I took the day off of work and puttered around the yard, played my guitar, sang my songs, had a really big hamburger with a Coke and fries, bought some stuff for my guitars, bought some clothes, then had an absolute pleasure of a night seeing Morrissey in concert with someone very cool.
I don't look or feel my age one bit. Most people take me for 25-27. I am a late, late bloomer. Or as I like to say: I suffer from "Dick Clark Disease". I feel miles better about myself at 35 than I ever did at 25 or 30. I am better with women than I ever have been in the past. I'm not talking about sexy stuff. I am talking about interacting with and listening to them. It gets me in trouble from time to time and I have to ask for forgiveness quite often. I sometimes will go further with my flirting than I intend and it can cause problems. Well, sometimes I don't even really know what I want. The thing that is funny is that with some girls that I really like I tend to be real efficient with my language. This isn't always the case, but I have notice it in some instances.
It is a really good feeling to know that I can still get scared (in a good way) when meeting someone. It is a hard feeling when friendships might be in jeopardy because of misunderstandings. I thank God for forgiveness and people's willingness to forgive me for the things that I do. I don't always say what I feel, even though I can express myself deeply. I don't always hear what you really mean when I listen. Sometimes I do what I think is right, contrary to what others feel is best. Sometimes I don't stick to my guns, but I sure as hell am betting on myself from now on.
I don't know what my next year in my life will bring, but I know that I don't have to carry my past around with me anymore. That is a huge relief. I did that for too long and it was totally unnecessary. I feel like I am in a place of humble Zen now. I haven't got my shit together, but the base is strong. I can do much and I can excel in what I do. I don't have to worry about being a bit of a pauper anymore. I have all I need to become a king. I just need to realize it. My faith has come around again and I never thought I'd be feeling this way now. I have that childlike uncertainty and innocence again and am willing to be led by my hand by a willing master, a caring soul, or someone who I might have thought was too good for me before.
I can't do it on my own--not what I need to do, that is. Isolation and a tough facade only brought me isolation and tough times. I was so silly to have harbored my pain, surrounded it with layers of defenses and excuses. If I can be honest about the failures and embarrassments of my life to people that are around me, and "persons of interest", then I think I will be better able to grow past those moments and get on with my life.
I uttered the phrase, "I blew it", and then kind of took off in my truck. It sounds like a bad thing, but it wasn't. Not paralleling the movie, I did not sell out so I could have "freedom", freedom that becomes a prison. No, I just admitted to myself that I have messed up in my life, considerably. I am being more honest about this now to people in my personal life here where I live. It is slowly paying off. No more fortress of pride.
After this confession, I took a long ride in Clyde: my "fuckup" truck. I had to stop to say hello to my boys (someone's horses) and moo at the cows (that's like one of my top-ten things to do). It used to not be that far away, but now you do have to drive a bit to get to the country. I, of course, am not a country boy, but I do appreciate certain aspects of it. My mind breathes better out there, unless a five year old is darting out in front of me on a 500cc Quad bike. What is up with that shit? He wasn't even wearing a helmet.
I am trying to forgive myself. I am either hot or cold when it comes to achievement. I'm ready to stay hot, but not burn out. I guess I'm going to sizzle enough to get the job done.
It's good to have friends. It's good to have strange, erotic dreams, and root beer floats are the bee's knees. I'm not going to worry about my past. I'll be too busy flying down a two-lane black top enjoying the present and looking forward to what is around the next corner. Too busy to get too weighed down with the cares of my past and the world.
So, I was at the DMV today getting my license renewed. I had to fill out an application with some strange questions. Needless to say, my family will be a bit mystified after my death when some men come to the door looking for my Wurlitzer. Maybe I am still a bit confused as to what it means to be an organ donor.
Anyway, everything was going just fine (fine, just fine). My eye sight is spot on; the line moved fast, and they took plastic--finally. The part where I go to get my new photo for my license was the place it all went South.
First off, I was wearing a hoodie, as is the fashion these days (like so two years ago). I had the hood on earlier because it was raining outside. This messed up my hair. They didn't have a mirror for me to check my hair before the shoot. I also had bloodshot eyes and dark circles underneath due to lack of sleep from working around some nasty chemicals this week (effin' headaches). My picture made me look like a tweaker. That is not going to help me get out of a ticket.
After going through the horror that is the DMV portrait, I went over to seal the deal with my signature. This is where my day got worse. I fear the UPS man because of this thing: the electronic signature machine. Normally, having the UPS man stop by is the only time I get excited about seeing brown. Now all brown is associated with disgust and disappointment. I cannot sign these things to save my life. Seriously, if they were to make an inspirational movie about my life it would involve raising Anne Sullivan from the dead and teaching me how to use these things. I can see it now...
Mrs. Sullivan: "You can do it. Feel the stylus--let it be part of your hand."
So, in closing, I will say that my new driver's license will not only make me look like a meth addict, but also a tomato head who can't write, thanks to the TIGF in a uber-bad way electronic signature machine. Anyway, I was treated to something today, something said "hi" to me and it made my day. That is for another post. Until then, GO JAZZ!!!
P.S. I've caught up with responding to your comments to this week's previous posts, including the last TIGF!!! Make sure to go back and read them.
I once had a friend confide in me that he had a gaydream. I think he either wanted me to reassure him that he wasn't gay or he wanted me to make the first move. We had just spent the night in a tent, camped out in his backyard. We were like 13, so it wasn't like it was last Tuesday or something. The thing was that he obsessed about this stupid dream he had, believing that it somehow meant that he was gay. If this were the case--you are what you dream--then I must be able to fly and run like a gazelle. Oh, and I have a magic wand that gets me anything, and I do mean anything, I want. Creep!
Here's the thing: I could only humor my friend's requests to compare penis size for so long before I'd start wondering if there was something to the dream. I started becoming a gaydream believer too and was awfully scared that I would be cursed with a homonocturnal omen. Let's see...I had a dream that I screwed a water slide once, a tile wall, water, sand, and plenty of food items. Of course there was a steady supply of women, but I soon figured out that my brain was just pulling shit out at random and going all Green Eggs and Ham on my libido. I don't recall if I actually had a gaydream. If I did then I must've repressed that memory. Of course, I may well have had that kind of dream and never had it breach the surface of my consciousness.
I think a lot of the paranoia that teenage boys have about "turning gay" can be quite entertaining. When I was 10 I somehow thought that if my pee ended up getting up into my ass on accident then I'd get AIDS. So, anytime I'd take a rather hefty dump I got scared that the force of the splash might introduce some urine into my sphincter region. I really thought this. I mean, what was I supposed to think? It wasn't like my parents were grand scholars on this subject. Basically what we were getting told from older peers, and even some grown ups, was that AIDS was strictly a dick-in-ass thing. Being 10, back in a more innocent time, I barely knew what semen was, so I tended to revert back to my "men pee in women to make a babies" doctrine. So, the only way I could conceive dudes getting it on was each other taking turns peeing in each other's buttholes. One of my friends was working on some kind of "funnel" theory of how that all worked. Well, at least he kept that theory to himself, other than the accidental slip in our tree fort.
Oh, there was a point to all this AIDS bidness: I thought that if I did catch AIDS from my pee getting into my ass that I would become gay by default. All I can say is thanks to Ryan White's struggle with the disease I got to see just how ugly the transformation it was from straight kid to outright flaming gay. I mean, the kid was hanging out with Michael Jackson! Seriously though, it showed me and the rest of the cornhole fearing community that you don't turn gay or that AIDS was a "gay" disease.
In summary, having a gaydream is just your mind's way of allowing you to get your Sodom on without getting blown up by the one who art in heaven. I also believe it is your subconscious' way of working out left overs in your libido. Ultimately, they don't make sense if it isn't true. Also, don't stick a funnel up your ass and try to pee in it. I don't know if that is even possible, but there is one kid who might have found out. His parent's drove a Volvo. See, that and putting your kids in private school is just asking for it.
Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.
P.S. Check out the Lord of the Rings orgy scene on my sidebar.
If you could produce your own milk what kind of cereal would go with it best?
If you could crap a bricks of gold who would you tell?
If there were a place on earth where you could throw away your mother in law and get away with it, would you?
If picture can paint a thousand words then how come I can't paint you?
If I can't figure out how I am going to stop itching my calf then the the humane society might have to step in.
If you could have any wish in the world what color would it be?
If a stranger brought you flowers does stranger danger still apply even though you are all grown up?
If a candy bar has been smooshed into the shape of a turd is there a sick sense of satisfaction involved in eating it?
If I don't respond to tags from blogger friends do I still get to have Big Mac Monday time?
Blogs that make me think/favorite blogs (combined): Tags from Mayden's Voyage/Cora & Scary Monster's Me no blog (on my sidebar). Sorry, I am too tired to tag or link. I normally don't do memes. I don't like to do them. But, Cora and Scary Monster are good blogger friends, so I will go ahead and do them my way.
1. Yours (yes, you silly).
2. Mine. I really dig myself and I am a genius!
3. Incorrigible Vagabond (sidebar). He is the reason why I started blogging in the first place, even if he doesn't ever read me. I have read everything he has blogged. I am also his cousin.
4. Daily Bread. My pal from Britain, RJW, who I think jumped off a bridge and hasn't been seen in Bloggerland in over a year. I will post that address if I can find it again. He once did a post about a dead seal and it was true poetry. I am not being sarcastic either. I miss him and his blog.
5. This one is hard, so I will have to say that I dig Captain Kirk's "Captain's Log" because it really was the first blog, in my humble opinion.
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!!!
Mayberry rocks.
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???"
And rolling...
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?"
Tuco: "Yes!"
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."
Blondie: "What?"
Tuco: "Nothing."
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.
Today has been tasting funny. I get a rather saccharine aftertaste with anything resembling good news. There is no explanation or reason that I can figure out why for this sensation.
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?
You know, it would be a strange sight to be facing an entire "pink" army.
Now, are we to assume that the clone offspring of Jango Fett would never deviate from clonosexual preferences? I'm sure that there would be some question to what clonosexual even is. What I am trying to figure out is this: Who do the Stormtroopers make it with? Ewoks? Wookies? C3PO?
What are they trying to hide from us? This tight lipped policy of "Don't Ask. Don't Tell." is really confusing. So, I'm here to propose something: Clonosexual equals Stormtrooper on Stormtrooper action.
Look, it is perfectly unnatural and that is alright. I mean, Stormtroopers are unnatural themselves, so it all works out.
What is truly sad though is that there were Stormtroopers who weren't so open with their love for each other, and look what happened to them. I mean, their outfits just screamed, "Oont, look at me funboy. I am sexy uniform wearing for you. Ya, oont strap me dawoon!" But, they just could not express this desire in a socially acceptable way: pity.
I always envisioned there being a sand person riding a bantha in this story, but the technology to do so was not available to me at this time. This was my second post on Grunt Ahoy!, which used to simply be titled "The Grunt". I believe that the lady in this story was the inspiration for the many "Lost Dog in Buttcrack" fat lady postcards. What most of you will not know is that my blog started out as a workingman's blog where I recalled funny, oppressing, or plain nostalgic work related tales. Somewhere along the way I noticed that women would hang around longer if I just concentrated on making them laugh. So, out went my various short stories from my life and the focus went purely on the mondo/macho/sexual being that I am: Ze Grunty! I plan on doing this kind of thing with the old posts on a regular basis. Let me know what you think of my old style.
The Early Years: Payback. (08/13/05)
I got talked into picking cherries for some old fart with a fruit stand. The guy came and picked me up along with two of my friends in his Chevy pickup. The guy bragged about his paint job that he'd done all by himself using house paint and a big brush. Honestly, it was the roughest looking thing I'd ever seen, wavy and ridged like a potato chip. My friends and I hopped in the bed, sitting on empty fruit baskets. As we bounced down the old road to the orchards, one of my friends started laughing at this fat lady wearing this big sun hat. We thought that we'd be working with the old man, but it turns out that the funny fat lady would be our real boss.
This fat lady sat under a canopy in front of a big fold out table with a lock box of money and a cooler full of Tab. After the old fart handed us to her, she went on a big rant about if she catches us touching any of her stuff we won't get paid, if we screw around we won't get paid, and then drifted off about where to start picking. We got paid by the pound, so we needed to pick a lot. We got up on these loosey-goosey wood ladders and started picking, then about 20 minutes into it, picking and eating, and then finally an all out cherry fight. The Fat lady heard what was going on but was too lazy to get out of her chair, so she just let out a bovine like groan followed by, "Quit screwing around!"
It was really hot and about three hours in we were past hungry and dying of thirst. We thought that the next guy to take a basket up to the stand should beg her for one of the Tabs and whatever else she had in the cooler. One of my buddies ended up going there first and was turned down. She actually yelled at him for asking then directed him over to a bucket full of the nastiest water imaginable. We were too thirsty to protest, so we drank what we could keep down. After the fourth hour of picking we noticed that the lady had left her stand. The lock box was gone, but the cooler was still there. We were a little unsure if we could get away with taking anything out of there without being caught. We went over anyway and looked inside the cooler. There was only one Tab left and it was open. This was back in the day of the tall glass bottle. My friend held up the bottle; the dripping ice water ran down the sides of the bottle and caught the Summer sun just like the damn commercials. We were in desperation waiting for our turn; then to our horror, our friend hawked up a huge loogey and spat in her drink. After the rest of us got over our initial disappointment and outrage, we realized the genius of what this kid did. So, we both took our turns spitting into this ladies' drink. Yes, she drank it, and yes, we got paid too. That was one of my first lessons in workplace anarchy and I'll treasure it forever.
Have you been, or ever known anyone to be rotten with perfection? I think it is a deadly snare that grips many of us. I want to know what you think. What are the expectations that you feel are put upon you by society, others, and yourself? More importantly, how do you forgive yourself?
Please, I want to know how you think and feel about this subject. It would help me and others out a great deal, I'm sure.
I think these two need a room. Hell, they've been going at it under the shelves for crying out loud. Eh, best not to interfere with nature.
Wing nuts are easy to grip and twist. Being able to get more torque without using a wrench is also handy....ah-har-har!
Other wing nuts are not so handy...ah, what now? They are those nuts who have wings. No, that can't be right. Well, they are a special kind of hybrid between and idiot and a jerk, with a little bit of asshole thrown in for good measure.
What does a wing nut look like? Well, remember this guy? Yes, it's everybody's favorite Swedish Meatball, Yngwie Malmsteen! He took over my blog for a day proclaiming himself to not only be our new God, but that he also sports a fifty inch penis. Malmsteen Regime my ass. Yngwie can take a long walk off a short pier for pulling that stunt.
Anyway, all this talk of wing nuts has me wondering when this dude here will finally just pants a foreign dignitary and blame it on the "Tearrists". Remember this kiddies: for every wing nut there is a big screw coming.
Alright, where do I start? I had Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" stuck in my head when I woke up this morning and had to watch the video on Youtube. Firstly, I don't hear that song much, nor am I a huge fan of Bonnie Tyler's. But, I just had to check out that video to get the song out of my head. Well, that didn't work and that damn song is not only playing in my head all the time, I am singing it as well.
As I usually do, I mutate the verses and choruses so I can get some kind of enjoyment out of it for the 1,000th run of a particular tune. I will not go into details of my improvisations on this tune, but the word fart definitely plays a heavy role in it.
The video is just plain weird. This shit is scary. It reminds me of Salem's Lot meets the Eaton lads and has nothing to do with eclipsing a friggin' heart. No kidding, scary assed choir boys, with glowing eyes, are flying around everywhere and hurricane-like winds are blowin' shit around. It just isn't safe at all.
I'm thinking that the chewing gum Eclipse should also deodorize farts, hence my title.
I have one question for you: Have you ever faked an orgasm with yourself? No, really. Have you just sat there thinking, "Boy, this is just taking forever and I have a headache....oh, did I forget to turn my curling iron off?" You know how it would go--you'd moan and scream for more, with your yesses and syncopated grunting, but would you be able to fool yourself? I think deep down inside a part of you would feel impotent and undervalued while the other half was blissfully painting their toenails. I mean, is there nothing more awkward than sitting in bed watching TV and not talking to yourself?
I think our pets, and by pets I mean dogs and cats, want to speak to us but find that English is just plain silly. I have come to the conclusion that they would rather speak Cantonese or Mandarin Chinese instead. So, if you want to speak with the animals start learning those two languages today.
Don't inquire as to how I draw my conclusions, please. It might involve some math and plenty of wild assumptions.
Have you heard that there is a reptilian master race ruling our earth? Yes, they shape shift into regular looking dudes and dudettes and walk among us. This shit is real! Now what'd I do with my crack pipe?
I had a 63-year-old lady at work call me beautiful, precious, dahling, "Hey Hollywood", and talented (and then told me to thank my parents). She has also touched my ass. She has an unmistakable cackle when she sees me and loves getting on the elevator with me. In the elevator things tend to get really weird and funny as hell, at my expense. This is it: I have been reduced to becoming a giggling, blond&big-tits secretary to this "Good ol' Boy" Boss lady ('cept she's not my boss). Did I just say what I thought I just said? Yes, times have changed. I will have to be careful next time who I unsheath my Makita cordless around.
I have tried, in earnest, to implement the principles of "The Secret" in my life and they have not worked so far. Hell, I even have the damn photo of me and Wonderwoman's photoshopped wedding pictures hanging around everywhere. I think this stuff is a load of hooey.
I think a tostada sharing room with a taco on a combo plate is just the restaurant trying to fool you into thinking that you are not just getting two tacos.
I broke into an office complex to see if I could do it, just for fun. I was successful. I know the building manager and kind of bet him that I could (it wasn't a bet for any specific amount--just a bet). I got through to the vehicle lot by squeezing through the fence/gate where it is anchored in by an eight foot post. There was enough of a gap between the perimeter security fence and the lot's security gate to get through (bad construction quality). I was pretty glad that I didn't need to climb a chain link fence, but I would have anyway. I then went to the loading dock and spied an entrance with an overhang supported by two steel beams. One beam was close enough to the building that I could chimney my way on top of the entrance. From there I jumped up to grab onto some conduit and then swung my right foot onto a flood light housing, where I got better positioning. From there I could reach the roof and pull myself up.
I already knew that if I could climb up onto the roof that it was just a matter of being able to safely drop into an outdoor courtyard area that is isolated within the structure. The crash bars on the doors are on the outside, and for some reason can't be locked to keep a person from getting trapped. However, you can lock them so you can't go into the courtyard. I picked my spot. It was about 18 feet off the ground so I lowered myself as far as I could to reduce the drop. Fortunately, I was able to get my foot onto the top of a window frame and climb down a bit more. The drop ended up being only seven feet. Once I landed safe and sound, I just went through the doors and found the dude who just lost a bet to me.
BTW, If you haven't already checked out my new Youtube embed down on my sidebar (er, my new stolen Youtube embed) do; It is hilarious. "The Fresh Prince of Death Metal": Technically, it is a bit of Black Metal and Death Metal with Will Smith steppin'.
...And I'm finding it near impossible to respond to any of your comments on Gruntstock, sorry. Well, I did do a 14th day of Gruntstock. You can read its short entry and watch the Von Trapp kids perform. Gruntstock kind of ended on a bum note because I really had no idea when I was going to end it.
Anyways, this blog was not saved, and do you know what that means? That's right! This blog is going straight to Hell!!! So, let's hear it for the official blog of Hell. I knew I could drag you all down with me. We are going to have some fun now.
To those about to blog, we salute you!
You should've seen this one coming. I mean, come on, I'm the freakin' Grunt for crying out loud--I'm nuttin' but a li'l devil.
(Gruntstock is no longer about me; it is for you. This is now an official blogger event. Tell all you know to get on board and see how far we can take this thing. Plus, this attempt at self parody also doubled as last Friday's TIGF!!! The overblown charity rock events/festivals of the '80s and onward are so TIGF, and I love them dearly for it. So, come on people now, smile on your brother; everybody get together and try to love one another right now!)
(The intro) Hello children of the planet earth, this is Sir Bob Geldof. It has come to my attention that your beloved Grunty has been experiencing some troubled times. In fact, there are parts of him where the dust mites are starving and without water, genocide, and most terrible of all: cat juggling. We need to come together for the cause of Gruntonia! As one, we can reach our goal. Gruntonia needs at least 1000 comments on this post in order to continue. In the spirit of goodwill and music, I have organized a rock benefit for this cause, and 100% of the comments will go towards the starving dust mites in Gruntonia. Overall we aim to get Sir Grunty out of his creative and personal slump. Gruntonia will live on only if you help out. Please give.(/intro)
(Day 6) The Grunt here. I have something to tell you all. I was wandering around amongst the crowd and enjoying the various acts. Boy, I thought Fonzie wasn't going to make the jump. Anyway, I started hearing some rumors about my long since dead inner voice of cool, Wooderson, being alive and well. Now that just set me off. I've been listening too much too long to the primal urges of Captain Caveman and that old hag of a killjoy Mama, telling me what to do and what not.
I haven't been guided in the ways of the Wooderson for some time now and I haven't stopped morning the day that his body was found in the deserts of Moab, Utah. Well, I saw a mangled mess of a man and took it on faith that it was him. I took it on faith because that voice died in me. Girls abandoned me, cars broke down; hell, even my own buddies gave me the evil eye. I guess I had put forth an honest effort to retain my rep, but ever since Wooderson was gone from my internal dialog I just couldn't sell it anymore to nobody. Worst of all I stopped writing--I mean really writing. You take that away from me and my hope floats in a sticky tar pit just waiting to be sucked down with the saber tooth.
I've asked Sir Bob to get on out of here. I am taking over and dedicating day 6 of Gruntstock to my friend Wooderson. I'm going to go and look for him, see if it's possible that he is still out there talking about "Ol' Melba Toast" and the next crop of freshman girls. Ahh yeah!
(Day 7) The End. I've read Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness". I've watched "Apocalypse Now" and "Apocalypse Now: Redux". I've also watched on video The Doors perform "The End. There in lies the answer to the riddle of Wooderson's life and supposed death. The story is coming soon. It has been many months since I spoke of him before this post and I will do a recap to get you all up to speed before we get in our patrol boat and head up the Green River. But for now, enjoy The Doors performing "The End".
(Day 8) Hell, I just can't give this up. Bob Geldof has bailed on me, but you Gruntonians have not. Blessed be you for caring. I have an important announcement to make: Bill Gates has agreed to match each of our comments. So, if we reach 500 comments, then Bill Gates will so graciously donate the other 500 comments to saving this blog. It so happens that I ghost write a blog for Mr. Gates called, "I'm Bill Gates, Bitch!". The deal with that is Bill will stretch the comments over a ten year period so I don't use it all up at once. I guess he knows of my smack problem and penchant for fancy hats with feathers in them. Remember, Bill Gates is as close to god as you can find wearing glasses and a pocket protector...be nice!
Well, I would like to announce that I, The Grunt, was able to get Sir Bob back on board. It seems that Nachos are just too spicy for him. Freakin' pansy! He was in the porto-loo for a day and a half. Me thinks that he was in there wanking to some National Geographics. I never new that fresh water wells could be so damn erotic. Anyway, Bob has waved his magic Live Aid wand again and has summoned from the dead Janis Joplin. She will be performing a favorite of mine "Ball and Chain" with her old group Big Brother and the Holding Company. I still have no idea what that company is holding, but it must be pretty damn heavy.
(Day 9) "Let's pretend": This day is a special day of Gruntstock. Everyone has got to know each other a bit better and pairing off into the bushes and woods for a bit of ooh la la. It is getting near dusk and a magical rain starts soaking through our shirts and dresses, revealing our bodies. This rain has made us seventeen again. A perfect day to seek shelter in each other's bodies: Free love and innocence that is not for sale or to be slandered by those who don't understand. So baby, let's pretend that tonight will live forever.
I present to you, through the magic that is Geldof, The Raspberries, sent back in time in the studio to perform our anthem "Let's Pretend".
(Day 10) What happens when you try to organize a "glam day" at Gruntstock? You hire Slade and come to find out they are supremely retarded and end up eating all of your supply of Cup of Soup....That, and they really funny. They still wrote awesome hit songs for Quiet Riot, though. This is a behind the stage scene of what goes on with an act in idle at Gruntstock. Enjoy!
(Day 11) My back hurts. I mean it really, really hurts. I want to cry like a little girl. Bob, what have you got for us today?
Sir Bob: Well, since we're all hoping to meet our goal soon, so you can stop being such a little girl about all this blogger stuff, I think a little number about Kinky Afros is apropos. So, let's welcome some shoe-gazing, Mancunian wonders on to the stage, Happy Mondays.
You're not gonna let the kid down today, are ya? His back is hurting and an evil monkey is plotting his demise as we speak. Not Egan, though; he's a good monkey boy. In fact, we could sure use his help about now. Oh, and Scary Monster must stop smoking the stage. We don't know how it has happened, but apparently you can cop a buzz off of the MDF flooring, which has some formaldehyde in it. I admire him, but we need the stage. Please, donate some proper doobage to Scary Monster for the cause of Gruntonia, thanks.
(Day 12) Sir Bob is a bit of an ironic man, having the Happy Mondays perform on Monday when The Boomtown rats, his old group, had their biggest hit in "I don't like Mondays" I asked Bob if he'd be willing to recreate his Live Aid performance of that song for us, seeing that he has been such a star already. Here's what he said...
Sir Bob Geldor: "Bugger off, matey!"
Me: "Why so angry, Mr. Saviour of the Universe?"
Bob: "Well, it's the fact that I hate Mondays so much, innit?"
Me: "Come on, Bob. It's not like I am asking you to do this song on a Monday. I mean, how obvious and cliche would that be?"
Bob: "Well, I don't want to recreate that sodding performance. I much prefer the original video of me and me band in that school house. I'd be willing to do that an' not feel like crap about it."
Me: "Anything for you, Bob. It was either you or Gary Glitter, but he's a pedophile. It's a shame too because I so wanted to hear him do "Leader of the Gang".
Bob: "Right, brilliant that..."Come on, come on! Come on, come on!!!" Yeah, but he's a bit of a perv. Right, I will go on stage...er, the video bit. Grunty?"
Me: "Yes, Bob?"
Bob: "I'm feeling a bit nervous, like. Will you pet me hair before I go on stage? It calms me down."
Me: "Oh, lord! Alright then, c'mere."
Bob is such a fragile creature off stage.
(Day 13) I can't believe this is happening. Yngwie Malmsteen has taken over Gruntstock and Sir Bob has run off somewhere with Bono planning their next big festival to save third world shoe makers, er something. There seems to be nothing I can do about it. Yngwie has actual demons protecting him. He is such a fat, pompous prick. Here is his little bit:
(Day 14, The last day of Gruntstock) Well, it has been real. Unless we magically get around another 470 comments, it just ain't happening. This blog will not be saved. Bob Geldof has thrown in the towel in a fit of frustration, but he did manage to get one last act to close Gruntstock: The Von Trapp kiddies!
I took the day off of work and puttered around the yard, played my guitar, sang my songs, had a really big hamburger with a Coke and fries, bought some stuff for my guitars, bought some clothes, then had an absolute pleasure of a night seeing Morrissey in concert with someone very cool.
