5.5.2019
My T shirt has a "kick me" sign on it.
It's not written in English or any other language. It's not really real. But it is there. And everything in the world sees it. And kicks it.
It's a normal, red (called, "Bonfire Red" by its manufacturer), crew-neck T shirt. It's 100% cotton, soft, and it fits and wears well. You can't but notice a red T shirt, but other than that, it's nothing special.
Except that I get shit all over it.
If I'm stirring chili, a blob will jump out and land on my red T. If I'm mowing on corn at the movies, only pieces with lots of butter will land unnoticed on my red T. If I'm pouring melted bacon fat into a ramekin, a drop will somehow get on my red T. If I'm writing with a Sharpie, I will fumble and drop it tip-end on my red T. If I'm drinking coffee in the car, I will hit a pothole and spill coffee on my red T. The list goes on and on. It's like there's a "kick me" sign on the T that I mentioned early. Except it's spills and shit, not kicks.
There's nothing out of the normal with spilling stuff or getting shit on myself. It's just that it ONLY HAPPENS when I wear that red T shirt. I kid you not. I'm as clean as a whistle - as long as I'm not wearing that T shirt.
Tonight - Homestead.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Thursday, May 24, 2018
Honorable Mentio (REDUX)
5.4.2018 (first posted this week 2008)
I'm in the wrong industry. Why I made a list of things I need to ship and the people I need to ship them to and I have a note card frikkin' FILLED. It's too much to do in one try so I'm going about it piecemeal. I got the big thing I needed to ship out of the way (a Mac to a die-hard Microsoft user -- should be a fun bunch of reports from that one), and even with all 40 pounds of it gone, I still have a lot to do. I should go into the shipping biz.
Of course, once I thought of changing gigs, I began to pay attention to those companies that are already doing it and became discouraged. FedEx, UPS and that bastard third-stringer DHL all have a ton of gear necessary to ship commercially. Trucks, vans, boxes, stickers, barcodes, planes, tracking numbers ... it's all too much to compete with.
Got to come up with another get-out scheme.
Tonight - Tony Nik's (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I'm in the wrong industry. Why I made a list of things I need to ship and the people I need to ship them to and I have a note card frikkin' FILLED. It's too much to do in one try so I'm going about it piecemeal. I got the big thing I needed to ship out of the way (a Mac to a die-hard Microsoft user -- should be a fun bunch of reports from that one), and even with all 40 pounds of it gone, I still have a lot to do. I should go into the shipping biz.
Of course, once I thought of changing gigs, I began to pay attention to those companies that are already doing it and became discouraged. FedEx, UPS and that bastard third-stringer DHL all have a ton of gear necessary to ship commercially. Trucks, vans, boxes, stickers, barcodes, planes, tracking numbers ... it's all too much to compete with.
Got to come up with another get-out scheme.
Tonight - Tony Nik's (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 17, 2018
Gimme Gimme (REDUX)
5.3.2018 (first posted this week 2001)
These days I'm walkin' down the street and I hear someone call my name ... I don't even look. Used to be I'd hear my name or something that kinda sounded like my name, I'd look. Each and every time I looked, it wasn't anybody I knew. They weren't even saying my name. "DOG!" Same vowel sound as "Josh!" Cars, busses, people walkin' by, all honkin', screeching tires, blowing exhaust; yelling, crying, begging for change or smokes, all talkin' about something. Lotta background noise in the city. Someone yells "Dog!" and I hear "Josh!" Used to look and see who was calling my name. Don't anymore. Not that I'm sick of hearing phantom "Josh!," I just know that they ain't talking to me. I don't even care if they are talking to me. That happened recently too. Founding Member Alan Chimenti was across the street with his lovely wife. They had just stepped out of "Cats," or "Stomp," or "Dent" or some kind of goddamn waste of time like that and I happened to be on my way back home from hockey practice. "Josh!" they yell. I hear "Dog!" and keep on going down the street.
"Josh!" "Josh!"
"Dog!" "Dog!"
It takes Mrs. Alan Chimenti to break the spell: "Goddamn it! Josh you asshole! Look over here!" I looked, waved, crossed the street and let the Chimentis buy me a drink or two at the Owl Tree. I'm a firm believer in learned behavior and I learned how to respond to swearing a long, long time ago. Pop didn't really mean "Get over here!" unless he punctuated it with "Goddamn it!" I still respond to swearing but you better be smiling or willing to buy me a few drinks at the Owl Tree ... after you cuss me out.
Tonight: Wooden Nickel
News: Dee won last week's contest and I forgot her prize here at work. Der! Amy is new to the list. Speaking of the list, I'll keep it going for a while so you can subscribe to the Mailing List. I'll retire the manual list in a month or so. Oh! And I think I'm going to retire the Rant Section. Nobody rants. I know you have a lot to rant about. You just lazy?
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Jeremy is mostly recovered from the achey-breaky ass, so we'll postpone the DR another week. Jer wrote in: "Thanks to all List Members for the nice flowers and candy, and for your thoughtful cards. I'm touched that you took the time out of your busy schedules. (Shuba, I'm not one for fuzzy stuffed bunnys, but I sure appreciate it. The kids at the hospital like it a lot.) Alan, I really appreciated your visit. I didn't know you suffered the achey-breaky ass a year ago. I'm suprised that that restaurant is still in business, let alone that curry still being on the menu." We're glad you're on the road to recovery, Jer!
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Loretta. Miss Loretta gets to go to Zietgiest next week, okay? Mark your calendars and meet her there. She will be answering questions and signing autographs. Bring a Sharpie.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
These days I'm walkin' down the street and I hear someone call my name ... I don't even look. Used to be I'd hear my name or something that kinda sounded like my name, I'd look. Each and every time I looked, it wasn't anybody I knew. They weren't even saying my name. "DOG!" Same vowel sound as "Josh!" Cars, busses, people walkin' by, all honkin', screeching tires, blowing exhaust; yelling, crying, begging for change or smokes, all talkin' about something. Lotta background noise in the city. Someone yells "Dog!" and I hear "Josh!" Used to look and see who was calling my name. Don't anymore. Not that I'm sick of hearing phantom "Josh!," I just know that they ain't talking to me. I don't even care if they are talking to me. That happened recently too. Founding Member Alan Chimenti was across the street with his lovely wife. They had just stepped out of "Cats," or "Stomp," or "Dent" or some kind of goddamn waste of time like that and I happened to be on my way back home from hockey practice. "Josh!" they yell. I hear "Dog!" and keep on going down the street.
"Josh!" "Josh!"
"Dog!" "Dog!"
It takes Mrs. Alan Chimenti to break the spell: "Goddamn it! Josh you asshole! Look over here!" I looked, waved, crossed the street and let the Chimentis buy me a drink or two at the Owl Tree. I'm a firm believer in learned behavior and I learned how to respond to swearing a long, long time ago. Pop didn't really mean "Get over here!" unless he punctuated it with "Goddamn it!" I still respond to swearing but you better be smiling or willing to buy me a few drinks at the Owl Tree ... after you cuss me out.
Tonight: Wooden Nickel
News: Dee won last week's contest and I forgot her prize here at work. Der! Amy is new to the list. Speaking of the list, I'll keep it going for a while so you can subscribe to the Mailing List. I'll retire the manual list in a month or so. Oh! And I think I'm going to retire the Rant Section. Nobody rants. I know you have a lot to rant about. You just lazy?
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Jeremy is mostly recovered from the achey-breaky ass, so we'll postpone the DR another week. Jer wrote in: "Thanks to all List Members for the nice flowers and candy, and for your thoughtful cards. I'm touched that you took the time out of your busy schedules. (Shuba, I'm not one for fuzzy stuffed bunnys, but I sure appreciate it. The kids at the hospital like it a lot.) Alan, I really appreciated your visit. I didn't know you suffered the achey-breaky ass a year ago. I'm suprised that that restaurant is still in business, let alone that curry still being on the menu." We're glad you're on the road to recovery, Jer!
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Loretta. Miss Loretta gets to go to Zietgiest next week, okay? Mark your calendars and meet her there. She will be answering questions and signing autographs. Bring a Sharpie.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Quinny Quinn Quinn (REDUX)
5.2.2018 (first posted this week 2009)
I subscribe to some spam here and there. I get spam from Peet's™, the Cubs, Da Bears and the Independent Film Channel. I got spam from IFC recently that delivered a facebook-like punch to the memory bean. And not unlike true facebook memory whacks, this one dates from what seems like a meeelion years back. During, in some respects, my former life.
I have a pal from school that I have loosely kept in touch with since we went to school together in Chicago. She moved to NYC at some point mid-90s, and I moved to SF a year or so later. While we were in school, and for several years after, we were pretty tight. We'd go to rock shows, movies, restaurants, race tracks and such. We even worked together for a time. We once rescued a Daniel Boone-like skin of fuckin' MEAD from her 1980 Olds Cutlass after it had been swiped by a gang and deliberately wrecked into their rival's ride. (Side note: An Olds Cutlass, even at moderate speed, will inflict some hideous damage to just about any rival gang's ride.) (Additio al side note: Mead is fuckin-A disgusting.)
Anyway ... some of you know my former GF, whom I refer to as The Previous Administration. She and I lived together for some time and that meant when her ma came to visit, she'd come and stay with us. I didn't mind her ma much. She was okay.
One time, The PA's ma was in town and my school pal came over to watch a movie. She said she'd heard of the great new French movie and that it was available at the local video store, so we walked over and got it. We threw it in the VCR and all got comfy. It was indeed a beautifully shot movie. And the story was pretty good: A super-hot French gal fell in love with a super-hot Chinese guy in what was formerly French Indochina. So what do two super-hotties do that love each other? You guessed it ... they got it ON! And ... on. And on. And on, and so on. At one point, he fucked her across the god damn floor.
Let me take a moment to remind you that it wasn't just me, my pal and The PA ... the PA's frikkin' MOTHER sat there with us watching a guy fuck a gal across a floor. I'm cool in most situations, but I draw the line at watching a guy buff the floor with a gal's ass in the company of a mom. It was so uncomfortable, I couldn't even get up and go out and smoke. I had to pretend I wasn't there. Better yet, I had to pretend I was asleep ... which I did. It was the only way out.
I'm going to ring up my pal and thank her again for screening pr0n for my former girlfriend's mom. And I'll tell her the IFC spam I got said that the very same flick is going to be on their station soon.
See for yourself: Guy Fucks Girl Across Floor Movie.
Tonight - Iron & Gold - a bar for the "ages". Heh.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I subscribe to some spam here and there. I get spam from Peet's™, the Cubs, Da Bears and the Independent Film Channel. I got spam from IFC recently that delivered a facebook-like punch to the memory bean. And not unlike true facebook memory whacks, this one dates from what seems like a meeelion years back. During, in some respects, my former life.
I have a pal from school that I have loosely kept in touch with since we went to school together in Chicago. She moved to NYC at some point mid-90s, and I moved to SF a year or so later. While we were in school, and for several years after, we were pretty tight. We'd go to rock shows, movies, restaurants, race tracks and such. We even worked together for a time. We once rescued a Daniel Boone-like skin of fuckin' MEAD from her 1980 Olds Cutlass after it had been swiped by a gang and deliberately wrecked into their rival's ride. (Side note: An Olds Cutlass, even at moderate speed, will inflict some hideous damage to just about any rival gang's ride.) (Additio al side note: Mead is fuckin-A disgusting.)
Anyway ... some of you know my former GF, whom I refer to as The Previous Administration. She and I lived together for some time and that meant when her ma came to visit, she'd come and stay with us. I didn't mind her ma much. She was okay.
One time, The PA's ma was in town and my school pal came over to watch a movie. She said she'd heard of the great new French movie and that it was available at the local video store, so we walked over and got it. We threw it in the VCR and all got comfy. It was indeed a beautifully shot movie. And the story was pretty good: A super-hot French gal fell in love with a super-hot Chinese guy in what was formerly French Indochina. So what do two super-hotties do that love each other? You guessed it ... they got it ON! And ... on. And on. And on, and so on. At one point, he fucked her across the god damn floor.
Let me take a moment to remind you that it wasn't just me, my pal and The PA ... the PA's frikkin' MOTHER sat there with us watching a guy fuck a gal across a floor. I'm cool in most situations, but I draw the line at watching a guy buff the floor with a gal's ass in the company of a mom. It was so uncomfortable, I couldn't even get up and go out and smoke. I had to pretend I wasn't there. Better yet, I had to pretend I was asleep ... which I did. It was the only way out.
I'm going to ring up my pal and thank her again for screening pr0n for my former girlfriend's mom. And I'll tell her the IFC spam I got said that the very same flick is going to be on their station soon.
See for yourself: Guy Fucks Girl Across Floor Movie.
Tonight - Iron & Gold - a bar for the "ages". Heh.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 03, 2018
Intruder Alert (REDUX)
5.1.2018 (first published this week 2001)
I'm just fixin' to leave for work, see, and some car horn starts goin.' I mean it; it started up loud and kept going. I'm sure the car was a big one, too. The horn was beefy: A low, mean rumbling that would probably do well on a boat or a tractor-trailer. One of them horns that the tones varied while held down. It just might deafen children. A bus driver would hear that horn.
Yeah, so, this thing starts and I'm thinking this guy's a jackass. Whether he's picking someone up and "using the doorbell," or he's berating some dumbass who cut him off he's a jackass. I don't much care for folks who really don't give a crap about other people. This goddamn horn could wake the dead, by god. When the thing doesn't stop, though, I pause. Maybe this guy's not being a dick. Maybe his horn's stuck. (That happened to me once. I won't get into it.) He's had a malfunction and the dang thing's stuck. I'm sure this is the case after a while 'cause it k e e p s g o i n g. No way he's that rude.
Few minutes later I got my shoes tied and I'm out the door and he's still honking. I actually feel badly for this poor guy who's horn is stuck and is undoubtedly pissing off the entire neighborhood. When I see him I'll give him a nod that says "Sorry yer horn is stuck, dude. I know what it's like." Down on the street I do see him. And you know what? His horn ain't stuck. He's double-parked out in front of the apartment across the street and he's honking for someone to come down. Big 'ol Delta 88 cruising vessel with a navy surplus horn and he's laying on it. Fok. Teach me to give these shitters the benefit of the doubt.
Tonight - Martuni's
(it's been about as long as this venue announcement is old since we've been there for a Thursday night)
News: 5.1.2k1 is upon us and this Venue Announcement is going out only to those subscribed to the list. To hell with the rest of 'em. It'll be a cozy 20-person drinking club from now on.
TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Bus Window Etching
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Bobby Allison's crash at Talladega. Today in 1987 Davey Allison won the Winston 500 in Talladega, Alabama. His father Bobby, in the same race, blew a rear tire and his car spetacularly flipped into the grandstand at over 200 mph. The speed of the car was significant in it making it over (through) the retaining wall and fence and into the grandstand. This wreck led to the Introduction of Carburetor Plates in NASCAR Cars. The carburetor plate was NASCAR's answer to cars reaching plus-200 mph speeds, as they restricted the fuel intake of the engine. Our players: Mrs. Alan Chimenti is the racetrack at Talladega, AL; Moss is Bobby Allison, Amy is his car; Kathleen is the carburetor plate; Matt Brown is the retaining fence; and Tama, Jason and Todd are the race fans running for their lives.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Rosey. He's subscribed and tele-drink-clubbing.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I'm just fixin' to leave for work, see, and some car horn starts goin.' I mean it; it started up loud and kept going. I'm sure the car was a big one, too. The horn was beefy: A low, mean rumbling that would probably do well on a boat or a tractor-trailer. One of them horns that the tones varied while held down. It just might deafen children. A bus driver would hear that horn.
Yeah, so, this thing starts and I'm thinking this guy's a jackass. Whether he's picking someone up and "using the doorbell," or he's berating some dumbass who cut him off he's a jackass. I don't much care for folks who really don't give a crap about other people. This goddamn horn could wake the dead, by god. When the thing doesn't stop, though, I pause. Maybe this guy's not being a dick. Maybe his horn's stuck. (That happened to me once. I won't get into it.) He's had a malfunction and the dang thing's stuck. I'm sure this is the case after a while 'cause it k e e p s g o i n g. No way he's that rude.
Few minutes later I got my shoes tied and I'm out the door and he's still honking. I actually feel badly for this poor guy who's horn is stuck and is undoubtedly pissing off the entire neighborhood. When I see him I'll give him a nod that says "Sorry yer horn is stuck, dude. I know what it's like." Down on the street I do see him. And you know what? His horn ain't stuck. He's double-parked out in front of the apartment across the street and he's honking for someone to come down. Big 'ol Delta 88 cruising vessel with a navy surplus horn and he's laying on it. Fok. Teach me to give these shitters the benefit of the doubt.
Tonight - Martuni's
(it's been about as long as this venue announcement is old since we've been there for a Thursday night)
News: 5.1.2k1 is upon us and this Venue Announcement is going out only to those subscribed to the list. To hell with the rest of 'em. It'll be a cozy 20-person drinking club from now on.
TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Bus Window Etching
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Bobby Allison's crash at Talladega. Today in 1987 Davey Allison won the Winston 500 in Talladega, Alabama. His father Bobby, in the same race, blew a rear tire and his car spetacularly flipped into the grandstand at over 200 mph. The speed of the car was significant in it making it over (through) the retaining wall and fence and into the grandstand. This wreck led to the Introduction of Carburetor Plates in NASCAR Cars. The carburetor plate was NASCAR's answer to cars reaching plus-200 mph speeds, as they restricted the fuel intake of the engine. Our players: Mrs. Alan Chimenti is the racetrack at Talladega, AL; Moss is Bobby Allison, Amy is his car; Kathleen is the carburetor plate; Matt Brown is the retaining fence; and Tama, Jason and Todd are the race fans running for their lives.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Rosey. He's subscribed and tele-drink-clubbing.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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