& The News

So, what's the bad news? The bad news is that my BAC was .22 a couple months back when they pulled me over and arrested me. Because of such a high (or impressive) BAC, I got an extra three months of cocktail college. My sister said she liked it and that you just end up watching a bunch of Intervention and hanging out with partiers.

In addition, I will be required to perform nine days of community service with criminals. I do, however, look pretty decent in orange. Vests, not so much. I wonder if they would let me just wear an orange cummerbund. I'm also trying to figure out which gang I should join. The white power dudes scare me and the Latinos are a little intense. I need to find the Canadian gang and then I think I would be able to get by by just being real nice to people and being funny.

Let me see. Other bad news is the fines, the restricted license for to and fro only to work, cocktail college and weekend freeway trash pick-up. This could totally work if I met someone at trash pick up or the cocktail college. It would be like a weekly date.

Now. The good news? I just saved three hundred dollars on car insurance. Seriously. I've never changed my insurance since I bought my car and was referred to a DUI car insurance guy who was kinda funny as hell and awesome. He called me back today and it will be switched over tonight. The car's a piece of shit and I never drive it, so it'll work out fine. Plus, I got a free t-shirt and bottle opener. Pure Awesomenacity.

Throughout the whole ordeal, I will admit one thing and that is that I really kind of needed it to happen so that I would stop arrogantly driving around like I was untouchable. I was given a lot of chances and someone had to finally come up and bitch slap me and cuff me to a bench so that I would stop acting like a fucktard. I still get fucktarded now and then, but I don't drive anymore when I'm all fucktarded. I think it's going to end up working out. Plus, I now have that social club that I've needed for the next nine months. DUI class has got to fall somewhere between AA and a book club, right?

Trail Of Beers

Well, it's on. Fresh off a beautiful trip to Hood River, OR, I booked the flight to LA to be in a TV project, which absolutely cracks me up. I'd give away the premise, but it's not really mine to give away. So, put that on the list with all the other shit that makes no sense that I do. The only acting that I've ever done in my life is that musical when I was like 8 and various instances of creative lying. Oh, I've also acted like I had Down's syndrome when my sister and I were shopping for pants once. She got superpissed about it.

So, the recent Hood River trip. It was for a friend's wedding and I was staying with two of the dopest people I know in a really nice place that would cost way too much if it were located in the Bay Area. We even got a special guest visitor on the couch that I took to Shari's at three in the morning for some fine barefoot dining while wrapped in a TrailOfTears blanket that was worth $500 in this particular circumstance.

The condo was within walking distance of a severely confused British pub that became post-festivity headquarters. I call it confused because there was a fucking Frommer's guide to Ireland on the bar and not one TV for showing soccer. Plus, they weren't even open for the first EPL game of the day on Saturday. I guess if you fly the Union Jack and serve Bass, you are British enough.

The condo also had a view of Washington conducting commerce and for $1.50 American, you could cross a bridge and pay sales tax and pump your own gas. It was brilliant and the weather was a borderline sign of the apocalypse. It was just perfect.

The pub, however, had one thing going in their favor in the form of a bartender that I was lightly smitten with on the first night that we got there. The last night I was there, I ended up with her at another bar with her bartender friend that she had to have been sharing a bed with, but stranger things have happend. It was the Pacific Northwest, though, so I may have been reading her wrong.

The next day, I woke up and had a slip of paper with a penis drawn on it and her girlfriend's name written above it. That makes us BFFs. I don't remember a tremendous amount of the latter part of the night, but my left nipple was in severe pain the next morning when we disembarked on the scenic route to the airport. There are a lot of waterfalls in Oregon. Pro Tip.

Now, for notes from the wedding, I'll just bulletpoint some quotes/conversations:

Conversation 1
Her: "I was told that you are my best chance for getting laid at this wedding and I've already thought of some disgusting things to do to you."

Me: "And your name is?"

Conversation 2
Other Her: "Has anyone told you that you look like Dane Cook?"

Me: "No. And I don't enjoy his humor. Have you ever heard of Bill Hicks?"

Conversation 3
Other Her: "I heard you call some girl a moose at the bar. Is that what you call me?"

Me: "Uhhh. No. Of course not. Swear."

Conversation 4
Dude: "Robert Palmer is dead?"

Me: "Yeah, he died like five years ago."

Dude: "What did he die of?"

Me: "I don't know. Maybe a love addiction?"

Might As Well Face It

I just ordered a new iTouch as I need an iPod upgrade. Coincidentally due to a friends re-enamoration with the brilliance of Robert Palmer (1949 - 2003), I had it engraved with "Might As Well Face It You're Addicted To Love." My iTouch will serve as a memorial to the man that didn't mean to turn you on. The runner-up engraving was "Mr. Gorbachev. Tear down that WALL!"

Bears

This is one of the funnier stories I've seen all month. You may not even need to read it, but a dude was riding his bike down the road and crashed into a bear. Fuckin' rad.

Teacher OK after crashing into bear on a bicycle - Yahoo! News

47 Dicks

Ummmmm. On a whim or because my house had been taken over by ten year old guitar heros, I went for a drink last night. Probably too late for a Sunday night, but I'm not as fragile as I used to be. So, I had a few and talked to some girl for a while...woke up with a swastika drawn on the right side of my chest and a giant dick on the left. There was also something drawn on the back of my neck that I'm kinda hoping that no one else can see. Also, there is ink all over my sheets.

There is a ton of irony in a dick being drawn on me. For some reason, it feels like a symbol's revenge somehow. The picture above is from the Imperial Palace last week when I decided to draw dicks with a keno crayon until I got my food. This is not some weird Superbad thing either. Been drawing dicks for a while. I think it started with golf balls. I would just draw a dick on them instead of my initials.

So, I was at dinner last Friday with my sister and her boyfriend and her old roommate and their friend. A lot of wine was harmed in the formation of the fuzzy memory that is Friday, but I was talking to her friend who is retardedly smart, charming and has an advanced degree in Psychology. I asked her if a grown man drawing 47 dicks on a placemat would concern her and she just told me that it definitely raises a red flag. I'm not even sure she was kidding.

So, regardless. I got chiefed by a girl last night. Grown man chiefed. That's just sad. It will get better. This I know.

FTATM

This is my Favorite Thing At The Moment while I worry about The Breeder.

Get Your War On: The Animated Series

This is just beyond the definition of superbadazzzzzzzzz.



Just absofuckinlutely brilliant. The other episodes are on 236.com. Also, check out My New Filing Technique Is Unstoppable.

Bingo Army

First of all, may Jerry "Snowman" Reed rest in piece. An immense talent under the direction of the great Hal Needham and not even Sally Field looked as good next to Burt "Buddy" Reynolds.

Next, Feist is the official soundtrack of the bike ride into work this week. It's just the perfect amount of chill to slowly remove the cob webs at 6:50 AM. Plus, it calms me. Speaking of calm, I've started making my bed every morning again. This is a really good sign. I only do that when I'm feeling content with life in general. I don't know why I'm content, but I never question these things. It could be all the CW that I've been watching. I watched Gossip Girl the other night and I'm totally gay for 90210: Redux.

Third, the reason I'm posting. I recently moved from my office that smelled of a Salvation Army dust aroma because it's where they did most of the research in the late 50's while creating the plans for a particle accelerator. At least that's what my grandpa said about the building. It has no connection to the smell besides it just being a really fuckin' old building. Regardless, it was gross and not cutely vintage. So, I got cubed and haven't been happier in a long time with my work situation. Lots of desk space. Little storage space. This resulted in me getting rid of a lot of accumulated crap.

So, my own private world is good, however, there are new people to not play well with. One that I've picked out in just 48 hours is the woman that matches me toe-to-toe with a meal to each cup of coffee that I have. That's three by noon, by the way. She keeps offering me food every time I go grab a cup of coffee. I may have to trick her into getting shoved into an oven a la Hansel and Gretel before this is all over.

Speaking of Hansel and Gretel, I was in a musical of it when I was seven or eight. I still remember the song "I'm Your Big Brother" from it. To be truthful, it was an elementary arrangement and the word choices were horrible, but whatevs. I think my dad has a videotape of it somewhere for blackmail in the event that I ever run for public office. Oh, so instead of shoving the witch into the oven like in the book, they had me kiss her at the end. The kiss made her good, I believe. Now, do you see the warping of a child mind that happened? I was ruined for life. I believed (like 80% of the female population) that my kiss could change a witch (person) into a princess Something good). That's fucked up to do to a kid. The kiss should have made her melt so that I could take that forward in life to POint A.25.

So, back to Bingo Arm. As I look around, if I took everyone in the room from door A to door B and tried to put them into an elevator, there would be no chance. Furthermore, if you put me on a plane next to Bingo Arm, I would go for the emergency exit as a shock induced death would take way less time and be way less painful than being smashed into an airplane window next to a woman like that for any amount of time. On top of that, I would avoid having a gravy/butter hybrid of sweat dousing me. I'd also like to add that it is the same lady in charge of the annual cakewalk. I think I may be able to have a little bit of fun with this a la the voice activated copier prank of 2008. Six fuckin' people yelled at the copier that day to my amusement and only three people in the department knew I did it because I told them I was going to. I think the first prank I will try is laying some faux food out like a styrofoam turkey leg and see if she tries to eat it. From there, I'll figure out what makes her tick and exploit it. It's what I do.

So, yes. I love my new cauge.

Shaved Beef

This is a hypothetical story that may or may have not happened. I'll be the first to say that you would need wings to fly above the pile of weird shit that's intersected my path from point A to point A.5 so far, but this hypothetical story is one of the more weird. It starts with me trying to find a new girl to cut my hair.

I knew a girl that cut hair that I had talked to in the past and she commented on how good my hair was. I don't mind being stroked and started talking to her once I had asked her to take her top up a button because she was really trying to hard. I'm a man of business when it comes to finding a new manscaper. I had no idea how far this was going to go. So, we talked a bit and then parted ways. We exchanged numbers which ended with some extremely explicit text messages from her which in turn lead to an extremely implicit deletion of a contact.

So, down the road, I was a little desperate for a local girl to cut my hair and I knew where to find her. It was the bar, of course, my center of commerce and culture. Commerce being free peanuts and culture being people that never made you apologize the day after a bender, but appreciated it and welcomed you back.

She walked in while I was there after work and we talked a bit. We played some dice and then an extreme game of bar Yahtzee that may or may not have resulted in an under-the-bar HJ. This strayed deviantly from the task at hand which was to find a new set of clippers locally. The good news? I found a new girl to cut my hair that knew how to work with a puff of hair surrounding a giant scar. The bad news? I may have made a future haircut uncomfortable.

So, I explained to her that grabbing a dude's junk in public was totally inappropriate and she suggested that she give me a ride home. I jumped on the ride home because I was wasted. BIG MISTAKE.

So, one thing lead to another and I had a grown woman in my shower. That's if a grown woman is 21 years old. Women do mature faster than men, though, so she gets the benefit. All of that is pretty normal on a Tuesday, but it gets weird in a second.

I handed her a towel in the name of chivalry not being dead and she asked me to jump in. This is exactly what went through my head in giant letters: "WHATEVER."

I'll cut through the boring parts and just jump to the part of having razor burn below the belt.

I'm a self-admitted manscaper, but it's been since marriage that I let a girl do that. It's the opposite of how a sandwich is better if someone else makes it for you. Swear. Same sandwich made by someone else is better.

Now, the good news about the whole thing is that I may have a last ditch haircut if I need it and I know she cuts all styles and may even throw in a shave. Plus, I was asleep by midnight. That, my friends, is the sound of winning.

Goobama

For some reason, this is making me laugh super hard. It started with a picture of a chick holding a giant Vegas drink that a friend sent over. I removed her head and was going to put his on there, but for some reason, I went with Obama. It just makes me laugh. I should really lose my Photoshop privileges about now.

Safari Conversation

"Oh man, did you see the size of those giraffes today?"

"Yeah, dude. They were huge. What about those crazy fuckin' monkeys, man?"

"Doooooooooooood. Those monkeys?! Those monkeys were off the chain. I wanted to put my sunglasses on one of them and take a picture next to it for my facebook profile."

"Dude, that would've been sick. Why didn't you do it?"

"Oh, because I'm afraid of monkeys."


That is what you call Safari Conversation. Apparently, you can buy furniture for Safari Conversation at Walmart.

Judging by the review by MollyDD, the table that it comes with is the perfect size for playing cards or having drinks. I like the way you think MollyDD, however, I have to guess that there is no way that $35 is ever going to buy me something appropriate for proper safari conversation. I mean, fuck, if I am going to sit in a Safari Conversation chair, I want something safari worthy to talk about. If I'm just going to play cards and have drinks then isn't there a set for the type of conversation that goes with cards and drinks. A 3-piece Idle Conversation Set, perhaps? A 2-piece inane and annoying conversation about topics that no living creature should ever converse about set, maybe?

I have taken something from this in that I am going to try and have more safari conversations in the future. I had no idea that there was this untappped area of conversation. I had idle, lite, and heated conversation styles down, but Safari just totally caught me by surprise. Who knew?

Bored Games

I accidentally started playing a game with myself in the office yesterday. I've been doing it inadvertently since I saw the movie Alive or maybe since I read Lord of the Flies. Regardless, since Lost came out, I've been doing it everytime I get on a plane.

Side note: Why have I never called a fat guy "Lord of the Fries?"

Here is how you play the office version:
1. Perform a mental inventory of your co-workers or just go walk around the office for a bit.

2. Go back to your desk and try to determine who is the most feeble and weakest person that you work with.

3. Now, maybe add a couple other people to that list of one that you just mentally created. Do not write this list down ever. Seriously.

4. Finally, imagine that some type of horrific/catastrophic event occurs and try to determine how long that person would last before you or the other survivors attacked them because you finally had a pretty decent opportunity to and can base it on some Darwinian principle if you had to. Might be the guy who goes around turning the lights off to flex his power. Might be the woman who just really doesn't add value. Or, could just be someone that would make things unpleasant in a situation when you are rationing supplies and cut off from the outside world because aliens just happened to show up during your dentists convention.

The travel version:
1. It's best on planes, but can be done in cars or boats, as well. It's the same as the office version, but usually involves strangers or family members.

2. Do the same thing as the office version and assess your range of candidates in the same vehicle or space as you. It's much more superficial than the office version.

3. Get your list together whether it be the hot flight attendant, the guy who looks like a doctor or the guy who won't make eye contact with anyone, but looks just crazy enough to get you out of a jam.

4. The travel version gets different when you have your list together. This time it's not who you would attack, but who you would prefer to be stuck with in order to increase your chances of survival. The part that is a little disturbing, I'll admit, is sitting on a plane and imagining it crashing into the ocean or imagining a car flip off the side of a road. A lite version would be to play it with a conflict of running out of gas, maybe.

5. Regardless, try the office version and perhaps move on to the travel version when you are ready. You never know. It could come in handy some day.

The World Still Manages To Spin Despite Your Efforts

I got all sentimental this morning because English Premier League soccer started this weekend. I mean, yeah, I was happy to have soccer on again, but that wasn't it. In fact, yesterday when I was drinking a pot of coffee and studying control structures in PL/SQL, something just felt funny. It was that feeling when you wake up in the middle of the night and you look into your closet and swear to fuck that you see someone in there, but you know if you ignore it that it will go away. Plus, you are just too fuckin' tired to deal with a dude in a jumpsuit in your closet if there really is someone in there.

Oh, so, I got up this morning and was still feeling a little goofy and for some reason I put Tegan & Sara on my iPod for my morning bike ride to work. Mornings are mellow and way homes are metal. It's the rules. About half way to work, it hit me that this was the band that I totally associated with the Cat Lady and the reason I got a little goofy on Saturday morning was because last year on the opening day of soccer season we had got into it after a night of heavy boozing, obnoxious public displays of affection, some other stuff and then a huge argument until 4:00 in the morning when I refused to sleep in the same bed with her and hit the couch for the night. So, because of that, I was awake to watch Arsenal play at 4:45 AM while she slept. I think she eventually came out and got me or slid on to the couch to watch it with me and that was like after a week of knowing each other. She was good like that.

We were doomed and we both knew it, but there still was a lot of something there. I can't describe it nor bottle it to sell to others, but it was fun for the brief amount of time that it lasted, no matter how emotionally destructive it turned out to be. From stumbling down the street laughing at the expense of others to throwing popsicles into the groceries to somehow legitimize buying vodka at 9:00 in the morning to having some kind of Sid & Nancy moment when I thought she had stopped breathing one night and became unresponsive. It wasn't all good, but I'm glad I did it.

So, the Tegan and Sara thing. She really liked that band and when you broke down all of the music that she liked, it was all sad and frustrated and scared. In retrospect, it speaks volumes and also most of it was pretty decent music. It's one of those things, though, how music imprints your brain and associates it with moments of your life.

You have to be careful about who you share your favorite music with because there is a chance that they will stomp on you or wrong you and then you will forever associate that music with them. I had to quit Steely Dan for three years because of a situation like that and you will probably never EVAR catch me listening to Painted From Memory by Bacharach/Costello. That's some heavy shit on that record and I loved it, but it's too difficult to listen to anymore without tying it to a lot of less than awesome memories. I'll be honest, though. I pulled the sheet music out for the album and was playing a little bit of it on the guit-box the other night. It's hard to deny.

So, anyway, I got a little sentimental and then started thinking about those people that stick with you. It's not like in a pining way. It's more of a blurry memory shoved into the back of your head. Or, maybe a GI Joe guy that's been partially microwaved, covered in dirt and jammed in a green tackle box in your parent's garage, but you remember it like you were playing with it in the front yard just yesterday. Some things stick and the music that you were listening to at the time will push that shit right up to the surface before you know it. I could actually probably pull ten CDs out of my collection that I could pinpoint a person or a memory that it represents.

Now, while this was a nice exercise and I really wish the Cat Lady the best of luck in all her endeavors, this morning's sentimentality exercise will be put back into remission. She was pretty awesome in many aspects and she was the cutest thing in the world, though. I believe that it is time to listen to The New Pornographers first record and do jumping jacks while I smile like I'm intellectually disabled.

Work e-mail exchange of the day:
[Guy had just pressed extract twice instead of pressing extract and export like he had done for at least the five years I have been here. I told him that if he hit it twice it would act in a particular way so it was working fine and he just kinda blew it. This was his response]

Yes it's too bad we can't give the buttons names that are a little more different, like Make File and Send file.

Because Extract and Export are too much alike? Actually in Make File and Send File, there are more of the same letters than in Export and Extract. I wonder if the guy has ever taken a donut on a walk because dog and donut are so similar? Again, amazed that the world is still spinning with these fucktards stuck to it.

This Is So Retar...Lame

The new Stiller, Jack, Downey, Jr. joint, Tropic Thunder, is coming out on Wednesday, but don't expect to see anyone with "intellectual disabilities" there. Apparently, various groups of intellectually disabled advocates are protesting the film's use of the word "retard." Here's a link.

It took six paragraphs for me to even figure out that they were talking about retarded people. I know that we don't want to admit it, but the word "retarded" is used by virtually everyone as an adjective all the time. It's used negatively like "Dude, you're retarded for voting" or even positively like "Oh, fuck, that Guitar Hero score you just put up is ree-tar-ded."

I've actually been on the shit end of that stick when talking to a girl and using the word "retarded" in a sentence. It turned out that she worked with people with "special needs." She got all offended and started her fucking verbal crusade for the retarded with me. She said they were good people and just like normal people. I agreed and said that I was merely using the word like you would "gypped" or something. I had grown up with it. Then, I asked her if she had ever dated any of these people with special needs. She said that she hadn't. I asked her if she would. She replied that she wouldn't. I just replied with one word: "Tardist." The conversation ended pretty much immediately after that.

In addition, Black Eyed Peas last glimmer of awesomeness came in the form of "Let's Get Retarded." They then started performing it as "Let's Get It Started" so as not to offend and also to make mountains of money. Still, "Let's Get Retarded" means let's get fucked up and have fun while "Let's Get It Started" means "hey gang, let's go solve a groovy mystery and read the bible and be good to people." One word: Gay.

New Word Monday: Slirting

On multiple occasions this past weekend I was in need of a word to describe the action happening in front of me and didn't have one in my personal lexicon. So, after pondering on it, the word that I've got is "Slirting."

Slirting is the act of flirting with someone when you are housed and everything that comes out of your mouth is just not even one percent gallant or suave. For instance, say you are a blond woman that is 40 years old and you are out on a cougar crawl with two of your friends from work. Let's also say that you are fucking housed to the bejesus and start drinking my beer while you stare through me and my imbiblical colleagues. So, in this situation, while you keep trying to pull up your shirt to impress us with your 40 year old boobs, you are slirting with us. Power to ya for still having game at 40, but had there not been a voice of reason at the table, it could've been a real shitty next morning for everyone involved. Oh, stupid voice of reason.

Bike-O-Din

"There comes a time when you heed a certain call..." - Michael Jackson

That was just kinda stuck in my head. Now, you may not know this, but Metallica once was awesome. They had a little song called Breadfan that they covered and it is rip-fuckin'-shit to ride bikes to. I just rode my bike to lunch and ate horrible Chinese food and did a crossword puzzle while listening to a jazz workshop combo play jazz standards. Pro tip: drowning your guitar in chorus makes you sound like Stanley Jordan. Not good. I rode my bike back to my office and it was downhill with a breeze at my back while Breadfan was just fucking jamming. It was fantasgreat.

Speaking of heavenly, some asshole put post-it notes on the coffee pots this morning and the house said "Heavenly House" and the Sumatra said "Super Sumatra." Now, I'm a fan of Asshole's Alliterations as much as the next guy, but those are lame. So, they have now been changed to "Heavenly HouseWife" and "Kama Sumatra." Wanted to go for Heavenly Horny Housewife, but I believe that's already copyrighted by Vivid entertainment or Backdoor Productions. Google it. Dare ya. Then, afterwards, Google "Tentacle School." Don't really do that.

Anyway, I got my bike back last night after it had been stolen two weeks ago. So, what has two thumbs and two bikes now? This guy. It's kind of cool, too. One bike is much faster and up tight and the other is just fuckin' chill. Also, when guests come over, we can ride bikes to FroYo now. Everything everything everything happens for a reason. There is a plan that you have very little control over so roll with the punches and get to what's real whenever you can. Bend with the wind rather than fight it. You'll be fine. You have to be.

So, right after my little sister was born or maybe she was two years old, I got a bike that I learned how to ride on at the age of five. It was yellow with black stripes. It was dope. I left it on the front lawn one day and some asshole stole it.

Cut to what was probably nine or ten years later and I'm rocking a GT Performer. It was dope. Pegs in the front and the back so I could bust better tricks than the assholes in Quicksilver. That movie has the single worst freestyle scene ever in it. So, when I'm inside Mountain Mike's playing me some Metroid some asshole steals my bike.

Seven years later? Two of my guitars get stolen from the back of my car after a gig at the Paradise Lounge. Some asshole punched my back window out and took both of them. It was the guitar that I learned all my scales outside of the major, minor and various pentatonics on. Dude, I learned the mixobluesian scale and the gypsy scale on that guitar. I hearted it deeply. So, if you ever see a blue Ibanez RG770 with a sharktooth inlay, reflectors and fish eye mirror stuck to it, grab it. I'll do almost anything for it.

Two years later? Two more guitars stolen. This forced me to go buy a low end guitar that no one would steal anymore becuase it just started to feel so violating. It's like marrying a fat girl so you don't get crushed when she cheats on you. Aim low motherfucker.

Okay, so a little jaded by theft. It's no fun. So, here's what I've been able to figure out about the most recent theft.

There are two things that could have happened. The alleged story from the dude who I got it from last night was that he was leaving the bar and saw two shady fuckers messing with a bike behind the dumpster. Yes, I lied if I told you it was stolen from my apartment because I was embarrassed that it was stolen from in front of a bar on a Thursday night. I'm very sorry. So, guy says that he grabbed the bike from them and threw it in the cab he was taking and left a note at the bar saying that dudes were trying to steal a yellow Schwinn and if anyone comes looking for it, to call him.

I checked the rack yesterday and saw what they did. I did lock it. It was locked. And, I checked it before I left that night. They undid the bolt that connects the part that you lock up to from the base of the rack and slid it right off. I've since heard like a hundred people say "Yeah, dude. Don't lock up to that rack. Your bike'll get stolen." The shady fuckers then took the bike and removed the bike licenses from the bike before dude grabbed it from them.

Ooooooooooooooooooooor, dude cut the lock took the bike and then found out that he took mine and realized that he knew me and it was fucked to take my bike. There is honor among thieves and scumbags. You must operate within the scumbag code.

I was riding my bike home and I go past my local bar and one of the bartenders was out front and gave me a wave so I stopped to talk to her and she goes "Where's your bike?"

I replied that it was stolen and I had to buy this little Schwinn varsity that I was crusing on.

She goes, "Didn't you have a...oh, fuck. It was your bike. I have a note for you."

She ran inside the bar and came out with a note that had the dude's number on it to call to get my bike back. I gave her a giant hug and tried not to tear up. I called the dude and arranged an exchange and had it in my living room by 10:00 PM last night. I just kind of sat on my couch and stared at it like I was missing a lobe. It was like getting a new bike. It was awesome.

I rode it into work this morning and it would have taken a size 14 boot to the face to wipe the smile off of it. I'm ashamed of myself for becoming so attached to anything so much as I firmly believe that the more you own, the more owns you. Actually, I just believe in that to justify that I don't ever see myself owning a house unless I move very far from where I am or bring AdCheesive (Adhesive Cheese) to market. All I've got for AdCheesive at this point is a Kraft American Single with paste on the back of it, but that does not really fit my ideal concept. I am, however, convinced that you could caulk a bath tub with spray cheese.

Anyway, my faith is restored in humanity and I finally didn't feel like Charlie Brown for a day. I felt more like Zachary "Zack" Morris. Accel at being good and good things happen. Go team pleasant and nice to people!

I Fought The Law...Once

I need to preface this by saying that I swear to fucking god that this true.

I was responding to a last minute request from my boss and thanklessly smashing away at my laptop keyboard when Neighbor Kid came up to tell me that his Razor Scooter and his pogo stick had both been stolen and that a special guest was coming to investigate it. He was super excited and I wondered what the fuck he was talking about. My mind wandered for a little bit and I came to the conclusion that it was probably a cop.

Now, seriously, cops investigating pogo stick theft seems like a page out my insane mind when I let it wander, but not anything that could be real like as in "Real Life." So, I return to smashing my keyboard diligently and see that oh so recently familiar badge twinkle out of the corner of my eye.

I look out the fucking window and it's one of the cops that arrested me for my DUI.

So, Neighbor Kid came and got me for some reason and I took a couple of steps out of my apartment and the guy looked at me and goes, "You look familiar."

I put out my hand to give him a courteous handshake and said, "Yeah, you arrested me for a DUI. How are you doing?"

He goes "Oh, man. You were the nicest DUI arrest I have ever done. I'm sorry about that."

I replied "No problem. It's got to be a lot more exciting than Grand Theft Pogo, right?"

I still can't believe that it was one of the dudes that arrested me. Thank god I wasn't out in front of my apartment showing the kids how to shotgun their juice boxes. Not that I've ever done that, but an apple juice bong has flashed across the back of my brain at small childrens' birthday parties.

So, I guess it's good that I got to see him the week before my hearing as I opted for representation and will not be attending it. If all goes well, I'll be growing a moustache and going on the lam soon.

Interesting DUI fact: I can't go to Canada for three years while I will most likely be on probation for a misdemeanor. Go Team Irresponsibility!

True Stories From The Frontlines Of Monotony

Real conversation:

Dude walks up to my office door and waves his hand slowly to get my attention and I go, "Hey dude. What's up?"

Dude goes, "Some people have funny names."

"Yep. They sure do. Did you need something?"

Dude goes, "There is a girl with a name of Hallie Marie."

I just stare at this point.

Dude goes, "You know like Hail Mary? Like Hallie Marie? Well, actually that's her middle name. Her last name is Murphy. It's just a lot of Italian..."

I just stare at this point.

Dude goes, "Isn't that funny?"

I just stare at this point. He walks away.

This is a typical interaction in the halls of glory that I call Mundanity, Ca.

I'm either becoming a total prick or people are just getting too lame. Like seriously too lame.

InspirAwesome

Occasionally, I am hit with bouts of inspirawesome when I'm in a pinch. Yesterday was one of them. I've been bitching (complaining) about my cable for like six months now. The sound drops out and pixelation takes place on certain tv channels and when I liberate movies and music via my computer, my connection gets throttled down to 14 bytes per second and then eventually just degrades to the point that I have to reset my ip address in order to get any bandwidth. I've called and called and it just goes to a message that they are aware of a problem in my area. Still, the bill comes through every month just fine and it's $130 a month now without anything special besides Fox Soccer Channel.

So, fuck them. The cable guy was working on the apartment above mine and I asked him if he could check out my connection for me. I explained what was going on and told him that I had no money, but could give him a beer if he wanted. He replied, "No, dude. I'm on a couple vicodins right now." That lit up my inpirawesome lightbulb. I offered him some pills and he offered to buy them. I told him that that would make it feel dirty and illegal and just gave him a couple.

Because of that, he was struck by inspirawesome, as well. By the time he left, I was on the premium cable drop, pulling better than a T1 bandwidth and him, my neighbor and myself watched East Bound and Down for like the eighth time. It was quite brilliant and revived my faith in humanity.

"I was just a man with a mind for victory and an arm like a fucking cannon" - Kenny Powers.

Everyman Your Battlestations

What's shitty?

Steve Miller Band

What's worse than shitty?

A cover band covering a Steve Miller Band song.

Worse than that?

Jack Johnson covering a Steve Miller Band song while you get stung by a bee and bit by a dog.

So, I just googled "Jack Johnson Steve Miller" and came across this precious nug of a quote from the New York Times. "Mr. Johnson has an amiable, Everyman voice — like a latter-day Steve Miller — that puts his tunes within just about anybody’s singalong capability."

Is that good? The Everyman? Dude!...and to call him Mr. Johnson? That was the name of my high school principal.

Why does the world outside of Eddie Van Halen, Sammy Hagar and that sasquatch that used to play bass for Van Halen adore David Lee Roth? Because he is not your Everyman. He's fucking awesome. I want to listen to music by someone fucking awesome. Not my fuckin' neighbor jammin' in his garage or some fucking asshole saying nothing, stirring nothing inside me and just fucking being there barefoot with a guitar.

I've got your Everyman if that's what you want. Just grab a fuckin' guy bagging groceries at the local grocery store unbutton his shirt, take his shoes off and get him a guitar. Next, teach him three fucking chords: G, D, C. Then, have him say some lame shit about mother nature or recycling or adorations towards his cat. There you have it. The next Jack Johnson.

Seriously, my opinion is kind of useless on this because I seriously haven't heard a complete Jack Johnson song ever. If I have, my ears blacked out to protect me and I've repressed it. How can you bag on something unless you've tried it? Right? Fuck you. That's stupid. Put it in this context. I don't like having a bowling pin stuck in my butt. Ummm. I've never tried it and I don't really think it's necessary to shove it up my ass to determine if I like it or not.

So, I mean to really sum up everything I've just sputtered: Steve Miller blows ass, Jack Johnson is shit, David Lee Roth is fuckin' awesome and I don't like having a bowling pin stuck in my butt.