Oh, God. This again?

 
. . . is Hard to Do
I’m in a fog. And the Venti Mocha isn’t helping.

I think my band is breaking up. For real, this time. Which, y’know, shouldn’t be that traumatic for a 35-year-old with a wife and child. But how about a 35-year-old who’s spent 14 of the past 18 years playing music in bands?

It’s funny that I’ve been playing guitar for over 20 years, and I think a one-armed Down’s kid could play at my level in a month. Starting from scratch. But I love it. Fine, so I wasn’t the most proficient, or committed to keeping my equipment in tip-top shape (considering my equipment in “tip-top shape” would be patently average says a lot about my adherence to Utilitarianism). I was able to step outside myself a few times a week and do something creative. Really getting lost in it. Seriously, imagine listening to really great, moving music . . . and then taking it a step further, where you’re actually a part of it.

Anyway, months of miscommunication (and non-communication) rumbled Monday evening into a relative explosion of obscenities and accusations. Strangely, I was merely a spectator. Even more strangely, we went on to have a semi-productive practice. The next morning, we got the inevitable email that someone was quitting. Or “finished.”

The last time this happened (a couple years ago with the previous incarnation of our band), the quitter had become an emotional (and functional) drag on our progress and was not really contributing. We used his departure to resvitalize the band. His replacement was the catalyst that helped push our songwriting to a new level. Unfortunately, he’s the one who’s leaving this time. I don’t think we have another “do-over” in us, at this point. Plus, everyone else is involved with side-projects that will undoubtedly become MAIN projects.

Besides being down to NO projects, I don’t know where we (read: I) go from here. Writing is, of course, an option. I keep thinking about it. And thinking about planning to perhaps set up time to maybe write on a semi-regular basis. Not to mention the “novel” that I’ve been harping on for months now. The music thing was so automatic, and everything else just seems like such WORK.

God FUCK.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:22 PM

 
Now is the Time. And This isn't the Place. Anymore.
If you want to keep reading Kamikaze Lunchbreak (or, y'know, START), click here.

Take turns. Don't everyone click at once.

And please update your links as appropriate.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:48 PM

 
This is the Last Time I Will Ever Post . . . Here.

Okay, the Second-to-Last Time.

I’ve bored you all long enough. Don't deny it.

I apologize for not visiting all of you more often. I have my fingers crossed that Comcast coming to replace our rented modem (which was listed as being at “END OF LIFE”) will make our access to the Internet more like usable and less like endless frustration.

Hey, what was the blog that had the tagline: “Come here every day and you will be told what to do?” Anyway, if you come here on Monday, you will be told what to do. Then. Until that time, I’ll be elsewhere.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:07 PM

 
I’m Not Ashamed to Admit That We Watched the Entire Oscar Ceremony Last Night. Except for When I was Washing Dishes. But Still Listening.
I only had a passing interest in watching it, and that was mostly because Patricia’s husband-to-be was gonna be the host. I’d go with a live-blogging-esque blow by blow, but I was distracting myself by trying to get Michelle to play that decisive third Scrabble match. And we don’t have a laptop and/or a WiFi connection to the Internets . . . both of which we (I) hope to remedy soon.

---------------

As you might have read some place else, we were destined fated to go to the circus Saturday. Which we did. And, lemme, tell ya . . . it sucked. Even Mia was, all, “Is it done?” Yeah, some of it was mildly entertaining. But then we have the $9 snow cone in a plastic elephant cup. And the $6 “small” cotton candy. And the $16 star/wand thing Mia had to have. (It’s good thing Mia has her own money.)

Oh, and kudos to the cop who came into men’s room, while I was helping Mia wash her hands, just to tell me that I didn’t need to have a little girl in the men’s room. Thanks, Officer Douchebag! I wish I’d been quick enough to think to tell him that my wife had been tragically killed in an incident involving meddlesome Civic Center rent-a-cops, making me a single father, but I suspect that he probably had seen Mia with Michelle earlier. And he would’ve beat my ass a little bit.

---------------

I gotta tell ya, the new paper towels my office has switched to are really . . . stiff. Like thin, folded-up sheet rock.

How absorbent is gypsum, anyway?

---------------

Our access to the Internets from home has been fairly non-existent, so I haven’t had a chance to do a lot of things I’ve been meaning to do. Like purchasing Internet-related stuff and e-mailing people birthday wishes. Or posting a link to that spiffy writing contest that starts in two days.

How’s my entry coming, you ask? Er, don’t. But you should TOTALLY write something.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 5:03 PM

 
All the Things You Need to Know*. In a Bulleted List.

-- There’s a crack slowly zig-zagging its way across my windshield. It started, a couple weeks ago, as a relatively small crack at the bottom, just under the wiper. At first, I thought there was some silvery wire caught under the wiper blade, but I felt and there was nothing. Anyway, it grew from 6 inches to 8, and then made a sharp left turn. It’s continuing to grow upward and onward to the passenger side. I worry that, eventually, the glass is just going to fall in half (while I’m driving), so I’ll soon be taking advantage of the Florida law requiring insurance companies to replace windshields at no cost to drivers.

-- The first site I visit every weekday morning is Questionable Content, which is an indie webcomic about a confused guy named Marten and his harem of hot, coffee-schlepping ladyfriends. Leo got me hooked on it a few hundred pages/issues ago. Anyway, after the longest buildup in the history of boy-meets-girl storytelling, Marten finally crossed over the beyond-platonic threshold with a chick. But it wasn’t Faye, the fucked-up object of his wandering affection, but rather Dora (the fucked-up bisexual, reformed goth chick). Which is who Marten should be with anyway.

-- I stuck to my promise to stop watching “Grey’s Anatomy,” I’ll have you know, The Internets. I saw it on my DVR menu Monday night. “Oh, ‘Grey’s Anatomy!’ Wait, I’m not watching that show anymore. Fuck that.” And I deleted it. Screw you, Meredith Grey. Eat shit, Mercy Grace Hospital.

-- I’m going to stop posting here. Sometime in the next couple weeks.

-- Because my comments are not working, you won’t be able to shower me with (unnecessary) concern. Sorry. I’d contact Leo about the comment issue, but I haven’t been in contact with him since . . . I dunno, when he sent me the link to QC. Anyway, it’s about to be a non-issue, right?


* There’s a little bit more to the story.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 5:07 PM

 
Date Night
Michelle’s parents had graciously offered to keep Mia and her cousin this past Saturday night, so I made plans for a “date night” with Michelle. Complete with a multiple-choice itinerary (breaking the evening/night into two-hour segments).

To kill time before dinner (it was pretty early and I was not at all hungry), we took a walk around Lake Ella. Then we ventured to our favorite (but neglected), out-of-the-way Thai restaurant and found dinner to be more outstanding than usual; we couldn’t figure out whether it was because it had been so long since we’d been there or if there was some change). Afterward, we went to rent a copy of Red Eye and then pick up (multiple each) desserts from Food Glorious Food. And then home.

The movie was pretty good (not great) and the desserts ranged from “Eh” to “This tastes JUST LIKE an Almond Joy!” The highlight of the evening, though, was Scrabble. We don’t play Scrabble as much as we used to, mostly because Michelle beats me pretty regularly and when she doesn’t (and/or doesn’t score well over 300 points), she declares, “I HATE THIS GAME!” and we go on a Scrabble hiatus. She’s really good (not quite Word Freak good), so I don’t feel too bad when I lose . . . which, again, is fairly often. This game was no different, as she scored just over 300 points and beat me by about 40.

We couldn’t find our camera to get pictures of the racks we had. I wanted to get one of my I E U I E U A rack, or the one where I had three U’s (also all vowels). (After that latter one, Michelle played off a U, and I said, “I hope you don’t have the Q,” because I had all the other U’s. She did, in fact, draw the Q . . . right at the end of the game.) We played a rematch last night and, Sweet Baby Jesus, I’ve never wanted a camera more in my entire life! My opening rack? V A G I N A (and a P). Later, my rack contained F I S T E D, but I had no place to play it. The rematch was quite the thriller as the board was mostly closed-off and we were forced to open it up with non-strategic plays. In the end, it came down to who could play off all the letters the fastest. I finished first and managed to pull within one point. But her one-point letter reduced her score and raised mine, thus flipping the scores and giving me the win, 254-253. I guess the rubber match will be this weekend. Or as soon as possible.

Or, y'know, NEVER.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:13 PM

 
As Seen on T.V.
A couple times this week, I’ve been splitting my television-viewing between “American Idol” with Michelle . . . and women’s figure-skating.

Never been a huge fan of “American Idol,” although that seems to have softened some, starting last season. I missed some of the women’s (and girls’) auditions, but I did see Becky’s. I’m really surprised she’s gone. Reportedly she was the second-worst, but Simon couldn’t say anything nasty about her because she’s attractive. But she sang like she had a dick in her mouth. Simon’s dick. Anyway, glad she’s gone. Score one for the fat and/or unattractive girls (who can sing).

I feel bad about offhandedly predicting that the Japanese girl was gonna win the gold medal in figure skating. But Sasha Cohen was all groin-injured (“Here comes only hope for gold . . . and she’s gonna fall.”) and did fall. And then saying that I had a feeling Slutskaya wasn’t going to win (and she didn’t). I was feeling pretty good about my predictions. Until a couple hours later, when I couldn’t get back to sleep but, in my half-awake state, thought I was a figure-skating coach.

And the men’s curling team are bringing home the bronze. I’m sure you’re all as excited as I am.


In other NOT-seen-on-T.V. news, a friend sent me a link to this video. It really goes the extra mile for family programming promotion.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:52 PM

 
What’s Happening in the World? Because if Current Events Don’t Involve a 42-Pound Rock Sliding Across the Ice, I Have No Idea.
I stopped by Michelle’s office yesterday before lunch to drop off the checkbook (for her dentist appointment).

Me: "Well, I’m off to watch some curling."
Her: "You really should take something for that."

I guess the good news is that we have a break (today) before the semifinals (tomorrow). And then there are the medal matches. This weekend, everything will return to "normal." Until the World Cup in June*.

It’s sad, though, because the U.S. women’s team has been eliminated from medal contention (they even had to concede their final qualifying match against Great Britain). Which brings up something I’ve been pondering: The U.S. team is mostly attractive and the British team is made up of Scottish woman (decidedly unattractive/not-hot). What if there was a Scottish curling team made up entirely of really hot women. Or a curling team of really hot women with Scottish accents. They’re hot, they have sexy Scottish accents, and they’re good at curling. I’m gonna go on record and say that such a team would be invincible!

---------------

This sentence replaces a three-paragraph section wherein I expressed and defended my decision to discontinue watching "Grey's Anatomy." And this sentence is to let you know that, while my one-sentence summary won’t make me more of a man, it will make me appear as less of a sausage-riding gaybo.

---------------

So, has Cheney shot anyone else lately? Are we still fighting the War on Terror? Have scientists finally discovered the Anti-Bush?


* Actually, honey, there's March Madness next month. And I'm running the bracket here at work because the guy who's done it in the past got fired last month. So it looks like the sports-related dementia will continue.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:49 PM

 
How the Christ Does One Pronounce “Meme” Anyway? Because I Call My Grandmother “Meme,” and I Pronounce That Like “Me-Me.”
Here’s the deal: I think this is gonna be less like a meme and more like a question. Or challenge. Because, as Styro says, “Memes are dumb.”

I used to strive to do things I’d never done before as often as possible. Which was easier when I was young because I hadn’t done anything. But now, due to a lack of trying, my days are basically the same. Week to week, month to month, my life is as predictable as clockwork. I’m not complaining about my life. I’m just saying that the predictability of my life is keeping me from writing anything interesting. (I think. Maybe this is the result of me falling into the flood-swollen river while white water rafting.)

I postulated to pea that, as bloggers, we should challenge ourselves to do something different, outside the routine, as much as possible. Like taking a pastry-making class. Joining a dodgeball team. Or putting jawbreakers in your vagina. What should I do? Alternatively, what should you do?
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:56 PM

 
". . . I’m Wait-ing for my Val-en-tiiiiiine."
So, the Fourth Annual Glory Hole Valentine’s Dinner went off pretty well. This year, we went to a French restaurant. The food was great. Secrets were revealed. Alcohol was consumed (snobbishly). Waiters were tormented (partially deserved). Furniture was knocked over. Imitations were performed. And generous gestures of goodwill abounded.


In other news, I’m gonna post a meme tomorrow. Actually initiating one myself. Because I never get invited to do one (well, except for that one from K a long time ago but, to be fair, it was fucking long). And after an exchange with pea, I realized that I do very little of note and should really provoke myself (and others) more. So stay tuned for that.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:43 PM

 
Going for the Gold
Michelle’s home, and I’m glad. Even though the week of being a single father was strangely serene. It’s not-too-late on Saturday night and she’s asleep . . . haggard from touring.

And so, now, it’s Olympic season, eh? I like a good story, which is the only thing that keeps me watching. I mean, first, it’s an edited-together summary of some freestyle skiing/jumping thing (mildly more exciting than tomorrow’s Daytona 500, so, not very). But then you Costas-ize it and, PRESTO!. Instant interest. (Of course, in this case, that backfired as the girl from Vermont failed to qualify for the medal round.) Although, I did get to see history being made as an American figure-skating pair landed the first throw triple-axel in Olympic competition. (Either exciting or I’m just as gay as you suspect.)

What I’m really looking forward to, though, is the curling, which starts Monday and goes for a week and a half straight. I think USA is gonna televise a lot of it live (starting at 3 a.m.).

That, and Irina Slutskaya. Hey, you think the U.S. Olympic Committee feel like douches for giving Michelle Kwan that medical exemption?
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 10:56 PM

 
Stats That Shape a Weekend: The Holy-Shit-My-Favorite-Team-Just-Won-the-Super-Bowl Edition (And No, Styro, This Won’t All be About Football)

Hours Since Michelle Left to go on Tour: about 100
Number of Friends Who Stopped by to Watch the Game: five
Friends Left Watching the Game with Me After Halftime: one

I think I’m settling into temporary single-parenthood the way I’d expected. Mia makes it all too easy. And Michelle’s parents keeping Mia on Saturday night helped, too.

The focus of the weekend, obviously, was the Super Bowl. I had been talking and thinking about getting some Iron City (beer) for the occasion (not available in town), but had done nothing to further that cause. On the way to watch UFC at a friend’s house on Saturday night, I stopped off to pick up a six-pack of cider and a can of Scotch ale to make Scotch Apples, and I asked the checkout guy at the liquor store what the possibility was of any store in town selling Iron City. He said they special order beer all the time, but you have to buy at least a case. And it takes two weeks. Dammit.

But, as Fate would have it, I was recounting this story while watching two guys pummel the Holy Hell out of the each other, and Wench (our band’s singer) tells me that her boyfriend (who runs the ultimate hipster bar here in Tallahassee) could probably spare some as he’s recently started selling it.

The Super Bowl gathering devolved at halftime. Wench showed up and sat back in the bedroom with Mia watching Cartoon Network (which was inexplicably playing “Spirited Away” [I think]) while the first half drew to a close. And then everyone had someplace else to go (except Mr. ADD, who never stays for a complete game).
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:53 PM

 
State of the Union? Would Be “Strong,” But I’m Not Drunk Enough
I really should be writing about the State of the Union someplace else, but I’m not really going to write about it at all. Other than to let you know that when Michelle got home from band practice and found me watching the address, she said, “I’m surprised you’re not taking notes.” To which I replied, “It’s easier for me to drink when I’m not taking notes.”

You know what was reaffirmed during the speech? That I do have a little crush on Louisiana Senator Mary Landrieu.

---------------

Bush touched on the need to steer the economy away from our “addiction to oil.” Which, y’know, is great. Did you hear that shit about Exxon-Mobil a few days ago? How they netted over $36 billion in profit last year, the most ever in U.S. history? Beating the old record, which was set by . . . Exxon-Mobil in 2004?

This got me thinking about those backward-ass chain emails, where we’re urged to not buy gasoline for a day to stick it to the oil companies. Oh, okay. Well . . . what about tomorrow?

I say fuck that. How about boycotting just one oil company? Every day. Let’s say . . . Exxon-Mobil. Do not buy gas from Exxon and/or Mobil stations (unless you live in a town with one traffic light and one gas station, which begs the question: How are you reading this?). Dump your stock in their company. Dump 401(k) funds that carry Exxon-Mobil stock. I’m serious. I already don’t buy gas from one chain in town (because they suck for other reasons, not really political). I have other options, and I’m going to exercise those.

Spread the word: We know we have to buy gas, but we don’t have to buy it from Exxon-Mobil. (That’s actually several words. Spread ‘em anyway, fuckers.)

---------------

On the non-consumer-driven-Totalitarianism front, Michelle and her band leave for their tour tomorrow. You should check out the parade route and go see them if they’re coming to (or near) your town. I’ll be playing the part of “single father” for a week. But should the Steelers win the Super Bowl, that’ll carry me until Michelle gets back. Plus, I get paid Friday, so I should be able to stock up on alcohol to keep me afloat float in. I’m getting a little nervous that the rescued Crown might disappear. Bring it to me, Mr. GH!
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:59 PM

 
Instant
I'm not quite sure how I feel about my decision to provide my mother with AOL instant-messenger capability. Once she upgraded to high-speed internet, I figured it be easier to have her IM'ing me at work (when I could ignore her [briefly] if I had to) rather than having her calling me two or three times a day with questions about some arcane thing she'd seen on T.V., or about our plans for the weekend, or whether I want any of the belongings she's set aside to give to the woman who cleans her house and plans to sell at the flea market. Questions which, invariably, seemed to come to her and inspire her to immediately call me at the most inopertune time(s).

And all this agonizing over my mother's seeming campaign against my sanity has me thinking of Mark's mother. Please keep Mark and his family in your thoughts.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:53 PM

 
Stats That Shape a Weekend (Glory Hole Party Edition)
Number of Shots I Made: I don’t have an exact count, but well over 100*
Number of Shots I Drank: maybe three . . . four most
Number of Kamikazes I Drank: maybe three or . . . five?



So, as I mentioned earlier, I’d volunteered to bartend the party this past weekend for Mr. Glory Hole. And by “bartend,” of course I mean mix shots. Because I’m not a bartender, although I was mistaken for one. Mr. Glory Hole had already taken care of the core of the recipe needs with the-shadow-of-GOP-corruption-sized bottles of vodka, rum, Jagermeister, and Jack Daniels. We split a list of mixers and liqueurs. And then came the expectations that I might be overdoing it (his), followed by self-doubt (mine). The party proved to be an expectation-shattering event.

Expectation: This party won’t be any bigger than the last Glory Hole party.
Reality: While the previous party was quite the popular event (for about 30 minutes), this one was quite popular for several hours. I left sometime between 12:30 and 1 and didn’t see the party “winding down” at all.

Expectation: No-one’s gonna be that into doing shots. C’mon, these aren’t kids just out of college.
Reality: The shot concept may have been a little awkward at first, but people warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. Having shots called “Red-Headed Slut” and “Cock Teaser” help break down a few barriers, too. (Oh, and some of the people there were still in college, albeit creative-writing graduate students, but that counts.)

Expectation: I’ll be the bar guy and everyone will be happy to give me my space.
Reality: Very early on, I got nudged out of the bar “area” by some guy making a round of margaritas. I didn’t have a purpose (at that point), other than making an Amaretto Sour for Mr. Glory Hole’s ex-girlfriend. So, I started making shots almost continuously. And nudging people out of the way who insisted on sharing their life stories in front of the sink. Hey, people, it’s nice outside and you’re not waiting for a drink. Out!

Expectation: I’m gonna stay sober for as long as I can, but will inevitably slip into an alcohol-induced coma around midnight.
Reality: I didn’t even really have a drink until the party had been going on for an hour. By then, Michelle had had four. When I abandoned my bar “duties” sometime before midnight, I started making myself a series of kamikazes. Not sure exactly how many I had, but it’s safe to say I was hammered . . . about two hours after I fell asleep at home. (Seriously, I woke up pretty hungover for someone who wasn’t that drunk when I went to bed.)

Expectation: Michelle will not have fun and she’ll sneak out after an hour or so.
Reality: After the four Crown and gingers, Michelle was primed . . . to be my barmaid. She was given a batter’s helmet and sent around with trays of shots. Unfortunately for her, many of the “takers” insisted that she do a shot with them. So, while she was having a great time, it was taking its toll. The girl-on-girl-on-girl-on-girl, open-air tongue-touching was something I couldn’t have predicted Michelle would be mixed up in.


* Mr. Glory Hole has my tally sheet.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 5:05 PM

 
Contemporary Music*
I love music, but I find myself getting more detached from it . . . specifically what’s “current” and “hip.” Even though I write music and derive a lot of enjoyment (and exorcise a lot of demons) playing music. I must be turning into an adult. At 34.

When I was a fair, gentle teenager, I was pretty obsessive about my music-listening. Like getting Duran Duran’s Seven and the Ragged Tiger in middle school and listening to that cassette repeatedly. Before I had a “jam box” with the auto-reverse function. I actually had to take the cassette out, flip it over, rewind as necessary, and press Play. Over and over. I’d get the new LP / cassette / CD by a favorite band and listen to it constantly. And never got sick of it.

Flash forward a couple decades, when I have more resources to purchase and experience new music, and I’m lost in it. Behind the times. For instance, I have a CD-rotation system in place, so that I’m currently “listening to” about 30 CDs. So it’ll take me a few months to fully evaluate the dozen CDs I got for Christmas. Continuing with the “instance,” I got the newest Death Cab for Cutie CD for/around my birthday in September and was pretty let down (initially). Only now, almost four months later, have I listened to it enough to have it “grow on me.” We’re talking six or eight times through. Over four months.

See, I like variety more now than I did. Not types of music, but bands. This is probably why I do so many mix CDs; I get sick of hearing the same songs and bands over and over and over again. So I’ll listen to a CD once (including mixes) and then rotate it out of my car. CDs in “high” rotation get listened to once, maybe twice, a month. If it’s weekly, we’re talking “very, extremely high” rotation.

What slows things down even further is driving Mia around, which I do a lot. I got pretty spoiled when Michelle was taking her to preschool and I was picking her up. Lots of time to listen to what I wanted as loud as I wanted. This temporary reverting back to daycare (which is, literally, across the highway from my office) has me squeezing in very little prime-listening time. I’ll put on the local adult-contemporary station because it’s not too offensive to Mia. (Although, it can be really offensive to me. Seriously, I’m sick and fucking tired of “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia; didn’t that song hit in, like, 1997? And what’s this bullshit with Carlos Santana dubbing guitar wankery over every other song on the radio? That and anything by Blues Traveler makes me wanna turn off the entire fucking airwaves. All of them. Dear God.)

Sigh. Hey, y’know what band Mia really likes? The Bravery.


UPDATE: One of the things that inspired this post was hearing Alanis Morrissette's uninspired version of Seal's "Crazy." I mean, really, why bother? When I first heard it, I thought, "Man who is this sad Alanis wannabe doing the rote walk-through of this not-even-classic song?" Anyway, I heard it again this morning. I'll probably hear it again on the way home. Right after "Torn."


* This is gaybo to the power of 10, but there’s that episode of Friends where Ross is going to China and Joey tells him, “Make sure you eat some Chinese food while you’re there.” And Chandler enlightens him with (something like), “I think in China, they just call it food.” Anyway, likewise, “adult-contemporary music” becomes just “contemporary” when you’re an adult. Among other things.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:35 PM

 
Boiling Down the Weekend (With No Stats to Shape It)
Here's an excerpt from an e-mail I sent to a friend about this weekend:

"Dude, I didn't say ANYTHING when Bettis fumbled. I was COMPLETELY stunned into silence. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The drama-writers in the NFL front office (or the replay booth in Indy) couldn't have written a more nausea-inducing series of twists. Jesus. When I saw Ben back there on that fumble return, I thought, "What the fuck is he doing all the way back there?" And THEN I was, like, "Tackle him. TACKLE HIM!" In my head. Because, y'know, remember the stunned silence. But somehow . . . SOMEhow . . . I knew Vanderjagt was gonna miss that kick. If he'd made it, and the Colts had gone on to win in overtime, I'd fully expect the Hand of Almighty God to descend from Heaven with a Golden Crown for Mr. Manning. Seriously."

Please let the Steelers be the Team of Destiny this year. Do it for Jerome, guys. And do it for Us All.


In other news, yeah, I've been busy at work. And we're preparing to move our computer at home. Several deadlines from the end of '05 are spilling over into early '06, and now I'm really behind. This doesn't include some things that I've completely neglected and are now becoming somewhat more important. Also, Mia's daycare was closed for MLK Day, but the office isn't, so I’m at work while Mia's "papa" is watching her and her cousin. I think I'm gonna do another couple things after my "lunch break," and then blow on outta here.

Looking ahead, there are two huge-ass social events on the Kamikaze calendar. The first is this Saturday's blowout at Mr. Glory Hole's place. This isn't another post-divorce introspective booze-fest; that's been done to death, I think. (This weekend was the continuation of wedding gift / memento destruction, which culminated in the burning of the wedding-cake topper after drinking a bottle of $150 champagne. I've never wanted to have a digital camera more than I did at that moment. Goddammit.) No, it's a combo-birthday thing. I volunteered to be a bartender, so I'll be mixing up pitchers of drinks, serving up shots (including some that I've invented), and making other specialty drinks. This will necessitate me being relatively sober. But I'll be fucked in the browneye if I don't have the Elph handy for THIS one.

The next event is a month away . . . a Girls on Film vs. Thunderpony show at Tallahassee’s penultimate college frat/sorority bar. We are splitting the whole night (from 9 p.m. to "last call"). Our repertoire doesn't equal three 40-minute sets, so we're gonna do some covers and songs from our previous band. This, too, will receive a lot of play on my Flickr page and here, I'm sure. Stay tuned.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:48 PM

 
What if You Threw a Party and No-One Came? Except Creed.
We played our debut gig as Thunderpony this past weekend. At what passes for a “professional” venue in Tallahassee. Meaning we were sharing the bill with three New Rock / Neü-Metal bands. Luckily we were first, which almost meant we didn’t get to eat dinner after "soundcheck." But because New Rock Band v.854.6 told all their friends that they were playing later when, in actuality, they were playing at 10, things got pushed back 30 minutes. Gyros for everyone!

The venue we played often does this ticket pre-sale thing. It’s really kind-of a scam. See, each band ponies up $150 for 150 tickets with face values of $6 each. Bands can sell these tickets for whatever they want (up to $6) and pocket the money; what they earn after the $150 investment is profit. So, the venue made $450 right off the top from the bands. And then they get all the bar revenues plus money from anyone who pays at the door.

The manager who booked us (correctly) figured we wouldn’t sell 150 tickets, so he offered us a choice: 50 tickets to sell or a $50 buyout. We gambled and took the tickets. There was a lot of unease, but we managed to sell / give away almost all of them . . . and made $75. Commerce for everyone!

What’s funny is that there were 500 tickets between the four bands. When we went on, there were between 30 and 40 people there. (I’m estimating, because I sure as fuck don’t care enough to count how many people are coming out.) We knew a lot of those people, who promptly left after we finished or shortly after the next band started. Which was about the time I left, so I can’t tell you how many more people showed up.

A few of us ventured over to the backside of the über-hip Waterworks, which is where you’d find the Spaceport. The Organ Lady was playing once more in town before venturing back to Germany. I bellied up to the bar. The doe-eyed bartender asked for my order. I felt like a kamikaze, so I ordered one. With Grey Goose. The bartender quietly said something about it being her first night. She was looking at a bar guide for the recipe to make a kamikaze. Uh-oh.

Luckily, the drink wasn’t that bad. But my next drink came in a bottle.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:27 PM

 
"Do You Believe That Shit?"
HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA-HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA-HA-HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!

If there's one thing worse in sports that bandwagonning and dynasties, it's hype. You think ESPN's pre-game comparisons of the 2005 USC team to the 10 greatest teams in college football history had anything to do with the Longhorns' collective determination? I love it when a plan doesn't come together.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:26 AM

 
Resolution-less
I didn’t really come out with an “official” list of resolutions this year, although I sort of made the promise to myself that I’d spend less time on “shit that doesn’t matter.”* Despite this, I will continue updating my weblog.

Seriously (more seriously), I’ve been thinking a lot about why I spend so much time doing silly things, and so little time doing things that, y’know, mean something. I don’t think I waste a lot of time, but I feel like I do. Just sitting around sometimes. First, I think I need to outlaw the channel-surfing. Our DVR / digital cable combo is a huge time-sucker anyway, but I need to train myself to only sit in front of the T.V. when I’m watching something specific. Or really, truly have nothing better to do (which, really, is NEVER). The “Let’s see what’s on” strategy is killing me.

The big news of the New Year’s weekend was that Michelle and her sister conspired to join forces in getting our house clean. Really clean. Like the-garbage-bin-outside-is-overflowing-why-does-our-trash-pickup-have-to-fall-on-a-holiday clean. To coincide with this purging and sanitizing event, I was half-planning a get-together with friends for New Year’s Eve. And doing semi-helpful things outside the house. Like mowing grass that hasn’t grown any taller since October.

So, now cleaning chores will be added to the list of things I should be doing. All the time. In addition, I plan to spend more time on the poetry thing and perhaps start the “novel” that I’ve been thinking about. (I say “start,” but I’m half finished with it . . . in my head. I’m at the point now where I need to do a formal outline and then actual research . . . like, in a library. It’ll be like college, only without the dressing in all black, slamming vodka, and passing out in goth clubs.)

Welcome to 2006, losers!


* I’m in America, where soccer, pretty much, DOES NOT MATTER. But this morning, I went to the FIFA World Cup website and printed out the schedule for the first-round matches so I’d know what days and times the U.S.A. would be playing and could extrapolate what time the games would be on T.V. here in the States if they’re shown live (the World Cup is in Germany this year). So now I’ll be ready when things get started. In JUNE.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:41 PM