One time I walked around thinking it was some other day. It was like Tuesday and I spent the day thinking it was Thursday. I didn't find out until night had come and by then it was too late. My whole fucking month was off.
This whole day I thought the World Series was tonight.
I been walking around all excited. I was planning on going to a bar so I could watch it. I was going to get all buzzed up and holler things like “WHOO HOO!” when the Royals got a hit or struck someone out. I was going to give the evil eye to people wearing Giants clothes from my barstool perch.
"Um, Mike," a friend of mine just said to me, "It doesn’t start until tomorrow."
Man, what a let down! Why did I even get out of bed?
Up late, nothing doing. Feeling like talking, so listen.
My son, who’s newly a man and living his life, went to a Queens of the Stone Age concert for the fourth time awhile back. Can you guys guess which band is his favorite? If you said the Beatles, you’d be correct. But Queens are a very close second.
This time, though, he got to meet Josh Homme, whom he tells me he is “totally gay for”.
You ‘n me both, Skippy. Josh Homme is fucking hot.
I received a barrage of excited texts from him around 3 AM that morning. He talked about how down to earth Homme was, how he deigned to take a photo with my son’s band, FIRE NUNS. He went on and on about what a regular guy Homme was, and came to the conclusion that a band should be required to hang with the people who actually pay money to see them.
Great idea if it’s feasible. The Queens played Sturgis, South Dakota that night. Not exactly a metropolis, even with the Biker Rally going on. Normally, the population is about 7,000 people; during the Rally, 175,000. After the show, Homme went into the bar, had a drink, and hung out with fans. My son was there, boner a-blazin’.
Ever since he was 6 years old, my boy has known what he wanted to do. At age 5, I signed him up for piano lessons and it was all downhill from there. I remember the day he asked me if he could switch to guitar. He was like maybe 9 or 10. He thought piano was what I was all about because my mom was a classically trained pianist.
“If you feel like it, sure,” I told him. Somewhat taken aback, he took maybe 3 guitar lessons and off he went.
My plan worked. At a young age, make ‘em play piano. If they take to it, they can teach themselves any instrument, which my son did. He is a drummer and singer and bassist and a guitarist and a pianist and a songwriter. Me, I can play an Ipod.
Ten grand well spent. If he gets famous and makes serious coin, he totally fucking owes me bigtime. I want a fully restored red 1950s era pickup, a condo in downtown Denver near Coors Field, and a bevy of blonde, brunette, and redheaded beauties, plus a few more redheaded beauties, all of whom won’t mind my mercurial and oppositional ways.
There was a period there where my son was all about Nirvana. He loved them. Listened to them constantly. Cobain, though, was a heroin addict pussy who killed himself. He was brilliant, with ‘was’ being the operative word.
Homme IS brilliant.
Choose life, kids. I am glad that my son’s spirit animal is a man who has agreed to live into his 40s and beyond. I’ve done the same. We should all do the same and more. Cobain wimped out in his 20s, when everything sucks. It’s weird, this obsession with youth we have. It pretty much sucks to be young, especially your 20s. You think you know stuff but you don’t, not at all, and when things don’t pan out, you get all whiny because you thought you knew stuff, which you didn’t.
35 is the age of freedom. If you have nards enough to make it to 35, then the world is your lobster. Still, at 35 nothing makes sense either and everything sucks, but you grow a more fuck you attitude about it. You’re less sensitive. At 35, your heart has been broken at least twice, probably more, so the next beautiful person you see you look at in 3, not 2 dimensions.
“I love you!” they say.
“Yeah…?” you say tentatively.
At 35, all of your political leaders are liars, especially the ones you believe in, and the world is stacked against you, but at least you know it.
Knowing is all of the battle.
Choose life, kids. It gets better because it doesn’t. You do.
People are going to start coming here with ebola to be cured. My mom is a nurse, she's going to be asked to help. They have NO protocols for dealing with this right now, and it's not gonna happen any time soon with an ATTORNEY heading the whole situation. But oh no it ***feels wrong*** to close the borders. What happens when someone you know is infected and dies? Will it *feel wrong* then?
Well, I have tasted my own medicine and it is bitter. Thank you, Anon. We should shut down our borders, close the schools, and hide under our beds. Everybody panic! Um, and the crack about an attorney is irrelevant. EVERYBODY in our government is an attorney, from the President and his team to virtually the entire Congress. Why do you think this country is so fucked up?
I don't favor the closing of our borders to try and stop Ebola, even though it seems to have worked for the countries surrounding the outbreak.
Senegal, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Guinea-Bissau, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe…all of these countries have tighter restrictions on travel from the affected countries than the U.S. They range from an outright border closing/no travel at all in Ivory Coast to a continuous 21-day monitoring in Zimbabwe. Read about it here.
But it just feels wrong to me, plain and simple. If a sick person comes here, we should help them. It’s the right thing to do.
The onus for keeping this shit in check is on the CDC and the Obama “Administration”. Hopefully the whole leading from behind, spewing of politically correct platitudes will stop and we will have, gasp, actual real live leadership in THIS matter at least.
I’m not holding my breath, though.
I voted for Obama in both of his elections and I’m fairly certain he’s one of the worst Presidents in modern history.
But, alas, democracy is like sex. When it’s good, it’s REALLY good, but when it’s bad, well, it’s still pretty good….
I used to be the lead singer for a band called Drunken Firework Mishap. Our logo was a stylized pair of polyurethane testicles.
Travelling from town to town in a broken down van, earning just enough money for beer and McDonald’s and gas to the next show, all the while getting more ass than a toilet seat. You guys know why rock’n roll was invented, don’t you? To get laid. Why develop an interesting personality or be tall or maintain a fit physique when you can just pick up a guitar or a drumstick or a microphone and scream about how no one understands you?
Nowadays, I look back fondly on those days, but at the time we weren’t very happy. Like most people, we were convinced that the present sucked, the future would be better “if only” or “once this or that happened”, and that the past was a golden age. The human being is quite adept at cheating himself out of his own happiness. The problem for us was that we didn’t want to be a punk rock band. What we really wanted to do was play polka music, but not just any polka music. Serious polka music about serious issues, like the patriarchy and how white people are evil, especially white men, and how America was a giant world-devouring monster. Stuff like that. If there was one thing we cared about as a band, it was the issues.
Every once in a while, toward the end of a show, we’d pull out our accordions, put on our lederhosen, and try out our true love right there in front of everybody. We’d launch into the the Patriarchal Privilege Polka or the Down With Whitey Waltz or the Genocidal Jew Jig, but invariably to resounding boos. Sometimes we’d even get pelted with rocks and garbage and have to flee the stage in tears.
This rejection only fueled our punk shows, and the next time we got onstage and screamed about how no one understood us, we meant it just a little more than before.
Still, someone has to help and that’s what America does. Can you imagine any other country doing something like this? Me either.
Very worrisome, though.
Um, plenty of other countries do stuff like this. Cuba has been there dedicating hundreds of medical professionals since the breakout started.
Um, duh. But not to this degree. Cuba has 450 healthcare professionals there. I’m sure there are others from many other countries as well. The majority of our soldiers will be there for logistics and construction of temporary hospitals (some other reblogger said all 3,000 of them were healthcare professionals….um, no.). So, yeah, um, my point remains.
By the way, you could've bought a buffalo to eat, if you had the means.
You could’ve taken it home and killed it and took it apart and put it in a deep freezer and fed your wife and kids and dogs for the whole damn winter, if you had the wherewithal.
Buffalo meat is tricky to cook. It’s so lean it can go dry and tasteless pretty quick. I avoid this by cooking beef instead.
Working in restaurants for a lot of years, I know that tourists love buffalo burgers. “Oh, look Courtney,” they’ll say in their New York or Wisconsin or Alabama accent, “a buffalo burger. How quaint! Do we dare?”
Sure as shit, they dare.
Here, have a piece of leather with some cheese melted on it. Ten bucks.
*everbody in South Dakota goes LOL*
Someday, Dr. Oz will say on tv that buffalo meat is good for you, which it is, and all the buffalo will disappear again—just like what happened with kale a few months ago. Dr. Oz told his drones that kale was good for them and BOOM no more kale. It was a short-lived fad, however, due to the fact that kale tastes like absolute fucking shit. Sometimes, even a drone can rebel.
Gimme cabbage anyday. Kale is just fucked up cabbage. It’s what happens to cabbage when you plant it under power lines or next to nuclear power plants or in New Jersey.
There’s nothing here. I gotta go shopping, but I hate to go shopping , so put it off until I end up in the situation I find myself in tonight.
I have chickpeas, olive oil, barley, an onion, a bulb of garlic, and half a bag of frozen corn. I am also spoiled for spices.
I’m gonna cook the barley and chickpeas till soft, dice the onion and garlic, and throw everything in a cast iron skillet (along with the half a bag of corn), and just full-on fucking fry them all up.
I will spice promiscuously, mostly with hot stuff (if the dish does taste like ass, I won’t be able to tell because my mouth will be on fire). Then I will eat it in bed while doing crossword puzzles with my dogs, who probably won’t be jealous at all.
If you don’t hear from me in the next few days, know that I am dead and that I loved you guys, strangers technically though you are.
Well, last night my dog woke me up around 3 AM to take a piss. He does this by jumping off the bed, walking around the house, jumping back on the bed, walking around on the bed, then jumping off the bed and walking around the house, over and over again.
That’s Duke-speak for “Yo, Mike, I gotta piss, man.”
So I take him outside and he’s goes about pissing around the yard, while I stand blinking on the step in a pair of Charlie Brown boxers and a wife-beater t-shirt that says, for some reason, “Ireland”.
Suddenly I hear hollering and commotion coming from the Primatene house. They are on the other side of the house next to me. Really loud yelling, saying again and again, “COME OUT AND PLAY! COME ON OUT AND PLAY!” in a snotty, taunting voice.
I look toward the alley behind me and see flames flickering on the other side of the hedges. Duke is now aware of the commotion and yelling and is starting to bark and leave the yard. He wants to get into some shit! I get down off the step and catch him before he leaves. I carry him back inside, put on a pair of pants and investigate further.
Well, they got a big bonfire burning in their back yard. They’re yelling and fighting. What a buncha losers, I thought, and was about to go back inside when cops and firetrucks showed up. All hell broke lose then.
I remained on my step, listening to the festivities. I couldn’t make out what was going on, but I would wager resisting arrest was part of it. Eventually a cop came over to me, shining his light in my face. He asked which vehicles were mine.
"The two cars on the street there and the truck in the back."
He shined his light on my Olds, which was closet to my house. “Six or eight cars down the street have all had their tires slashed. Did you hear any gunfire?”
"Gunfire! No." I told him about the yelling and what was said.
"Nothing about a gun?"
He told me I might want to go back inside for safety reasons, thanked me, and went on. He was a very nice cop, but then I’m white.
I don’t know how it all played out, but this morning all the cars in front of or near their house had flat tires. This evening they’re still flat, but they seem to be taking it well because right now they are having a kegger in their front yard.
A 16 gallon keg and three people…
Who the hell are these people and why am I not invited?
“I am who I am because of the choices I made yesterday.”—
Eleanor Roosevelt, in a simpler time.
Today, we know that we are victims—of bad parenting, of bad childhood experiences, of media imagery, etc., and that we are all sufferers of whatever psychological illness removes all or most of the culpability from our behavior.
So tonight I thought, “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I went to Bingo?” and did.
Actually, that’s not true. I thought on Wednesday, “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I went to bingo Friday night?” and so just got back.
I knew absolutely nothing about Bingo. For one, I didn’t realize it was a form of gambling. People were winning $90, $75, $25…It was nuts. (I won jack shit). I didn’t know how to play and learned by doing. I bought a green sponge marker, a packet of cards, a pitcher of beer, and a cardboard tray of cardboard French fries, all for around thirty-five bucks.
I had to watch other people to figure out what was going on, plus there was a big display up on the wall with numbers and flashing lights that told you vaguely what was going on.
You know, the standard bingo game where you try to make a straight line up and down or back and forth or diagonally we only played once? Each game was different, a different shape you had to get, to win. On one, you made an X. On another, a 6-pack. Still another was a kite. There was the Crazy Cross, where you tried to get various permutations of a cross. That was the most holy one, and as I played it, I thanked Almighty God Himself for allowing me to live long enough to play bingo bemusedly with a bunch of geriatrics.
It was at The Retired Enlisted Association building and the whole time I was there I could feel the simmering rivalry with the VFW. “Everybody knows about the VFW,” their sad eyes told me, “but TREA? Yeah, we’re all but forgotten.”
I imagined war breaking out between the VFW and TREA and laughed. Then I imagined the Rotary Club brokering the peace between them and laughed harder.
It was a good time. I enjoyed myself. I’m gonna go every Friday night.
Which, by the way, they don’t put in a garbage can but on the ground in front of their house.
Walking my dogs passed there yesterday, I came across eight or ten empty Primatene packets, plus an equal number of empty car air freshener packets—you know, the trees you hang from your rearview mirror. This was all scattered around their small yard. I also spied one empty packet of condoms.
LOL. I’d never fuck anyone who scattered empty Primatene and air freshener packets around their yard.
How fucking clueless is the NFL? They have no morals or values of any kind (apart from money), and only respond when public pressure comes to bear.
You have that whole Ray Rice wife-beating monster case, where he was given a slap on the wrist…until everybody got outraged that he was only given a slap on the wrist. A bunch of lies were then told to cover up the obvious bullshit reversal.
Now you got this Adrian Peterson ass who beats toddlers with wooden sticks. Just three days ago, the Vikings said he’d be allowed to play and practice while his child abuse case oozed its way through court…until everybody got outraged, and they were all, suddenly, “After giving the situation additional thought…”
Only a freshly Windexed pane of glass is more transparent than these NFL dipshits.
“What is a country? A country is a piece of land surrounded on all sides by boundaries, usually unnatural. Englishmen are dying for England, Americans are dying for America, Germans are dying for Germany, Russians are dying for Russia. There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war. Surely so many countries can’t all be worth dying for.”—Joseph Heller, Catch-22