This is a cut & paste from a venue announcement from this day 8 years ago - link and all. I guess that it was before Yelp™really took off)
Waded into the express lane at the Ralph's yesterday w/ a cart full of junk. Didn't notice the sign until it was too late, then, when the cashier brought it to my attention, I didn't care.
Is that wrong?
Tonight - Homestead.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
(This is a cut & paste from a venue announcement from this day 8 years ago - link and all. I guess that it was before Yelp™really took off)
Waded into the express lane at the Ralph's yesterday w/ a cart full of junk. Didn't notice the sign until it was too late, then, when the cashier brought it to my attention, I didn't care.
Is that wrong?
Tonight - Homestead.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Glitch
9.3.2015
Robot will return to normal use mode soon.
Tonight - Latin American Club
By request. And in true dive fashio , it's CASH ONLY.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Robot will return to normal use mode soon.
Tonight - Latin American Club
By request. And in true dive fashio , it's CASH ONLY.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Kershaw-ed
9.2.2015
A couple weeks ago my pal texted me and asked if I wanted to go to the Cubs @ LAD game on the coming Friday night. I was ticketed for Saturday night already, but I do love me a good stadium beer, hot dog and time with my pal - let alone my fav baseball team in "real life" - so I said the obvious thing: "Let me ask my wife."
I did and she said she didn't give a fuck, so I went. It was fun: My pal has great seats and they come with the so-called "Stadium Club" privileges. This is a bar and grill, essentially, that is in the the second deck in right field, down the first base line. It would have a "no riff raff" sign on it, if it was in another, more genteel age, but if ya got the cash, you are in, my scuzzy friend! (And most LAD fans are indeed, scuzzy.)
So we started the night right and enjoyed a boilermaker (well bourbon (surprisingly good)) and a Bud (predictably gross)) in the Stadium Club. Because the place was packed, we left for our seats and were treated to a crappy performance by the Cubs, but for a MONSTER home run to center field by one of our young stars, at which point the place went bananas. There were thousands of sensible people (Cubs fans) in the audience.
So anyway, the game wore on and Cubs batters struck out 14 times and when thousands of sensible fans left unhappy, my pal and I went back to the Stadium Club for a nightcap. There we met a guy in a Wiener Circle t-shirt, and I was quick to inform him that I lived next door to that very hot dog, um, restaurant for several years! He was super cool, his girlfriend was really cool and the four of us yukked it up until they literally herded us out.
We split up in the nearly vacant carpark after exchanging contact info, and very happily marched to the car. As we passed a car, a young child approached it. My pal or I commented, "Is he old enough to drive?" as he reached it. Steps away, the car started. Clearly from a remote starter fob. Since the kid was alone, we turned and saw a couple others 100 or so feet away. "Wow," one of us said, "that remote starter fob has great range." Thrillsville, right?
We got in the car and drove to the first exit. The remotely-started car pulled up next to us on my side, the driver's window was down and the driver was speaking to us. I rolled down my window and asked, "may I help you?"
"You say something profane to my kid? He said you said something profane to him."
"No, sir, we didn't. The child is mistaken." I returned.
"You didn't say something profane?"
"No. We merely commented on the excellent range your remote starter had. I don't think there's anything profane about that."
"Oh," he said.
Do with what you will with that wonderful brush with strangers in Dodger Stadium's parking lot. At least we didn't get our heads kicked in, right?
Tonight - Virgil's Sea Room
By request. "Sea" you on the patio!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
A couple weeks ago my pal texted me and asked if I wanted to go to the Cubs @ LAD game on the coming Friday night. I was ticketed for Saturday night already, but I do love me a good stadium beer, hot dog and time with my pal - let alone my fav baseball team in "real life" - so I said the obvious thing: "Let me ask my wife."
I did and she said she didn't give a fuck, so I went. It was fun: My pal has great seats and they come with the so-called "Stadium Club" privileges. This is a bar and grill, essentially, that is in the the second deck in right field, down the first base line. It would have a "no riff raff" sign on it, if it was in another, more genteel age, but if ya got the cash, you are in, my scuzzy friend! (And most LAD fans are indeed, scuzzy.)
So we started the night right and enjoyed a boilermaker (well bourbon (surprisingly good)) and a Bud (predictably gross)) in the Stadium Club. Because the place was packed, we left for our seats and were treated to a crappy performance by the Cubs, but for a MONSTER home run to center field by one of our young stars, at which point the place went bananas. There were thousands of sensible people (Cubs fans) in the audience.
So anyway, the game wore on and Cubs batters struck out 14 times and when thousands of sensible fans left unhappy, my pal and I went back to the Stadium Club for a nightcap. There we met a guy in a Wiener Circle t-shirt, and I was quick to inform him that I lived next door to that very hot dog, um, restaurant for several years! He was super cool, his girlfriend was really cool and the four of us yukked it up until they literally herded us out.
We split up in the nearly vacant carpark after exchanging contact info, and very happily marched to the car. As we passed a car, a young child approached it. My pal or I commented, "Is he old enough to drive?" as he reached it. Steps away, the car started. Clearly from a remote starter fob. Since the kid was alone, we turned and saw a couple others 100 or so feet away. "Wow," one of us said, "that remote starter fob has great range." Thrillsville, right?
We got in the car and drove to the first exit. The remotely-started car pulled up next to us on my side, the driver's window was down and the driver was speaking to us. I rolled down my window and asked, "may I help you?"
"You say something profane to my kid? He said you said something profane to him."
"No, sir, we didn't. The child is mistaken." I returned.
"You didn't say something profane?"
"No. We merely commented on the excellent range your remote starter had. I don't think there's anything profane about that."
"Oh," he said.
Do with what you will with that wonderful brush with strangers in Dodger Stadium's parking lot. At least we didn't get our heads kicked in, right?
Tonight - Virgil's Sea Room
By request. "Sea" you on the patio!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 03, 2015
Get Ript
9.1.2015
As part of the TNSC Venue Preservatio Society, we're looking both forwards and backwards tonight.
Looking forward, there's a benefit this evening for the staff of the venerable Riptide, which recently shuttered due to a conflagration. They're aiming to reopen, and can use your help. $10 cover for bands / silent auction / raffle all to raise funds. Let's support our "troops" across town.
The benefit takes place at: Elbo Room (cash only)
Look for us in the downstairs bar. In the event that the event is oversold, our fallback is the 500 Club a block away.
See you there.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
As part of the TNSC Venue Preservatio Society, we're looking both forwards and backwards tonight.
Looking forward, there's a benefit this evening for the staff of the venerable Riptide, which recently shuttered due to a conflagration. They're aiming to reopen, and can use your help. $10 cover for bands / silent auction / raffle all to raise funds. Let's support our "troops" across town.
The benefit takes place at: Elbo Room (cash only)
Look for us in the downstairs bar. In the event that the event is oversold, our fallback is the 500 Club a block away.
See you there.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Shiny Metal Ass
8.4.2015
After the deluxe Venue Announcement from last week, Robot is exhausted. And Robot chopped off a digit while slicing bacon.
This week you get this:
Point your cars, bikes, motorcycles and shoes to:
The Homestead.
See you there.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
After the deluxe Venue Announcement from last week, Robot is exhausted. And Robot chopped off a digit while slicing bacon.
This week you get this:
Point your cars, bikes, motorcycles and shoes to:
The Homestead.
See you there.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 20, 2015
A Dingo Ate my Dingle. (REDUX)
8.3.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2005)
I was on a rocket-sled to Hell, as usual, and I figured enough was enough. I switched off the fuel pump, waited for the motor to conk out, deployed all four 'chutes and when the speed dipped just below mach 1 I hopped out, hit the ground running and almost stuck the landing. Alas, a skinned knee is better than the usual ass-over-tits roll through the gravel I usually manage.
I collected myself, straightened up, and started walking. In moments I met my pal. "Where you been," I asked. "I hopped out the 'sled just after you. Thanks for the heads-up, asshole," she said. I had forgotten that she was in the same boat I was and apologized profusely. She said, "anyways ... "
Tonight - Broken Record.
That's right... in the Crocker Amazon.
"Escort quality, hooker prices."
**Cash only** Closes at midnight, so come early.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was on a rocket-sled to Hell, as usual, and I figured enough was enough. I switched off the fuel pump, waited for the motor to conk out, deployed all four 'chutes and when the speed dipped just below mach 1 I hopped out, hit the ground running and almost stuck the landing. Alas, a skinned knee is better than the usual ass-over-tits roll through the gravel I usually manage.
I collected myself, straightened up, and started walking. In moments I met my pal. "Where you been," I asked. "I hopped out the 'sled just after you. Thanks for the heads-up, asshole," she said. I had forgotten that she was in the same boat I was and apologized profusely. She said, "anyways ... "
Tonight - Broken Record.
That's right... in the Crocker Amazon.
"Escort quality, hooker prices."
**Cash only** Closes at midnight, so come early.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Look, Ma, Free Beer!
8.2.2015
Let's hope there's free beer somewhere tomorrow! I love free beer.
The other day I didn't exactly get free beer, but it was beer that got me something free: 50 pounds of Scoop Away® kitty cat litter! Here's how:
I went to the Target because the Target has the cat litter that Pork Chop and I like. It comes in 25 pound cartons and I buy a couple of them, because trekking out to Target kinda stinks. So I snag a cart and Tokyo drift the fucker over to the pet section, haul two of the big, heavy cartons into the cart and push over to the beer section. I throw a 30-pak of Coors® Light™on top of the cat litter, then push over to the cleaning supplies section. I throw a couple more things in and push to the checkout counter. At lane 4, I queue up behind a lady with a package of dish towels, a squeegee, lime Jell-o® and a car battery. She paid with coins, so it took a while. I spaced out for a bit.
When it was my turn, I turned the beer carton on its barcode side and the counter gal leaned over from her station and scanned it. I said, "there are two boxes of cat litter here too," and she said, "can I see your ID?" I dug it out and handed it over. She then scanned the cleaning supplies while I put my ID away. She asked if I wanted the bags I brought separated (there were two brown paper bags with handles doubled-up (for strength)) and I said no thanks. Then she asked to see my American Express card, which I had swiped through the zapper a moment before she asked about the bags. I showed it to here and she handed it back, hit a button, and gave me my receipt.
I was pushing the thing out the door when it struck me that she didn't zap the cat litter. I pushed a little farther and was convinced that she didn't zap it. I checked the receipt and sure enough, there wasn't a charge for 50 pounds of Scoop Away®. I chalked it up to one of those times when the dust settles in your favor. That and beer stepping up and working magic.
Tonight - Dovre Club
Get your Irish on!!! (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Let's hope there's free beer somewhere tomorrow! I love free beer.
The other day I didn't exactly get free beer, but it was beer that got me something free: 50 pounds of Scoop Away® kitty cat litter! Here's how:
I went to the Target because the Target has the cat litter that Pork Chop and I like. It comes in 25 pound cartons and I buy a couple of them, because trekking out to Target kinda stinks. So I snag a cart and Tokyo drift the fucker over to the pet section, haul two of the big, heavy cartons into the cart and push over to the beer section. I throw a 30-pak of Coors® Light™on top of the cat litter, then push over to the cleaning supplies section. I throw a couple more things in and push to the checkout counter. At lane 4, I queue up behind a lady with a package of dish towels, a squeegee, lime Jell-o® and a car battery. She paid with coins, so it took a while. I spaced out for a bit.
When it was my turn, I turned the beer carton on its barcode side and the counter gal leaned over from her station and scanned it. I said, "there are two boxes of cat litter here too," and she said, "can I see your ID?" I dug it out and handed it over. She then scanned the cleaning supplies while I put my ID away. She asked if I wanted the bags I brought separated (there were two brown paper bags with handles doubled-up (for strength)) and I said no thanks. Then she asked to see my American Express card, which I had swiped through the zapper a moment before she asked about the bags. I showed it to here and she handed it back, hit a button, and gave me my receipt.
I was pushing the thing out the door when it struck me that she didn't zap the cat litter. I pushed a little farther and was convinced that she didn't zap it. I checked the receipt and sure enough, there wasn't a charge for 50 pounds of Scoop Away®. I chalked it up to one of those times when the dust settles in your favor. That and beer stepping up and working magic.
Tonight - Dovre Club
Get your Irish on!!! (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 06, 2015
Santa's Little Helper (REDUX)
8.1.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2005)
I was thinking about 50 bucks and how I wish I had 50 bucks because I could get me a few things I figure I really need: Beer, ice, Blue Diamond Smokehouse Almonds and some Coppertone Sport Ultra Sweatproof Spray-on SPF 15 because I got a backyard, a lounge chair, a sunny day, an early Cubs road game from Philly and No Fucking Job to get in the way of drinking ice-cold beer and watching the game out in the back. 50 bucks would do it just fine.
I scored 50 bucks at the track one day. I had my racing form and handicapped the shit out of a Tri in the 4th ("Old Dad's Dingus" to Win, "Monkeyballs" to Place and a ugly horse named "Horseboy's KickAz Riding Crop" to Show, boxed). I was confident and went to place my bet. I stood in a long line and inched forward as Post Time approached. Most people around me were doing last minute handicapping: Circling, underlining, scratching things out, calculating and divining the winners. They were all occupied and I wasn't. I was looking around the joint, at them, at the tellers, at the clock and at the line I was in. I happened to look down at the floor and there was that Yankee looking back at me. U. S. Grant. He stared at me from the floor and I swear winked. I quickly checked to my left and my right and everyone was still frantically choosing their bets. So I bent over and snagged the $50. Sonofabitch! My Tri paid off and I hadn't even make the bet. I looked around me again while holding the fifty with both hands in front of me. This time there was an old dude in the line to my left looking right at me. I said, "Whatcha gonna do?" as I thought he saw me pick up the bill. I don't know if he saw me pick it up or not but he saw me standing there holding a fifty dollar bill like a moron and he said the best and only thing that he could. He said, "Race."
Now then, in case you are wondering, it was a horse track. I don't go to dog tracks because those motherfuckers treat dogs like shit. Torture and murder and shit and I don't cotton to treatment of dogs like that. So I boycott dog tracks. BUT! if dogs are running at a horse track, I'm game. And so when the Police K9 competition and exhibition was held at Golden Gate Fields a few weeks back my grrrrl and I were there. It was awesome. We sat in the grandstands, drank beer and watched the police dogs do obstacle courses, swim and best of all, put the BIG BITE down on these geeks in fatty suits. There was a wide range of experience-levels in the dogs and the younger, inexperienced dogs would jog up to the geeks and bite 'em okay but the older, experienced dogs would HAUL ASS up to and HIT the geeks at FULL SPEED and HANG ON. It was totally awesome. These doggys were cops and they knew it. After the exhibition they were lined up at the Happy Donut truck. I swear to god.
Tonight - Bender's (cash only)
Oh yeah ... in case you are wondering ... my Trifecta results from that day: Triple-Dead-Heat. They tied for last.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Kevin
7.5.2015
My life has been more free since I stopped recycling.
My mother taught me years ago to recycle things. "Everything you can," she said. "The people at the recycling center will sort it out and chuck it if they don't want it." I lived by her words until just recently.
I put every can,* bottle, box and scrap of paper into the blue bin. Shoe boxes, plastic frozen tater tot bags, you name it. If it crushed, melted, shredded or pulped, it went in. Oh and it went in as is, meaning, I do not rinse.
So it got to the point that my big, blue, outside recycling bin would fill up by Sunday night. The truck comes on Friday! I'd be out of space and begging the divers to dig deep and take everything they could. "Help a guy out," I'd say, but there was often a language gap.
So the other day, after getting a Cease and Desist order from Ace™ Recycling (a private group in public service, or something) detailing six continuous months of unrinsed salsa jars and crumb-filled taco chip bags, I decided to give up. Everything goes into the black bin now.
Jebus, the ants and the divers can sort it out.
Tonight - Homestead.
*Excluding beer cans, natch. I get my nickel back from Jerry Brown for those.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
My life has been more free since I stopped recycling.
My mother taught me years ago to recycle things. "Everything you can," she said. "The people at the recycling center will sort it out and chuck it if they don't want it." I lived by her words until just recently.
I put every can,* bottle, box and scrap of paper into the blue bin. Shoe boxes, plastic frozen tater tot bags, you name it. If it crushed, melted, shredded or pulped, it went in. Oh and it went in as is, meaning, I do not rinse.
So it got to the point that my big, blue, outside recycling bin would fill up by Sunday night. The truck comes on Friday! I'd be out of space and begging the divers to dig deep and take everything they could. "Help a guy out," I'd say, but there was often a language gap.
So the other day, after getting a Cease and Desist order from Ace™ Recycling (a private group in public service, or something) detailing six continuous months of unrinsed salsa jars and crumb-filled taco chip bags, I decided to give up. Everything goes into the black bin now.
Jebus, the ants and the divers can sort it out.
Tonight - Homestead.
*Excluding beer cans, natch. I get my nickel back from Jerry Brown for those.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 23, 2015
LOVE (REDUX)
7.4.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2005)
It is indeed a Summer laced with repeating past glories. I wrote about Phil and I repeating our 1988 drive across the desert to Phoenix. This day I will write briefly about another thing that will repeat: Witnessing live in concert Sonic Youth with guests Redd Kross! Another Phil (not the one I drove the desert with) and I saw these very same acts in 1990 in Chicago at the venerable Vic Theater. Wow. This time the show's at Hollywood's Greek Theater and Phil and I are joined by two other Phils ... neither being the Phil I drove the desert with. Get it?
Fuck Barry and the Giants ... the Cubbies sure did!
Tonight - Dogpatch Saloon
Jay Herda's Birthday!!! C'mon out and celebrate!!
Also, Joan and JPo's "hangover" BDays - because the more, the merrier!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
It is indeed a Summer laced with repeating past glories. I wrote about Phil and I repeating our 1988 drive across the desert to Phoenix. This day I will write briefly about another thing that will repeat: Witnessing live in concert Sonic Youth with guests Redd Kross! Another Phil (not the one I drove the desert with) and I saw these very same acts in 1990 in Chicago at the venerable Vic Theater. Wow. This time the show's at Hollywood's Greek Theater and Phil and I are joined by two other Phils ... neither being the Phil I drove the desert with. Get it?
Fuck Barry and the Giants ... the Cubbies sure did!
Tonight - Dogpatch Saloon
Jay Herda's Birthday!!! C'mon out and celebrate!!
Also, Joan and JPo's "hangover" BDays - because the more, the merrier!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 16, 2015
What Do Ya Want?
7.3.2015
Just before the Y2K disaster, I visited New York City. Linkey Loo Robot is there right now and he's reminding me of drinking in NYC, because he's .... drinking in NYC.
The fun things I remember about drinking in NYC include drinking in really swank places, like in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, as well as in Brooklyn "bars" that had not a single light in the place but had real coolers - with ice - to keep beers cold. The not as fun thing I distinctly remember is the attitude one barkeep had when I had to make an emergency pit-stop.
The group of jokers I was with had had fried eggs and bloodys a few hours earlier, followed by hired-car rides to Manhattan. We enjoyed "road sodas" on the trip and found ourselves at a bar upon arrival. One of us booked some luncheon and we set to foot, as the restaurant was a few blocks off and it was a nice day. We passed a saloon just as I felt the earlier beverage service catch up to me and I called out for a quick rest. I ducked into the parlor.
I did not walk in like I owned the place, but I did bee-line to the rear of the joint, expecting to find the loo. There were a few people at the bar, none together. The keep polished a glass and eyed me walking. "Can I help you?" she said. She had a Sheryl Crow-like look about her: Dark blonde streaks in brown curls to her shoulders, a red plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, one higher than the other. I couldn't see if the tails were tucked into worn jeans secured with a two-inch brown leather belt, but if her lower was like her upper, they were.
"You have a restroom back here somewhere, don't you?" I said. My tone was congenial and had a smile to go with it. She was having neither. "It's for customers. You're not a customer." I stayed friendly and said, "Shoot me a Wild Turkey, then, will ya? I'll be back to collect it in a minute."
I relieved myself and returned to the bar, the shot waiting for me. She said, "8 bucks, and you might want to do this backwards next time." I nodded. "Buy a drink first," she said. I thanked her for translating. I took my shot standing and dug into my pocket, took a ten from the wad and dropped it on the bar. "You have the New York attitude down pat, ma'am," I said. "Thanks for the drink."
Tonight - Royal Cuckoo
Happy BDay Joan!! Happy BDay JPo!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Just before the Y2K disaster, I visited New York City. Linkey Loo Robot is there right now and he's reminding me of drinking in NYC, because he's .... drinking in NYC.
The fun things I remember about drinking in NYC include drinking in really swank places, like in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, as well as in Brooklyn "bars" that had not a single light in the place but had real coolers - with ice - to keep beers cold. The not as fun thing I distinctly remember is the attitude one barkeep had when I had to make an emergency pit-stop.
The group of jokers I was with had had fried eggs and bloodys a few hours earlier, followed by hired-car rides to Manhattan. We enjoyed "road sodas" on the trip and found ourselves at a bar upon arrival. One of us booked some luncheon and we set to foot, as the restaurant was a few blocks off and it was a nice day. We passed a saloon just as I felt the earlier beverage service catch up to me and I called out for a quick rest. I ducked into the parlor.
I did not walk in like I owned the place, but I did bee-line to the rear of the joint, expecting to find the loo. There were a few people at the bar, none together. The keep polished a glass and eyed me walking. "Can I help you?" she said. She had a Sheryl Crow-like look about her: Dark blonde streaks in brown curls to her shoulders, a red plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, one higher than the other. I couldn't see if the tails were tucked into worn jeans secured with a two-inch brown leather belt, but if her lower was like her upper, they were.
"You have a restroom back here somewhere, don't you?" I said. My tone was congenial and had a smile to go with it. She was having neither. "It's for customers. You're not a customer." I stayed friendly and said, "Shoot me a Wild Turkey, then, will ya? I'll be back to collect it in a minute."
I relieved myself and returned to the bar, the shot waiting for me. She said, "8 bucks, and you might want to do this backwards next time." I nodded. "Buy a drink first," she said. I thanked her for translating. I took my shot standing and dug into my pocket, took a ten from the wad and dropped it on the bar. "You have the New York attitude down pat, ma'am," I said. "Thanks for the drink."
Tonight - Royal Cuckoo
Happy BDay Joan!! Happy BDay JPo!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 09, 2015
Timberland
7.2.2015
I was putting on socks the other day and while hopping around the room, trying to hoist one of them up, I nearly fell over. I caught myself, but in doing so, I remembered something funny that happened to me 40 years ago:
I had just been admitted to the local hospital. I was to undergo surgery to remove a bad attitude or something. My nurse came in and introduced herself and handed me a rag to cover myself. After disrobing to only striped socks, she asked if she could see my bad attitude, and having reached the point of total humility because it was so awful, I showed her, saying, "it's disgusting, but here ya go." She said, "I've been to Walmart; you can't gross me out." She looked then made a, "fffft" noise. That made me feel a bit better and I reached for a sock, started tugging, hopping and swearing and when I inevitably lost my balance, I saw her do something: She lurched toward me. The moment she lurched, I corrected with a hop and swiped the sock off my foot. I noticed her lunge but thought nothing of it.
She was a great nurse. I asked her if she could put the beers I'd brought with me in a fridge and she said ok, but we don't have an opener, so why don't you just enjoy some Dilaudid? "After all," she added, "your doctor prescribed it." I relented and she pushed the stuff into the IV she'd chucked into my left arm a short time earlier. Within seconds, I exited the gift shop.
I had nothing else to do, so I enjoyed some movies on AMC: Roman Holiday and Rome Adventure. One does not need opiates to enjoy staring at Audrey Hepburn, but it makes it even more fun. The nurse came in a couple more times and made Orson Wells' Touch of Evil a bit more touchy. Night Nurse, the 1931 William A. Wellman feature with Barbara Stanwick and Clark Gable featuring this classic exchange:
Lora Hart: Who are you?
Nick, the Chauffeur: I'm Nick... the chauffeur
started just after the shift change and my night nurse came in and topped-off the dope. I enjoyed the pre-code movie more than I usually enjoy pre-code movies (not sure why), and shortly after it ended, I fell asleep and dreamed weird stuff (again, not sure why).
I woke early and the night nurse kissed my cheek (gave me more dope) and said good luck, turning over the reins to another former Army nurse who had blonde streaks and a no-nonsense way about her: Joyless, sorta, but kind (she gave me more Dilaudid). When she wheeled me into the surgery bay she broke form and snickered when I read the wall signs and proposed the "Laser Room" instead of "S2." Her chuckle might have had something to do with the Dr. Evil-voice I used to propose the room switch.
She hipped a big, low, door-opening wall button and gave my bed a big shove into the surgery bay, and just before I crashed into the other shopping carts, a large
, tattooed guy with his OR scrub sleeves cut off, a top-knot of hair on his head and some former patient's bone through his nose caught me. My surgeon came in and scratched out a picture of my bad attitude on the back of my chart, then told me what he was going to do to it, as someone else came into the room. He said hi to her, looked at me and tilted his head toward her. "This is Ingrid. She's your anesthesiologist." She held out a hand and I returned a fist, for a fist-bump." She looked quizzical for a moment, so I explained:
"In Ebola-ridden West Africa, locals abandoned most physical contact for fear of contracting the virus. Acts as simple as a handshake was too much contact, but ..." She cut me off: "... a fist-bump is hardly any!" I said, "Precisely." "I like that," she said, "It makes a lot of sense. It's good for this environment, too." She waved a hand around, indicating the OR, if not the hospital in general. "So, what would you like this morning? I have a special on margaritas." "Never for breakfast," I said. "Do you have Drambuie?"
"Sure," she said, pushing something in to my IV, "here you go. Now count down from 1."
I thought about that for a second then said, "wuh ... "
I woke up in a fog, and heard the blonde-streaked Army nurse doing a mic check: "Can you hear me? Are you there?" After a moment, I realized she was talking to me. "I can hear you. I am here," I said. "Your doctor put you on a high-protein diet," she said, getting right to business, "so I've got some Mongolian beef coming for you." I love Mongolian beef, so I thought, "Great."
She told me that after breakfast I could be discharged, so I ate fast. It was gone in just minutes because there was no rice to get in the way. I did get a fortune cookie, which contained a fortune I didn't care for much: "You will be back."
A while later, the Army nurse came back with my clothes. She must have seen the look the fortune cookie's fortune left on my face because she pulled the pile of clothes she held back just a bit and said: "Are you feeling good enough to go? I could give you another bump." I thought about it for a long moment. Then I said, "It's tempting, but I'd rather call a cab." She said, "It's your dime," and held out the pile to me. I pulled on camo shorts, tugged at my smock (to no avail, as she gestured with a circling finger for me to turn around so she could untie the knots. ) I handled redonning my T easily, but trying to pull on my left sock took a hop. The hop made her twitch and I noticed. The right sock took two and a half hops and that made her lunge toward me. I caught myself just as she got to me. I looked at her and said nothing. She said, "you are not to fall." I thought about it for a second and said, "I'm okay with that policy."
So as I hopped around my bedroom weeks later, nearly falling over both L and R socks, I thought about how my Army nurse and my first nurse both were carefully watching me and were not about to let me fall over. Having someone like that around all the time might very well come in handy.
Tonight - Lone Palm.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was putting on socks the other day and while hopping around the room, trying to hoist one of them up, I nearly fell over. I caught myself, but in doing so, I remembered something funny that happened to me 40 years ago:
I had just been admitted to the local hospital. I was to undergo surgery to remove a bad attitude or something. My nurse came in and introduced herself and handed me a rag to cover myself. After disrobing to only striped socks, she asked if she could see my bad attitude, and having reached the point of total humility because it was so awful, I showed her, saying, "it's disgusting, but here ya go." She said, "I've been to Walmart; you can't gross me out." She looked then made a, "fffft" noise. That made me feel a bit better and I reached for a sock, started tugging, hopping and swearing and when I inevitably lost my balance, I saw her do something: She lurched toward me. The moment she lurched, I corrected with a hop and swiped the sock off my foot. I noticed her lunge but thought nothing of it.
She was a great nurse. I asked her if she could put the beers I'd brought with me in a fridge and she said ok, but we don't have an opener, so why don't you just enjoy some Dilaudid? "After all," she added, "your doctor prescribed it." I relented and she pushed the stuff into the IV she'd chucked into my left arm a short time earlier. Within seconds, I exited the gift shop.
I had nothing else to do, so I enjoyed some movies on AMC: Roman Holiday and Rome Adventure. One does not need opiates to enjoy staring at Audrey Hepburn, but it makes it even more fun. The nurse came in a couple more times and made Orson Wells' Touch of Evil a bit more touchy. Night Nurse, the 1931 William A. Wellman feature with Barbara Stanwick and Clark Gable featuring this classic exchange:
Lora Hart: Who are you?
Nick, the Chauffeur: I'm Nick... the chauffeur
started just after the shift change and my night nurse came in and topped-off the dope. I enjoyed the pre-code movie more than I usually enjoy pre-code movies (not sure why), and shortly after it ended, I fell asleep and dreamed weird stuff (again, not sure why).
I woke early and the night nurse kissed my cheek (gave me more dope) and said good luck, turning over the reins to another former Army nurse who had blonde streaks and a no-nonsense way about her: Joyless, sorta, but kind (she gave me more Dilaudid). When she wheeled me into the surgery bay she broke form and snickered when I read the wall signs and proposed the "Laser Room" instead of "S2." Her chuckle might have had something to do with the Dr. Evil-voice I used to propose the room switch.
She hipped a big, low, door-opening wall button and gave my bed a big shove into the surgery bay, and just before I crashed into the other shopping carts, a large
, tattooed guy with his OR scrub sleeves cut off, a top-knot of hair on his head and some former patient's bone through his nose caught me. My surgeon came in and scratched out a picture of my bad attitude on the back of my chart, then told me what he was going to do to it, as someone else came into the room. He said hi to her, looked at me and tilted his head toward her. "This is Ingrid. She's your anesthesiologist." She held out a hand and I returned a fist, for a fist-bump." She looked quizzical for a moment, so I explained:
"In Ebola-ridden West Africa, locals abandoned most physical contact for fear of contracting the virus. Acts as simple as a handshake was too much contact, but ..." She cut me off: "... a fist-bump is hardly any!" I said, "Precisely." "I like that," she said, "It makes a lot of sense. It's good for this environment, too." She waved a hand around, indicating the OR, if not the hospital in general. "So, what would you like this morning? I have a special on margaritas." "Never for breakfast," I said. "Do you have Drambuie?"
"Sure," she said, pushing something in to my IV, "here you go. Now count down from 1."
I thought about that for a second then said, "wuh ... "
I woke up in a fog, and heard the blonde-streaked Army nurse doing a mic check: "Can you hear me? Are you there?" After a moment, I realized she was talking to me. "I can hear you. I am here," I said. "Your doctor put you on a high-protein diet," she said, getting right to business, "so I've got some Mongolian beef coming for you." I love Mongolian beef, so I thought, "Great."
She told me that after breakfast I could be discharged, so I ate fast. It was gone in just minutes because there was no rice to get in the way. I did get a fortune cookie, which contained a fortune I didn't care for much: "You will be back."
A while later, the Army nurse came back with my clothes. She must have seen the look the fortune cookie's fortune left on my face because she pulled the pile of clothes she held back just a bit and said: "Are you feeling good enough to go? I could give you another bump." I thought about it for a long moment. Then I said, "It's tempting, but I'd rather call a cab." She said, "It's your dime," and held out the pile to me. I pulled on camo shorts, tugged at my smock (to no avail, as she gestured with a circling finger for me to turn around so she could untie the knots. ) I handled redonning my T easily, but trying to pull on my left sock took a hop. The hop made her twitch and I noticed. The right sock took two and a half hops and that made her lunge toward me. I caught myself just as she got to me. I looked at her and said nothing. She said, "you are not to fall." I thought about it for a second and said, "I'm okay with that policy."
So as I hopped around my bedroom weeks later, nearly falling over both L and R socks, I thought about how my Army nurse and my first nurse both were carefully watching me and were not about to let me fall over. Having someone like that around all the time might very well come in handy.
Tonight - Lone Palm.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 02, 2015
Rock over London, Rock on Chicago (REDUX)
7.1.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2005)
I don't know what they want us to do. Surrender?
Tonight - Lucky 13 [by request]
(In honor of the 4th of July, we remember our original 13 colonies)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 25, 2015
R & B (REDUX)
6.4.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2000)
Howdy folks. I was going through my CD's the other night and I found a great blues compilation CD that I had totally forgotten about. I think I lifted it from one of my neighbors a long time ago. All I got was the CD and it had artwork all over it and - total bummer - no track names or artists were identified. This totally sucks because there's some kick butt songs. One has this woman singing about her man's foot getting chopped off. Drag. This other dude's lady skips out on him and his dog runs off. That's bluesy. I haven't listened for so long this other song took me totally by surprise. I had to listen to it again to make sure I heard it right, but on second listen it was the same. I couldn't believe it. The parallels to the TNSC are scary! REALLY WEIRD. Here's the words so you can see for yourself. Try to sing it - blues-style. The music's your standard blues rhythm, guitar, drum. Foot tappin.' Low old-dude voice. Use yer imagination:
Tonight you wan have fun
I'll tell you where you wa-na go
Said tonight you wan have you some fun
I'll tell you where you want to go
Jus you lissen up here fo 'while 'tell you
Ev'ry lil bit you need to know
Goin' out with bunch of folks tonight
Prob'ly have too much to drink
Goin' out with a bunch of friends tonight
Likely mess with the way I think
Sure to be a real smoky place
When you get home you gonna stink
Lotsa people goin be there
Rather than goin’ home to bed
Many people goin' be at that bar
The cheer will be widespread
Here's where I reveal to you where we're goin:
See you tonight at the Homestead
Old man Rosey ain't goin be there
No one drew him a map
Said ol man Rosey won't be showin' up
Ain't nobody drew him no map
Prolly jes go on home cross the bay
have him a little vodka-induced nap
So see the rest-ya at the bar tonight
We'll have a real wild time
Meet you a the bar tonight
Sure to be a really wild time
If'n you don't get home till real, real late
Ain't a bit of fault of mine.
See what I mean? Whoa! Isn't that part about Rosey trippy? I mean, what a coincidence! WE have a TNSC list member named Rosey who always needs a map. Too bad he didn't sing about Lottery numbers. I'da had to play them. So let's take a cue from an old bluesman and meet up at the the Homestead.
Contest: Pickin' and Grinnin'
Arts & Craft: WICKER!
Be nice to someone tonight: Bring 'em to the Thursday Night Social Club meeting. See you at the pre-arranged time
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Howdy folks. I was going through my CD's the other night and I found a great blues compilation CD that I had totally forgotten about. I think I lifted it from one of my neighbors a long time ago. All I got was the CD and it had artwork all over it and - total bummer - no track names or artists were identified. This totally sucks because there's some kick butt songs. One has this woman singing about her man's foot getting chopped off. Drag. This other dude's lady skips out on him and his dog runs off. That's bluesy. I haven't listened for so long this other song took me totally by surprise. I had to listen to it again to make sure I heard it right, but on second listen it was the same. I couldn't believe it. The parallels to the TNSC are scary! REALLY WEIRD. Here's the words so you can see for yourself. Try to sing it - blues-style. The music's your standard blues rhythm, guitar, drum. Foot tappin.' Low old-dude voice. Use yer imagination:
Tonight you wan have fun
I'll tell you where you wa-na go
Said tonight you wan have you some fun
I'll tell you where you want to go
Jus you lissen up here fo 'while 'tell you
Ev'ry lil bit you need to know
Goin' out with bunch of folks tonight
Prob'ly have too much to drink
Goin' out with a bunch of friends tonight
Likely mess with the way I think
Sure to be a real smoky place
When you get home you gonna stink
Lotsa people goin be there
Rather than goin’ home to bed
Many people goin' be at that bar
The cheer will be widespread
Here's where I reveal to you where we're goin:
See you tonight at the Homestead
Old man Rosey ain't goin be there
No one drew him a map
Said ol man Rosey won't be showin' up
Ain't nobody drew him no map
Prolly jes go on home cross the bay
have him a little vodka-induced nap
So see the rest-ya at the bar tonight
We'll have a real wild time
Meet you a the bar tonight
Sure to be a really wild time
If'n you don't get home till real, real late
Ain't a bit of fault of mine.
See what I mean? Whoa! Isn't that part about Rosey trippy? I mean, what a coincidence! WE have a TNSC list member named Rosey who always needs a map. Too bad he didn't sing about Lottery numbers. I'da had to play them. So let's take a cue from an old bluesman and meet up at the the Homestead.
Contest: Pickin' and Grinnin'
Arts & Craft: WICKER!
Be nice to someone tonight: Bring 'em to the Thursday Night Social Club meeting. See you at the pre-arranged time
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 18, 2015
19.07 g/cc (REDUX)
6.3.2014 (originally posted this meeting day, 2001)
I sometimes wonder how I'm gonna buy the farm. Whether it's Old Man Ebola virus, or Old Man Earthquake or simply Old Man Father Time. I don't mope around all day thinking morbid thoughts, but every now and again I think of the inevitability of me kicking the bucket. It's strange, though: While one is helpless to avoid dying, one can do certain things to prolong life and keep one's mortality at bay. Some folks will say that, for example, quitting smoking will save your life. Sure. Others suggest that a healthy diet and regular exercise is the key to longevity. Why not? I got my own secret that I'm willing to share. I stay alive by avoiding them Cee-Ment Mixers. Those suckers cruise the streets at about a million miles per and with a load of concrete they can punch through a mountainside. Have you heard of depleted uranium? The Army uses it in the bullets they shoot from some of their planes. It's sorta radioactive and it's incredibly dense and with enough velocity it can penetrate armor-plating (read tanks) like butter. I figure cement mixers are kinda like depleted uranium bullets. There ain’t no stoppin’ them. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them wreckin’ into things around here. So you want some advice from me for long livin’ … you see a cement mixer – go the other way. You ought only to be watching its taillights disappear.
News: Jeremy, watch your step on the way to the bar. Don't reenact your trip-and-fall. Also, more mailing list testing. I’m getting slightly bored with it, but I’ll whip it soon. Construction has begun on the new TNSC site.
Tonight's Dramatic Reenactment: TonDramRe Office closed this week. Moving, you know.
Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Mary Haring. Say hi to Mary tonight.
Porn Title of the Week: I Cream of Genie Ha!
Oh Lordy. I want to see each and every one of you at the venue tonight. I have an important question for you. Oh and bring your pals. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
Tonight - Doc's Clock. (cash only)
Just what the Doctor ordered!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I sometimes wonder how I'm gonna buy the farm. Whether it's Old Man Ebola virus, or Old Man Earthquake or simply Old Man Father Time. I don't mope around all day thinking morbid thoughts, but every now and again I think of the inevitability of me kicking the bucket. It's strange, though: While one is helpless to avoid dying, one can do certain things to prolong life and keep one's mortality at bay. Some folks will say that, for example, quitting smoking will save your life. Sure. Others suggest that a healthy diet and regular exercise is the key to longevity. Why not? I got my own secret that I'm willing to share. I stay alive by avoiding them Cee-Ment Mixers. Those suckers cruise the streets at about a million miles per and with a load of concrete they can punch through a mountainside. Have you heard of depleted uranium? The Army uses it in the bullets they shoot from some of their planes. It's sorta radioactive and it's incredibly dense and with enough velocity it can penetrate armor-plating (read tanks) like butter. I figure cement mixers are kinda like depleted uranium bullets. There ain’t no stoppin’ them. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them wreckin’ into things around here. So you want some advice from me for long livin’ … you see a cement mixer – go the other way. You ought only to be watching its taillights disappear.
News: Jeremy, watch your step on the way to the bar. Don't reenact your trip-and-fall. Also, more mailing list testing. I’m getting slightly bored with it, but I’ll whip it soon. Construction has begun on the new TNSC site.
Tonight's Dramatic Reenactment: TonDramRe Office closed this week. Moving, you know.
Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Mary Haring. Say hi to Mary tonight.
Porn Title of the Week: I Cream of Genie Ha!
Oh Lordy. I want to see each and every one of you at the venue tonight. I have an important question for you. Oh and bring your pals. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!
Tonight - Doc's Clock. (cash only)
Just what the Doctor ordered!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Do you dig graves? (REDUX)
6.2.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2008)
It's been more frequent than not lately that I write the Venue Announcement over my lunch break and so I'll dedicate this VA to lunch itself.
I have a couple favorite things to do for lunch. I like to take it as late as possible. I learned a long time ago that a late lunch makes the end of the day seem to come more quickly, so I generally don't eat until after 1pm, even later if possible.
I also like, scratch that, LOVE to have BFL. That, if you and I have never lunched together, stands for Breakfast For Lunch. Sure, people have been eating breakfast foods for lunch and even dinner for a meeeelion years, but have they held it in such reverence that they built it into an institution? I wouldn't think so.
Lastly, I love to ask Alan to find out what goes into a "Kari's Favorite" style sandwich when he rings me on his cell either on his way to or at Cafe Moda in SF. We went to Moda damn-near every day for years when we worked together at the sawmill, and if I wasn't having a tuna on sourdough or a large ceasar w/ extra bread, I was having a Kari's Favorite. It's truly delicious, and I remember exactly what goes in it but I ask Alan every time. I say it's to check and see if it's changed or if I've forgotten something, but really it's to irritate him. Don't tell him.
Anyway, all this talk about lunch has made me hungry. I'm afraid I don't have any Kari's Favorites, tuna sandys or ceasars today and I only grabbed a can of soup on the way out of the apartment as I was in a rush. I'm gonna crack it open and micro it in a minute. But I'm not so sure about this new flavor from the venerable Campbell's company.
I'll let ya know how it turns out.
Tonight - Sutter Station Tavern (hanging with the riff-raff)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
It's been more frequent than not lately that I write the Venue Announcement over my lunch break and so I'll dedicate this VA to lunch itself.
I have a couple favorite things to do for lunch. I like to take it as late as possible. I learned a long time ago that a late lunch makes the end of the day seem to come more quickly, so I generally don't eat until after 1pm, even later if possible.
I also like, scratch that, LOVE to have BFL. That, if you and I have never lunched together, stands for Breakfast For Lunch. Sure, people have been eating breakfast foods for lunch and even dinner for a meeeelion years, but have they held it in such reverence that they built it into an institution? I wouldn't think so.
Lastly, I love to ask Alan to find out what goes into a "Kari's Favorite" style sandwich when he rings me on his cell either on his way to or at Cafe Moda in SF. We went to Moda damn-near every day for years when we worked together at the sawmill, and if I wasn't having a tuna on sourdough or a large ceasar w/ extra bread, I was having a Kari's Favorite. It's truly delicious, and I remember exactly what goes in it but I ask Alan every time. I say it's to check and see if it's changed or if I've forgotten something, but really it's to irritate him. Don't tell him.
Anyway, all this talk about lunch has made me hungry. I'm afraid I don't have any Kari's Favorites, tuna sandys or ceasars today and I only grabbed a can of soup on the way out of the apartment as I was in a rush. I'm gonna crack it open and micro it in a minute. But I'm not so sure about this new flavor from the venerable Campbell's company.
I'll let ya know how it turns out.
Tonight - Sutter Station Tavern (hanging with the riff-raff)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 04, 2015
Dingus II (REDUX)
6.1.2015 (originally posted this meeting day, 2005)
Which of the following statements is true?
A. I quit swearing
B. I quit drinking
C. I started going to church
D. I root for the Giants
E. I quit smoking
Let's consider each option:
"A. I quit swearing." If you know anything about me, you know that I love to swear. I mean I really love it. I love putting together new swear-words by cramming old ones together. "Shitass buttpuppy." If I were guessing truth I would rule this one out.
"B. I quit drinking." Let's see ... Republicans. War. Republicans. Garden pests. Republicans. Traffic. Republicans. Shitty baseball teams. Republicans ... if there weren't reasons to drink in the first place, there's always "drinking sure is fun." Nope.
"C. I started going to church." If 'church' means 'bar' I'd question whether I ever stopped going. But since 'church' is 'church' and I have no time, energy or rational, emotional or logical commitment to organized religion, it too is out.
"D. I root for the Giants" My corpse will rise from the grave and root for whatever team is playing the Giants. Least likely of all.
"E. I quit smoking" Guess that's the only one left. Since all the others are out, it must be true. Also submitted as evidence is the extra fifty bucks I got in my pocket from not buying smokes for a month. So far so good.
Tonight - 500 Club (a TNSC favorite)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Which of the following statements is true?
A. I quit swearing
B. I quit drinking
C. I started going to church
D. I root for the Giants
E. I quit smoking
Let's consider each option:
"A. I quit swearing." If you know anything about me, you know that I love to swear. I mean I really love it. I love putting together new swear-words by cramming old ones together. "Shitass buttpuppy." If I were guessing truth I would rule this one out.
"B. I quit drinking." Let's see ... Republicans. War. Republicans. Garden pests. Republicans. Traffic. Republicans. Shitty baseball teams. Republicans ... if there weren't reasons to drink in the first place, there's always "drinking sure is fun." Nope.
"C. I started going to church." If 'church' means 'bar' I'd question whether I ever stopped going. But since 'church' is 'church' and I have no time, energy or rational, emotional or logical commitment to organized religion, it too is out.
"D. I root for the Giants" My corpse will rise from the grave and root for whatever team is playing the Giants. Least likely of all.
"E. I quit smoking" Guess that's the only one left. Since all the others are out, it must be true. Also submitted as evidence is the extra fifty bucks I got in my pocket from not buying smokes for a month. So far so good.
Tonight - 500 Club (a TNSC favorite)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Weiner Circle of Hell
5.4.2015
Last night was Ez's last 5-pitch baseball game of the season. Would you believe it - the Rockhounds went 0-0-20. The weird part is that all the other teams - the River Bandits, the Storm, the Muckdogs, the Tree Squirrels, the Pond Scum, the Swamp Gas, the Corner Bars and the Bark Beetles - all tied all their games too! That hasn't happened since LAST SEASON.
By the way, "5-pitch" baseball isn't really what it sounds like. It's more like, "about five pitches, more or less, extras if the coach can't pitch, extras if the kid has never played T-ball (which should be a prerequisite, seeing how some of these kids swing), and extras if the kid can hit, but just isn't for whatever reason (read: trying to hit a dinger).
Anyway, the League maintains a snack bar and I had discovered a few weeks ago that they knew how to make hot dogs (burn 'em and toast or steam the bun) and the fries were crispy and good. So going into last night's game, I knew that dinner was going to be a dog.
About the 16th inning (the game was deadlocked, 55 all) I decided to quiet my roaring stomach and go get dinner. I ordered three dogs, one with ketchup only (YUK but Ez likes it), two with only mustard and onions and fries, extra crispy, please.
Order 19 was called out at the pickup window. My number. I snagged it, snagged some napkins and looked down in horror at my order:
... there is ketchup on the two with mustard and onions. I took the above picture and threw the whole tray to the seagulls.
Tonight - The Homestead Bring your pals!!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Last night was Ez's last 5-pitch baseball game of the season. Would you believe it - the Rockhounds went 0-0-20. The weird part is that all the other teams - the River Bandits, the Storm, the Muckdogs, the Tree Squirrels, the Pond Scum, the Swamp Gas, the Corner Bars and the Bark Beetles - all tied all their games too! That hasn't happened since LAST SEASON.
By the way, "5-pitch" baseball isn't really what it sounds like. It's more like, "about five pitches, more or less, extras if the coach can't pitch, extras if the kid has never played T-ball (which should be a prerequisite, seeing how some of these kids swing), and extras if the kid can hit, but just isn't for whatever reason (read: trying to hit a dinger).
Anyway, the League maintains a snack bar and I had discovered a few weeks ago that they knew how to make hot dogs (burn 'em and toast or steam the bun) and the fries were crispy and good. So going into last night's game, I knew that dinner was going to be a dog.
About the 16th inning (the game was deadlocked, 55 all) I decided to quiet my roaring stomach and go get dinner. I ordered three dogs, one with ketchup only (YUK but Ez likes it), two with only mustard and onions and fries, extra crispy, please.
Order 19 was called out at the pickup window. My number. I snagged it, snagged some napkins and looked down in horror at my order:
... there is ketchup on the two with mustard and onions. I took the above picture and threw the whole tray to the seagulls.
Tonight - The Homestead Bring your pals!!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Ho Ho Ho (and rake)
5.3.2015
For Christmas 2014 Ez's grandpa got him an electronic chessboard. It was loaded with thousands of classic games and could challenge and train the user in the game of chess. Ez loves chess and while all of our computers have chess on them, this one was tactile and that was a big advantage.
Or it should have been. The damn thing's LCD - which indicated where it wanted you to move its pieces - was broken. Parts of digits and letters were missing. We couldn't tell where it was pointing. So we sent it back.
A month later, with zero communication from the company who sold it (and who we returned it to), I phoned. The really nice Bostonian gal (with a not-terribly atrocious New England accent) informed me that I needed to wait six weeks for returns. I gave them 12. In early April I called again. They informed me that the item had been backordered and they canceled our order since it was taking so long. I asked them to let me make that decision and they obliged. They said they'd reinstate the order and send the chess board when they received new stock.
It's 21 May and grandpa's Christmas gift arrived yesterday. I haven't unboxed it yet, but I'm hoping they've corrected their faulty LCD. It's also a weird throwback to customer service of days past: You buy a mail order item, return it for replacement, wait a thousand years with no company-to-customer communication, get ambiguous information with customer-to-company communication, and six months later get a box in the mail. It used to be like that for everything.
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
(kickin' it North Beach style)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
For Christmas 2014 Ez's grandpa got him an electronic chessboard. It was loaded with thousands of classic games and could challenge and train the user in the game of chess. Ez loves chess and while all of our computers have chess on them, this one was tactile and that was a big advantage.
Or it should have been. The damn thing's LCD - which indicated where it wanted you to move its pieces - was broken. Parts of digits and letters were missing. We couldn't tell where it was pointing. So we sent it back.
A month later, with zero communication from the company who sold it (and who we returned it to), I phoned. The really nice Bostonian gal (with a not-terribly atrocious New England accent) informed me that I needed to wait six weeks for returns. I gave them 12. In early April I called again. They informed me that the item had been backordered and they canceled our order since it was taking so long. I asked them to let me make that decision and they obliged. They said they'd reinstate the order and send the chess board when they received new stock.
It's 21 May and grandpa's Christmas gift arrived yesterday. I haven't unboxed it yet, but I'm hoping they've corrected their faulty LCD. It's also a weird throwback to customer service of days past: You buy a mail order item, return it for replacement, wait a thousand years with no company-to-customer communication, get ambiguous information with customer-to-company communication, and six months later get a box in the mail. It used to be like that for everything.
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
(kickin' it North Beach style)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Red? Black? What? (REDUX)
5.2.2014 (first posted 2002)
I suppose it has a lot to do with living in a city and walking the streets and taking the public transportation, but if one is paying attention, one can observe many strange things.
I gave an example of this last week and I’ve got another tonight: Just where do old people get the caps they wear?
I’ve been noticing this for some time. It started a few years back when I was on my way to a bar with Founding Member Alan C. We happened to pass an old-timer and he was wearing a Chicago Bears cap. Being the eternally diligent Bears fan that I am, gave the old coot a “Go Bears.” Of course Alan didn’t approve. “Why do you insist on talking to strangers,” he asked, “and in case you didn’t notice, the dude’s homeless.” I looked again and sure enough, the dude was filthy head to toe and had taken up rummaging through a trash can. I started to think of a reason why the dude could still be a Bears fan but gave up. He probably found the cap somewhere. I want to find a Bears cap.
Some time later, Alan and I were on our way to a bar and we saw an old lady wearing a Chicago Cubs cap. I naturally shouted, “Go Cubs!” but the old lady just looked at me blankly. Alan said, “Uh ... dude ...” and I said, “Yeh, yeh. Homeless.”
And they don’t have to be homeless to be wearing caps of unknown origin. Just on the bus the other day I saw a nearly-old Asian dude wearing a “Canada” cap. Complete with maple leaf. What the hell is he wearing a “Canada” cap for? Hockey fan? I saw a guy wearing a “I’m dum-dum” cap; an old lady wearing a “Johnny Walker” cap; another old lady wearing a “Megadeath” cap and I even saw some die-hard Democrat wearing a “Mondale/Ferraro” cap. Sheesh.
What I figure is that most of them folks (with the exception of the Mondale/Ferraro booster) have nothing at all to do with what’s on the hat, but rather the utility of the hat itself. Like they’d all be wearing straw hats if they were as cheap and plentiful as the generic (or non-generic as listed above) baseball-type caps. Look for Alan today and you may find him wearing a cap from tonight’s TNSC Venue:
House of Shields
Porn Title of the Week: Hocus Poke Us
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Shuba!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I suppose it has a lot to do with living in a city and walking the streets and taking the public transportation, but if one is paying attention, one can observe many strange things.
I gave an example of this last week and I’ve got another tonight: Just where do old people get the caps they wear?
I’ve been noticing this for some time. It started a few years back when I was on my way to a bar with Founding Member Alan C. We happened to pass an old-timer and he was wearing a Chicago Bears cap. Being the eternally diligent Bears fan that I am, gave the old coot a “Go Bears.” Of course Alan didn’t approve. “Why do you insist on talking to strangers,” he asked, “and in case you didn’t notice, the dude’s homeless.” I looked again and sure enough, the dude was filthy head to toe and had taken up rummaging through a trash can. I started to think of a reason why the dude could still be a Bears fan but gave up. He probably found the cap somewhere. I want to find a Bears cap.
Some time later, Alan and I were on our way to a bar and we saw an old lady wearing a Chicago Cubs cap. I naturally shouted, “Go Cubs!” but the old lady just looked at me blankly. Alan said, “Uh ... dude ...” and I said, “Yeh, yeh. Homeless.”
And they don’t have to be homeless to be wearing caps of unknown origin. Just on the bus the other day I saw a nearly-old Asian dude wearing a “Canada” cap. Complete with maple leaf. What the hell is he wearing a “Canada” cap for? Hockey fan? I saw a guy wearing a “I’m dum-dum” cap; an old lady wearing a “Johnny Walker” cap; another old lady wearing a “Megadeath” cap and I even saw some die-hard Democrat wearing a “Mondale/Ferraro” cap. Sheesh.
What I figure is that most of them folks (with the exception of the Mondale/Ferraro booster) have nothing at all to do with what’s on the hat, but rather the utility of the hat itself. Like they’d all be wearing straw hats if they were as cheap and plentiful as the generic (or non-generic as listed above) baseball-type caps. Look for Alan today and you may find him wearing a cap from tonight’s TNSC Venue:
House of Shields
Porn Title of the Week: Hocus Poke Us
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Shuba!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 07, 2015
Who can you trust? (REDUX)
5.1.2015 (first posted 2006)
It's always helpful to know different approaches to difficult situations. Like hangovers for example. Mebbe you've tried and tried but just can't find a way to alleviate the effects of yr fun the night before. I solicited five-or-so List Members and collected their "cures." Next time yr in a bind and gotta get up for 9am dailies (often in my case) or catch the early bus while feeling like hell try one of these:
Anonymous List Member 1.
Date of hangover: Damn....I really can't remember the "last" one.
Cure:
Water, aspirin, coffee (lots of it)
water, aspirin, coffee (spiked)
water, aspirin, coffee, bloody, beer
Effectiveness: Medium
Anonymous List Member 2.
Date of hangover: Specific date was April 29.
Cure: I alleviated it by brewing a large pot of coffee and slaughtering approximately 9,253 Nazis in a three-hour period. I also would occasionally pet Dave Revis's dog, Heidi.
Effectiveness: High
Anonymous List Member 3.
Date of hangover: I guess it was during the 70's.
Cure: As well as I can remember, it just wore off with the passing of time. It involved headache and there was no playing the puke-a-lele.
Effectiveness: Low
Anonymous List Member 4.
Date of hangover: Last week.
Cure: Fried egg and bacon sandy, green or red Gatorade™, TCPPWD (thin-crust pepperoni pizza well-done) Margarita on rocks w/ salt.
Effectiveness: Wishful thinking
Anonymous List Member 5.
Date of hangover: the last one that stands out is new year's eve. not drunk, but not well.
Cure: what i did to alleviate the symptom? grovel.
Effectiveness: n/a
Anonymous List Member 6.
Date of hangover: This Monday.
Cure: Went to work and had to grin and bare it. Soon as I got
off work I went and had a few slices of pizza and a couple shots and
beers.
Effectiveness: None
Anonymous List Member 7
Date of hangover: it's the last time you were here, that Saturday.. the worst hangover,
nothing could help.. or so I thought... I puked about four times on my empty stomach.. Can I eat? Should I eat?.
Cure: ate a banana, puked it, but there are worse things to taste a second time than a banana. and then it was as though the sky split open, and the angels came floating down, and when they did they were in the form of my Man and he was holding bags of food... from Taco Bell. I had a chicken quesadilla - no sauce - and a giant diet mystery soda (you know the ones that are so bad, they just taste like a mixture of soda flavors) - and I was semi cured..
Effectiveness: Semi
There you have it. Go try each one. Get back to me.
Tonight - Bar 821 (by request) **CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
It's always helpful to know different approaches to difficult situations. Like hangovers for example. Mebbe you've tried and tried but just can't find a way to alleviate the effects of yr fun the night before. I solicited five-or-so List Members and collected their "cures." Next time yr in a bind and gotta get up for 9am dailies (often in my case) or catch the early bus while feeling like hell try one of these:
Anonymous List Member 1.
Date of hangover: Damn....I really can't remember the "last" one.
Cure:
Water, aspirin, coffee (lots of it)
water, aspirin, coffee (spiked)
water, aspirin, coffee, bloody, beer
Effectiveness: Medium
Anonymous List Member 2.
Date of hangover: Specific date was April 29.
Cure: I alleviated it by brewing a large pot of coffee and slaughtering approximately 9,253 Nazis in a three-hour period. I also would occasionally pet Dave Revis's dog, Heidi.
Effectiveness: High
Anonymous List Member 3.
Date of hangover: I guess it was during the 70's.
Cure: As well as I can remember, it just wore off with the passing of time. It involved headache and there was no playing the puke-a-lele.
Effectiveness: Low
Anonymous List Member 4.
Date of hangover: Last week.
Cure: Fried egg and bacon sandy, green or red Gatorade™, TCPPWD (thin-crust pepperoni pizza well-done) Margarita on rocks w/ salt.
Effectiveness: Wishful thinking
Anonymous List Member 5.
Date of hangover: the last one that stands out is new year's eve. not drunk, but not well.
Cure: what i did to alleviate the symptom? grovel.
Effectiveness: n/a
Anonymous List Member 6.
Date of hangover: This Monday.
Cure: Went to work and had to grin and bare it. Soon as I got
off work I went and had a few slices of pizza and a couple shots and
beers.
Effectiveness: None
Anonymous List Member 7
Date of hangover: it's the last time you were here, that Saturday.. the worst hangover,
nothing could help.. or so I thought... I puked about four times on my empty stomach.. Can I eat? Should I eat?.
Cure: ate a banana, puked it, but there are worse things to taste a second time than a banana. and then it was as though the sky split open, and the angels came floating down, and when they did they were in the form of my Man and he was holding bags of food... from Taco Bell. I had a chicken quesadilla - no sauce - and a giant diet mystery soda (you know the ones that are so bad, they just taste like a mixture of soda flavors) - and I was semi cured..
Effectiveness: Semi
There you have it. Go try each one. Get back to me.
Tonight - Bar 821 (by request) **CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 30, 2015
On and On and On.
4.5.2015
Have you seen a real drone yet?
No, not on TV or in a movie or museum, but a real, live drone ... droning along its way?
I have.
I look up at the sound of most aircraft. All helicopters, most jumbo jets (you can tell the difference between a triple seven and a Southwest Airlines 737 by the noise of their engines. And that's what gets me looking up. Sometimes I hear them and run outside to look up at them. Especially if it's a helicopter. There have been some brush fires around here lately and the big fuckin' Cal Fire helis are buzzing about.
I saw my first ever drone a while back. I had stepped out of the house on my way to pick up Ez from his after-school program. I heard a weird whine from above that sounded like a high speed fan, or even a few high speed fans. Looking up, I saw that it was indeed a few fans, four to be exact, and they were attached to a drone no bigger than a pizza box. It was flying parallel to Venice Boulevard, which is a short block away from me. I didn't see its controller, and didn't expect to. I just chalked it up to being my first drone sighting.
With what's being said about drones in the news, everything from drones raining Hell down on the fucking terrorists or Amazon.com planning on drone-based delivery, I wasn't surprised to see the little one I saw. Plenty of people fly them to shoot movie scenes or commercials, spy on people, just to fly a small electronic gizmo. I for one look forward to the day when my very own drone can "beer me" when I need a freshy.
Won't that be nice?
Tonight - The Homestead (the month is over already?!?)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Have you seen a real drone yet?
No, not on TV or in a movie or museum, but a real, live drone ... droning along its way?
I have.
I look up at the sound of most aircraft. All helicopters, most jumbo jets (you can tell the difference between a triple seven and a Southwest Airlines 737 by the noise of their engines. And that's what gets me looking up. Sometimes I hear them and run outside to look up at them. Especially if it's a helicopter. There have been some brush fires around here lately and the big fuckin' Cal Fire helis are buzzing about.
I saw my first ever drone a while back. I had stepped out of the house on my way to pick up Ez from his after-school program. I heard a weird whine from above that sounded like a high speed fan, or even a few high speed fans. Looking up, I saw that it was indeed a few fans, four to be exact, and they were attached to a drone no bigger than a pizza box. It was flying parallel to Venice Boulevard, which is a short block away from me. I didn't see its controller, and didn't expect to. I just chalked it up to being my first drone sighting.
With what's being said about drones in the news, everything from drones raining Hell down on the fucking terrorists or Amazon.com planning on drone-based delivery, I wasn't surprised to see the little one I saw. Plenty of people fly them to shoot movie scenes or commercials, spy on people, just to fly a small electronic gizmo. I for one look forward to the day when my very own drone can "beer me" when I need a freshy.
Won't that be nice?
Tonight - The Homestead (the month is over already?!?)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Yahweh (REDUX)
4.4.15 (first posted 2005)
I knew my friend Jamee was going to throw out her decades-old boom box and I had an idea and then asked her if she'd heaved it yet. She said she did only to recover it from the bin moments later so to tune into the radio. But she did give it to me. She brought it over and explained that it wasn't just the radio program that compelled her to save it, but her odd habit of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects. I knew just what she was talking about.
Ever since I was very young, I've been assigning human characteristics to non-human and often times non-living things. As a child I had a gingerbread man that I named Oscar and kept for weeks. Every one of my bikes have had names, the two most recent being Sir Francis Gary Powers and the aptly named, "Chuck." The cars, hats and sunglasses have had names. My hot sauces, the steadfast soldiers they are, have names. My charcoal Weber grill is named, "Fireball." It's slightly compulsive, I know, but I don't give a damn. It helps me sort shit out.
So Jamee bid farewell to her trusty boom box and I gladly accepted it. She asked why I wanted the old thing. I told her I was going to tear it's bits out and Frankenstein me a outdoor speaker-system for my iPod. She was horrified. But she let me have it anyway.
Tonight - Holy Water (Bernal)
See you in church!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I knew my friend Jamee was going to throw out her decades-old boom box and I had an idea and then asked her if she'd heaved it yet. She said she did only to recover it from the bin moments later so to tune into the radio. But she did give it to me. She brought it over and explained that it wasn't just the radio program that compelled her to save it, but her odd habit of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects. I knew just what she was talking about.
Ever since I was very young, I've been assigning human characteristics to non-human and often times non-living things. As a child I had a gingerbread man that I named Oscar and kept for weeks. Every one of my bikes have had names, the two most recent being Sir Francis Gary Powers and the aptly named, "Chuck." The cars, hats and sunglasses have had names. My hot sauces, the steadfast soldiers they are, have names. My charcoal Weber grill is named, "Fireball." It's slightly compulsive, I know, but I don't give a damn. It helps me sort shit out.
So Jamee bid farewell to her trusty boom box and I gladly accepted it. She asked why I wanted the old thing. I told her I was going to tear it's bits out and Frankenstein me a outdoor speaker-system for my iPod. She was horrified. But she let me have it anyway.
Tonight - Holy Water (Bernal)
See you in church!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 16, 2015
STANDee's
4.3.2014
Of all the pub crawls I've ever been on, the day I turned 21 was the most memorable. I didn't get totally wrecked - not that I didn't try - but we did a lot of walking and I think the physical exercise helped mitigate the 20-or-so domestic light beers (and Old Styles®).
My goal was to have a beer at every bar in walking distance from my apartment. In Roger's Park, Chicago in 1991, there were a lot of bars fitting that description. My pals Phil and Phil (not my other pals Phil, Phil or Phil) joined me on the trek and we had a good time at the first couple stops, being that we'd been to those bars many times before (with fake or no need for IDs at these establishments). The farther out we got, the weirder it got, and as we made it to the outer edge of our trek, we came upon a memorable stop.
Entering, we made our way down the bar to the end near the pool tables and juke. There were several TVs around the place and whether or not the game was the Cubs on a West Coast swing or just replays of the day's loss, I don't remember, but the Cubs were on most of the TVs. The other TVs had hardcore gay porn on them. At about the time I noticed the porn, I noticed that guys that were dressed like girls were coming out of both the men's and women's restrooms. No matter. We're in their bar, after all.
The barkeep came up and he looked the part: Old, grey, dirty and tired. He grumbled, "What'll ya have?" at about the same time my pal Phil noticed the TV with the porn. (This Phil was a real mama's boy who before moving to Chicago didn't really get out much and I could tell he was on the verge of being traumatized by the gay porn.) "What do you have on draft?" I said, "It's my birthday!" The keep said, "Happy Birthday and we only have cans." I said thanks and what kind of cans do you have? He said they're all aluminum cans and they have Bud, Miller, Coors and Old Style. And lights of all of the above.
I said, "I'll have a Miller Lite®, please!"
Phil said, "Miller Lite®."
The other Phil choked, "Miller, ulp, Lite®."
The keep, suddenly a big, happy queen, said, "Miller Lite®! Miller Lite®! Miller Lite®!" and tapped once on the bar in front of Phil, Phil and me when he said it. Then went to get our cans. Phil and I laughed hard while the other Phil continued to have a hard time with the gay pron.
Much later, I accomplished a feat I'd done only once before and once since: I closed the bar (another bar) at 5:30 am, went next door for pancakes, bacon, eggs and coffee, then went back to the bar when it opened again at 6 am. It was a helluva birthday.
Tonight - Virgil's Sea Room (as in "Sea you on the patio 'cuz it's nice outside!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Of all the pub crawls I've ever been on, the day I turned 21 was the most memorable. I didn't get totally wrecked - not that I didn't try - but we did a lot of walking and I think the physical exercise helped mitigate the 20-or-so domestic light beers (and Old Styles®).
My goal was to have a beer at every bar in walking distance from my apartment. In Roger's Park, Chicago in 1991, there were a lot of bars fitting that description. My pals Phil and Phil (not my other pals Phil, Phil or Phil) joined me on the trek and we had a good time at the first couple stops, being that we'd been to those bars many times before (with fake or no need for IDs at these establishments). The farther out we got, the weirder it got, and as we made it to the outer edge of our trek, we came upon a memorable stop.
Entering, we made our way down the bar to the end near the pool tables and juke. There were several TVs around the place and whether or not the game was the Cubs on a West Coast swing or just replays of the day's loss, I don't remember, but the Cubs were on most of the TVs. The other TVs had hardcore gay porn on them. At about the time I noticed the porn, I noticed that guys that were dressed like girls were coming out of both the men's and women's restrooms. No matter. We're in their bar, after all.
The barkeep came up and he looked the part: Old, grey, dirty and tired. He grumbled, "What'll ya have?" at about the same time my pal Phil noticed the TV with the porn. (This Phil was a real mama's boy who before moving to Chicago didn't really get out much and I could tell he was on the verge of being traumatized by the gay porn.) "What do you have on draft?" I said, "It's my birthday!" The keep said, "Happy Birthday and we only have cans." I said thanks and what kind of cans do you have? He said they're all aluminum cans and they have Bud, Miller, Coors and Old Style. And lights of all of the above.
I said, "I'll have a Miller Lite®, please!"
Phil said, "Miller Lite®."
The other Phil choked, "Miller, ulp, Lite®."
The keep, suddenly a big, happy queen, said, "Miller Lite®! Miller Lite®! Miller Lite®!" and tapped once on the bar in front of Phil, Phil and me when he said it. Then went to get our cans. Phil and I laughed hard while the other Phil continued to have a hard time with the gay pron.
Much later, I accomplished a feat I'd done only once before and once since: I closed the bar (another bar) at 5:30 am, went next door for pancakes, bacon, eggs and coffee, then went back to the bar when it opened again at 6 am. It was a helluva birthday.
Tonight - Virgil's Sea Room (as in "Sea you on the patio 'cuz it's nice outside!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 09, 2015
Non S
4.2.2015
Do ya like reporters? Me, I like'm just fine. We'd be shit-out-of-luck without them, I think, even though for every good reporter, there's a hundred or so that suck.
If you want to find a reporter, go visit a newspaper.
Or go to a restaurant catering to reporters. I did a few times when I lived in Chicago.
This joint had some newspapery name like, "The Daily Bugle" or something. Naw, that's the paper in the Spiderman universe. "Daily Planet." Nope, that's where Clark and Lois worked. "The Press Place." "The Press Cafe." No ... I got it now ... it was, "The Press Room."
I sat at the counter one day and I gotta impress on you how much of a cafe this was. Guys in the kitchen with dirty aprons, Formica countertops, waitresses in shitty uniforms and crappy haircuts filling salt shakers and Tabasco bottles ... coffee in cups with saucers. It was the real deal.
Anyway, at the counter, a waitress put down her salt shaker, took a pencil from behind her ear and her pad from a pocket in her apron and said, "what'll it be?"
The "Francheesie" spoke to me from the menu: "A hot dog with cheddar cheese wrapped in bacon, served with fries and a pickle." "I'll have the francheesie, pleasy," I said. She smirked and wrote it down. When asked, I said, "coffee."
The dog and coffee (in a cup on a saucer) came and the dog looked great, but was cheese-less. The gal must have seen the look on my face and said, "Everything all right?"
I said, "There's no cheese on this francheesie."
She said, "The cheese is inside the dog, hun." It was. I felt like a dope.
Tonight - Club Deluxe.
Tonight's venue comes by request and please remember there's a $5 cover for Little Minsky's burlesque show.
Also, raise a glass to the memory of the iconic SF barman, Jay Johnson.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Do ya like reporters? Me, I like'm just fine. We'd be shit-out-of-luck without them, I think, even though for every good reporter, there's a hundred or so that suck.
If you want to find a reporter, go visit a newspaper.
Or go to a restaurant catering to reporters. I did a few times when I lived in Chicago.
This joint had some newspapery name like, "The Daily Bugle" or something. Naw, that's the paper in the Spiderman universe. "Daily Planet." Nope, that's where Clark and Lois worked. "The Press Place." "The Press Cafe." No ... I got it now ... it was, "The Press Room."
I sat at the counter one day and I gotta impress on you how much of a cafe this was. Guys in the kitchen with dirty aprons, Formica countertops, waitresses in shitty uniforms and crappy haircuts filling salt shakers and Tabasco bottles ... coffee in cups with saucers. It was the real deal.
Anyway, at the counter, a waitress put down her salt shaker, took a pencil from behind her ear and her pad from a pocket in her apron and said, "what'll it be?"
The "Francheesie" spoke to me from the menu: "A hot dog with cheddar cheese wrapped in bacon, served with fries and a pickle." "I'll have the francheesie, pleasy," I said. She smirked and wrote it down. When asked, I said, "coffee."
The dog and coffee (in a cup on a saucer) came and the dog looked great, but was cheese-less. The gal must have seen the look on my face and said, "Everything all right?"
I said, "There's no cheese on this francheesie."
She said, "The cheese is inside the dog, hun." It was. I felt like a dope.
Tonight - Club Deluxe.
Tonight's venue comes by request and please remember there's a $5 cover for Little Minsky's burlesque show.
Also, raise a glass to the memory of the iconic SF barman, Jay Johnson.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 02, 2015
Stupid (REDUX)
4.1.2015
Ever since the 1997-98 El Nino weather events I've been in LOVE with the definite article 'the.' During El Nino, most every weatherman and news anchor referred to El Nino as 'the' El Nino. This had me howling with laughter every time because the Spanish word 'el' is 'the' in English. Duh! So these lunkheads kept repeating 'the the nino.' I couldn't get enough of it so when the event subsided I began to use the definite article 'the' in front of every Spanish noun preceded by 'el' or 'la.' For example, one of our favorite bars 'el Rio' became to me, 'the el Rio.' That former NY Yankees-now-Chicago White Sox pitcher 'el Duce' became 'the el Duce.' With so much Spanish being bandied about these days, there is plenty of opportunity for me to chuck 'the' in front of 'el whatever.'
I started thinking about 'the' in other terms the other day when, searching through DVD's at The Borders, I seen the De-lux edition of "Passion of The Christ." Why the hell is 'the' in there? I get 'The Christ Child,' but 'The Christ.' That's just dumb. I thought about asking everyone to start calling me 'The Johnson' just for kicks. Then I figured that in one way or another many of you do already call me the equivalent of 'The Johnson,' if you catch my meaning. So I scrapped that. Then I did the obvious and said aloud while laughing, "The Passion of The Johnson" which CLEARLY treads on Tama's territory. If you catch my meaning.
Tonight - Jay 'n Bee Club (by request)
Bring your friends!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Ever since the 1997-98 El Nino weather events I've been in LOVE with the definite article 'the.' During El Nino, most every weatherman and news anchor referred to El Nino as 'the' El Nino. This had me howling with laughter every time because the Spanish word 'el' is 'the' in English. Duh! So these lunkheads kept repeating 'the the nino.' I couldn't get enough of it so when the event subsided I began to use the definite article 'the' in front of every Spanish noun preceded by 'el' or 'la.' For example, one of our favorite bars 'el Rio' became to me, 'the el Rio.' That former NY Yankees-now-Chicago White Sox pitcher 'el Duce' became 'the el Duce.' With so much Spanish being bandied about these days, there is plenty of opportunity for me to chuck 'the' in front of 'el whatever.'
I started thinking about 'the' in other terms the other day when, searching through DVD's at The Borders, I seen the De-lux edition of "Passion of The Christ." Why the hell is 'the' in there? I get 'The Christ Child,' but 'The Christ.' That's just dumb. I thought about asking everyone to start calling me 'The Johnson' just for kicks. Then I figured that in one way or another many of you do already call me the equivalent of 'The Johnson,' if you catch my meaning. So I scrapped that. Then I did the obvious and said aloud while laughing, "The Passion of The Johnson" which CLEARLY treads on Tama's territory. If you catch my meaning.
Tonight - Jay 'n Bee Club (by request)
Bring your friends!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Beagle
3.4.2015
I went through a rough spell in the first half of the year 2000 and my brother, Linkey Loo Robot, Camel® Lights and Miller High Life® helped me begin to shake it. Then the Sydney Olympic summer games came along and my rough spell was over. Damn but I love the Olympics.
My brother and I sat there, drank beer and watched discus, javelin and women's beach volleyball. We were downright outraged when the Czech Republic got eliminated in the first round. Seriously, they were fun to watch.
Later events included crewing and other boat-related sports. We thoroughly enjoyed the constant reference to the "coxswain," and it made us laugh each time it was said on air. When we started saying it "off air," meaning insulting one another by calling each other "coxswain," we also laughed each time. (Don't be such a fucking coxswain, bring me a fresh beer when you get one.")
Over the course of the next several years, the insult "coxswain," morphed into "dickson." It was a perfectly natural evolution. Then later, "dickson" became "Dixon Landing Road." ("I'm sorry I acted like such a Dixon Landing Road last night.")
Which brings us to the ultimate evolutionary state of the insult my brother and I made up in 2000: "Auto Mall Parkway."
See, on Interstate 880 in Fremont, California, there are a couple exits near one another. One is "Dixon Landing Road," and the other, of course, is "Auto Mall Parkway."
So if I tell you to stop acting like an "Auto Mall Parkway," that means to stop acting like a person who steers boats.
Tonight - Homestead.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I went through a rough spell in the first half of the year 2000 and my brother, Linkey Loo Robot, Camel® Lights and Miller High Life® helped me begin to shake it. Then the Sydney Olympic summer games came along and my rough spell was over. Damn but I love the Olympics.
My brother and I sat there, drank beer and watched discus, javelin and women's beach volleyball. We were downright outraged when the Czech Republic got eliminated in the first round. Seriously, they were fun to watch.
Later events included crewing and other boat-related sports. We thoroughly enjoyed the constant reference to the "coxswain," and it made us laugh each time it was said on air. When we started saying it "off air," meaning insulting one another by calling each other "coxswain," we also laughed each time. (Don't be such a fucking coxswain, bring me a fresh beer when you get one.")
Over the course of the next several years, the insult "coxswain," morphed into "dickson." It was a perfectly natural evolution. Then later, "dickson" became "Dixon Landing Road." ("I'm sorry I acted like such a Dixon Landing Road last night.")
Which brings us to the ultimate evolutionary state of the insult my brother and I made up in 2000: "Auto Mall Parkway."
See, on Interstate 880 in Fremont, California, there are a couple exits near one another. One is "Dixon Landing Road," and the other, of course, is "Auto Mall Parkway."
So if I tell you to stop acting like an "Auto Mall Parkway," that means to stop acting like a person who steers boats.
Tonight - Homestead.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 19, 2015
2nd Place
3.3.2015
I've been working regularly lately (hooray!) and really love where I work. It's the smallest of small shops, but the four guys I work with are talented, super friendly and hilarious. They're all very good at what they do, too, and working with them is - dare I say? - "fun." That's saying a lot, too, as almost all of the fun of doing visual effects has gone out of the job.
If I have one gripe about the job, it is that sometimes I have to make a 30-mile round trip to just east of downtown Los Angeles to get to and from it. (I say sometimes because the rest of the time I get to work at home, as I have "compatible software.")
That one gripe has gotten smaller and smaller as I make the commute, too, so I'm about done complaining about it at all. I made a huge adjustment that's made all the difference: I avoid almost all of Interstate 10 and take surface streets. I've found that even a barrage of yellow and red traffic signals is preferable to the excruciating start-and-stop of LA's packed freeway traffic.
Being on the surface streets, and being an attentive person, I've notice things previously unknown: A very cool brick building at Washington Bd. and Vineyard St.; a "French" bakery on Washington Bd just east of Crenshaw St.; and a big portrait of Jaz Coleman from Killing Joke on a black building with the words "Fade To Black" on the corner of Washington Bd. and Main St.
I also notice things like a brake light out on that Kia ahead. Stopping for the red next to the Kia I say through my rolled-down window, "Your left rear brake light is out." She says, "¿Que?"
I notice 15 helicopters hovering over something a mile or so away while stopped at a red. I see that the guy next to me is staring at the choppers too and say, "Do you know what's going on that those helicopters are interested in?" He says, "¿Que?"
I notice what has to be a drunk driver weaving around, slowing down and stopping in the middle of the road and when I have a chance, get away from him. At the next red, lo and behold a police car is stopped there. I tell the officer through my rolled-down window, "There's a black Tahoe back there driving like he's drunk." The officer says, "¿Que?"
The take away is that either I have to stop talking to people through my rolled-down window, or, y'know, learn to speak Spanish.
Tonight - Hemlock Tavern!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I've been working regularly lately (hooray!) and really love where I work. It's the smallest of small shops, but the four guys I work with are talented, super friendly and hilarious. They're all very good at what they do, too, and working with them is - dare I say? - "fun." That's saying a lot, too, as almost all of the fun of doing visual effects has gone out of the job.
If I have one gripe about the job, it is that sometimes I have to make a 30-mile round trip to just east of downtown Los Angeles to get to and from it. (I say sometimes because the rest of the time I get to work at home, as I have "compatible software.")
That one gripe has gotten smaller and smaller as I make the commute, too, so I'm about done complaining about it at all. I made a huge adjustment that's made all the difference: I avoid almost all of Interstate 10 and take surface streets. I've found that even a barrage of yellow and red traffic signals is preferable to the excruciating start-and-stop of LA's packed freeway traffic.
Being on the surface streets, and being an attentive person, I've notice things previously unknown: A very cool brick building at Washington Bd. and Vineyard St.; a "French" bakery on Washington Bd just east of Crenshaw St.; and a big portrait of Jaz Coleman from Killing Joke on a black building with the words "Fade To Black" on the corner of Washington Bd. and Main St.
I also notice things like a brake light out on that Kia ahead. Stopping for the red next to the Kia I say through my rolled-down window, "Your left rear brake light is out." She says, "¿Que?"
I notice 15 helicopters hovering over something a mile or so away while stopped at a red. I see that the guy next to me is staring at the choppers too and say, "Do you know what's going on that those helicopters are interested in?" He says, "¿Que?"
I notice what has to be a drunk driver weaving around, slowing down and stopping in the middle of the road and when I have a chance, get away from him. At the next red, lo and behold a police car is stopped there. I tell the officer through my rolled-down window, "There's a black Tahoe back there driving like he's drunk." The officer says, "¿Que?"
The take away is that either I have to stop talking to people through my rolled-down window, or, y'know, learn to speak Spanish.
Tonight - Hemlock Tavern!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Marsh Mallon (REDUX)
3.2.2015
I swear I don't know what it is about the people in San Francisco and their inability to stand on the sidewalk and wait for the light to turn to cross the street. If a guy or gal is lookin' to jaywalk it's one thing, but at every goddamn intersectio, there's a few fuckers that step off the curb and stare at the walk/don't walk sign with no intention of jaywalking. They DON'T look to see there's no one speeding toward them or taking the turn fast and tight. And I been walking and biking around SF for ten-fuck years now and I can affirm that drivers speed and take turns tight.
How many of these idiots been run over, hit or killed? I dunno. Lots, I bet, and you ask me I'd say FUCK 'EM. Doorknobs that stand in traffic deserve what they get.
Whoa! How's that for a rant? Here's another:
I take the bus home across the bridge. People queue up to wait at the TransBay Terminal at First and Mission. Sometimes there's a long line, sometimes it is short. I tend to keep my ears and eyes open most of the time and pay attention to shit. If someone looks like they're gonna puke, I stand somewhere else. So I'm queued up in a longish line a few months back and someone hacks a quasi-cough. It sounded a lot like a gag. I thought to myself, "I hope that leper covered his or her mouth." GAAACCKKKHH. The fucker does it again. The next thought I have is, "Oh great, some dick has whooooooooooping cough and I'm getting stuck on a bus with him." Every few minutes the scumbag gags and after a while I pick her out. Normalish looking lady. Pea-green iPod Mini. And a fucking annoying gag. The bus comes and I sit far away from her and open the window in my face.
THE NEXT day and for days, weeks and months later, the bitch's gag doesn't clear up. I know she's gonna get me sick so one day I walk up and hand her a bag of Fisherman's Friend coughdrops. "What's this," she said. "What do you think, Mary, that goddamn cough-gag-thing you can't shake. Me and the rest of the pilgrims on this heap would prefer not to be coughed on every night. And mebbe you should get some doctor to have a look at yr disease." She said, "Who's Mary?"
Speaking of crossing bridges, come on out for this Thursday's requested East Bay excuriso .
Tonight - Hotsy Totsy Club (Albany, CA)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I swear I don't know what it is about the people in San Francisco and their inability to stand on the sidewalk and wait for the light to turn to cross the street. If a guy or gal is lookin' to jaywalk it's one thing, but at every goddamn intersectio, there's a few fuckers that step off the curb and stare at the walk/don't walk sign with no intention of jaywalking. They DON'T look to see there's no one speeding toward them or taking the turn fast and tight. And I been walking and biking around SF for ten-fuck years now and I can affirm that drivers speed and take turns tight.
How many of these idiots been run over, hit or killed? I dunno. Lots, I bet, and you ask me I'd say FUCK 'EM. Doorknobs that stand in traffic deserve what they get.
Whoa! How's that for a rant? Here's another:
I take the bus home across the bridge. People queue up to wait at the TransBay Terminal at First and Mission. Sometimes there's a long line, sometimes it is short. I tend to keep my ears and eyes open most of the time and pay attention to shit. If someone looks like they're gonna puke, I stand somewhere else. So I'm queued up in a longish line a few months back and someone hacks a quasi-cough. It sounded a lot like a gag. I thought to myself, "I hope that leper covered his or her mouth." GAAACCKKKHH. The fucker does it again. The next thought I have is, "Oh great, some dick has whooooooooooping cough and I'm getting stuck on a bus with him." Every few minutes the scumbag gags and after a while I pick her out. Normalish looking lady. Pea-green iPod Mini. And a fucking annoying gag. The bus comes and I sit far away from her and open the window in my face.
THE NEXT day and for days, weeks and months later, the bitch's gag doesn't clear up. I know she's gonna get me sick so one day I walk up and hand her a bag of Fisherman's Friend coughdrops. "What's this," she said. "What do you think, Mary, that goddamn cough-gag-thing you can't shake. Me and the rest of the pilgrims on this heap would prefer not to be coughed on every night. And mebbe you should get some doctor to have a look at yr disease." She said, "Who's Mary?"
Speaking of crossing bridges, come on out for this Thursday's requested East Bay excuriso .
Tonight - Hotsy Totsy Club (Albany, CA)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 05, 2015
Traffic (REDUX)
3.1.2015
Have you ever done the equivalent of walking out of a bad movie with a book? Stopping reading – maybe mid-sentence – and closing the cover for good? I got one going right now that I’m seriously considering jettisoning. There are several factors involved in this pending no-confidence vote.
First, the book is supposed to be a horror novel. So scary, in fact, that author felt no name other than Ghost Story could better suit it. I’m two hundred pages in (roughly a third of the total) and there ain’t been anything spooky, scary or psychologically frightening. I’m waiting for a payoff. The title says something about ghosts. Where are the frikkin’ ghosts?
I went to see a movie a long time ago. I saw Sex, Lies and Videotape in the theater. I heard it was a good movie, so some friends and I went. I didn’t expect it to be porn, though, like some jock-type losers sitting near us did. Minor fidgeting, bored derisive catcalling and finally a loud exodus spoke to their movie review. We laughed at them as they walked out saying, loudly: “This sucks! Where’s the fucking tits? This is stupid! You fucking perverts!” Those National Merit Scholars saw the words “sex” and “videotape” and thought hardcore. A swing and a miss. I saw the words “ghost” and “story” and I thought horror novel. Is that a wrong conclusion?
Another thing that bugs me about the book so far is the author’s style. His style is nothing less than pompous. He goes into intense detail to show off his word-smithery.
His verbosity detracts from the mood: Three pages of detail of the spooky forest – detail down to the dreadful patterns of the spiderwebs and haunted slugslime trails. Ugh. It smacks of bad poetry.
Lastly, and somewhat related to my last point, some of the words this guy uses are nothing short of arcane: bonhomie, signeurial and pettifogging. I have a pretty deep lexicon and I love to learn new words but I don’t like it when a word like bonhomie derails the narrative train. Further, I don’t care to learn words that I’ll never use myself. I might think it, but I’ll never say, “What I like most about that John Volny is his bonhomie.”
I’m giving the story another hundred pages to get better or it gets the hook. I got The Sun Also Rises in the queue and it waits for no man.
Tonight - Mission Bar aka "BAR" (just like it says - any questions?)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Have you ever done the equivalent of walking out of a bad movie with a book? Stopping reading – maybe mid-sentence – and closing the cover for good? I got one going right now that I’m seriously considering jettisoning. There are several factors involved in this pending no-confidence vote.
First, the book is supposed to be a horror novel. So scary, in fact, that author felt no name other than Ghost Story could better suit it. I’m two hundred pages in (roughly a third of the total) and there ain’t been anything spooky, scary or psychologically frightening. I’m waiting for a payoff. The title says something about ghosts. Where are the frikkin’ ghosts?
I went to see a movie a long time ago. I saw Sex, Lies and Videotape in the theater. I heard it was a good movie, so some friends and I went. I didn’t expect it to be porn, though, like some jock-type losers sitting near us did. Minor fidgeting, bored derisive catcalling and finally a loud exodus spoke to their movie review. We laughed at them as they walked out saying, loudly: “This sucks! Where’s the fucking tits? This is stupid! You fucking perverts!” Those National Merit Scholars saw the words “sex” and “videotape” and thought hardcore. A swing and a miss. I saw the words “ghost” and “story” and I thought horror novel. Is that a wrong conclusion?
Another thing that bugs me about the book so far is the author’s style. His style is nothing less than pompous. He goes into intense detail to show off his word-smithery.
His verbosity detracts from the mood: Three pages of detail of the spooky forest – detail down to the dreadful patterns of the spiderwebs and haunted slugslime trails. Ugh. It smacks of bad poetry.
Lastly, and somewhat related to my last point, some of the words this guy uses are nothing short of arcane: bonhomie, signeurial and pettifogging. I have a pretty deep lexicon and I love to learn new words but I don’t like it when a word like bonhomie derails the narrative train. Further, I don’t care to learn words that I’ll never use myself. I might think it, but I’ll never say, “What I like most about that John Volny is his bonhomie.”
I’m giving the story another hundred pages to get better or it gets the hook. I got The Sun Also Rises in the queue and it waits for no man.
Tonight - Mission Bar aka "BAR" (just like it says - any questions?)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Hot Cuppa Joe
2.4.2015
It's cold in Chicago. Really, really cold.
The pictures I see online in social media and on TV during national coverage of Blackhawks games show a frozen Lake Michigan, an icy Chicago River, plumes of steam billowing out of every rooftop and generally frozen-looking, well-bundled people. I see these images and can hardly believe I endured eight Chicago winters. But I did.
Of the several side-splitting anecdotes I could write about, the recent news about coffee and its health benefits for people who drink about a pot a day (which Linkey Loo Robot and I certainly do) got me thinking about sad tale of coffee on an absolutely frigid Chicago morning.
It was a Friday morning in December, a few weeks before Christmas. In keeping with tradition, a proto-TNSC had met the night before and the revelry was great, as a holiday and time off were rapidly approaching. And, y'know, it was Thursday.
I had been served several drinks in dirty glasses the night before, and I felt terrible that morning: I had a screaming headache and there were several times I was sure I was going to puke on the bus and my fellow passengers. I actually got off the bus a stop early to try to use the cold to help me feel better. It did because it was so harsh. This was the kind of cold that froze your eyelashes together when you blinked. No shit.
I reached my normal bus stop and the Koffee Kiosk beckoned me in. I visited it often and the nice gal behind the counter knew me. She said, "would you like to try my special Christmas blend this morning? It's on the house!" I said no thanks, just the biggest regular hot caffeinated coffee you have. She pressed on. "Are you sure? It's my special blend and it's my treat!" After a while of politely declining, her persistence won out.
"Okay, thanks." I said, accepting the giant paper cup that was so hot I could feel it through my gloved hand.
Outside I took the lid off to let it cool some, and the sub-zero temps obliged in a block or two. I braced myself and took a sip.
...
It was syrupy sweet. It probably had peppermint, holly, mistletoe and chimney soot oil in it. "Christmassy" flavors all. I spit it out and poured the rest out in the gutter and watched it violently steam for almost six seconds before it iced over.
I was sad and felt bad. Then I went to work and drank a pot of food service coffee.
Tonight - The Homestead (but you already knew that)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
It's cold in Chicago. Really, really cold.
The pictures I see online in social media and on TV during national coverage of Blackhawks games show a frozen Lake Michigan, an icy Chicago River, plumes of steam billowing out of every rooftop and generally frozen-looking, well-bundled people. I see these images and can hardly believe I endured eight Chicago winters. But I did.
Of the several side-splitting anecdotes I could write about, the recent news about coffee and its health benefits for people who drink about a pot a day (which Linkey Loo Robot and I certainly do) got me thinking about sad tale of coffee on an absolutely frigid Chicago morning.
It was a Friday morning in December, a few weeks before Christmas. In keeping with tradition, a proto-TNSC had met the night before and the revelry was great, as a holiday and time off were rapidly approaching. And, y'know, it was Thursday.
I had been served several drinks in dirty glasses the night before, and I felt terrible that morning: I had a screaming headache and there were several times I was sure I was going to puke on the bus and my fellow passengers. I actually got off the bus a stop early to try to use the cold to help me feel better. It did because it was so harsh. This was the kind of cold that froze your eyelashes together when you blinked. No shit.
I reached my normal bus stop and the Koffee Kiosk beckoned me in. I visited it often and the nice gal behind the counter knew me. She said, "would you like to try my special Christmas blend this morning? It's on the house!" I said no thanks, just the biggest regular hot caffeinated coffee you have. She pressed on. "Are you sure? It's my special blend and it's my treat!" After a while of politely declining, her persistence won out.
"Okay, thanks." I said, accepting the giant paper cup that was so hot I could feel it through my gloved hand.
Outside I took the lid off to let it cool some, and the sub-zero temps obliged in a block or two. I braced myself and took a sip.
...
It was syrupy sweet. It probably had peppermint, holly, mistletoe and chimney soot oil in it. "Christmassy" flavors all. I spit it out and poured the rest out in the gutter and watched it violently steam for almost six seconds before it iced over.
I was sad and felt bad. Then I went to work and drank a pot of food service coffee.
Tonight - The Homestead (but you already knew that)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Firecracker!
2.3.2015
Growing up, I had a pal my age who lived only three houses away. Let's call him Phil. We went to school together until high school, when we went to different schools, but we still hung out a lot.
I saw Phil nearly every day, because we had a grapefruit tree that (I'm told) had absolutely delicious
fruit, and he came and got one for breakfast. I also saw him when we listened to records, watched movies, or, y'know, smoked the reefer.
The kids he met at his school were really different from the ones I met at my school and his pals introduced him to "alternative" art and music and often times really powerful weed.
One school night I went out to dinner with my soccer team after practice and ordered and wolfed down loaded tater skins. They were cheesy, bacony, covered with sour cream and I would see them again!
Later that evening, Phil came over right as I was leaving to take our dog for a walk. He joined us and while we walked, he showed me this neat collapsible "water pipe" and then he demonstrated its use. I gave it a go and it worked well. We took turns breaking it in as we walked Cassie around the block.
As we neared his house, he said, "My sister Melissa just got back from a trip to China and she brought me some weird candy. Wanna check it out?" I said okay and Cassie and I waited as he ran in and got the candy.
They were fruity disk-shaped candies called "Haw Flakes." We thought the name was hilarious and we held the "awwww" of Haw when we said "Haw Flakes" and cracked each other up. It was really, REALLY funny, if you catch my meaning.
It was getting late, so we called it a night. I took the dog home, washed up and went to bed. As I laid there, the room began to spin quite fast, and before I knew it, realized I was about to throw up. A moment later I reverse-ate my once tasty loaded tater skins. That seemed to help, because the room stopped spinning. Even better, my brother heard me ralph, thought I was sick and took pity on me by cleaning up my trash can, which now contained my tater skins.
The next morning, as I was leaving for school, Phil came to get a grapefruit.
He said, "dude, I fucking threw up last night."
I said, "so did I!"
He said, "do you think it was the Hawwwwww Flakes?"
I said, "no. I think it was the killer bongs."
We laughed. Hawwwwww Flakes!
Tonight - The Armory Club
(blatant tie-in - no pun intended - to the "rom com" of the week, "50 Shades of Grey.")
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Growing up, I had a pal my age who lived only three houses away. Let's call him Phil. We went to school together until high school, when we went to different schools, but we still hung out a lot.
I saw Phil nearly every day, because we had a grapefruit tree that (I'm told) had absolutely delicious
fruit, and he came and got one for breakfast. I also saw him when we listened to records, watched movies, or, y'know, smoked the reefer.
The kids he met at his school were really different from the ones I met at my school and his pals introduced him to "alternative" art and music and often times really powerful weed.
One school night I went out to dinner with my soccer team after practice and ordered and wolfed down loaded tater skins. They were cheesy, bacony, covered with sour cream and I would see them again!
Later that evening, Phil came over right as I was leaving to take our dog for a walk. He joined us and while we walked, he showed me this neat collapsible "water pipe" and then he demonstrated its use. I gave it a go and it worked well. We took turns breaking it in as we walked Cassie around the block.
As we neared his house, he said, "My sister Melissa just got back from a trip to China and she brought me some weird candy. Wanna check it out?" I said okay and Cassie and I waited as he ran in and got the candy.
They were fruity disk-shaped candies called "Haw Flakes." We thought the name was hilarious and we held the "awwww" of Haw when we said "Haw Flakes" and cracked each other up. It was really, REALLY funny, if you catch my meaning.
It was getting late, so we called it a night. I took the dog home, washed up and went to bed. As I laid there, the room began to spin quite fast, and before I knew it, realized I was about to throw up. A moment later I reverse-ate my once tasty loaded tater skins. That seemed to help, because the room stopped spinning. Even better, my brother heard me ralph, thought I was sick and took pity on me by cleaning up my trash can, which now contained my tater skins.
The next morning, as I was leaving for school, Phil came to get a grapefruit.
He said, "dude, I fucking threw up last night."
I said, "so did I!"
He said, "do you think it was the Hawwwwww Flakes?"
I said, "no. I think it was the killer bongs."
We laughed. Hawwwwww Flakes!
Tonight - The Armory Club
(blatant tie-in - no pun intended - to the "rom com" of the week, "50 Shades of Grey.")
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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