Sonic Colonic (1 of 2)

Part I: Meet the Band

My band will blow your moist panties clear off. You heard me. Don’t even come to the show if you don’t want to be assaulted with the sonic force that is….’Jack Toffleday and the Busted 3’. Well that is our working title anyway. We believe and invested heavily in innuendo. Or you might say, “In your end ho”, which is the title of one of our songs. Our first album, “Splatter Zone”, is pretty much done and ready to be pressed, we are just having some artistic differences with our label concerning the album cover.

How loud you ask? We play a mix of very loud or very fucking loud.

Our drummer, who I will call “Drums”, has a set-up that would make any 80’s butt-hair rocker jealous. Double bass drums, six toms, seven crashes, high hat, snare, those wind chimey things, and of course, a cow bell. He uses a mic on all his drums, just so he can be louder if he needs to. Our bass player, who I will call “Bass”, could join Rush on a moments notice. He drops bombs with 200 watts through a 4x12 bass speaker cabinet.

Also, we have another guitar player, who I will call “Nigel”. Nigel’s 100 watt head, and arsenal of pedals, sizzles through a 4x12 Marshall half-stack that only goes to 10….but trust me, this rig means business. We also have a guy who blows the sweet sounds on old sax-a-ma-phone. I will call him “Getz”. Getz can never hear his instrument when he plays. So he blows as hard as he can for as long as he can, and then tries not to pass out. How is supposed to be heard in the mix? Turning up his microphone to ear-splitting levels seems to be the only answer. Because there is no damn way Drums, Bass or Nigel is gonna turn down. Trust me. Me and Getz have tried. That dog just won’t hunt. They play with the god-given American right of a space shuttle launch. And they like it that way.

For those of you not in the business, our musical gear is enough to fill Key Arena without a lick of trouble at all. And then there is me. How many watts do I usually play my guitar through? 8 tiny little watts. 8 watts into a 1x12. That is it. That is all I have ever needed until this band. But that amp is now dead. The band ate it. It tried to keep the pace but then “rattle-rattle-chatter-clatter-boom-click-clang”….gone. Ok, you get the point. WE ARE LOUD.

For further proof, please see this hearing damage chart developed by the Scientific Community:

The music? The music is good. It rocks. It sways. It will duck, dodge, grab, and release without hesitation. Not overtly, but simply complicated tight changes that reside in weird time signatures. I have to say, it really is fun to be in a band again. I need the release. If I had to sum up our genre it would best described as the love child of an Acid-Metal-Jazz- Rush-Led Zep-Rare Earth orgy. Get it? One of these days I will link a sound file.

We play in a smelly basement practice space that we share with the brother of Jimi Hendrix. Not an important fact, but for some reason this is first thing people say when describing us. Celebrity is so powerful in the mind that just being associated with a non-celebrity who is associated with a dead celebrity is like, wow, man.

Second thing you must know is that Drums has the poorest, worstest, baddest communication skills seemingly to ever take on human form. And a complete misunderstanding of what you and I, dear reader, call reality. These are two critical points you must remember, because Drums was the only point of contact for the upcoming series of events to be detailed in Part II. However, God bless his good intentions, for he is the ultimate optimist. Oh, the first thing to know is that we play at two volumes, loud and very fucking loud. Did I mention that?

So you got the idea? What would you expect if we should up with all our gear at your party? A nice sonic kick in the teeth, right?

Stay tuned my friend for this is only the setup for Part II: Curtain Call, which will depict the events that took place on Saturday, October 20^th, 2007, at the Montlake Community Center, Seattle, WA….Our first show.

Ask and yea shall be turned away......

I guess you heard about my trip to Phoenix? Yeah, I pretty much fell off the blog-o-wagon there for a minute…..my mind went blank, my body numb, a brown haze of nothingness paralyzed and mystified me all at once…I must have driven close to one of those Game Stores right when a 10year old kid cast a spell of ‘infinitus comas’ in a Magic the Gathering game…sure the kid was frustrated because the spell missed by a mile, but did he ever wonder where the stray bullet/spell landed…well now he knows. Right here. Not so much here…but here.


Either that or I was poisoned in Phoenix…..that’s it!

While spending a weekend “in country” trying to get my fortnightly craving of In and Out, drinking as many free iced concoctions Paper Tiger* and her family would buy me, swimming in toxic levels of chlorine, and wondering why no one else was naked and throwing random items at our condo from the well-past-closed pool, I was defenseless. Mr. Bucket took his opportunity and crippled his foe…..Oh sure, he is complaining on his site for lack of competition, but what would you expect? After dosing me with anti-blog-bugs in the desert, ala Jim Morrison, Mr. Bucket waged his assault of # blogs in the last month. For shame. For shame.
The Inter-Council of Blog-Undoing-Thoughts-Theories-and-Sanctions is on notice my friend.

But what did you expect from a manic-depressive, ego-centric, Debbie-downer, paranoid-delusional writer? Prolific accounts of a prolific nature? Come on now, if it is repetitious foam from the mouth you want, I think I still have some love letters from high school, or excerpts from a diary that read like a Christmas list.

So what have I been doing for the last month? I don’t want to give it all away at once, but lets just say everything is par for the course. And by par for the course, I mean the course is Hell, and par is Dante’s lost circle. Right. Example? Sure, why not.

I decided that I needed to get some help. We have a pretty nice Employee Assistance Program, or E.A.P., at work, so I thought to myself…Self, I said, maybe you could benefit from a fresh perspective. And maybe, just maybe, your friends would like to hear about something other than the usual “the hole of my life just keeps getting bigger, I mean I dig, and dig, and dig, but for some reason it just keeps getting bigger, and I don’t understand” speech. But keep in mind, this was a pretty big step for me. Four years in the making. Not that I am so fatalistic.................

The E.A.P. has a list of ‘medal, the rapists’…I mean, mental therapists, so I choose one at random, or at least I thought it was random. I picked one that looked appealing because she practiced in the area, two blocks from my house, and for some reason, I was more comfortable seeing a woman (maybe it stems from the ‘ol turn and cough doctor reflex). Her name was listed as “Elizabeth M.” lets say. So “Elizabeth” and I exchanged info over the phone. I told her my name was “William”. We set up a time and checked insurance and all was good. I was under instructions to show up a few minutes early to fill out some paperwork and what-not, so I did. I filled out everything very carefully. I wanted her to know I was serious. Good penmanship is a sign of sincerity in my world, because everything is such an effort.

I hear the creaking of stairs overhead….she must be coming down. The door swings open. I look at her. She looks at me. FUCK. She is HOT. Not only is she hot, which I swear was the first thought that crossed my head, she is somehow familiar. She has a look of shock and panic. I return the look. The conversation goes as follows:

“Elizabeth”: ‘I know you.’
“William”: ‘Yeah, I know you too.’
“Elizabeth”: ‘We can’t do this.’
“William”: ‘Yeah, I know.’
“Elizabeth”: ‘I hope you find the help you need.’
“William”: ‘Ok then. Bye.’
“Elizabeth”: ‘Bye.’

I dropped my well-groomed papers in the chair, secretly hoping she would pick them up, call me, and ask me out (never happened by the way).

Turns out “Elizabeth” and “William” have a history and mutual friends…. We even shared a Moroccan dinner at one of said friends 30th birthday party, and “Elizabeth” and “William” spent a long night dancing at a party-barn and sharing quiet night moments together at the same friends house. For those of you keeping track at home, the mutual friend of “Elizabeth” and “William” is known for her new-aged practices, her healing touch, her status as the holy grail, and her recent move to the LA area….oh, she sings and paints too. And logs.

Why did I keep using “proper names”? Well, see I know her as Beth. She knows me as Bob. We didn’t link the two names over the phone. Ramparts.

So with my last ditch effort to concede to the world that I need help, reaching up with my last bit of dignity to someone for some balance in the great maelstrom that is my head…..and…WHAM-O…..hit with another slap in the face… from a victim of the despair no less. What is the world trying to tell me? That my life is just a vessel for classic cruel jokes, one after another? Side by each?

I am pretty sure I can share this information, because there was no client/doctor privilege established. I mean, other than that night at the party-barn………know what I'm sayin?



*Paper Tiger is the new official name for Downtown Tiger aka Fighting Tiger. If you need explanation, just head to Lexington, KY. They can tell y'all about it.











P.S. A Super-Booo-per Ex-Stab-a-ganza!

Arrive San Diego: 11:30 AM Friday, Oct. 26
Depart San Diego: Monday.

Wierd times, but by far the cheapeset option.

Superbad v. Superbard

(WARNING: A long story containing even longer drawn out drug references)

Myself, 4x4, and his woman-type friend, who I will let Mr. Bucket call Yoshimi (because of her hatred of robots) went to see Superbad this past week. Now while, yes, this is yet another movie about High School kids trying to get laid before they head off to college, they actually had an original take. Like that drawing dicks CAN be innocent. And that plutonic man to man love CAN be verbalized. And not every time is the woman the victim…Oh, how I can relate. Anyway, go see it. I give it the Bard’s Official “Shrug of The Shoulders” which demonstrates that nothing is very good, but this was at least tolerable.

The crazy adventures (which I will save for your own discovery) the crew of misfits embarks upon got the old Bard to thinking about the past. And since the present isn’t worth a pile of piss buckets in a pool room, I figured why not let my mind drift back to the good old days…..

My real high school life totally smokes those fools in Superbad. The movie can’t compete with me on the virginity front. I cashed that voucher at the ripe age of 14. Upon discovering this saunter into manhood, my mom said, “Sex! You had sex?! Why didn’t you just try drugs like a normal teenager?!”

You may be asking how my mom found out? Well, aren’t you the curious cat! She had been secretly taping all my phone conversations with my hot Latin Lady Lover. She said, “I was told by my therapist to do it because you didn’t seem to be upset about the fact that your Dad and I just got divorced”. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at time I was more than grateful for the split, as I would no longer be the emotional and physical dishrag for their mutual angst.

I considered my Mom’s suggestion to try drugs an instruction rather than shocked reactionary statement. Thanks for the suggestion Mother, don’t mind if I do. Which brings us to the point where I wipe Superbad off the face of the map. All of it, a true story:

One morning, before school, my friends and I, we went on what you call a “country cruise”. Which if you are from the planet earth or Indiana, you know this is driving around in the country smoking pot while coming up with great ideas and theories on any and everything and then totally forgetting them ten minutes later when you arrive at school. Oh, and I remember laughing a lot. I miss the laughing the most. So far nothing too shocking, we smoked a lot of pot. A lot. Not Topanga Canyon quantities, but……

So on lunch, we decided to go to a friend’s house to “partake in the festivities” yet again. I have to mention, we had all just tried acid the weekend before. We had some left over from the previous weekend, and thought, hey, since we are already completely stoned, why not take a little ACID to get through the rest of the day! It amazes me that at one point in my life that I thought taking acid on lunch was a good idea. So drop we did. And went back to school. ----Good lord, why?------

Around 2:30pm, I thought to myself, you know this might just work out. Things were going fine. As long as I didn’t have to talk to anyone, or move very much, I was going to make it. At 2:31pm, in walked a messenger from the Office. He had a yellow pass in his hands. A yellow pass meant somebody was in trouble deep cause they had to go talk to the Principle or Counselor. Guess who that somebody was?

So I get out of my seat, drop my books, hit the desk in front of me, rub my face and hands, grab the pass with my name on it and head down to talk to my Counselor. On acid. Stoned. Ready to shit my pants. Why didn’t I just leave right then, skip school and join the circus? Who knows. Anyway, I get there and she asks me to sit down and close the door. SHIT. She said, “Your Mother called. She thinks you are taking drugs, and is concerned. Are you taking drugs?” FUCK NO! I AM FINE. CAN I GO NOW? “Why are you yelling and why are you shaking? You can’t sit still. And what are you drawing? Are you on drugs now??” she asked. NO, NOT REALLY. JUST NERVOUS. AND TIRED. Everyone buys tired. You can’t argue with tired. Guess cause everyone has been tired at some point. She continued to tell me that she had a specialist she wanted me to see, and that he knew all about drugs and the taking of them. That he could help me see the light and that Jesus would see me through. By graces of my britches, I got out of there alive. No idea how.

I went to my next class and the teacher wanted to see me. What? WHY? She had a note from my girlfriend and a set of keys. Seems she couldn’t find me between classes since The Lord’s Coffee Breath Counselor of Death was interrogating me.

Somehow I had “forgotten” that my girlfriend had her HUGE cross-town rival tennis match that day after school. The set of keys was to a stick shift Civic that I didn’t know how to drive sober. My “automatic” car was dead and she wanted me to drive and meet her. On any other day it would have been a great idea. Not on this day. I HAD NEVER DRIVEN STICK. EVER. It was like working wet spaghetti through a cheese grater. I was already wigged out from before but now I was close to hysterical. I needed help. But my only help was my stoner friends who were tripping across town, locked up in a house. I had to get there……………….Maybe they knew how to drive stick.

THEY WERE FUCK NUT CRAZY. No joke. One was in the corner, mumbling. One was hitting a pot with a spatula. The other was in the tub. I could see without too much investigation none of these boys were going to be too keen to drive for me or were interested in accompanying me to the tennis match. But I had to go. My girl was the world to me and to this day we are still great friends. I gave no consideration to this-this madhouse and left forthwith!

Got to the match. I was wide-eyed and geeked. That car trip was insanity. I kept thinking the cops had a way to tell I was driving stick for the first time and that they would surely pull me over for this violation.

Again I forgot some key things about our social world. Families come to support kids in high school. And everyone wants to know how the boyfriend of the star tennis player is handling the fact that she is getting her ass handed to her out there on the courts. “Are you ok? You look really upset! She is doing her best out there….You are so nice to support her! Why are you shaking? Are you hungry? Want a snack? I brought a cooler full of crap over here!” There is no polite way to kindly ask these folks to leave you alone. Their whole life is dedicated to making sure you are full. Kind of like a sweet grandmother. So I went into complete lock down. I said, “I can’t bear to watch her lose”. I remember no detail of ever looking up to see her play. Not even for a second.

After the match, I suavely convinced my exhausted, defeated girl to do the driving. I thought I was going to FINALLY get back to my friends, who would understand me by default. But no such luck. She had secretly made dinner reservations for us. Which was a big deal cause we never had any money and this was a fancy place. My god, I couldn’t even think about food. But I went, cause she was such a sweetheart. I just sat there, staring at soup. Miso soup to be exact. For what seemed like hours. She just didn’t understand what was wrong. And I couldn’t tell her. (Years later I did tell her, and she was SUPER PISSED. But then she laughed. She’s great.)

So I got home. My mom was waiting on me. Shit, I had forgot that she was the one that started the Counselor visit ordeal. She was standing in the driveway with my newly purchased water bong. She thought it was a crack pipe. Seriously. She is also a nurse. Who also had access to drug tests. She marched me straight to the bathroom where I was to piss in a cup immediately. “My son, a crackhead!” Yeah, no….but I had been through it all that day and this was just icing. The seal from that piss test is still planted firmly on one of my guitars.  I didn't have my wits about me , but if I did I would have said, "I was just trying drugs, like a normal teenager!".

So, while I escaped pretty much A-OK, acid never was quite the same for me. No moral to this tale. Just bad timing. I got the girl, and learned no valuable lesson. Other than to never, never, never take acid on lunch in High School.

This still was not the worst Mother-Involvement-With-School tale that I own.
No, that precious honor belongs to a single day in the 8^th grade. When I got to my first class of the day, there was my Mom, in the front row. She didn’t even tell me she was going to be there. I took the bus, she drove in. She followed me around all day went to all of my classes. Even ate lunch there. Most Embarrassing Day Ever. To this day I do not understand or respond to subtle suggestion or passive aggressive behavior. No, if you want my attention, you got get up pretty early in the morning. And beat me to school.

FOOTNOTE:

Since the release of American Pie, it is now totally unbelievable, even in Hollywood Land, that the “Cool Crew” would still be virgins by the time they are seniors. So you will notice in Superbad the continuance of the mutually agreed upon theory proposed by Mr. Bucket that the geek/fat/dork/nerd/fat/fat/fat dudes get the hot chicks in media these days. Maybe it is because 75% of the male viewing audience look more like Jimmie Dean (of sausage fame) and make these very actors look like James Dean by comparison. Or maybe a woman can deal with a visually less appealing leading man, while men will spend a metric shit ton of money just to see Jessica Alba in her panties in her new movie, which is out.. like.. soon. Yes!

Don't shit where you eat......

Do the Bard and yourself a favor: Don’t ever date a married woman. Bad idea…real bad. In fact, don’t even go near them. You say, no, you don’t understand, this is different, this is an exception to the rule. Nope. It isn’t. Trust me, your judgment has been clouded like a Seattle winter. But they are separated? She is living on her own? Again, not gonna happen. She has filed the papers? The divorce is imminent? Sorry. Still no.

Might as well piss in the wind….on an electric fence….while standing in a kiddie pool full of water….in the middle of a hurricane. Cause after the storm, you are just left there standing with your dick in your hand.

My recent dating history will make the case for eternal damnation if the Lord above choses it. In the past 3 years, I have been pretty much single, dating around, making similar mistakes like the paragraph above. I’ll just share the highlights. Except for number one, I found out these things after the fact.

1. See paragraph one.

2. Lived with boyfriend, who was out of town a lot. Was told they had an “understanding”.

3. He cheated. She wanted to get even.

4. He couldn’t fuck. Or wasn’t “sensual” enough. Well, neither am I if I don’t like you anymore.

5. It was getting boring. She wasn’t feeling special anymore. Once specialized, she found his money to be special enough.

Your heart wants to nurse that little wounded Doe back to health. And you want to feel needed. It is suffering, it needs help. It feels alone, tired, vulnerable, and warm. Maybe you give it a sip of water, you see the look in its eyes and can’t help to think it might be hungry too. You fix the cuts, mend the wounds, and urge it back on its feet. But then the little Philly realizes that all the damage caused to her was self-inflicted…And a surge of guilt comes rushing over…..Maybe they were the one that was wrong. Maybe they should go see the Pater Familius and beg forgiveness. Once lit, the fire has no need of the match.

I am aware of one exception to this rule. However, the stud-muffin who pulled it off was a shark fighting, race car building, Brad Pitt/ George Clooney/ David Beckham mix of a man, who also stars in commercials, wrestles bucking broncos for fun, and pisses excellence.

As my one of my so called college friends told me, when I inquired about a mutual friend of ours that I used to date and was feeling like rekindling that flame: “Oh, yeah, sorry, she is dating a real man now, so you don’t have a chance.” That’s what friends are for….so keep smiling, keep shining…..

I have yet to date a woman in Seattle without motives. By that I mean, I never entered into the equation of choice. Everything was either revenge, loneliness, boredom, or a combination thereof. A pre-meditated failure designated for temporary status.… I never stood a chance. If you start creating problems or having issues in the course of one of these adventures, you become no longer useful. If they wanted a real relationship, they would have stayed at home.
Yeah, I know some part of me must seek it out…or maybe I look that desperate and easy.

Oh, yeah, from paragraph one….if you take all that and add the fact that you work with that evil sex kitten temptress as well? All the lessons learned seem to disappear with one in the hall run in…..man I am a sucker.

So if you are yelling, “Bullshit! Not all women are this way!” Send me a comment with your number, I assure you my intentions are pure.

And if you are yelling, “What a jack-ass pig! Who does this ass-hole think he is?” Send me a comment with your number, I assure you my intentions are pure.

Taxi Cab Confessions

It all came into focus for me. And the clarity started by talking with cab drivers this past week. See, I have always been able to relate better to the staff of a place more than other patrons. Something about how we are both suffering at the same moment, and we can both recognize it in each other, be it in unique ways. Theirs is related to having to be at work. Mine is seeing that forced interaction (workplace, cab rides, camp, road trips, etc….) is really my comfort zone. I don’t do well on the open sea that is the social life. What is that you say? There are no other patrons when you take a cab ride? True. Details, details….

Recently I took a trip for work up to Anchorage and Fairbanks for work. The day before this trip I just returned from another trip; my Dad’s 60^th in St. Louis. I’m glad the ole man made it. It has been a little touch and go, what with 7 documented heart attacks, a quad bypass, stints, angioplasty, high blood pressure, and obesity. With the help of modern medicine, he is the first male member of my family to reach 60. Sad. Both of my grandfathers, who survived the war, did not survive once they got back home. Maybe they didn’t know if you drink hard and fast enough, you blow right past your liver and shred your pancreas instead. Well, they do now. (Just the one took the fast track, the other, he went the regular liver route)

Anyway, back to the revelation. All three cabbies I talked to really loved to drive. I could see they were genuinely happy in their chosen lives. And I could see that was all that mattered. To find that something inside you that gives you infinite peace because you are whole in the acceptance of that choice. That must be what love is. And I think once achieved, the world is yours. This is easy to understand, but hard to get to if not already there. Know what I mean?

I have had very few moments in my life without insecurity. And it is a battle for me. But it has happened. As recently as last night. It was a perfect night with friends seeing Wilco. As intense as my depression can be, my moments of happiness and joy can be just as blinding. And last night I was blind. And it is happening with more and more frequency. Like the Beastie Boys say, “You got to fight, for your right, to party.” Everyday is a struggle. But I am in it to win it.

I asked one well traveled cabbie, what place (among the many he was listing) was his favorite? He said, “Right here in Anchorage. Because things don’t change. I like it that way. I don’t really like it here, but I like that things don’t change. When I want to have fun, I go to Seattle. But this is what I want”. It wasn’t like Seattle was a vacation syndrome for him. He had lived there. He said. “That was a life of fun. Now, I want a life of peace.” This blew my mind for some reason. It was the tying of many loose ends all at once. How was he able to separate something that he truly enjoyed from something he truly loved? And not question it? To have no self doubt? I closed my eyes. Here is what happened right after that:

In my mind I have a stagnant scene. When I think about someone, almost anyone, the same scene always pops up in my mind. Been that way for as long as I can remember.

On one side, a vast plateau, stretching out in the distance infinitely. On the other side the same. And in the middle, there is a canyon. It isn’t very deep, and not very wide. It stays that way until I think of a person, and as soon as I do, ropes across the canyon shoot out and tie to each side. The thicker the ropes, the stronger the tie to the person I am thinking of. When things like bad breakups come, I mentally cut the ropes. I know it sounds hokey, but it works for me.

The interesting thing is what happens when I cut the ropes. Sometimes they come back right away, seemingly beyond my control. Sometimes they get weaker and weaker every time I cut them, others not. Sometimes they go away for good. And for others I can not even generate ropes.

So I decided to think about this semi-epiphany I had. I wondered if I could switch from thinking about people, and think about self-realization. As soon as I did that, something changed. The canyon in the middle has always been dry. Always. I wondered why. Then I felt this surge come over me. I literally felt it. Water started coming, flooding the dry void. Then I wondered, where is this water going? And I followed it. My scene was no longer static. It was fluid. The water, or river I guess, broke out into the sea, filling me with energy. I looked back from where I came, and noticed how narrow my view had been.

How long have I been living only inside of myself? Missing everything around me due to the cloud of delusion that fills my mind. The constant debate inside my head. What I found I need, what I must have, is transparency. I must live with a quiet mind to truly appreciate what is around me. I am always trying force other peoples view of life and love into my own equation. It is a vicious cycle that has no solution. I am working towards acceptance. I am moving closer to love.

May the winds lift you up into the sky above,

Where you’d be treated to a view of everything you love.

And if the moment passes you should try it once again,

For if you do it right, you’ll find, the moment never ends...

Erroronious! Erroronious!

What?! Hold on just one cotton pickin' minute here. I am the enemy? The listless, beaten man needs to be kicked some more, huh? Will the torment never end......(I hope not)

Leave it to the big-budget, fancy-picture havin', high falutin' Mr. Bucket to employ aggressive right wing tactics against any and all oncomers. The "don't worry little Johnny, we do the thinking arounnd here" mindset reminds of a political machine. But, it isn't like Mr. Bucket preaches politics on his site, is it? Ohh, thats right.....








I can tell you this. I don't want a war. Matter of fact, I just don't have the energy. It takes all I got to get out of bed, put on my cleanest dirty shirt, wash the dentures, and try to make itto my first cup of coffee. Why in the world would I want to compete? I'm too tired. I was hoping to be the yang to Mr. Bucket's ying. But he pulled out the big guns. He declared war. So, yes, I may be lazy, needy, narcosistic, arrogant, trite, rude, and just down right unpredictable, but what I am not is chicken. As the Band put it, "You can't raise a Cane back up when he's in defeat!"






Anyway, who am I kidding. I don't even have the energy to fake an aggressive attack. My main goal is to let Mr. Bucket do all the work, while I just act the parasite. Yeah, there is some Biology for you bitches!

But one thing I don't want to become is a mock site. One that only discusses others life. Lord knows there are enough of those in the celebrity world. Wait....those are really popular. Hmmm...ok. Change of plan. You get famous, and I'll rip you for it. Deal?

(Some of my favorite examples include, I mean why waste money on US Weekly?):
www.wwtdd.com It asks the question, I think, what would Tyler Durden think of all this?
www.thesuperficial.com It's ok. I guess.
www.hollywoodtuna.com Has good pics sometimes.
www.popsugar.com This one is for the ladies. The have a whole lifestyle service kind of deal

Tune in later this week for some actual insight to the pathetic existence that is,

The Bard's Blues Blog.




P.S.

Ice cream?! Are you fucking kidding me? Your deepest insight was over a bowl of ice cream? Sure there weren't any puppies around at the time? Maybe a unicorn?

My life lesson of the same sort came after a football game. I was 7. When I was younger (pre-teen) I was really good at sports. The star pitcher, the star quarterback, the sprinter, the top of the pile kind of leader you look for in pre-puberty kids. I had promise. What I didn't have was a pituitary gland. Anyway.........after the "big game", in which I had three touchdowns (one a run of over 80 yards), I was named MVP. It was a great moment. But not super unusual.
I was bad ass....not so much now, but then.

On the way up to accept the award, my Dad pulled me by the back of the neck to the side,off the field. He said, "I know you heard your name over the PA alot today, and you must think you are hot shit, huh? Well, you don't think I didn't see you miss that tackle on defense? You think you can just let some guy get by you and not do anything cause you are Mr. Touchdown? If you spent less time trying to be the hero, and more time hittin somebody, you might be worth a shit. What are you a Prima Donna? Quit tryin to be the goddamn Hero! Now go get your bullshit trophy so we can get out of here." I was 7. Seriously. True story.

Thats good with the bad balance Bard style! We didn't
stop for ice cream on the way home in case you were wondering.

Sometimes I use my safety belt just because I want to be held...

Oh sure, everything is sunny and rosy over there at the "Bucket". Seems like one CRAZY adventure after another....just so much fun....had by all those people...who aren't me.

Well, what about all the rest of us, huh? You know, the downtrodden, the heartbroken,
the I-slept-16-hours-and-only-got-up-
because-of-the-lack-of-caffeine-induced-headache people?

Don't get me wrong. I love Mr. Bucket. Sure enough.
I probably check it many times a day for new posts......
like a crazed hungry dog trying to bite your fingers through his cage.
(And also I have nothing to do at work these days and I check the same sites over and over
again with this web browser called Opera. You can have your favorite 9 websites on one page and it will almost continuously update them like a slot machine.)

I do my fair share of visiting...see "Summer of the Bard".
But Mr. Bojangles' budget is only so big. And I can't just setup a tent in the funplex. Which, of course, would be complete with a comfortable pillow, those caramel bullz-eye candies, them plastic star thingies, two cartons of cheap Japanese whiskey,

and my favorite cartoon -the California Raisins Claymation Christmas- seriously has there ever been anything animated better? No. End of story. (Here we go a waffeling, a waffeling we go......). Anyway, I am looking for my own Shang-Ra-La.

Point is this:
I need that Mr. Camp Activities, Follow Me Cause There Is Fun Over Here, Center of The Hub that is Mr. Bucket.
But, I sir, am no Mr. Bucket. By my lonesome, I don't think I could fun myself out of a paper bag. Surely, I am not alone.

I know what you are thinking. Yes, I have had my share of adventures in the pages of the hallowed Bucket. And yes, there has been a lady of two in my life (much more many stories of disaster to follow). But castles made of sand my friend, castles made of sand....they don't do so well on the airplane ride home.......

So I decided to start this "counter point" blog to exercise them demons! Praise Jesus, you say!
And I think this may be the perfect timimg... Not only due to my demeanor and my award winning baggage, but the weather is starting to turn towards winter. I live in Seattle and we only have two seasons here. Blah and Meh. Today was blah. Tommorow? Who knows..could be meh.....Oh, boy, I can't wait to wake up and find out!

And as you read Bucket's weekend adventures, if you think to yourself:
Shit man, What did the hell did I do this weekend?
I mean besides masturbating and eating crap I shouldn't have.
And sitting alone at the coffee house just waiting for that special
someone to recognize. Recognize that untapped, innocent,
everlasting love sitting over in the corner,
lurking like a crazed person from that Poltergiest movie.......
Then you are right here at home at the Bard's Blues. Welcome.
Your name tag is right over there ----->

Speaking of those crazy California Raisins, who knew there was a sexy Ms. Raisenette, and just what is Mr. Pickle thinking?? Tsk, Tsk, Mr. Pickle!