Smut Thursday: The Early Edition

So, apparently this past weekend I ate something that didn't agree with me, and we still haven't come to a compromise. Well, either that or a demon has taken up residence in my GI tract. I've never seen so much sick shit come out of my body, quite literally in some cases.

It all started Monday afternoon. I got back from the beach, and just putzed around the house getting everything in order for the rest of the week. That's when the rumbling started. I spent a goodly portion of the evening expelling fluids. It wasn't too painful for the first 20 minutes or so, and I actually tried to make a game of it; but after that I started getting scared. For a while I wondered if I was going to start deflating or something; but finally the flow slowed to a trickle.

Yesterday I got nothing; it was the complete opposite of the day before. I think if I would have tried to spit or pee, I would've just produced dust. Everything today was fine until the afternoon - when the demon once again began to rumble. Now, as I've told you before, I'm very picky about my bathrooms. This makes using one at work, especially for what I really needed to do, very difficult. Plus, right about the time I was on the verge of bursting; a group of auditors from the state showed up. Seriously, I ran all over my workplace at a dead sprint from about 12:30 until 4:00. I would run down to records, pull the info I needed, sprint back to my office, toss it on the desk and sprint to the bathroom. Then I'd come back from the bathroom, grab the info from my desk, coallate it on the elevator, sprint to the auditors, drop it off, spin right back around and make a beeline for the bathroom. All the while while fighting the incredible instinct to let something foul explode from my face or my ass. It fucking sucked.

The part that really pissed me off was the end of the day. The VP asked me into her office to have one of those chill-down sessions. You know, you and the higher-ups have been busting ass all day and they want to sit down with you and take a load off. Hey, normally I'm all about that shit. Get out the Cubans you rich assholes, let's tell some dirty jokes! But today was not the day. So I'm sitting there trying to get out of the office while these people are all chatting it up. I begin backing away from the group while they're busy yapping; I'm trying not to sweat, pinching the quarter and simultaneously swallowing that massive amount of spit that seems to fill your mouth seconds before you spray your lunch all over someone's wall. I was inching towards the door, but eyeing the trashcan just in case. I really didn't want it to come to me shoving my ass in a trashcan in front of those who would one day vouch for my work experience, but I was wearing a pair of really nice pants and I wasn't about to ruin them. As soon as I passed the office threshold, I was racing down the hall towards the men's room. I distinctly remember unclasping my belt and loosening my pants before I was even in the bathroom. I slammed the door, locked it, and began what I can only describe as the most disgusting, privately humiliating experience of my life. It's a good thing it was late enough that most people had already gone home, because I'm pretty sure the muffled sound coming through the walls would have set someone wretching. Or at least to the nearest phone to call the paramedics or something. It took me like ten minutes to clean the stupid bathroom up. I just hope I have a job in the morning.

I first I thought this was really funny. Then I thought it was sad. Now I’m fully enraged.

Eva Longoria, whom I hoped to hump at some future, post lottery winning time, shows what a real life bitch she is.

I knew it was going to be good as soon as I read the headline:

Eva Longoria Victim of Non-Comped Bar Tab Fiasco

“…Eva grabbed her changed, snipped at the waitress that "Celebrities should be comped!" and stalked out without even leaving a tip.”

Perhaps the most bizarre part of the story is who she was hanging out with. I know I’ve said this before, but I have no respect for “celebrities” who think they’re beyond fucking reproach. When these people start curing cancer or rescuing people from burning buildings please let me know, so I can pay them the respect that they deserve.

This spoiled twat? Five years away from the Surreal Life and a Paula Abdul-like substance addiction. I am officially withdrawing my offer of a hump. There are much nicer people out there I could be stalking.

***UPDATE***
Link now works!

Remember Jim?

I do. Vaguely. An update might be nice, huh?

Meanwhile, the heat, my God, the heat.

Memorial Day was spent upgrading the property. Very little fun was had and stress levels were near record highs. The rest of this week will entail more work and cleanup after each twelve hour day at the office, which happens to be as hot as the fucking Sonoran desert today. I’m not big on sweating unless I’m actually working out or eating at Lindo Michoacan.

I’m a big fan of ethnic foods, even if the shits are involved the next day. I think it was Anthony Bourdain who said, “It tastes good right now. Of course tomorrow my bathroom will probably look like the one from Trainspotting.”

The only food I really find sketchy is Middle Eastern/Indian/Near East stuff. I’m not a big fan of curd or tea with butter and salt in it. Other than that, I’ll try almost anything.

A lot people talk about pairing wine with food, but a lot food really goes better with beer. Mexican, Chinese, lots of Asian food, burgers and obviously the German stuff. I’ll go out on a limb and say pizza as well, though purists will cringe. The problem with pizza is all the shit people put on there. No self-respecting Italian would ever put pepperoni on pizza. When that shit cooks, all the grease floats up all over the pie. It’s disgusting. And before someone says olive oil is greasy, it’s not the same thing. Pure olive oil—and I’m talking the first cold pressing, extracted without heat or chemicals, is the nectar of the Gods. Pepperoni seepage is fucking grease.

And while I’m at it, all that other shit people put on pizza is way out of line too. Ham? Pineapple? Meatballs? Is it really necessary to bombard your palette with cured salted pork products on a pizza? I think it stems from people not knowing any better. Most pizza places use cheap cheese, which melts funny and tastes like plastic. If you start with good ingredients a very simple pizza is incredibly good. The dough should be light and airy, not heavy. Tomato sauce shouldn’t be too spicy nor full of acid. The mozzarella should be of the best quality, preferably made that day. And on top, a very fine dusting of pecorino romano made from sheep’s milk. It’s that simple. If I add anything at all, it’s anchovies. Now that’s a pizza you can swill wine with. Garden variety, take out pizza? I can and do eat it, but I don’t think of it as pizza. I wolf it down in great quantities and swill plenty of beer (lager) to wash it down. I’m a practical man and it’s a phone call away.

With Chinese food I like beer, but here’s a tip for you. If you want to order wine with Chinese food you can’t go wrong with a Gewurztraminer. A lot of people think that’s dated wisdom but it works extremely well. I could pair dishes in a Chinese restaurant but with everybody ordering different stuff it’s a hopeless affair. This trick won’t work in China, but you’ll have other, bigger problems if it comes to that. Such as getting authentic Chinese food down without vomiting. Trust me, it’s not egg rolls and sweet and sour pork over there. We’re talking deep fried monkey lungs.

***Update***

So I’ll explain the beer with pancakes thing, which has turned up in the comments.

When I was in the 10th grade I snuck some St. Pauli Girl beer out of my house and brought it to school. Yes, it was a dumb idea, but we drank like four of them on the bus and looked very cool doing it.

I came home from school and my old man says, “Where the hell are my St. Pauli Girls?”

And I say, I drank them with breakfast.

He then says, “Okay. You drank German beer with pancakes?” Because I was allowed a beer or two in my house, or a glass of wine, so long as it was with a meal and generally in front of them. They were not party-ers at all, but they appreciated old world style. Then he says,” No problem. Show me the empty bottles.”

He knew exactly what I’d done and he knew I couldn’t produce the empty bottles. I don’t remember all the details but I was in a lot of trouble. However, I refused to come clean and admit defeat. So the next day, in front of him, I drank a St. Pauli Girl with my pancakes. It went on like this for some time, with he asking me if I was enjoying it, et. al.

In the end I was liking it.

A friend emailed me the following:

On an August morning in 1978, French filmmaker Claude Lelouch mounted a gyro-stabilized camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and had a friend, a professional Formula 1 racer, drive at breakneck speed through the heart of Paris. The film was limited for technical reasons to 10 minutes; the course was from Porte Dauphine, through the Louvre, to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur.

Upon showing the film in public for the first time, Lelouch was arrested. He has never revealed the identity of the driver, and the film went underground until a DVD release a few years ago.

Crank up the sound for this one.

It starts out on the open road but once he reaches the Place de la Concord, it gets really intense. The sound of that engine is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Note the person running for their life around the six minute mark.

So I was perusing this great blogosphere and I came across this post. I found it intriguing to say the least, and a great conversation starter. I found myself aligned with it in most points, but the real kick was the very end. I lke how Skippy addresses Laura's strawman principal that basically, if you're not with her you're a bigot and a mysoginist. Laura, don't be such a dick dear.

I bought a new car today. Well, not exactly brand new, it's more of a beater. We're going to use it as a beach-mobile because both of our cars are small. I drive a sports coupe and the wife drives an economobile. It's a pain in the ass to try and shoehorn the boards, kayak, cooler, and chairs into either one of them; if not completely impossible. Of course, it was a goddamned sweet deal, 4.0 liters, 4WD, power evertyhing and a nice stereo for only $1,000. Hey, what can I say; I'm a master negotiator. Pics to follow? Have a great Memorial Day weekend!

Okay, in protest to Paul killing Cultural Friday's, I've decided to concieve Smut Friday. Until Paul agrees to re-adopt Cultural Fridays, I will bombard you all with the most useless pointless filler (no, not my typical matierial you asshats) every Friday. And Paul, if you're wanting to play hard ball, I will remind you that there's more smut out there in the digital ether than you can shake a stick at. And we could all be learning about something (faggy as it may be) like wine or the history of French painters. Hell, I could go for the OK Corral thing but noooooo...Paul had to deprive us all of leaarning something. So, instead of blogging that might broaden horizons or expand your knowledge base; for your review, I bring you the first installment of SBD's Smut Friday:

Check it out, a dude drinking an assload of beer...

...In related matters...

...Tips for clearing a room besides busting ass...

...I'd go on, but wading through this shit is like going for a morning swim in Venice. I hope you people are disgusted, because I sure am. And this is only the tip of the iceberg.

This link is like, a year old or something, but it doesn’t matter. When celebrities are cheap bastards the world must know about it. The shitty tipper database.

I live for shit like this.

What the fuck is MySpace?

Would I care if I knew?

I consider myself refined.

I’m comfortable in a finely cut suit. I can converse with sommeliers in their own tongue and with considerable knowledge. I have eaten in some of the world’s finest restaurants and I am at home and at ease in all of them. I have traveled the world and seen the finest architecture and paintings civilization has produced.

Put on a piece of music and I’ll tell you the composer. Show me a painting and I’ll tell you who painted and where it’s currently hanging. I have a photographic memory and a gift for languages. I’m well versed in philosophy, literature and geography. I have an unnatural interest in world history. All true.

And while that may sound pompous, all things are not what they seem. Though I now make a very good living, I’m not rich. I was not born into money. I have had no advantages in life. I was born into a middle class family with almost no interest in the arts, save music.

I read a lot. When I was a kid I used to wish I were a peer of the realm. And though that’s not something I could rectify, I did set out to get myself an old world education. There were many bumps in the road. I never learned Latin or Greek and in fact I found that I had placed so much faith in old world literature that I was horribly misguided on world ideas and what a modern education consisted of in the 20th century. I began to loathe the fact that I was not schooled at Eton or Sandhurst. I felt that somehow I was born into the wrong family, and that my birthright was being denied. Most of this fantasy probably came from reading books like Ivanhoe and such at too young an age. The romance of the knight was ingrained in a boy who lived in a different world. The values, if not already extinct, were surely endangered. I’m still pissed off I never learned to fence. I was a jackass. A misguided fool. And during the pursuit of all this nonsense I was entrenched in a fairly shitty neighborhood where people were plumbers and electricians, not heads of state or experts on paleography. The contrast was extreme. I was a rebellious son-of-a-bitch, constantly pulling pranks, blowing things up with illegal fireworks and fighting. I was certain I should be on fox hunts with old world royalty, not raking the goddamned leaves. (sigh) To an extent I still feel that way.

I’m older now. I’m still refined but I can shift with ease between lapin a la cocotte and hot dogs. I’m just as happy eating in a diner as I am in a fine restaurant. Actually, that’s a fucking lie, but I’m not as angry about it as I used to be. Since I’m not wealthy I have to limit the number of expensive meals we enjoy to one a month or so. And now over time I’ve come to appreciate them more. I’d rather eat one tremendous, over-the-top meal a month than go out every Saturday to inferior establishments.

I’m a funny guy. Not ha-ha funny, but funny strange. While I (probably) wasted a lot of time learning about art and history I spent almost an equal amount of time pursuing non-glamorous topics. I know more about the events leading up to the Gunfight at the OK Corral than a lot of people. Hell, I can quote testimony from the Earp trial like people quote Monty Python. It’s all worthless. There is no practical application. The bottom line is that I have in my head a lot of completely useless information good for absolutely nothing. The fact of the matter is that I’m an incorrigible bastard with a wise mouth and little else to offer. I’m not feeling very good about myself today. Please excuse the self-indulgence.

And, as of today, I proclaim “Cultural Friday” dead.

By now everyone’s seen or heard about Madonna doing the mock crucifixion bit on her tour. Personally, I think she should be hanging from a giant dollar sign. Does anyone really care anymore? After a while shock value wears off. This old broad is desperately trying stop the pending irrelevance.

I don’t like her fake English accent. I don’t like the fact that she does things just to be controversial. I don’t like the fact that back in the 80s I let chicks play “Lucky Star” on my car’s tape player just to pacify them long enough for me to get my hands up their dresses.

I remember the issue of Playboy where she was nude and all I could focus on was the thick patches of underarm hair. I don’t like the way she whored herself out for cash with that sex book (and I’m no prude).

Most of all I don’t like the fact that she’s a fucking human corporation.

That is all.

Went to the dentist yesterday. I've mentioned before that I hate going to the doctor and being poked, probed, or otherwise...violated. Can't stand it. Now, my teeth are extraordinarily healthy (no fillings, nothing), amazing considering I don't give them much thought between the two brushings they get each day. I'm definitely glad for it though; and I don't normally mind seeing the dentist. Except when the dental hygienist inflicts excruciating pain on me with her implements. Where the do those evil bitches get those fuckers from anyway? Do they shop for supplies in the torture aisle at Home Depot or what? This bitch was scraping my teeth with something roughly the size of a gaff one might use to bring a championship marlin on board. Fucking OW.

So while she's clawing and burrowing at and around my teeth and gums, I'm sitting there trying not to flinch. I mean, I don't want this battle axe thinking I'm some kind of pussy right? Then she scrapes right along the gumline on one of my prize molars. This shudder runs throughout my whole body, everything goes limp, I can even feel the hair on my arms cringing. My body shook itself right out of the chair and onto the floor.
"GEEEEAAWWWWW!" I screamed.
"Oh," she coos, all grandmotherly, "Must've been a little root showing." She titters, giggles almost.
I push myself up off the floor and back into the chair. I'm pretty sure this woman had a tazer in her pocket, because I damn near lost bowel control.
A few minutes later she finishes up, and I rinse. I look down at that bib they put around me, and it's fucking spotted with blood. MY blood. I did a quick check with my tongue to make sure all my teeth were still there, because by the looks of that bib I was probably going to bleed out pretty soon. Did she accidentally stab my jugular? Exactly what the fuck is going on here?

The dentist comes in. Finally, a licensed professional. They lean me back, and this fucker, who must have the easiest job this side of a candybar salesman at fat camp; does little more than touch each tooth with the end of his metal implement. Literally, he spoke seven words to me, waved the sign of the cross with over my yawning mouth, and split. Fuck! Come back here dude, you gotta stitch me up! Fucking nurse Gein over here just tried to turn my mouth into a patchwork quilt! What about the Hippocratic Oath you son of a bitch?!

I didn't know you could get thrown out of a doctor's office. I thought that was only, like, bars and shit. Damn.

I watched American Idol last night and came to the conclusion that both contestants suck. The chick is lacking that… je ne sais quoi…star quality. She does not exude charisma. Taylor Hicks? My wife and I thought he was mildly retarded for the first few weeks, what with those full-body jerking motions and all, but then again, we think most people are to some degree mentally handicapped. We’ve changed our minds on that though. Now we’re convinced he’s insane. Take a look at his eyes. The eyes are the key, and when I look at that guy I see a deep bend in the sanity department.

As far as singing goes, the broad impressed at the very beginning of the season but then stopped maturing or improving. She over sings a lot, but mainly she’s just good. Adequate. And her body is shaped funny. From some angles she looks chunky and from other angles she looks thin. I prefer a woman that looks the same from every angle; at least I know what I’ve got.

Taylor can sing but has a very limited range. Almost every song this season was in a bad key for him. His best work was the Joe Cocker thing. But at least he looks like he’s enjoying himself. Crazy people usually do.

Last night’s show was a sleeper—two repeats and two very shitty new songs. The chick’s song was so obviously a reworking of Kelly Clarkson’s first single that I sang the chorus of it to my wife during McPhee’s performance right over of the new song. I didn’t know the words but I made my point. My wife was amazed and proclaimed me all-knowing.

Who will win? I don’t care, and that’s a shame because I’ve always had a horse in the race in past seasons. This season I wasn’t impressed by any of them, frankly, compared to some of the talent in years past.

I predict the crazy man will win handily.

I rarely remember dreams. Perhaps once a month I’ll remember a snippet or two but it’s rare. This morning I was dreaming that I was taking a pee. At some point my eyes shot open and I ran for the bathroom and peed.

My wife woke up to find me feeling the bed for wet spots.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“I think I peed the bed.”

“What?”

“I said, I think I peed the bed!”

Now both of us were up and searching for pee. Then she realized that I was standing there in my underwear.

“Are they dry?”

I felt them.

“Yeah. They are.”

She reached over and touched them.

“They’re dry. You didn’t pee the bed. Are you fucking going nuts are what?”

After a fifteen minute reality check I realized that I didn’t pee the bed. But the dream was so real. So vividly real. I dreamed I peed the bed. I thought I peed the bed.

In a parallel universe, I’m certain I peed the bed. Dreams suck.

I’m on a lot of conference calls. I’ve perfected the art of participating whilst doing other things simultaneously, like scratching my balls or writing a chapter of a novel.

But the one aspect of conference calls that I really enjoy is when we come to some impasse or another and decide to call in yet someone else; either for their worthless opinion or to blame them for everything that has gone wrong in the past quarter.

So these poor bastards, sitting at their desk playing solitaire or whatever is they do all day, get phones call they’re not expecting. A nice surprise. And for some reason they never suspect they’re on a conference call or that we’ve called from the conference room and that a party of ten is on the line. You’d think they’d learn, but they don’t.

And almost without exception they pick up the phone, hear a familiar voice and start talking shit. Or telling exceptionally filthy jokes. I get to hear one per week on average, where some dumbass picks up the line and starts telling a room full of people that he was out all night drinking or has the scabies or some shit. And no matter if the chairman himself is on the phone, no one says anything for at least a full minute because no one knows just how to tell the guy without making it a legal issue or whatever.

Yesterday we called a guy in and as soon as he heard the voice of the guy who was chairing the meeting, a friend of his, he starts busting the guy’s balls:

“Tony! You home jerking off today? I bet you are. I bet your jerking off to the yoga channel, huh? I love jerking off to the yoga channel!” Then he made a few exaggerated noises.

“Uh, Pete, I’m here in the conference room with the budget team…we have a question.”

Dead air.

After about five seconds the meeting guy composed himself and asked whatever pointless question we called about.

There were a few women on the call, two company officers and an old broad from purchasing with no sense of humor. I had to excuse myself from the room for a minute because I was crying. It was one of those times where you laugh hysterically but no sound comes out and tears run streaming down your face. It was uncontrollable and everyone knew it.

When I returned a few minutes later the call had ended and people were filing out trying not to make eye contact with each other for fear of explosive laughter. Let this be a lesson to you.

I don’t understand camping. I’m not putting it down; I’m just saying that I don’t understand it.

I went camping only once and it was enough. Myself and three other idiots decided camping would be a great idea for spring break back when we were in high school. Having no cash was a contributing factor, as was getting away from our parents and drinking for sixteen hours a day.

None of us had ever been camping before so we rented a giant tent and scavenged for supplies in our parent’s houses. We loaded up two cars full of shit and guitars and set out for points unknown. When we finally reached our destination, a National Forest, we pulled over to debate the best course of action.

“I say we don’t go to a campground. We just pitch our tents in the woods and live like Indians,” one guy said.

“We need a campground, dammit! With running water and bathrooms. Are you prepared to shit in a hole?”

I wasn’t. It was eventually decided that we would go to a campground just outside the National Forest. We set up the tent and then stood there looking at each other. I knew at that moment it would end badly. We were bored and we’d only been there for thirty minutes. None of us were old enough to buy beer so we set out immediately to start going from liquor store to liquor store trying our luck. It turned out to be unnecessary and the first place we came to looked like they hadn’t seen a customer since the Conestoga wagons went by. We loaded up with several cases of beer and a big bottle of Southern Comfort. At the tender age of seventeen we had no idea how bad of an idea that was, but that’s another story.

I won’t boor you with the details, but our four day trip was cut to down to three. As soon as we backed the car up to the tent, popped the trunk and cranked up the Hendrix we started drawing complaints. We had so many empty beer cans that all the garbage cans in the place were full of them. We burned the oars from the rowboat for a cooking fire. Our singing was obnoxious and profane. There were bugs. The day before we left we had a more serious problem.

Four seventeen year old kids go through a lot of weed and the supply was gone. That’s when it got interesting. Someone had the idea to drive back down the road some twenty miles where we passed what appeared to be some old slave shacks, now inhabited by poor white trash. You really had to see it to believe it. So we drove down there and sitting outside in a rusty lawn chair was this skinny guy who looked like an 1860s tenant farmer. He was about twenty-five, was tall and weighed about 80 pounds. A hay bender, if you will. So we pulled up and one of us gets out to inquire about buying a bag and before you know it the guy’s in the car with us and we start driving up and down while he tries knocking on doors asking his friends if they had any weed.

At first we found this hillbilly ingratiating and hospitable, but soon we realized we’d driven 60 miles and we were aimlessly stopping for this guy to knock on doors. Our patience with Cletus had expired. And as he got out to bang on yet another door I proposed the inevitable.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There was silence for about two seconds and then we back out and drove away. Cletus looked like he’d shit his pants and broke into a run hollering, “Wait! Wait!” But there would be no waiting. We carted his unemployed ass around for over an hour touring the shittiest hovels I’d ever seen on an almost uninhabited county road. Did I mention he was barefoot?

In the morning we decided we’d had enough and so did the proprietors of the campground. We’d worn each other down. We decided that in order to complete the trip one more thing would be required, so as the boys packed up all our shit I wrote a note to Cletus. It was along the lines of, “You need to get a job and paint your shack and get yourself some shoes because you may not realize it but we have electricity and shit now, etc., etc. I remember it was a masterpiece of letter, quite long and touching on many subjects but no apologies about stranding him at some fucking sod house in no mans land.

The only thing missing with the note was a method of delivery. I ended up tying a guitar string around a potato and wrapping the note around it. As we pulled out of town and past the slave shacks, there he was on the porch sitting in his rusty lawn chair. We started to pull over and his eyes lit up as he recognized us. He ran towards waving and smiling. He wasn’t even pissed off, which pissed us off. As we drove by slowly we didn’t stop…I just launched the potato and it bounced off the door of his 1863 hovel with a thud. As we drove away he was inspecting the parcel post we’d so ceremoniously delivered.

And we got on the road and headed for home. My first and last camping trip.

I’ve changed a lot since then. I haven’t smoked any weed in twenty years and I’ve moved up to the Marriott as a bare minimum as far as comfort is concerned when traveling. I don’t commune with nature very well. I don’t like getting dirty and smelling like smoke. I need a full bar and restaurants. Maybe if I went with someone of the fairer sex it would be different?

Did you know that as late as 1977 the French were still sending people to the guillotine?

I was both shocked and pleased.

On another note, I’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of people are at least mildly retarded. I spent an inordinate amount of time at a home improvement warehouse this weekend and I’ve seen it all.

No matter how wide the aisles are some people have to pass their cart dangerously close to you. They expect you to move because they’re important people in their simple minds. Rude, nasty people. What they don’t expect, however, is for you to say, “Watch me run this asshole down,” to your wife really loud while you stare at them. Trust me, they will back down. Fast.

The parking lots of these places are even worse than being inside. It’s not really that complex. You simply park and get out of your car. When the coast is clear, you cross the main little drag and go into the store. There is no need to cruise the little drag at 2 MPH. There is no need to stop for 30-60 seconds on that little drag before continuing on at 2 MPH.

There is no reason to walk down the center of that little drag with your cart full of shit. Cross it or don’t. When you walk down the middle for long periods of time as if it were a side walk—I have no choice but to blow the horn when I’m two feet away from you. You could cross in six steps asshole, walking down the middle for the whole length of the parking lot shows your disregard for common decency and running you down would be a public service.

I watched the Movie King Kong on Saturday night and I still can’t believe it was released at that length. What was it, like four hours long or some shit? I could have easily edited an hour of Kong having tantrums. It was like they showed the same footage over and over again. My God that was tedious. It takes balls to release something like that fucking bad.

Yes, it’s Monday and I’m not handling it well. I’m not feeling any love.

Everything you need to know about Jazz, with an added bonus—a tale from my wedding

I grew up around jazz and jazz musicians. I know what I’m talking about here. It’s more than opinion; it’s goddamned common knowledge. It’s fact. It’s indisputable.

Kenny G does not play jazz. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but hearing even one fucking note from him throws me into a blind rage. I know it’s wrong to wish bad things on other people but in this case I have to make an exception. I hope somebody bludgeons him. He’s a fucking plague. He has fucking hoofed feet. He is evil incarnate.

And you know what’s worse? Anyone who ever spent one single penny on a recording he made or to see him in person. His fans should be lured into an arena under the pretense of a free concert and when properly confined they should be tarred, feathered and permanently marked on the forehead so we can see them coming in the future.

I find it hard to believe that anyone could enjoy the shite that spews from this unholy bastard from hell. They’re the enablers! I would sooner see money given to crack heads than for some idiot to pay a single penny to hear this guy play a single note.

With this man walking the earth THERE CAN BE NO GOD.

If you have no idea what a real sax player sounds like you can download John Coltrane playing Giant Steps and find out.

Here’s an excerpt from a Pat Metheny interview regarding Kenny G:

He had major rhythmic problems and his harmonic and melodic vocabulary was extremely limited, mostly to pentatonic based and blues-lick derived patterns, and he basically exhibited only a rudimentary understanding of how to function as a professional soloist … But he did show a knack for connecting to the basest impulses of the large crowd by deploying his two or three most effective licks (holding long notes and playing fast runs - never mind that there were lots of harmonic clams in them) at the key moments to elicit a powerful crowd reaction (over and over again) . The other main thing I noticed was that he also, as he does to this day, play horribly out of tune - consistently sharp.

He’s the godamned devil is what he is.

Here’s a true story for you.

As I was preparing for my wedding we interviewed a DJ who seemed like he could fit the bill. We had to fill out a lot of forms about what we did and did not want to hear during the reception. I had a very long discussion with this guy and in no uncertain terms he was informed NOT TO BRING ANY FUCKING KENNY G TO MY WEDDING. There were lots of other rules I imposed, such as play no requests unless they are cleared by my aide-de-camp, the best man.

We were all musicians and we didn’t want any shitty music played on my special day. Of course, three minutes into the reception I heard Kenny G come on and I went batshit crazy. The wedding party hadn’t even been introduced yet and I sent my aide-de-camp scrambling into the large hall. Since the wedding party hadn’t been introduced yet as soon as he entered the room everyone started clapping, thinking these were the introductions, but that didn’t stop my good friend.

He waved to the crowd and literally broke into a run towards the DJ and in a voice loud enough for me to hear at a distance I could hear him yelling to,”Get that shit off NOW if you expect to be paid.” From behind the curtain I peered into the room and saw him waving his arms like a maniac and a moment later the “music” stopped. No segue into another song, just dead silence. The crowd was cheering and no one except the three of us knew what the hell it was all about and a moment later the sounds of Sinatra filled the room, again to applause, as my buddy walked back to our holding area waving to the crowd like he was fucking Tony Bennett.

###

Let’s take a look at something I’ve never mentioned before. The Da Vinci Code.

For some reason this thing really upsets people.

I read the book so long ago that I barely remember it. I bought it the week it came out, before there was any hoopla or reviews or controversy. I happened to like his previous book, Angels & Demons, so I bought this one hoping it would be as good. It wasn’t, but I liked it anyway. It was a very good idea and though Brown’s not exactly Tolstoy, the story moved along and it was interesting and I read it in close to one sitting and then promptly forgot about it. I was not enraged or offended. I don’t know what I was, because it didn’t leave any impression on me other than it was a fun book and that’s swell, but I had moved on to another.

Then some months later I started hearing about outrage and it blossomed from there into some kind of full-fledged Beatlemania of hate. It got to the point where I never wanted to hear the title of the book again. And now there’s a movie and all the hype is back.

You know what? Go see it. Or don’t go see it. Because in the grand scheme of anyone’s life this means very little. It’s a fucking book. It’s a fucking movie. People need to stop acting like they’re teaching the plot of this thing in public schools.

“It’s ridiculous!” I hear from grandstanders. You know what? So is fucking Shrek. I haven’t seen Mission Impossible VII, but I’m pretty sure that plot is ridiculous.

You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to see it. Or you could revel in it. The choice is yours; unlike it would be in, say, Iran.

A lot of people key in on one a central point when they discuss this topic. “It’s fiction,” they say. “Fiction!”

And that’s pretty hard to fucking argue. It’s not a book that anyone is going to look for in the “Theology” section of Barnes & Noble. If you personally believe this book is blasphemous to your personal beliefs, that’s too fucking bad. Plenty of shit offends me and I live with it. Free speech and all that. These people have a right to tell this tale if that’s what they wish to do. And I have the right to see it if I so choose.

I saw some actor from the film say in an interview that The Bible ought to be labeled fiction as well. Heh.

I’m not touching that because I don’t care what other people believe. They can believe or not believe anything they want. I don’t wish to join forces, cause people to switch sides or anything else. I’m personally not interested in what other people believe.

I AM interested in the Christians and especially the Catholics who are able to read the book or see the movie and say they liked it or they didn’t. No big hoopla or anything, just liked it or didn’t. To me these people seem very sane. They don’t want to boycott or burn villages.

I’m also interested in people who say, I don’t think I’ll see it, or who say they will go see it--without any foaming at the mouth or quotes from Leviticus. I’m a big fan of sanity. See it. Don’t see it. Is that too fucking over simplified?

For the record, I’ll see it, even though I hear there’s no T & A.

Because I like a good story.

Interesting article. The Saudi leaders are not only openly oppressing women in a way that the modern world hasn't seen in at least fifty years, but the government is also actively gagging the court of public opinion. Gotta love those Islamists; what a great group of guys.

You know, I hate to make broad generalizations, but I'd be willing to bet that monkey was asking for it. Seriously, you ever seen a monkey at the zoo that didn't strike you as at least a little annoying? And those bears were locked up with that little bastard day in and day out.

I was thinking the other day that the downfall of the blogosphere is probably going to be one of the things that has made it great in the past - its accessibility. In earlier years, not many people really 'got' this thing that would become the blogosphere. Some people were still unfamiliar with the Internet itself - let alone anything beyond AOL Instant messenger, email, or online shopping. Actually running your own website? Who knew how to do that? Didn't you need to learn one of those wacky programming languages to do that? Soon, however, the days of point and click web editors were upon us; and riding on their coat tails were open source templates.

The simple fact that I am blogging right now is testament to the argument that it's just become to damn easy for any idiot to set up a site.

But seriously, when the blogosphere was still a little inaccesible or at least too 'geeky' for most people it was at it's least polluted stage. There was discourse, courteous dialogue and the kind of reasonable debate that actually added value. These days, easily half of the comments left on political blogs (or even the blogs themselves) are simply verve. The kind of vitriol that amounts to verbal graffiti. Why have things changed? Mob mentality. There's so many people out there in today's blogosphere that it's hard to have open, polite arguments without some band of wingnuts hijacking the comment thread. I'm talking about the kinds of commenters that repeatedly attack the same blog, without ever really addressing the argument. You people fucking blow. You're like spammers; except spam's manufactured, automatic sort of uselessness is attributed to the fact that it's just a program someone is running. Wheras you guys actually choose to be one dimensional.

Yes, I comment more than I blog. Yes, I understand this makes me a horrible nuisance. I can't help it. I'm amazingly bored.

Speaking of which, I went and bought the stuff I needed to make the Yakima racks work with my Prelude. Now I can stack the kayaks, surfboard, and mountainbike on top of my car. Won't that look funny.

You ever see a speck in your water glass and wonder if maybe you shouldn't swallow it? I mean, chances are it's harmless, because even if it's something really nasty like gnat diarreah; it's only a tiny little speck. You won't even taste it and it's not even going to register in your system, right? But what if it is something like, say, uranium or lead. And that speck is just enough to give you some fucked up symptoms right? And when you go to the Emergency Department with all this fucked up shit happening to you, the doctors there are totally confused; and you end up dieing from something completely random? I mean, should I be drinking out of glasses at all?

Is 'tomorrow' an actual place in time, or simply a concept? I mean, people often will reference 'tomorrow' at 2am when they're actually talking about the very same day. The thing is, this doesn't confuse anyone; which I assume means that there's a conceptual understanding of tomorrow. Tomorrow isn't simply defined as the day following 12am; it's more like, the day that follows my sleep; whenever that may be. Which I kind of like, since I tend to enjoy thinking about time and it's passage as a more conceptual, fluid progression as opposed to a linear model. You know that's one of the reasons why the Navajo language was so effective as a code? Their concept of time is more similar to a woven mat than the European concept of a time line.

And check this out, Tom Cruise's new movie isn't doing so hot. People are saying it's because he's been so openly wingnutting his way through press appearances. I caught this article off Drudge from FoxNews that throws the numbers out on how bad the movie's doing, and how Paramount is pissing its pants over the cash losses. Then I hit this sentance:
And that's the irony here: "M: I3" is a terrific action film. Director J.J. Abrams did a great job, and the entire cast from Cruise right through to the team and various supporting players do a convincing job.
Cruise has several fantastic stunts that will take your breath away. It would be a shame if everyone waited to watch it at home on small screens.
For some reason, after the article had spent some time discussing the suckitude of the film at the box office; this portion just felt odd. Then it dawned on me. Who owns Fox? Hmm...yeah, wait for it; Paramount. Nice ad placement, but I think I'll wait for the DVD. There are just too many reasons to avoid theaters anyways.

The wife and I just bought this digital video camera, and it's one bad mofo too. I'm thinking of rigging up an in-car mount for the camera to record track days from the cockpit perspective. Which is another hobby I think I might start back up with again. I ran a full season of SOLO-II events and won 1st in my class for the region. Haven't hit the track in the past year or so since then though. Maybe I'll start back up. It would give me an excuse to use the cam.