40 Days Without

Chick Flicks:

As a kid I had high expectations for movies. These were easily met by the combination of my 12 year old brain and classic cinema such as Jaws, Urban Cowboy, The Pink Panther, Spies Like Us, and Ferris Buller's Day Off. A box of popcorn sealed the deal. Those movies may not merit more than two stars from my cable TV info rating, but their lines are burned indefinitely somewhere on the back of my brain- and they bring me both joy and comfort.

Sadly, I have accepted that I have to wise up. The majority of celluloid out there is an environmental hazard and nothing more than an OBVIOUS scam to take your money. Every time you pay to see crap like You've Got Mail, Serendipity, Jacob's Ladder, O, Titanic, Star Wars: Episode 1 and What Lies Beneath you are being anally raped- and some of you are liking it. These movies are violations against all that is decent in the world yet each year more and more of them are made and grosses grow higher and higher.

I have never been to war, but because I've sat through these flicks**, I think I am actually more empathetic to veterans.

For several years, I have sworn off movies that I believe may linger in the middle of mediocrity. I can appreciate a really bad film that just fails on every level (anybody ever see Happy Hour? Shocker?) and I can marvel at a really great movie- or even one that's just "ok" but at least is entertaining or interesting or different or has Luke Wilson in it. It's those hybrid romantic-teen-comedy-dramas that the Oprah and/or pre-Oprah audience cream over that I don't get.

Case in point: 40 Days and 40 Nights.

This is NOT a movie I want to watch. Once I learned that the whole plot is about a guy that SWEARS OFF SEX FOR 40 DAYS I knew it was going to be ridiculously unfunny. If I thought that there was ONE shot that the movie might be a Dumb and Dumber waiting to happen, I would be all over it. Old School? Billy Madison? Even Jackass. I'd be in. Instead, I am avoiding it like it's a cold sore. I'm sure it's one of those movies that comes in right at an hour and 36 minutes and the whole idea is to showcase Josh Hartnet- maybe with his shirt off, maybe wrapped in a towel, maybe being hilarious as he goes 40 days without 'tang. Whatever. Definitely a prime example of a movie I will not watch.

But, now I've gone 22 days without a cigarette. 22 days is just over half of the 40 Josh Hartnet suffered in that movie. I think I've been too much of a critic. 40 days is a long freakin' time! And some people do this EVERY YEAR at Lent. No WONDER they had to invent Madi Gras!

I think there is something powerful to this self-denial gig. It is very difficult, but, according to Catholics and Episcopalians, a test to get into heaven. You really do have to search and stretch and suffer when you are denying yourself something that you want. These past 22 days are the closest I've ever come to S&M. In a way, I like it. In a stronger, much more prominent way, it's driving me crazy.

That I can recall, I've NEVER done this before. I have never said, "No" to something that I really, really, really, really wanted. If I said no, it was because I didn't see the good out weighing the bad- or I was scared I'd get caught. It's like maturity has met the bitchy librarian that lives inside me and they've started getting it on- in a very sterile and soundless environment. I can't help but think how DIFFERENT of a person I would be if I adopted this as my new "thing".

"Hey Liz, want to borrow this umbrella?" "No. I'll go without."

"Hey Liz, are you going anywhere over the holiday?" "No. I'll be voluntarily working without pay."

"Hey Liz, it's creme brulee. Want some?" "No. You have it."

"Hey Liz, let me fix you a vodka tonic!" "No. I'll have a milk."

Puleeze.... Who am I kidding? That would SUCK.

Wish me luck. If I can make it 40 days, I'll have this cigarette thing behind me. Then I can move on to trying to go 40 days without sex. Yeah, like THAT could happen!

;-)

**Equally dangerous are trailers for any movie prominently featuring Kevin Costner.

Viva La Botswana!

I love moo cows, by Killer

I have a special calendar on my computer that informs me of important holidays around the world. "Why," you ask? Because I had this elaborate scheme a few years back of throwing a theme party involving the holidays of foreign countries. Why should Cinco De Mayo be the only day I can drink Mexican beer and wear a sombrero without people thinking I am a jackass? Like all great ideas it went no where. But now I have a calendar that won't stop telling me that it is independence day in some third world country. I did not realize how many countries were so fond of their "freedom", and how many had to wrestle it away from England.

September 30th is independence day for Botswana. They won their independence in 1966 from those dicks in England. (No offense Mick) Usually I ignore the calendar with indifference for the struggles of these small, non-oil producing countries (I am an American!), but for some reason I decided to do some research on Botswana.

First I went to Wikipedia, which is the greatest invention since the hole in front of men's underwear, and looked up Botswana. There I learned their date of independence from England and that one of the greatest movies ever was filmed there, "The God's Must Be Crazy". This movie is the single most influential reason that I think all African languages are consisting of various clicks of the tongue. Sadly most are not, and Africans don't like it when you imitate them that way. A lot of other important things probably happened in Botswana in the past thousand years or so, but nothing I found exciting enough to read about.

Next I went to the the Botswana web site, http://www.gov.bw/home.html. The first thing I noticed was that they have zebras on their seal. That is awesome. I love Zebras. They also have a picture of a modern looking building with a couple of giraffes strolling by. Holy shit! They have giraffes just walking around the cities? I decided, I have to go to Botswana!

On the very front page of their website they had a link to government job listings. I am willing to work for the government. I clicked on the link, but it only had one job listing. It sounded pretty complex at first, Principal Agricultural Research Officer II, but they broke it down in parenthesis (breeder beef cattle). What? I can do that! Breeding cows? That can not be all that hard. All you need is a boy cow, a girl cow, some Barry White music, a whole lot of KY, and if absolutely necessary, a little cow porn. I have pretty much all of those things, except the cows, at my apartment right now. I was made for this job.

My dreams were dashed when I found the job requirements. A BS in Animal Science, a MS in Animal Breeding, and preferably a PhD to boot. Who needs a Masters in Animal breeding? The animals do all the work. All you have to know is not to let the cow bang the pig, and easy stuff like that. This is one more example of "the Man" trying to keep me from reaching my dreams.
I was worried about this set back until I remembered that I am a bad ass with Photo Shop. I can put together a couple of advanced Animal breeding degrees, and if I cut and splice my cow porn I could probably put together some live action shots to back it up.

I think I am going to give this a shot. Any place with zebras, giraffes, and horny cows has got to be great.

Heroes don't worry that their fries will get cold

Killer asks, what would you do?

Okay, here is the set up. It is 6:45 pm. I have to meet Disco and Gatewood in front of Young Ave. Deli at 7:15pm to see a band play. I have chosen to meet some work compatriots before hand to get a bite to eat. I am a punctual person so I choose an eatery only one block from Young Ave. Deli. I arrive with one work friend and another arrives with her boyfriend, whom I am meeting for the first time. We are sitting there making witty, clever banter about life's little foibles when I see over the shoulder of the newly acquainted boyfriend a strange and bewildering scene.

The bartender is half pushing, half carrying a tiny, 80-something old lady to the door. She is apparently hammered which is made obvious by her inability to stand, walk, or even hold on to tables for stability. In one hand a small purse, the other hand is clinging tenaciously to a set of jingling car keys. The bartender manages to shove/assist her to the door and then he just turns and walks away, uninterested in the further plight of this geriatric spectacle. I am mesmerized and have now garnered all the attention at the table to focus on the scene at hand. We watch her stumble down the three stairs, trip and lurch forward landing on the back of a parked car on the curb in front of the pub at which we were sitting.

We are all aghast at this poor little woman who is obviously too intoxicated to walk. Then to make matters worse she went around to the driver's side of the car and proceeded to unlock the door and open it. "Holy Shit!" I exclaimed, now a good percentage of the neighboring tables were glancing around to see what we were watching. She attempted to sit in the driver's seat, but could not make it. She was sitting half in the car, and half out of the car, and making no apparent attempt to rectify this situation.

At this point the waitress arrived with our food.

There are moments in life where you can look back and feel warm and fuzzy about a good deed you did, or a positive impact you made on someone's life. There are also moments where you can look back and think, "man, I am really a heartless bastard." I will have to place my next actions in the latter category.

The newly acquainted boyfriend (we will further refer to him as N.A.B for short) kept saying, "how come no one is doing anything?" Then in a character defining moment he got up from his chair and determined that he was the only one who was willing to act. He walked over to the nearest waitress and pointed the scene out to her. She said, "what do I do? You have to tell me what to do?" Realizing she was of no help, he went out the door and over to the car. His girlfriend also took this opportunity to go outside to help the situation as well.

I stayed behind and looked for the ketchup, flagged down the waitress for a new beer, and commented to my remaining work friend, "I would have liked to see if she could have started the car."

I see from my seat that N.A.B has helped her up off the door jam and into the driver's seat. He is having a discussion, that I would later learn involved them trying to convince her to take a cab (which she refused) and even a discussion on them driving her home (but she could not tell them how to get to her house, she just kept saying her address).

My remaining work friend was now disgusted by how long they were taking and the fact they had yet to procure her car keys, so she got up and went outside to take control. I stayed at the table, stole a couple of french fries off her plate, and began flagging down our crappy waitress more aggressively for that beer.

Now all three of my dinner companions are outside, the entire front room of the pub is staring out the windows at this spectacle, my waitress has FINALLY brought me a new beer, and the manager can no longer ignore the events unfolding outside and has entered the fray. The manager, after more failed attempts to get the little blue haired wino to take a cab, calls the police. A surprisingly patient and understanding officer arrives and begins his attempts to convince the gal to take a cab versus going to jail. It still did not appear to be working to well.

N.A.B. and my work friends return to the table, relinquishing control to the authorities. It is now 7:15 pm. I mentioned I am punctual, so I eat the last bite of my sandwich, down my beer, and ask for the check. As the check arrives my guilt of not being as caring and showing good civic mindedness really hit a peak level. I apologized to everyone for having to leave, but I had to go meet the next group. In a meager attempt to elude my guilty feelings I paid the entire tab and headed out the door.

I walked down the curb which now contained one drunken old lady, still sitting in the driver's seat of her car, one police officer squatted down beside the lady outside the car, still trying to talk some sense into her, and the manager of the pub, just wishing this whole sordid affair would go away. I had started feeling good that atleast I had surrounded myself with people who are willing to sacrifice to make the world a better place. Then before I could stop it my head was filled with frustration, because I really did want to see if she could have started the car.

Southern Hospitality vs. Slight Mental Retardation

I have spent the vast majority of the previous seven years careening all over the country. I have lived on the East coast and the West coast. I have enjoyed the wide open spaces of rural Montana, the frantic hustle and bustle of New York City, and about every kind of town in between. Every place unique. Every place an adventure. Every place dead wrong about what life is like in the South.

I was born in North Carolina, but have lived in Mississippi as long as I can remember. There are definite benefits to growing up in the deep South, but it does come with some downsides. Everyone seems to have pre-conceived notions of what goes on down here. Some based on historical events. Some based on stereotypes. Some just based on Jerry Springer.

I would like to take this moment to dispel some wrongs and propel the rights.

1. Everyone in the South is a racist. Possible source: Slavery, Civil War, "Mississippi Burning"
Yikes! Don't start with that one. This one probably burns my ass the most. It is not like the rest of America is just one big happy world of inter racial neighborhoods and life being lived like a Coke commercial. I am not even going to try to convince you that there are not a large amount of racist peoples living below the Mason Dixon line. I am just going to point out that there are a lot of racists ALL over the place. The difference down here is there is no vast choice of different colors and cultures to project your troubles on. Down here they can't make broad generalizations about Asians being bad drivers. They would just say, "Asians drive cars? I thought they all rode around in rickshaws."
I have a very memorable exchange with a young Indian girl (dots not feathers) while working in California. She said she would not want to come to the South, because everyone would look at her funny because she was Indian. I told her no one would look at her funny for being Indian. They would look at her funny for being Mexican. In the South, they don't know about Indians.

2. Everyone in the South is poor. Possible source: CNN coverage of Hurricane Katrina, Dukes of Hazard reruns.
Everyone is such a big word. Just because Census reports and other government studies show the Southern states with an exponentially higher number of families below the poverty line, that does not mean everyone is below the poverty line. Some people live very fulfilling lives just above that line. Seriously, the breakdown of economic classes in the South is pretty much the same as every place else. It is a LOT cheaper to live down here. I lived in San Francisco for several years. I have a one bedroom apartment in downtown Memphis, TN, in a nice building with 24 hour security and everything for $700 a month. My apartment in San Francisco was $5400 a month. So, in the South, a career making $40,000 a year is quite capable maintaining a solid middle class lifestyle for a whole family. A single guy making at least $40,000 can live like a friggin Southern Fried Pimp.

3. Everyone in the South is stupid. Possible source: Biased standardized testing, President George W. Bush (twice)
Sure it's a matter of state pride if you can make fun of your neighboring state for being ranked 50th in literacy, but not if your state is ranked 49th, and worse yet, it is really bad if you can't email that bit of humorous information to your friends since over half of them can't read.
It is a slow arduous process to change generations of thinking. If your parents, grandparents, or great grandparents never went past highschool it is unlikely they are going to offer a lot of
resistance if you decide to forgo college and take that lucrative assistant manger job at the Tasty Shake. But, it is improving. It would improve quicker, but the more people that learn to read, the more that discover road maps and drive out of the South. At least that is what happened with me.

4. People in the South have sex with their cousins. Possible source: Jerry Lee Lewis, Jerry Springer Show.
There is an important wisdom passed down from father to son in the South. "Never marry a virgin." The rationale is simple: If she is not good enough for her own family, she is not good enough for ours.
I jest, but a few of you were probably wondering if that was real. There are two ways of looking at this issue.
One is to accept it as true and argue that since no one in the South moves more than two miles from the spot they were born it is not unlikely to have ten generations of one family all living in the same small town. Add in the previously mentioned: racism (they can not marry a black person), low income (they can not afford a mail order bride from Russia), and finally stupidity (they probably can not keep track of who is related to who), and it does not seem far fetched to say Southerners are sleeping with their cousins.
The second view is that maybe Jerry Lee Lewis just had a really hot 13 year old cousin, and was an isolated incident, and all those people on Springer, with their strong southern accents, apparent lack of proper dental care, and frequent reference to living in trailer parks, may just be pulling your leg about sleeping with their cousin, who is married to their dad, while their sister took pictures. If you can think of a crazy enough story you get a free trip to Chicago to be on T.V. But, they probably do actually live in a trailer park and those bad teeth are real. Some things you think about the South are real.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate!

Killer, glad to not have a twin.

Two work companions were looking at baby pictures recently and one said, "They are so cute, but twins are always cute." I don't know if this is true, but the opposite would be disastrous.

It is bad enough if you have to go through life ugly, but it would be unbearable if you were ugly and had a twin. No denial is possible. You can't always look at yourself in the mirror only from the right to see your best side. You are stuck looking at a walking, talking version of you. You know without a doubt that your ass is flat, you look like a cow when you chew, and when you look down, you have not only two chins, but sometimes three or four. You thought the best way to spice up your mullet was to get the back permed, but now that you can see it from behind, not so good.

Really ugly twins are also detrimental to the rest of the world. Say I am strolling down a busy urban street, surrounded by people scurrying to and fro, when I glance to the left and see, an extremely ugly person walking towards me. I immediately take evasive action and look right to avoid seeing that, and Wham! There it is again! Now, having seen it twice in such quick succession it is burned into the back of my retinas, like staring too long at a solar eclipse. Now I am clawing at my eyes frantically trying to dispel the image and I stumble into the path of the crosstown express bus.

Maybe the rarity of really ugly twins is the result of decades of medical intervention at birth. When twins are born the medical team quickly assesses the situation and if a high potential for aesthetic disaster is noted they are separated at birth. One may stay with the family, but the other might get sent to a special orphanage to begin preparations for a job operating the ferris wheel for a traveling carnival. That is just a theory and is not, as of yet, proven. The next time you are at a carnival check out that guy running the ferris wheel. See what you think.

Credits When Credits Are Due

Liz, Ebert, and Roper critique:

SCENE: A perfect autumn day where long shadows from tall trees are cast onto the pavement. A perfect blue sky. Around 3:30 in the afternoon.

I dreamt that I was in the old 'hood, walking down the street where I lived as a kid. I was the person I am now but the neighborhood was imaculant and beautiful- very well kept and, from all visual accounts, THE neighborhood to live in. I was joined in this stroll by someone who was familiar to me, but I could not place who she was. We were talking about who used to live where, who lives there now, and about the neighborhood in general. I was at peace and had that happy warm-fuzzy that comes from nostalgia being good. She lived in the neighborhood now but had apparently also lived there when I was a kid. From the dream I got a sense that we had been friends or at least schoolmates when we were younger; some level of acquaintance.

I asked her what her name was in a very nice way. I was comfortable with her. She was a good conversationalist. She was interesting and knowledgeable. I said something like, "You'll have to forgive me for not remembering this, but what is your name again?" And she looked at me- almost bored with the question- and said, "I'm going by an alias now and that it Mimi (something or other)." I said, "An ALIAS? Why? What's happened in your life where you need an alias?" She was very nonchalant like EVERYONE had an alias and I was like, so 1993 for not knowing this. I got over being insulted and asked again for her name; no longer interested in why she changed it, just trying to fit her into her proper place in my past.

Flippantly, she again refused.

Of course, I proceed to get aggravated with this "old pal". You know that extra sense you have in dreams? The one that feeds you, direct line, to the heart of the matter; the inside scoop? I KNEW she had no reason to withhold this information from me. There was absolutely no reason she could not tell me what her real name was- she was simply electing not to do so.

In my dream the frustration is really starting to rise. I KNOW who this woman is, but I cannot pull up her name and I am getting pissed off about it! I'm now obsessed with knowing who she is. She's not giving in. She's even told me that there is no reason for me not to know her name, she just doesn't want to tell me. Nothing matters more than figuring out who this person is and all she can reply with is, "You know, whatever."

I'm combobulated and then the dream ends... but not as in "ends". The dream ends with credits rolling up the screen like in a movie. The whore who wouldn't tell me her name is Elisabeth Shue.

Now, WHY would my brain put me through all of this if, at the end of the dream, it was going to reveal the secret? And, if I'm going to dream about a "star", why can't it be Luke Wilson or George Clooney? Why Elisabeth Shue for Christ's sake?

Some people have to worry about getting fucked over by others. I have to worry about getting fucked over by my self.

Krispy Kreme will Rue the Day!

Typed with misty eyes by Killer

Cruising the bustling metropolis of Memphis the other day I happened by a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop and low and behold the "hot now" sign was lit. I usually abstain from eating doughnuts due to my desire to avoid empty calories (all allotted space is reserved for beer intake), but the tantalizing, blaze red sign was not to be ignored.

For those of you not familiar with the heavenly creation of a fresh Krispy Kreme doughnut, I lament your plight, and can not imagine the thought of such an existence. You can keep your soulless Duncan doughnuts. My doughnuts are of a higher calling.

I strolled into the Krispy Kreme mouth watering and heart all a flutter. I was ready to get some fresh from the fryer doughnuts. I ordered two glazed and for the main course, one freshly made custard filled. I watched the counter jockey pull the doughnuts from the appropriate tray. (I don't trust these guys, too nonchalant with such an important task) I paid and exited the store with my tasty treats.

I get back on the road and reach my hand into the bag, passing over the plain glazed in favor of the much anticipated custard filled. I pull it out, savoring the ever so slight warmth, and take a bite. WHAM! Raspberry! My taste buds, having been thoroughly prepared for delicious custard, revolted with this sudden change in plans.

I peered down at the doughnut to get a look at this travesty and sure enough, instead of creamy custard escaping from the center, it looked like my doughnut was bleeding Raspberry from it's very heart.

If someone walked up to me right this instant and said, "Hey, would you like a raspberry filled doughnut?" I would probably take it. I don't have a ethical issue against raspberries, I just was so enthralled, so in love, with the thought of a fresh, hot custard filled Krispy Kreme doughnut, that nothing else was acceptable at that point.

I returned the once bitten, not custard doughnut back to the bag and tossed the whole lot dejectedly into the floor board. I was sulking now and thinking of all the ways I hated those bastards working at Krispy Kreme. They have a job that enables them to enjoy hot, fresh doughnuts at anytime, but they choose to take that luxury for granted.

I was burned that day my friends. Years from now people will think of me and say, "gosh, I wonder what happened to make him so cynical and untrusting." I used to see the "Hot Now" sign and get the same feelings a young child has about Christmas, before the bubble was burst and he was informed that Santa Claus was all just a lie. Yeah, I am still glad to see that sign, but the magic is gone, and I don't think it will ever be back.

Never trust a drunk, or his mother

Nursing moments, presented by Killer

When a patient enters the hospital you have to gain certain information for his or her care. It needs to be known if the person is allergic to any medications or foods, does the person take any medications, Or does the person drink alcohol on a regular basis or do drugs. It has developed as a rule of thumb that EVERYONE either lies about their consumption of alcohol or drugs, or at the least cuts it by 50%. When asking a family member, they ALWAYS lie, because they don't want to rat out their loved one.

Excerpt from a conversation with the mother of a 34 year old new admission, the patient is asleep after surgery to remove a ruptured spleen after hitting a tree with his car.

Me: Is your son allergic to any medicines?
Maw: No, I don't think he is...Can you test him to be sure?
Me: Not really, but we will keep a close eye on him.
Maw: He never even takes an aspirin. (everyone loves to say this for some reason)
Me: Okay, does he smoke?
Maw: Occasionally.
Me: Does he smoke everyday?
Maw: Yes.
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: I think it is about two packs a day. (that is 40 cigarettes a day! Occasional my ass!)
Me: Does he drink alcohol?
Maw: No.
Me: I am not judging your son, but I need to know if he drinks for his own well being.
Maw: I think he might drink a little bit.
Me: Does he drink everyday?
Maw: Yes
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: He drinks about a case of beer. (I think, TWO cases)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, and he occasionally will drink a pint of whiskey. (I think, TWO pints, actually at this point I think, man if this lady is cutting everything in half, this dude might be pickled)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, but he still goes to work everyday, and hardly ever gets in to trouble.
Me: That is good. Does he do any recreational or illegal drugs?
Maw: He might smoke some marijuana occasionally. (like 40 cigarettes a day occasional?)

(On a side note: At this point I am wondering if this guy ever sleeps. Without doubling the alcohol he would need to smoke a cigarette every thirty minutes, drink a beer every hour, and do a shot of whiskey every two. Where is he finding time to smoke pot? This guy is a master of time management.)

Me: Everyday?
Maw: We smoke marijuana pretty much everyday. (Did she just say, "We"?)
Me: Okay, does he take any medications on a regular basis?
Maw: I been meaning to ask, did he have any marijuana with him in the wreck?
Me: I don't know. They pretty much have nothing on them when they reach me. No clothes, no belongings, nothing.
Maw: Cause, I want that back if he had that on him.
Me: I think they destroy any illegal narcotics that come in.
Maw: (Visibly annoyed by now) Well, somebody will have to pay for that then.
Me: I don't know if there was any or not. Let's finish with these questions and then I can make some phone calls to see what I can find.
Maw: I mean, it is not right to just destroy marijuana, that is like burning money.
Me: I understand. Does your son take any medications at home?
Maw: Do you think the marijuana might still be in his car?
Me: I wouldn't have any way of knowing that kind of information. Does your son take any medicines, that you know of?
Maw: Do you know where they take the cars after wrecks?
Me: Not even a tiny idea?
Maw: Can you find out? I really want to look in the car.
Me: I would not even know where to ask about that. DO YOU KNOW IF YOUR SON TAKES ANY MEDICINES?
Maw: I already told you he does not even take aspirin. He might have hidden the pot somewhere after the wreck. Do you know exactly where he wrecked?
Me: No, I really have no idea.
Maw: I better go home and check his room. Maybe he left some there.
Me: Good idea.

Wolfmother concert = Worst Hair Ever

Spotted by Killer

If I am going to continue posting pictures from concerts I really need to start taking a real camera. My camera phone is not cutting the mustard.
Gatewood, Disco Stu and myself spent another glorious evening catching some high level musical talent downtown at the New Daisy theater.
The opening band was an Aussie band named "Messhall". I like the new minimalist approach of only having two people in a band (see White Stripes, Black Keys, etc.) it has to make the profit margins better. As for band names, "Messhall" ranks pretty high on the list of bad ones. (#1 worst band name of all times: "Hoobastank") This band had the unique attribute that once I initially heard them they sounded pretty good, but oddly enough the longer they played the worse it got. I really think they were only picked because: A. They are Australian like the headliner. B. The drummer has an afro like the lead singer of the headliner. (Afro, Australian for hair)


The headliner was the band "Wolfmother". I give them credit for a bad band name that is so off the wall that it becomes cool. They really do rock out, but tend to be a little heavy handed on the guitar solos. A majority of their songs start with a mellow almost classical lead in, and then WHAM they rock you when you least expect it. However, when every song does that you really do start to expect it. It becomes almost like watching a little kid blow up a balloon. You see it getting bigger and bigger and then you can not keep from squinting your eyes, because you know it is going to explode any second and, although no one has ever been injured from a popping balloon, you don't want to be the first. That is what every song was like.
I would kill something in a sacrificial manner if I could make this next picture turn out better. This is probably the worst hair cut I have ever seen in person, and I live in Mississippi where people still where mullets without an inch of tongue in cheek.
This guy was working the sound for Wolfmother. We tried to think of some way to surreptitiously snap a few shots, but due to poor lighting it was not working out. Finally Gatewood just said, "fuck it" and walked right up to him and after a compliment of the hair asked to take a picture with him. Not only did the guy love the idea, he even turned the house lights up so we could get a better shot. You can not get a really good overall image from the crappy camera phone shot, but it is a perfect bastardization of the Joe Dirt, super mullet and a mangy dreadlocked wookie.
I love this guy for rockin' 100% of the time. He even threw up the rockin' "horns of Satan" sign to show that no matter when or where he is ready to rock!
Gatewood threw the rockin' "horns of Satan" because he is a poser.

My Brain Thinks I Am Some Kind of Bad Ass

Blogged in a fit of rage by Killer

I am getting spurts of violent urges recently. I don't know if it is my diet, or maybe just too much violence on T.V., but I have moments of almost uncontrollable desire to inflict bodily harm on total strangers. I have not actually performed any of these acts, but I am starting to fear for random people on the elevator. I was sitting in my favorite local watering hole and an obnoxious group of yuppies were sitting nearby. For no discernible reason my brain will start saying, "man, those dudes better not try to throw down, or I will go medieval on their asses!" Probably the most disturbing part of this is, I am not the kind of person who says "throw down" nor "go medieval". I am not even sure what is entailed in going medieval, but I am almost certain it involves a suit of armor, and I tend to chafe in polyester, there is no telling what metal pants would do to my groin.

So, this is the scenario, me sitting in a fairly crowded bar alone. Nearby is a group of rambunctious, intoxicated late twenty-something fellows all wearing business suits in various states of dishevel. They are managing to cover the gambit of stereotypical macho, jack ass behavior; talking loudly, hitting each other, and making unwanted(?) advances towards the scantily clad bar maidens. These guys have not made any outwardly obvious signs of aggression, but my brain has kicked into over time deciding what it would want me to do if they suddenly jumped up and began an old west style bar fight. Man, an old west style bar fight would be great! See, that is my subconscious talking, deep down I know that in an old west style bar fight only the good guy has a respectable outcome, and I don't think I should be cast as the good guy. I would probably be the dude who gets hit from behind with a bottle of whiskey by some chick.

I have digressed.

My brain has determined that, although there are at least six of these younger, fitter guys nearby, I can take them with the right combination of high impact kung fu and the delivery of some bad ass one liners. I will roll up my sleeves, "I am going to give you guys two tickets to the gun show." (I will take this moment to flex in some masculine manner), PUNCH!! "Ya'll are in luck, it's happy hour and that means two for one." PUNCH-PUNCH!!

Fear not faithful readers. I neither tore six new assholes for six yuppie bastards nor did I get six shiny tassel loafers shoved up my ass. The rowdy bunch realized that they had to wake up bright and early in the morning and continue exploiting children in some third world sweat shop, or perhaps just climb back into their cubicles in accounts receiving for some faceless corporation. They paid their tabs and dispatched from the bar in a very anticlimactic manner.
Thus leaving me in a post 'roid rage state. I ordered another beer from the bartender with a menacing sneer and glanced around the bar. I focused my glare on a rapidly deteriorating group of women out for a bachelorette party. They were doing shots and getting very boisterous. I could sense trouble was afoot, and I was not afraid to throw down if any of these bitches decided to step up to the plate.

What I learned from T.V. at 4am

Shared with inquiring minds by Killer

Late night T.V. can be very informative. The following are things gleamed from my television at 4am..

Fact one: Source, Animal Planet
The Skipper caterpillar can fire it's own feces up to five feet. There is some debate among entomologists as to the purpose of this. My personal opinion is, they do it because they can.

Fact two: Source, Paid Programming
If I order now, I can, not only, receive Girls Gone Wild: Sexy Sorority Sweethearts, but also get Girls Gone Wild: Ultimate Rush, absolutely free. My personal opinion is, apparently girls will do anything for a free t shirt. Note to self: Must carry extra t shirts when going to bars.

Fact three: Source, Cinemax
The Dukes of hazard is, without doubt, the worst movie ever made. The combination of Jessica Simpson, Johnny Knoxville, and Burt Reynolds should be forever banned from occurring on any media source. Not films, T.V., not even on paper. My personal opinion is, This might be the final proof needed that our once great society is on an unstoppable downward slide. For Rome it was vomitoriums, for America, $80,000,000 domestic gross for Dukes of hazard.

Fact four: Source, CNN
A recent Harris Poll listed the most prestigious professions. The top three, in order, are: Firefighter, Doctor, and Nurse. There was a category to be chosen for each called, "Hardly any prestige at all. 3% of all those asked listed nursing in this category. My personal opinion is, upon further investigation you will find that 3% of all those asked actually were nurses.

Re BUTT al

Liz pinches THIS off:

What the FUCK? I go away for a few days and when I return, Kim (my best friend) has, in writing, accused me of fondling nut sacks across the south and, maybe worse, being a pleasure farter. Killer, my blog partner, has blessed it. I feel so betrayed!

I do not have time to respond tonight because I've got some balls to put in my mouth and some gas to release, but I am wounded.

Even though it pains me, I give kudos to Kim. As much as I know about her it takes nerve to call me a nut sack juggler and an air-raid sprayer. I wouldn't betray her just because she thinks it's ok to do that to me, but I will drop a word of warning to Kim. One word. Sascrotch.

Riding the Short Bus to Hell

Aired by Michael

I was reading a blog on another's website, you can find the link on the right, but it is up to you to figure out which one, and they had posted a list of reasons why you should hate them. I like this. It seems cathartic, and could actually be used as a disclaimer for later moments in life. A few years from now when I inadvertently alienate myself from one or all of my friends, I can say, "Hey, I clearly listed this was a reason to dislike me years ago. It is your fault for not reading the fine print. I am sorry, but you will not be able to stop being my friend at this time. By the way, can I borrow $100?" I firmly believe that given an infinite time line, everyone will eventually realize I am an ass.

1. Probably the most socially unacceptable reason. I make fun of the physically and mentally handicapped. I do feel bad about this, but I am literally unable to help myself. Ironically, this might be seen as a mental disability, and that, in turn, makes me laugh.

2. With the exception of a few of my closest friends, I would prefer to sit at the bar alone and drink, rather than drink with them. The problem with this trait is, I don't really feel this way until after the first thirty minutes or so, after it is too late to just walk away and sit at the bar. Believe me, more than once, I have been stuck staring at the bar in a forelorn manner. As a side note, if you have any doubt about your status in this area, it is probably not good for you.

3. I not only prefer to sleep naked, but I really enjoy just lounging around the house naked as well. I have included this one because a few of my closer friends have been privy to me getting more and more comfortable around them, and therefore, less and less clothed. It is only a matter of time before I just come strolling into the room completely naked, and this really could end a friendship. I mean, I am NOT an attractive naked person.

4. When I win the lottery I will not be providing any loans or hand outs to you people. I have already mapped out several spending plans specifically based on the amount I eventually win. None include supporting a bunch of free loading ingrates.

5. I am very proud of my ability to produce flatulence. I expect my friends to be both impressed and in awe of this talent. Some (Liz) claim to not enjoy it, but deep down I know they do. In fact, I am going to do it more around those people until they admit how much they love it.

There are probably a whole lot more, but these are the only ones I am able to discuss openly. My therapist thinks these are a pretty impressive break through. I reserve the right to add more at a later date. You can actually feel free to post any grievances you might have. I must warn you, however the list of people I would rather not drink with is by no means set in stone, nor is the list for increased flatulence.

Crikey!

Liz eulogizes:

Like a real-life McGyver that has found that duct tape can't get you out of everything, the khaki-clad crocodile hunter is dead. Now really, does this seem fair? Yes, he had a mullet after mullets were out of fashion, and yes, he once pulled a Michael Jacksonesque move by holding his baby boy over a feeding crocodile, but certainly there is no one out there who would say that this was deserved.

I didn't say unexpected, I said deserved.

I loved Steve Irwin- he was enthusiastic, he was kind, he was boyishly adventurous. All in all, a pretty good bloke. I'm not sure what lesson we are suspposed to learn from his demise. Don't poke animals with sticks? Respect nature's authority? Passion for your job will get you killed?

If given the choice, would you elect to live to 74, having worked 30 years under fluorescent lights in a cubicle or would you choose to live to only 44, having lived passionately and on your own terms? That's why I respected him. It's not often that you have the opportunity to see people who are doing exactly what they want to be doing with their lives; people who know the risks, yet push forward in hopes of accomplishing something more significant than themselves. A contribution to the greater good, maybe?

Fortunately, I do not have to make that choice. I'm not really all that passionate about anything, so I expect to make it to at least 60... 70 if I can kick my bad habits.

I'm going to miss the Hunter and his enthusiasm for the ugliest creatures and the foulest reptiles in our World. Today I remember him with words. Tomorrow I will remember him with khaki. Yes, I will be wearing khaki tomorrow. Oh, it's part of the company's dress code, but you and I know that it will really be in memoriam of Steve. So tomorrow, for the first time since the dress code was implemented, I will wear my khaki with passion.

Steve would be proud.

day 1 of quitting

Liz puffs:

Well, I've already failed at my attempt to quit smoking. I am, however, on day one, pill one of anti-smoking meds. This drug is new to the market and touted as the miracle anti-smoking drug. I may grow an eyebrow on my elbow, but at least my lungs will be pink again in 15 years.

This pill is susppossed to make cigarettes taste awful. The doctor, pharmacist, and Phizer Drug Co. Underestimate my addiction. You see, if you really, really are an addict; if you think about smoking whenever you're not thinking about something else (which is a lot); if you'd rather have a cigarette than go to a movie, then it's going to take not only willpower but cigarettes that taste like ass. Ass that has hemorrhoids. That are leaking.

Ewwwwwww. That's graphic. I'm not even sure what a hemorrhoid really is or if it can leek, but it sounds really nasty. I'm sorry.

The Guys Are All Cuter At Closing Time

Me too.

I've had a rash of friends experiencing the dreaded DUI curse lately. By lately, I mean over the past couple of years. By friends, I don't mean Mel Gibson.

I have been lucky enough to never go through this experience- at least as the driver. But I can't help but feel like every road block, every pull over, is part of the cops' quest to find me; the others that they round up are just bonuses.

Please don't misinterpret here. I am not for any of you driving drunk. You could hit me, at which point the cops would arrive on the scene and I could end up incarcerated for also being intoxicated. I have faith in you, but I'm too delicate for real jail. However, I am already a prisoner.

Allow me to explain.

The problem lies in the beauty of alcohol. I LIKE adult beverages and if there is any truth that you can speak about me, it is that I do not discriminate. I will drink nearly anything that is at least 40 proof at least once, but I do have my favorites. I do not drink daily; I average less than 25 drinks a month; less than one a day. But I drink those 25 drinks in two sittings which means that when it's on...

I am a rather social person. I like nothing more than meeting friends at the pub and discussing life's joys over a couple of life's joys. By the time one drink becomes 5, I'm ready to start doing shots. After doing a shot or two, I've made new friends and I'm encouraging them to sing karaoke. Sometimes these new friends insist on buying the next round. I don't like to accept drinks from people that I've just met but I'm also not going to let a perfectly good beer get hot. The next thing you know, the lights are coming on and it's last call.

The words "Last Call" make me really hungry. Usually, I haven't eaten since noon and it's almost 2 AM. The kitchen is closed so the "sobering up" plan involves a stick of gum, another cigarette and a giant glass of water. But you have to finish your beer first, so the water just sits condensing on the bar.

Now seriously, at this point I am in no condition to decide if I'm sober enough to drive or not. That's the rub! How can I, in all fairness, be held accountable for the decision to get behind the wheel of my car and drive home? I'm too drunk to make a judgment call like that. People, can't you see that I am a VICTIM?

Here's something annoying that increases my victimization. People who don't drink don't want to go to bars. WHAT? Now, how am I susppossed to get my car home if everyone in the bar at 2 AM has been there since 5? I can't let one of these fools drive me home! Plus, I know better than to go home with strangers. And don't talk that "get a cab" nonsense. There are all sorts of logistical problems associated with taking a cab. Plus, what's a cab running these days? $30 a ride? That's like half my bar tab! Ridiculous.

So. This is my year of not living dangerously. I'm going to TRY and quit smoking and I'm going to TRY and always leave the bar with confidence after only 3 beers. Who knows, I might actually end up spending my weekends doing something productive instead of recovering and rallying. I know, it sounds awful, doesn't it? What good is being single if you can't have 2-day binges? Why have blackout curtains if you're not nursing a hangover?

More than likely, I'm going to have to... oh god this hurts... limit my time in pubs and bars across this great land of ours.

This football season I'm hoping to get an invite to your place so that we can kill a 12-pack while the game is on. And get the guest room ready, because I'm not planning on driving home. And sell your Coors stock. It's about to plumet.