You are just going to have to trust me on this one. Nothing makes me, a manly man of straightness, feel gayer (happy) than toasting something in a shiny, bulbous toaster. The more it resembles an Airstream trailer, the better.
Just don't, you know, fork it. That would be dangerous.
I like marmalade with my incredibly edibley gay toast. How 'bout y'all?
I have a plan...a clever one. When I die I want to be wrapped in linen with no embalming done to my body. Then I will be placed in a shallow, shallow grave with no coffin at all. On top of me will be planted a redwood or an oak. Maybe even a larch...yes, the larch.Why?Well, I will inevitably become the tree. Trees have spirits just like us. So, I get two souls. If I happen to get sent to hell, which is highly likely, then my tree soul will save me and go to heaven. I mean, have you ever heard of a tree getting sent to hell?
The only kind of blogging that I have been in the frame of mind to do lately is totally unstructured and random. I've got emails to write but I get down here and just blank out. I'm feeling happy, but kind of in a spaced out way. I'm lost just a tiny bit; out of control, perhaps. There are some new elements in my life that I'm sort of floating in, forgetting to take care of business due to the novel qualities of it all. I never see things coming...things like this. What things? Hell, I don't know, but they are things. I write songs about things that I have no understanding of. It kind of makes me seem like I might know something about it all, but I don't.
I need a Slim Jim and a Dew right now, but it is way too late for that kind of luscious poison.
I've turned my cell phone back on today. I go through those phases where I either don't want to have the anxiety associated with phone calls, or I rack up the bills by surfing the web with it while at work.
I used about five minutes of my day looking at the mountainside in my hometown. I marveled at how much of the terrain I had explored when I was younger. A 19-year-old kid was shooting the shit with me while I was doing this. He was telling me about a rock that he was doing some climbing on last Saturday. When I asked him to describe the rock I pointed out to him, "There, you were right there, weren't you?" I was right. I had climbed that 30 foot rock with my friends in my sophomore year while skipping school. After telling him about that wild day (I about fell to my death while climbing on top of an irrigation line to cross a ravine--50 foot drop) I went on to show him where all the little mine shafts were hidden on the mountainside. I told him about a blind chute that cut into a cliff way up on the mountain--a secret way to the top. He just sat there and was in amazement at how much I knew about this little area. I don't think there will be many kids anymore who will venture out like my friends and I did. Technology is such a great drug.
Another person at work had their spouse die. It has been the third one in two weeks. I hate signing those cards. It is so sad. What do you say, really?
I've got to spend a load of money getting new shoes for my baby. My baby sure is ugly, but damn if Clyde don't take me to cool places. After that I need to rebuild the steering box and weld up a new tail pipe. I sound like a hick, don't I? Take out your Swiss Army knife and pull out the least sharp protrusion. Shake it like you are shaking someone's hand. There, we've finally met in real life. I am not a rich man, but then again, who gives a shit.
Old growth wood vs. farm wood. Think of how long a tree in nature takes to get to where it does and then take a farm tree. The farm tree is fertilized and cultured to grow tall fast. Think about this: a 300 year old tree and a 70 year old tree are the same in stature. Which tree has the most tree rings (better wood)? The 300 year old one does, of course. What does this have to do with the price of condoms in a nightclub bathroom? Fine quality musical instruments, that's what. Essentially, you can kiss the glory days of all wooden musical instruments goodbye. What else does this mean? Wall Street bankers buying fifty year old guitars and seeing their investment go from $7,000 to $100,000+ in a matter of a decade. Last time I checked, these dudes weren't exactly musicians. The world can be so stupid. I've also wondered how much bloodshed my mahogany bodied beauties caused. Like I said, the world can be so stupid.
I'll visit all you guys soon. I wasn't that funny tonight, but I guess I didn't have to be.
Who used to take the au jus from school lunch French dip sandwiches and pretend that it was coffee?
Willy Wonka was a pedophile, straight up.
My theme song while cruising: "The Lonely Bull", Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. Put that shit on and wear some killer shades while scoping out the action on the 'varde. You will not be disappointed.
I'm enjoying listening to Manic Street Preachers lately, especially their song "Tsunami".
My life and the people that I meet each day is becoming all too Sesame Street, lately. I love it. I am finally really letting myself enjoy people that I, for what ever reason, did not care about before.
There are some really beautiful women around my area. Thank you, God! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Santa Claus!!!
I think wherever you are it can be like that. You just have to open your eyes. If it isn't like that, well then it sucks to be you.
I'm not perfect, but I do like cheese.
ESP is for the lazy. To send a message, try shouting real freaking loud while running toward someone. I think it will work much better that way.
Manna falling to earth is just what the supermarkets in heaven were throwing away. I hear fresh manna is so good that mortals crap ambrosia after digesting it.
I have no idea what ambrosia is.
Will someone please help me tie my shoe? See, right there I was pretending to be three years old. It's a gift.
If I were to give you a choice between your favorite beverage, say, a Shasta Black Cherry Soda, or a 2007 Mustang Cobra (whatever car floats your boat, ok). Which one would you pick?
All together now: Uhhhhh-duhhhhhhhh! You'd pick the car, right?
Let's say that in order to get the car you'd have to give up your daily tasty beverage forever, would you still do it? Would you even give up that soda to the dollar amount of the car in order to get your prized wheels?
Are you willing to forfeit little joys in life for something big? Which one is the greater joy, in the end? Do you focus only on big things and miss out on appreciating those small, everyday moments of bliss?
I bet you have not had much of the big things if you are obsessed with them. They have had you. The biggest part is that you've never stopped to enjoy the little things along the way.
The point about big vs. little is mute; rather, are you able to see past your big pie in the sky, your hail mary, your slippery treasures?
Can you see the moon with arr of its heavenry gwory? (Thank you, Bruce)
A boy needs role models, not undefinable mancrushes. Dirk Benedict, or as you may know him, The Faceman, Lt. Starbuck, has certainly done his share of damage on many males ability to ever break free from the chains of being an eternal "fanboy". The "hook" of falling for one heroic character begets an ugly chain reaction: A boy's love for Sci-fi and comic books, better known as "total lameness". It can quite possibly doom a man to a life of perpetual virginity, terrible hygene, and arthritic wrists (and a massive tissue paper and hand lotion bill to boot). Not me, I was able to move on to other things, such as a secret crush on cheese toast. It took me years (like three), but I triumphed.
Battlestar Galactica was the refuge of the boy who had to wait years for the next Star Wars movie, or had parents that either had no clue, or were to cheap to buy Star Wars merchandise for their precious little man. I mean, Cylons are the shit, but they tend to be a tad chintzy in comparison to Boba Fett or an Imperial Stormtrooper. And I don't care how shiny your Cylon was, inevitably the Star Wars kids would steal him from you and shove it in some dog poo for you to fetch. Ok, maybe that was just me. But, you think Ewoks were gay, get a load of this: Muffit II (a robotic replacement for adaggit, of which became extinct).
While I did lose a part of my childhood to Battlestar Galactica, I was gathering subliminal information for future wet dreams by exposure to images of Athena. This is a major plus. I mean, Athena is a total babe. Princess Leia was uber hot in "Return of the Jedi", but mostly she just made me hungry for cinnamon buns. Athena was a brick-house fox from the get go. I give her 4 1/2 crunchy tube socks out of 5.
The problem with this for some men is that they collect action figures, posters, and other fanboy relics instead of going out and getting their own "Athena" for themselves for realsies. I'm still looking for my "Margret Thatcher".
Another fanboy symptom is that of obsessing over pointless minutia and trivial aspects of movie adaptations of comic books, TV episodes, editions of comic books, and "which shade of black makes me look more 'Matrixy'." "The Crow" would have also worked for that last example.
What is up with fanboy conventions? I don't get that shit at all. Who in their right nut would go to a place where there is bound to be at least one "Scanners" scale cranium popping from a debate over a pilot episode's original running title? On second thought, that would be absolutely tits. I'm gonna go to the next Star Trek convention just to witness that. Anyway, my point is that no one sees fans of Perry Mason getting fat and being transiently homosexual for a weekend's worth of convention center mayhem. I mean, if there ever was to be one T.V. show worthy of going to such lengths to copy the character's and actors traits it would definitely be "Charles in Charge". Man, could you imagine what it would be like to be Willy Aames, aka "Buddy Lembeck", for a day? You don't want to know how many times I've wondered how it would have been to be the man who coined the phrase "packing the magnet".
I could go on and on about Fanboy Syndrome, but I need to at least get some freaking sleep. So, my suggestion to those who suffer from Fanboy Syndrome is to simply give your life over to a higher power, say 220 volts worth. That should reorganize your brain's configuration and wipe the slate clean. There is a reason why shock therapy still is the best treatment around for severe psychological problems, and now it isn't limited to rare forms of deep depression. Other than that you can just get a life.
It's high noon and the search for the lost cache of gold coins in the graveyard is going nowhere fast. Tuco, "The Bad" (pictured left), is getting pretty damn hungry and starts to fix himself a sandwich using rather mysterious ingredients. Blondie (Clint), is watching Tuco closely, salivating....
Oh yeah, I could not get Eli Wallach to reprise his role of Tuco for my blog. Instead, I got Jon Lovitz to do a voice over.
Tuco is hunched over a rock with a checkered table cloth spread over it. Clucking out an annoying tune with mangled words he starts working his magic between two buns.
Blondie: "Tuco, I thought I told you to keep digging....Uh, what you got there?
Tuco: "I'm not telling! It's a secret...yes, a secret that only I and Ulysses S. Grant know about. Now go away, imbecile!"
Blondie: "That's a crock of shit and you know it. I have had it with your stories. Now, are you going tell me what you are making or am I going to have to draw my gun? Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, P..."
Grunt: "Cut! cut! Dammit, Clint! That's not the line. That's from Dirty freakin' Harry for cryin' out loud. Get with the program or get out, alright? This isn't script bebop, Clint."
Clint (Blondie): "A man's got to know his limitations."
Grunt (groaning): "Ah-ha-ha! Magnum Force, very good. Now, can we get back to the shoot?"
Jon Lovitz (to Grunt): "Yo mama!"
Grunt and Clint: "WTF???"
Tuco: "I'm not lying and I'll prove it, but I want a bigger cut of the gold, Blondie."
Blondie: "Normally, I'd say no to a lowly dog like you, but I am curious as to what kind of concoction your pointless genius usually comes up with. Yeah, I'll cut you in for a few dollars more."
Tuco: "Nice! Well, what I am doing is making myself a sandwich, but it is no ordinary sandwich."
Blondie: "Yes? So what makes it special, capers?"
Tuco: "Ha ha, you wish! It's the first of its kind and I invented it at the request of Mr. Grant himself. Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket! It is called the 'lunch sandwich', and it is as if God's navel had a deli and this thing fell from it to the earth."
Blondie: "Lunch Sandwich?"
Blondie: "Fell from God's navel???"
Tuco: "Triple yes!!!"
Blondie: "You must truly be a retard. Why lunch sandwich? What makes it that? There's already sandwiches that I eat for lunch. Why is this so special? How come I'm not blowing your brains out as we speak?"
Tuco: "Fool! You do not understand, and I do not wish to mince words with undersexed ranch hands toting guns. Do you know what Freud would have to say about that?"
Blondie: "I don't even know who that is."
Tuco: "Well, I am psychic and can see into the future: Freud invents a new way to tie your shoes and bob for apples, or not. You are too dumb to get it! Basically, you are a man who hides an extra-large sausage under his thinking cap, and I don't want you tipping your hat at me, Mr. Shepard's Pie."
Blondie: "Gawdammit, just get on with it...jeez!"
Tuco: "Okay, up until now people have had sandwiches at lunch time, but this was just a simple coincidence. Later on, some beautiful genius came up with the breakfast sandwich and mankind has never been the same since! Mr., what you are about to see is both ground breaking and delicious. (Uncovering his picnic basket) Behold: The lunch sandwich!"
Blondie: "Say, that looks just like a normal sandwich. Are you trying to pull a fast one on me?"
Tuco: "Nonesense! The secret lies between these two buns of joy."
Blondie: "Well, are you going to tell me what is inside this thing, or am I going to have to shoot it out of you?"
Tuco: "Always the guns with you, isn't it."
Blondie (holstering his Colt): "Happy now? Go on, what's inside the damn thing?"
Tuco (enthusiastically): "Lunch!"
Blondie: "Well, in that case, I'll have two."
Tuco: "After one bite you will worship me as your new god."
Just as the scene is closing Captain James T. Kirk materializes before the men: "Uniform torn. Bleeding. Breathing heavy. Must. Have. Lunch sandwich!
Tuco: "Hey man, there was only enough for me, Blondie, and some really buff dude that came by earlier."
Yeeeeeah, Grunty, I guess I'm gonna have to ask you to come in early today. Mmmm'okaaay.
Some notes: Got rid of some links to no longer existing blogs on my sidebar and added one changed (Chikken's). My You Tube sidebar feature is still Jerry Lollar kicking Andy Kauffman's ass on the David Letterman Show. I really need to change it because it has already been on there for a month. I will be telling you all about Scary Monster's visit soon. I just need to get the photos off the camera that I used (not my camera). Tomorrow, I will do a Grunt Ahoy version of a Food Network show-meets-Spaghetti Western-meets-Star Trek. I would've had that all ready last night but I was too busy watching "Man versus Nature" episodes, The Sopranos, and the Korean revenge classic "Old Boy".
I had a box of Xerox paper fall off a stack (three feet above my head) and it hit me in the face, nearly knocking me out. This happened on Friday and I still feel like I got into a fight. Upon remembering what it feels like to get blindsided in the cranium, I no longer have any desires to engage in fisticuffs. That shit hurts.
Two people I know well have been hit by cars last week. One of those was hit by his own car. Two people that I knew somewhat died last week.
I was doing some yard work last week and stepped on a damn rake. It wasn't as funny as when it happens in Tom and Jerry cartoons. Well, it was fargking hilarious for anybody watching, I guess.
I'm seeing Morrissey in concert on my unhappy birthday, May 8th. I managed to trick a hot girl into going with me. This makes the rake and the box of paper to the head much easier to deal with.
My creativity has been aching to get away from blogging. I'm feeling limited. I don't think I will stop blogging, but I am certainly pondering scaling it back. I need to get paid for my beautiful, twisted mind. I am a mind slut. I give it out for free.
Okay, I hope you liked that last joke. You all run along now and have a good "Mooonday".
I was on a double date with my friend and his wife; my date being his wife's cousin. Okay, my date was damn hot, and that is something that I tend to go for (all together now: Uh-duuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh!) Things were going fine. We had dinner, talked, and played some stupid games to loosen up (its a dry culture around these parts). That is where this first date should have ended...buuuuut it didn't.
Enter in wifey's haphazard attempt to bring "life" to the party by doing a lame-ass show and tell of her vintage Strawberry Shortcake collection. Seriously, I thought that I was going to have to have a gun pointed at my head to keep me from not laughing my ass off or running for the damn hills. This shit would not end. I was not paying attention to anything that she was saying and my date had totally left my side and started playing with these toys. After trying to slip out of the room to "use the head", I thought my buddy would at least get the hint and follow me and hit some golf balls in his garage. No, he didn't get the hint, and I used my time away to plan my escape.
I came back in the room and whispered into my date's ear, "Hey, don't you think this is boring?"
Her reply: "No. I like this stuff."
Me: "You got to be kidding me. You'd probably hate it if I got out my Star Wars figures, if I still had them, and held you hostage forever and a day."
She just quit talking to me after that. I guess these cousins are like best friends and I insulted her by saying that Strawberry Shortcake was boring. I'm thinking that if we didn't stay at my friend's house the result would not have been the same, well, as fast. See, what I'm saying here is that I could have at least tapped that ass if I was given a bit more time; time that Strawberry Shortcake stole from me.
No, I didn't have time on my side that night, and the date ended with me shouting, "Boy, I'm pooped! Gotta get home before the wind kicks up in the canyon." (Yeah, I was all like "WTF???" too). The funny thing is that my date finally came up with an excuse a split second after mine and it had something to do with her father's dog--so she was bored after all! I just made the mistake of tying "boring" to her fraternal bestie; therefore, furthering the bluing of my balls.
It's funny how silly, little stuff gets in the way of big things.
Fargk me...this shit was just too much for my nerves. I mean, this was all for realsies; getting mind raped by some kind of fun-house terror ride last night. About 4:40 AM, Edgar Winter came busting out of my closet and humped my foot board, shaking my bed to death. I say Edgar Winter (pictured) because he is the standard to which all scary-assed shit should be measured, and this was some scary-assed shit goin' down.
I was woken up by a violent jerk, Mark Hacking I believe. Seriously, it was like my bed's magic fingers only got a ha'penny bit's worth out of the son'bitch, whatever that means. Ah, yes, it means that instead of going on for a pleasant ride I got a tug. Yes, my bed shifted and woke me up.
I was pretty out of sorts trying to figure out what had just happened to me, then it happened four more times. By this time I was pretty much pecker dribbling my way to the nearest 100 watt bible. A prayer was offered: "Oh, Lord Jesus! Oh, savior of my lost and tormented soul. Please deliver me from some pretty farkging scary-assed shit that's happenin' with my posturepedic. I promise not to touch myself in ways that upset you; well, maybe not that, but I will at least try to not love my neighbor in unusual and inappropriate ways." That seemed to work, but I was still pretty damn disturbed until I actually fell back asleep.
Today I asked as many people as I could if they had felt any tremors around that time and all but one said no. One guy thought he had, but he is highly suggestible and is eager to please. So, now I am acting like a big pussy and staying up on the computer, not wanting to go back to my Satanic "Magic Fingers" bed. Could you blame me?
Hey, at least I am admitting it. Lately, I have been brooding in my tower (shit, that's got to be a line from a Rush song) and contemplating stuff like "Should I go with AlNiCo II or V magnets on an unpotted slightly overwound P.A.F. style humbucker?" (It's a guitar thing). In other words, I am cork sniffing small, unimportant stuff in order to avoid the heaviness of life. When I get in these phases I tend to take apart inanimate objects with my mind as I go to sleep and try to manipulate their reassembly in my drifting mind. It's my way of controlling things. As a result I start to push people away from me by not paying any attention to them.
I have had a fairly long streak of not getting lost to this tendency of mine, since I started blogging. People don't seem to believe me when I tell them about the period of time in my life where I encased myself in silicone chips and shut out the external world. It doesn't even have to be electronics, just inanimate, lifeless things that I can bring some kind of life to.
I started writing a novel in 2002 called "Ryan Dreaming", a tale of a teenage boy with an unusual ability to manipulate the physical world in his subconscious state. This was both astonishing (what I created) and totally destructive to my personal momentum, having just graduated University and needing to start a career. I used to stay up till 4:00 AM writing this thing and then usually could not fall asleep because my mind was racing, basically absorbing all that I had except my "Joe" job that I worked. I eventually hated what I was doing to myself and deep sixed the project in frustration. I shut out friends and family during that period of my life.
I had a brief honeymoon with mankind before starting a hobby of building my own electronic music gear and effects. I spent countless hours teaching myself electronics theory and the skills to make fuzz, distortion, modulation, and delay effects, not to mention vacuum tube powered guitar amplifiers and analog synths.
Somewhere during this savant trip, I studied and took my GRE with hopes of getting into a program for a PhD. in Psychology (oh, the irony of it all), of which I did well. I applied for some programs and was an alternate for a school psychologist program at one university. Of the five that made the program, I was number six and prayed for one of those lucky bastards to quit. Not one of them did and I went back to not giving a shit about a subject that is just a pastime for me now. Enter in the phase of discovering a life lived for other people's wishes.
Discovering blogging has helped my brain breathe enough to forget the disappointments of this decade. I feel that I am getting my bearings and set sail for something that is good, but I still get tempted to get lost out at sea and just marvel at how fast shit goes South in my life. The self-destructive bent in my life is pretty easy to see when taken in panorama. It's clear that I am aware of it. I just wish I could figure out why I am so fucking attracted to it. I think it's because self-destructive bents taste like beef jerky and Mountain Dew, and boy are those ever tasty!
I am going to ease back on this phase and tomorrow I will start checking in with you guys. I would tonight, but it is 3:30 AM right now and I need to stop dragging my ass during the day.
One electric guitar + a dude= instant penis enlargement. If you are a dudette with an electric guitar, then you get to know what it is like to have a one-megaton phallus. But, playing a double-neck guitar is like...no, it is wielding two, giant, fighting roosters strait outta your pelvis. Does this not appeal to you? Well, mister, it does me! Plus, Lita Fordwith a double-neck is just plain hazardous to my 20/20.
First off, if you are going to sport dual cocks make sure you can handle them first. You don't want to get confused, too excited, and hurt somebody, maybe even yourself. Take a note from the double-neck god himself: Jimmy Page.
We see in this picture that he is cooley working the neck, or shaft, right under the headstock, while working the base of the 12-string section of the base, or balls of the guitar. You can see that he is working up steadily to a climax.
After building a thick, lush, foundation of rhythm with the 12-string neck, Pagey goes down on his business to the six-string. With just a few hammer ons Pagey sets the tone for the final buildup before the money shot, expertly mixing in a bit of legato and arpeggio to shake things up a bit. Notice how he is controlling his breathing, in through the nose and out with the mouth, pouting his lips just enough to keep it sexy.
He is clearly in command and not letting his wine-red mahogany Gibson EDS-1275 (the Excalibur of double necks) take over the situation. Sometimes, when the mood is just right, he might even beat it with a violin bow (I know it was just the Danny and the LP that he usually did that to, but I'm sure on special occasions it was the double-neck). When he finally climaxes, he arches back and then falls down with a salacious contentment, much like a serpent after dishing out forbidden fruit. He then smokes a cigarette, takes a swig of Jack, and then gets right back up to hit it again. Have you got all that now? Good.
Here we see an example of the evolution of the double-neck guitar, going multi-neck and bi-directional in shred master extraordinaire, Steve Vai....Steve Vai has been on and off whack and cool for me. Currently, he is whack, but at one time in my life his music used to facilitate erotic dreams for me when I listened to them while in bed.
No, I did not dream about him touching me with his magic fingers; his music just made my mind create surreal fantasy lands with all the fantasy women that my mind could conjure up. I mean, you can tell that he is about the erotic as well as love when you see him play this three-neck, heart-shaped wonder guitar. I think the third neck showcases his ambidextrous abilities, but also implies that if he were engaged in a threesome, and a stranger walked into the room, he'd be ready to kick the joint into a full-scale orgy. There's no sneaking up on this guy, I tells ya.
Now, I have given two examples of guys that could handle their mega-multi cock enhancers (that TIGF line was so redundant it's uber TIGF!!!), but I am sure you have seen many multi-neck catastrophes in the mid to late eighties with hair metal cock rockers taking over the scene. Case in point: Jim Gillette of the metal suckfest, Nitro (shown without his reasty-bitch "V" double-neck, for your own mental health). Only if Thor, Norse god of thunder, cared enough to have struck these imbeciles down. Pity, that.
In the end, the fascination with multi-neck guitars can leave a person stoned with ridicule or with a broken back. Only one man has been able to pull off the ultimate in multi-necking...
You have to not take yourself seriously and know a few cheap trick to be as cool as this guy. Honestly, do you know anyone else that could play this guitarbetter than him?