Xmas Epiphany

I get the idea for most of these Klogs while I am out walking the dog, believe it or not. For some reason, ideas hit me as I walk Bauer in his mission to poop on every lawn in a 20 block radius. I put the iPod on, leash up the iPup and out we go. As we walk, I find I get lots of ideas. Not only that, but also their general form, flow, jokes and the occasional ‘point of the whole thing’. Lately, as we go out we walk by lots of houses that have lights up. It’s kinda cool, as I’ve always been attracted to shiny objects. So tonight this just hit me. And even though I’d much rather be chilling out on the couch, catching up on my (non-porn) magazines and just generally chilling, I thought this just might be more important.

I had an epiphany while I was out walking. As a general practice, epiphanies don’t strike when you’re carrying around a bag of poop, but this time it did. I realized a few things of my hatred of this time of the year. Follow me here.

There actually are some parts of the Xmas season I do enjoy. I know that is a shock to many of you, but there are times when the ‘holidays’ are fun and good for you. But it is a bit of a mirage. I do enjoy the times I get to spend with my friends and family. I am still not a fan of the hustle and bustle, though. You know what I am talking about. As the concept of family changes to include more and more units of the family unit (with divorces, etc) there can be many places to go. My family unit is extremely lucky as we really don't have any of that business. We’ve all managed to stay married to the same people, which is a victory in itself sometimes. But as family units grow, with in-laws, kids, nieces, etc., there can be a strain on your time.

In years past, Xmas Eves have been a lot of hustle and bustle for us. It might mean hitting 3-4 houses to squeeze everyone in and honor every tradition. There’s been a few Xmas Eves where we haven’t gotten home before 3 AM. Sleep for a few hours, then lather, rinse, repeat on Xmas Day. But I have realized that the time you do get to spend can be pretty fun and special. It’s catching up with people you may only see during the holiday season. It might be opening presents with friends on Xmas Eve and rehashing old times. It might be getting embarrassingly drunk and acting like a total ass all Xmas Eve. Boy, there’s a lesson I learned the hard way.

The point of most of this time is generally just to have a good time and laugh as much as possible. At least that’s what I try to do. I’ve fought it over the years, but I think I have gotten better over the last few. The food also helps, too. What a great time to just fucking pig out. Cookies, chocolate, egg nog. My stomach takes a beating over the sudden and gluttonous consumption of junk during this week. Dinner can be awesome, as my sister gets this tender steak fillets and seafood mix. Yummy! I try to rationalize that I am eating good stuff, as I wash all that down with cookie dough cheesecake.

Houses look cool with lights up. I enjoy big, colored lights that blink. Me and Bauer will just walk up and down blocks based on how well lit up they are. Some people still have those old plastic figures that look 30 years old, but you don’t see too often these days. I am not a big fan of the continued Wal-Mart-ization of lawns, where every house has up the same 2 lawn ornaments and inflatables. I am not a big fan of inflatables in general. When they are not inflated, they look like shit on your lawn. Yea, it’s cool how some light up and move and all, but I am sure science can find better uses.

To a degree people seem to at least try to be in a better mood, although the stress can still get to them. Also key here is having a few days off. That plays into my theory big. Just to get those few free days off. Sure, there are deadlines of where to be on Xmas Eve, Xmas day, etc. But just to get the few odd days “off” where you can do what ever the fuck you want to are huge. Play with all your new toys, catch up on a book or spend time with friends. The ability to sleep late (if that is an option for you) is just so huge during these times. Going to bed late rocks, sleeping in late rocks. The goddamned dog waking me up at 5 (Am or PM) to pee does not rock.

It’s all a nice little trip away from reality. See friends and family, give and get cool gifts, have some ‘whatever’ time, it’s all just a healthy dose. It would seem. Until that one night. It may be a different night for different people, but regardless, it comes. It’s that night as things wind down, you feel something creeping in. It’s reality beckoning.

What a cold fucking slap in the face. Those brief, fleeting, vibrant few days are suddenly way back in the rear view mirror. Reality has come back, like it always does. And when you would describe this reality as ‘deadening” and “soul crushing”, this is devastating. Maybe you could make it if it was just “deadening” or “soul crushing”, but not both, mister.

And that’s why I hate this time of year. It’s just that sudden , and it’s all compartmentalized and gone. Back to the cruel, harsh world. Lights slowly come off the houses, although there’s always that one house in your neighborhood that never takes them down. Decorations return to their dingy boxes for another 11 month hibernation. It’s almost like it never happened at all, except for the ugly sweater from Aunt Phyllis.

I blame TV for part of this. It seems every Xmas movie you see (especially if it’s on Lifetime. Not that I ever watch Lifetime, nor that Xmas movie with Nicole Eggert in it.) involves some sort of Xmas miracle. Whereby the main characters life is irrevocably changed for the better. I think we all secretly hope for that Xmas miracle to happen to us; that one thing that leads us to happiness, fulfillment, satisfactions or at least a fucking decent job. And it never quite happens that way, right? I hate when TV lies to me.

BAM! That first morning back. The mind played a dirty trick on us and erased all the BS we suffer through daily. But it’s there, lying in wait. Waiting for the right moment to slap you back to reality. Job (or lack thereof), money, economy, drama, deadlines, pressure, relationships and what you think is a squirrel trapped in your vents. BAM! Uppercut.

So yea, I hate that aspect of this time of year. All the decorations that were full price in the stores suddenly get marked down 75%, like they’re some cheap whore. Wait a minute, did I just compare Xmas decorations to whores? Well, there’s another literary goal accomplished. But I think you get my point.

I just have a hard time making the adjustment. Which is exactly what I will be doing tonight and tomorrow. No fun, no fun at all. I try not to end these Klogs on downers, so I will leave you with my favorite dirty joke.
How do you get a nun pregnant?
You fuck her.

Thank you and good night. Thanks for reading, and I hope your slide back into reality is a pleasurable one.

Echoes of High School

High school wasn’t a great time for me. I think that period is traumatic for any kid, but I hated high school. Now that I am looking back, I don’t have many fond memories. I just had that constant feeling like I never quite fit in with anybody. I was a tall, geeky, un-confident, socially retarded loser that never got any dates.

Shit, I guess not much has changed…..

Anyway, I was your typical bus-hopper. I didn’t play any sports. I didn’t belong to any clubs. I wasn’t too high on the extra-circular stuff. I showed up, did my time and got the hell out. The ‘friends’ I did hang out with were primarily the ones I went to elementary school with. I guess I hung with a few of the ‘cool’ kids, but most of my circle were music nerds. They always tried to get me into Yes and shit. After HS was over, I really never saw them again. I’d run into one at a local bar, or the music nerds would be at a show.

So my HS career was rather unremarkable. I was a wallflower. I was unsure of myself, and was never quite comfortable in my own skin. (It wasn’t until after college that I bloomed into this version of coolness.) I don’t think I could name you 10 people I knew I went to school with. And I still get the occasional nightmarish-like dream about being in HS. The dreams are always meeting getting lost in school or not doing homework. Suffice it to say, I have changed a lot since then. My look, my attitude, my confidence (to a degree) and am a lot more sure of the skin I’m in (to a degree) now. I’ve compartmentalized that whole period of my life. It’s almost like it never happened. So it came as quite a shock when T left a message for me.

She is a teacher, and this week was parent conferences. So she meets with the parents of her kids. One mom comes in, and after the meeting, asks her if she has a brother named Kevin. She says no, but her husband’s name is Kevin. “I went to high school with him,” the mother replies. Now this totally boggles my little mind. That someone remembers me from high school 19 fucking years ago. Like I said, I wasn’t very popular. In fact, in a class of almost 400 kids, I was voted 417th most popular. Yea, I was that forgettable.

So T shows this mom a picture of me now. She tells the mom’s face was shock. “Yea, I can kinda see his face…” she says. Yea, that nerdy, acne covered face now has long hair and a perma-scruff and is like 6’2. “Wow, the mom says, “he is a fox! A stone cold hunk of prime A beef. I would give him a blow job every night just for the privilege of watching TV with him. He is devastatingly handsome.”

OK, so maybe that part is a bit embellished, but I am sure she was as least thinking that. I do find it funny that on the odd occasion I do run into people I went to HS with, they don’t recognize me now. I actually take that as a compliment. Well, either that, or I’ve gotten more hideous. Nope, no, it’s because I am far more ‘me’ now then I ever was then. Yea, that’s it. I went to HS with one of T’s teacher friends, and I don’t think the teacher friend even knows that.

Wow, that’s pretty cool, I tell T. What is this chick’s name I ask her. “Umm…..I don’t know,” she tells me. WTF! You give me a great story like that, and you don’t even get me a name? So now I have to wonder who this girl that remembers me is. Again, I find it hard to believe anyone would remember me, but I am intrigued that it does happen to be a girl.

Just please don’t let it be the girl I had a crush on the entire 4 years I was there. She was a good looking girl. Total 80’s high hair, nice eyes, etc. I was so intimidated and deathly shy that I never even spoke to her. I don’t think we maybe had 2 classes together the whole time, but we were often in the same homeroom. And I would look at her all the time, but I could never even bring myself to even just say “hi”. Just please don’t tell me it’s her. I wouldn’t want to think of her as being a married mom. I’d prefer to think of her spending her days, pining over my picture in the yearbook and constantly yearning for me.

Guys are such cads. We all prefer that our exes or the girls that never gave us the time of day are now all regretting not being with us. It’s a guy thing to think that all of them are trolling MySpace and Facebook, desperately looking to track us down and reveal their real feelings for us. That is a big life regret that they never got with us. I know that’s what all of my exes are doing these days. Yea, just shut up and let me believe, OK?

T goes into work today, and even gets a note from said mom-with said mom’s name on it. The note was about why her kid didn’t do its homework or some such. (What did you think I was gonna say the note was about?) T comes home, and I ask her what the mom’s name is. I have to find out who my new stalker is. “Um, I forget. Shit, I even got a note from her and I meant to save it. I know her first name, but not her (maiden) last name.” She tells me the name, and I can honestly tell you I don’t know who she is talking about. So now I will hang in limbo until the mystery woman reveals herself.

Or maybe I will just see her at the reunion next year.

The Cup

Most of you know, I am a diehard hockey fan. I can watch any hockey game, yes, even the dreaded Flyers. I will stay away from the “either you get it or you don’t” argument. But I will say most of the hockey fans I know tend to be fairly knowledgable, even if it’s only about the hometeam. They do seem to have some sort of passion, more so than the typical baseball or football fan. I see a lot of dedication with the rec players in our Monday night league. A lot of them rush from work, or travel a fair distance, eat on the way, etc. If you don’t know much about hockey, though, I am willing to bet you are familiar with the Stanley Cup. It’s the oldest professional sports trophy in the world I believe. I suppose I could Google that, but I am far too lazy to do that. It’s not like baseball of football that just make up another trophy for the winner every year. No, Lord Stanley has been around since 1892. Whenever a team wins the cup, all the names on the roster get engraved on the Cup. The names ring around the bottom of the Cup.

Being a true fan, I have seen this thing hoisted by the greatest players to ever play the game; Gretzky, Lemieux, Messier, Roy, Stevens, Bourque, Sakic, etc. Every June, I see it awarded to the winning team. Needless to say, the Cup is esteemed, admired, revered among hockey fans. It’s every hockey fans’ dream to get your picture taken with The Cup. I never thought I would have that opportunity. Until last Saturday.

Imagine my surprise on Friday when I found out that The Cup would be mere minutes away from Missile Command the very next day. How did I not know about this sooner? Doesn’t matter, either way, I was thrilled. Former Flyer Bill Clement, who’s probably better known for being a hockey broadcaster than Stanley Cup winner, wanted to raise some money for some local charities, so he was able to corral The Cup and a bunch of former Flyers to do an appearance at a technical school. Since I found out about this so late, I had it in my mind that not a lot of people knew about it. Hell, how many hockey fans will know about this? Besides, I am sure most Flyers fans do their community service on Saturdays. ZING!

So imagine my surprise when we rolled up, and saw a full parking lot; we had to park on the grass. We got there pretty early on. The line outside the building seemed fairly manageable. Until some guy said this was a “Disney Line”. In other words, while it seems like there’s a small line outside, the real line is hidden inside. Sure enough, there are seemingly 50,000 people in line. D’oh! Fuck, I really thought we could breeze through this in like 40 minutes. Guess this wasn’t so low key.

I am not a good waiter. I grow impatient easy. I am totally id driven; I want what I want and I want it now! So seeing all these puckheads in my way really cheeses me off. Actually, it’s not that bad. I mean this is my chance to get my grubby little hands on a piece of true sports history. This is a big deal in my otherwise shallow and pathetic life. So waiting for what will turn out to be 2+ hours seems like a pretty small price to pay. There are bigger fans who never get this opportunity. Everything will be OK.

It’s easy to hold on to something like that. The reality is that I am being driven bonkers by a line that is crawling along. It’s just a major victory to make it inside the building. Fuck, this is going to take forever. Poor T is not doing well. I know she’s focused on Hallowmas, and waiting in line is something that will drive her nuts, too. There’s not much to do, except people watch.

And sometimes the hockey stereo type is a reality. I see no less than 3 legit mullets. At least they weren’t wearing old Triumph shirts. It’s a pretty wide array of people. Young kids in oversized hockey jerseys. Dads who are coaches. Older women wearing shirts that were from the Cryers last Cup year; i.e. 30 year old yellowed t-shirts. I see a few brave souls like myself who are not wearing Flyers jerseys. I am proudly sporting my Avs jersey. I see a guy with a Red Wing jersey, so I go hip check him through the grass of the trophy case. Eat shit, Detroit! I see Penguins & Coyotes jerseys as well. But it’s a black and orange crowd for sure. I feel kinda bad, as there was a young couple in front of us that hung in for like 40 minutes, but then had to leave. What a buzzkill.

Slowly, the line winds it’s way to a table where you have to pay 2 bucks to get in. Mr. Big Spender over here springs for the wife. It’s the least I can do. I can tell she is bored as when I tell her how my day went. Deep down, I know she digs this, but wasn’t prepared for such a long wait. But I have a growing anxiousness. My mood is upbeat and positive. Soon, enough, The Cup will be mine.

I pay the 4 bucks, and guess what? We wait again, this time in a smaller line. It’s almost like they’re weeding out the weak. We go in, and immediately get in the line for the Stanley Cup. Yes, another line. And there it is. I can see it. The most prestigious trophy in all of sport. I never thought I would get in the same room with it, let alone get a picture with it. First impression is that it is not super bright. I guess that is common sense since it is so old. I just expected angelic light reflecting off of it or something. Again, I think of all the history associated with it. I don’t quite know the proper word to use here, but I am sure you do, so please insert it here. That’ll help, thanks.

Right in front of us is this old couple. The guy is one of those tall, craggy looking guy. His profile is dominated by a huge sloping nose, and he wears one of those old-man dickey hats that they give you when you turn 65. He was with his wife, but as we got in the picture line, he disappears. It’s just the wife in front of us. And she’s getting on my nerves. All she does is pace in small circles and is fucking constantly looking all around. I mean, Broom Hilda ain’t even looking where’s she’s going. Often, the rest of the line is like 10 feet in front of her as she stares off into the distance.

At one point, T was ready to slip by, but she turned back around. Every 2 seconds, she’s pacing around in small circles, looking in all directions. I don’t know if she’s looking for her husband or what, but it’s getting super fucking annoying. She is like a Weeble, just bouncing all around.

The line for The Cup now winds up and down three rows. As you paid, they were giving out these heinous bright orange cardboard helmets. I believe these were the same fay helmets the Cryers hand out during key playoff games. So you turn on the game, and see 18,000 motards wearing fucking cardboard helmets. They look like the SpEds that get the cardboard crowns at Burger King. I am sorry, but no self respecting hockey fan wears a fucking cardboard helmet ever. I don’t care how much Molson or Labatts you drink, it just doesn’t happen. And why the holy fuck would you put that on for your picture with the Cup? There should be a trap door on the stage when this gets through. “OK, sir, you there in the cardboard helmet. Step right up to The Cup.” Then-whoosh-trap door opens, and loser gets whisked down a Christmas Story-like slide out to the back of the line.

People do different things when they get to The Cup. I saw young girls kiss The Cup. I saw old men kiss The Cup. I saw grown men hug the thing. A lot of people have this very revered look on their face as they get to it. I see smiling families get their picture with it. I see numerous Flyers fan drape a Flyers T or jersey at the bottom of The Cup. I am sure there have to be tons of funny pictures of fans with The Cup.

Finally, we wind our way up. I do admit to feeling a twinge of nervousness-I guess that’s the word I am looking for-as it gets to be our turn. I bought 3 pictures-one of just me, one of just T and one of the both of us. That group picture kills me because she’s being disrespectful and wearing a fucking Flyers jersey. Needless to say, I am highly embarrassed that there’s a pic of me with my wife and The Cup, and she’s ruining it by wearing a fucking Cryers jersey. Finally, after over 2 hours in line, it is my chance. They are cool, and you can obviously touch The Cup. I put my hands all over it like it’s T’s ass. They have to readjust the camera or something, so I get a few brief extra seconds with Stanley. I immedialety look for the Avs names on The Cup. The only team I see is the Canadiens from the 50s. So I am not really paying attention when the camera finally does go off. I’m NOT READY! FUCKING D’OH! Fortunately, they are cool, and give me another shot, which is what you see.

Next, T comes up and we take our group shot. I swear, I am smiling ear to fucking ear. I leave and now it’s hoseheads’s shot at The Cup. Since she has a Flyers jersey on, the one guy actually directs her where to point on The Cup to the Flyers roster. Well, fuck me, the hot girl catches another break while uggo over here suffers.

And it was over. Just like that. Woosh.

2 hours all disappears. I vainly look back on my brief time with The Cup, and realize just how vain I can be. All I was really worried about was looking good for the picture. The most important trophy in the world, and I’m worried about my fucking hair. And yes, for the record, I did ask T how my hair looked before I got my picture taken. Luckily, it turned out OK. I got to lay my hands on The Cup. And I got my picture taken with me putting my hands on The Cup. Maybe that isn’t a thrill to you, but I can tell you that is top ten material for me. It easily trumps my Jenkintown Brewfest picture from a while back.

I was like a little kid. I was so damn happy.

As it turns out, this event was a huge success. They had so many people there, they had to turn people away at 1:30 because the line was so long and the parking lot was full. They estimated over 3500 people were there, and over $55,000 was raised for local charities. All the money I spent was well worth it, and I have something I will treasure the rest of my life.

As always, thanks for reading.

Black Friday

So today is Black Friday. While the ‘black’ in black Friday comes from the thought this is where most retailers get out of the red (i.e. negative) and get into the positive (which would be black, duh), for me, the ‘black’ means what it traditionally does-dark, dour, evil, etc. So if you think you’re going to get a warm and rosy holiday post, ya might wanna read someone else.

I do not get Black Friday. I mean on some levels, I do. But for the most part, I fail to understand the whole phenomenon. I don’t get the point, don’t see that anything is worth the hassle. It seems every year, there is a growing number of people-motards, mostly, who make this their new tradition of acting like a jackass in public for a few hours in a greedy mood. “Hey, it’s Black Friday, let’s get the family out together to the mall and act like savages. Ho ho ho.”

From what I understand, there is some sort of preparation involved. I know it’s a big thing to get the paper Tgiving Day and peruse the countless ads, flyers and circulars to find the best deal. I admit to it being a kind of tradition when I go over to my in-laws. “Ohh, that’s a good price for crap I don’t need.” Seriously, I can’t tell you how many gifts I gave/received that I’ve never used, played, worn, shot. I’m sure I could spend days listening to CDs and watching DVDs that were gifts. So I think a lot of this BF business is good intentioned, but a waste. Anyway, I guess you get all these circulars, compare prices, what time the stores open, etc and plan out from there.

It doesn’t help that Xmas commercials now dominate every TV show the way the political ads did a mere month ago. Most of these commercials are insulting and totally unrealistic. In this economy, I find it highly insulting that car manufacturers still make commercials where someone gets a brand new fucking car for Xmas. Seriously, do you or anyone you know ever have this happen to them? (And if so if that company hiring witty and insightful bloggers?) Keep in mind this is the same field that sent executives on cushy jets to go in front of Congress and beg for bailout money. I kind of have a problem with that. And what are the actual logistics of buying someone a car? You better get everything right. Color, features, etc. You would be the biggest tool if you bought your husband a stick and he only knows how to drive automatic. You want him practicing on the brand new car you gave him? I wanna know how you get the money to buy a new car, and your spouse doesn’t realize that thousands of dollars are missing from the account. I am sure the scenario had happened where the guy pulls out a ton of money to buy a new car, the wife suddenly discovers the money is missing and gets all huffy. Yea, great idea, pal. And just where does one hide a new car? Can you just “sneak” it into the garage and hope he never goes in and discovers it? Do you park it further down the street, or a neighbor’s driveway, then suddenly run out of the house Xmas morning to put it in position? And the most pressing question I have is where to you get the big fucking red bow that is on the roof of the car in every damn commercial? Enough of these commercials already.

The other commercial I saw was the Walmart one where the cashiers are all turning their lights on and of to some Xmas song. They look so happy and thrilled to be there. At the end of the commercial, they are proudly standing outside their aisles, smiling, and waiting for the great unwashed masses to clog their store. How come every commercial depicts a calm soothing atmosphere on Black Friday? All the employees are happy and smiling like some sort of brainwashed Xmas zombies. All the customers are friendly and well behaved. What dafuck kinda Bizarro Land is this?

So you would think BF starts of Friday, right? Wrong. For some losers it starts Wednesday night. I had the local news on this morning, and they always run the story of how early people get in line. I think this years’ “Winner” got in line at 10 AM Weds morning. How is this even an option? How does one explain to their family that I won’t be at Tgiving because I have to wait in line for 30 hours to save 2 bucks on the new Beyonce CD and a few other gizmos and doo-dads? Yet, every year, there are those idiots, proudly standing in line. I saw how at one Best Buy, there was over a THOUSAND fucking people in line. How ‘bout we thin the herd here, and just shoot all these people and do society a favor? (unless, of course, they happen to be buying me something.) Surely, these people can’t have anything going on in life, right? Where do you pee? And why are there legions of people compelled to miss Tgiving and stand in the dark and cold all night? There are always stories how these stores have ‘limited’ amounts of said hot item. So you could wait in line for 5 hours for something they only have 5 units of. It’s a scam and people fall for it every year.

Now every year when I write this post, my usual answer is “it’s because they’re stupid”. But this year the economy is a huge motivating factor. Many, many people are down on their luck, and money is an issue. OK, I get that. So I will give you that there are some smart, normal people who are doing this because they have do. And that is a fair number of BF shoppers. But the rest of them are still fucking idiots.

Let’s not forget the real victim here; the employees. I know many of you are my old retail warriors, and today I am thinking of you. I worked my fair share of BFs, and I know what a huge fucking pain in the ass they can be. Customers forget any sense of manners or common sense. They have some sort of attitude, and it’s your problem. It absolutely kills me to see these stores opening up earlier and earlier. How can you really enjoy a good Tgiving with family when you have to get up at like 2 AM? Many of these workers are parents, so you got kids and schedules and dinners and travelling to think about. I am sure much of that has to be radically rearranged when you have to open the store at 4 fucking AM. I’m sure there are district and regional managers that are required to be at the stores, too. It pisses me off to no end that the corporate jackoff who mandate stores open at 3 & 4 AM are still sleeping in. In their mattresses stuffed with money. While they are on holiday in some French chalet. OK, so maybe I am exaggerating a bit, but I am sure it isn’t that far off.

Again, with this economy the way it is, every last account has to wring every last dollar out. So if they have to do that by opening at 3, well then that’s what they do. I am sure you have all seen the email that lists all the stores that will be closing a lot of their locations or closing down all together. How fucking sad. I am sure there are many lifers that made countless sacrifices to said stores, only to lose their job right after the holidays. I can imagine working at one of those stores through the holidays, just to know you will be outta work come January. I’ve been there, though. Back in the days when the music biz was good, it wasn’t uncommon for most malls to have 2-4 record stores. I was in such a mall. My 2 Sam Goody stores were directly downstairs from 2 Walls. Well, we found out a few days ahead of time that our other Goody store would be closing after the holidays, and that the staff was to be told Xmas fucking Eve. How fucking low class. I begged my district manager to tell them sooner or later, but not on Xmas fucking Eve. What a Goddamned insult. “Merry Xmas, you’re all losing your jobs and we’re turning this into an outlet for all of our crap for the next month.” Lemme tell you, spending Xmas Eve putting up big black and yellow STORE CLOSING signs is no way to live.

You guys working today have my compassion.

Imagine how surprised I was to find myself actually tempted to get up ass-crack early and subject myself to the BF madness. T was going to be a trooper, and get up early to get some shopping in for her nieces. And for a few minutes I toyed with the idea of actually going. What if all my notions of BF was wrong, and it was actually fun and worthwhile? Maybe I had to seize this opp to take in another BF from a shopper perspective. I wouldn’t do this for me. No way. I would do it so I would have something to write about. So, in essence, I would be doing this for you, dear reader. Yes, that is the kind of sacrifice I am willing to make. But then I realized I was off my fucking rocker for a blog that hasn’t even had 300 hits in a few months. If I was around 500 or so, then I would toy with it, but I ain’t getting myself all fired up for just a few readers. Plus, bed was really comfy this morning. Plus if I went, that meant T wouldn’t buy anything for me. OK, that’s the real reason. I didn’t go because I wanted stuff. I apologize for blaming you over my own greedy shallowness.

If you are one of the fortunate to not be working in retail today (or the unfortunate who just aren’t working at all) it’s a good day to sit back and watch the news. The lead story is always BF shopping, and there is usually some good/frightening footage of shoppers gone wild. I am sure there will be video from North Dakota of a Walmart opening it’s doors, and streams of people come rushing in and someone gets trampled. I hope to see some good customer fights over the last Bratz or Hannah Montana doo-hickey.

Jesus Christ! I just watched the noon news, and there was a Walmart employee who was killed when the crowd broke through the doors and trampled him. I have no problem watching 2 idiots fight-I mean who cares who gets hurt?-but that is just too much. Another developing story is that so many people are paying with cash this year that stores are running out of change. Again, it’s the economy, stupid. My poor ass is staying inside.

So if you’re one of ‘those’ ones who have to go out today, take care of yourself. Keep in mind those poor souls who have to work today, and deal with too much shit that ain’t their fault

Halloween Party 08 Director's Cut

OK, so now I am in the mood. Last night was the annual Halloween party, and it really got me psyched for my favorite holiday. I admit to being a bit off this year. What happened to all the cable channels having Halloween programming? Where’s all the vintage B&W movies on Turner Classic or AMC? Not even Discovery, TLC or even SciFi have much Hween programming. Last week, I got together with the guys to watch some horror flicks to get in the mood. We watched the original Last House on the Left and House of 1000 Corpses. I was disappointed in both. I’m jonesing to see Saw 5. But the party last night really picked me up. As much as I do love Hween, there is more to the story. And this one starts from last year.

Last year we were confident we had a slam dunk idea. But we had to dye some stuff. Fate would step in (as it will later on down the road) and killed our dryer, so we couldn’t go with our first choice, even though we had a bunch of stuff for it already. While that was a downer, it did result in me slutting up my wife as a cop, so it wasn’t all bad.

Flash to this year, and we are a bit ahead of the game. We have our idea, and we know what we have to do. The first thing is we need to find white stuff to dye. The easiest and most cost effective thing to get is thermal longjohns. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, surprisingly it isn’t. After checking the places you think would be obvious, I track down long under wear at Kmart of all places. And I literally get the last top and bottom that are my size. Seriously, what’s the run on longjohns here? I guess it’s huntin’s season or something, but this search took far more effort than I thought it would. And, OK, I do have a confession here. I did buy my shirt a size smaller. I did it because it was the only one they had, and it might, just might, make me look a bit more masculine. And when you’re wearing purple, it’s all about appearing masculine.

Next up was the dye itself. Again, this proved to be more difficult than I had planned. I did all kinds of searches for clothes dye and fabric dye at the obvious places (Walmart, Target, etc). But the one place I found the shade that was close to what we need was at an arts and crafts store. O man. Talk about swallowing your manly pride to go into one of these stores. I am totally lost. This place looks like it sells all the shit you see at the firehouse Xmas bazaar. I don’t think there is another dude in the store. Now I gotta wander over to the dye section. Did I mention the color I was looking for was purple? Yea, I should just leave my man card at the door. I find something that is close enough, and scurry out, hoping no one I know sees me.

I guess at this point, I should explain my philosophy on Halloween costumes. Basically, in most cases, but certainly not all, the more ghetto it is, the better it is. There are times and places when you can get a real expensive, fancy killer costume. But more often then not, it’s more creative and funny to make it on your own. I don’t care what you think, a real deal Batman costume pales in comparison to one made with Sharpies and duct tape. In fact, a proven Hween equation is the more duct tape on your costume, the more kick ass it is. Really, I didn’t make that one up; it’s one of Einstein’s lesser known theorems.

So we are all about doing this up ourselves. Plus, as it turns out, there is surprisingly no premade costumes for our idea. The only ones we’ve seen have been homemade affairs. Some were quite good, others were pretty damn ghetto. T uses her artistic side to draw up the iron ons we will need. She dyes the thermal stuff Weds night, and we get up at 5:30 the next morning to wring them out and run them through the wash. The color turns out pretty good. It is a bit pinker than my testicles would like, but hey, it is Hween. After the wash, I hang them out on the line to dry. I am sure that got the neighbors talking.

Next up is the accessories. This is where creativity and ghetto comes into play. Our idea wears purple boots and gloves with yellow trim. We handled the boots by getting purple and yellow soccer socks. We rip the yellow socks up and tuck them into the purple socks. Did I mention that it’s fairly hard to find purple and yellow socks? That leads us to the gloves. The idea here was to go with dish washing gloves. After visiting many locations that one would think would sell such items, the closest thing I could find was pink. Ok, so this adds to the ghetto factor that we have all these competing shades of purple.

Now it’s Friday, the day of the party. T comes back from this thing she has-it’s called a job or work or something?-and she is suddenly brimming with ideas. One of which is to nix my hard sought pink gloves. She says she will get yellow gloves and tape them with purple duct tape. She also creates the ’belts’ out of the purple duct tape and yellow felt. Our characters also have these funky collar things going on-they’re too cool for capes or something. She whips those out of purple foam. She even comes up with a cape for our monkey that is part of the costume. I don’t know what the hell she had to come up with all of this, but I hope she has it again when she does my birthday shopping.

As I take a shower, a brilliant idea hits me. There is something about my creative bursts that happen in the bathroom. Most of my brilliant ideas hit me either in the shower or on the shitter. Which is far better than having them hit me on the shower or in the shitter. So there I am in the shower, singing Sinatra, when it hits me. “Fuck! I should have gone as myself!” Remember a while back when I was in the paper for the brewfest. I wrote a whole klog about it, and the picture is on MySpace. I just should have gone as me! Wear the same stuff I had on in the picture, and copy and blow up the picture and tape it to my shirt. No muss no fuss, and bitingly creative. I mean how many people can say they went as themselves for Hween. That would have been fucking cool. But it’s too late, as our costumes are done and ready. Fuck, another great idea, literally down the drain.

Now it’s time to put it all together. I discover that the dye we used apparently loosens the elastic in my pants, so we could have a situation here. Aside from my pants potentially falling off, it looks like I dropped a dump in them, they droop so low. I have to bunch them up in the back, and twist them into a ball that T puts a rubber band on. My nice purple pants….

The gloves go on next. They are taped purple with yellow fingers. They actually kinda look Iron Man-ish. The tape is tight, so getting them off and on quickly is not easy. Next, she runs tape around my stomach for the belt. As it turns out, this too, is a bit tight, which is of no help when drinking copious amounts of beer. At least that is my excuse, and I am sticking to it. We get everything all together, and it actually looks pretty damn good. We are confident that our idea is not very mainstream at all, but just on the edge enough that people will go “Shit! That’s a good idea!”. We will be the toast of the party, and win the prize for best costume. And it’s still ghetto enough that’s it’s funny and creative. This is the most confident I have felt wearing purple. And latex gloves.

So we arrive, do a last minute check over everything. I realize I forgot to stuff myself like I said I was going to. D’oh! We walk up and are greeted by the hostess who is dressed up like Slash. Good idea, minimal work, top hat, wig, shades, fake nose piercing, black vest over white shirt and inflatable guitar. I take the cooler around back to where some people are. OK, this is it, this is where we see if this is a hit or a miss. We made a critical error here. T always wants our costumes to ‘go together’, and we separated upon arrival. So me, just by myself might have lessened the impact. T gets the same reaction inside. Finally some people start to get it. But it’s not the hit I thought it was going to be.

As more people arrive, they come up to us and say Power Ranger. Uh, no, not close. The younger kids have no clue who we are. This is another factor I didn’t take into account. I was talking to a 26 year old, and he had no clue. Keep in mind, he was dressed as Senor Frog, and I have no fucking clue who the hell that is. But more and more kids of that age have to ask us. The older folks do get it, some get it right away, some work their way to it. No one wants to get stuck in a dud costume, and I don’t feel that way at all about ours. Not quite the homerun I expected, but I think we are clearly near the top for idea and execution. I guess we shoulda known when a Yahoo image search revealed less than 2 pages of out brilliant costume idea that this might be a bit of a stretch.

Just to paint the picture, and also as my yearly service to you, my 4 dear readers, is to tell you all the costumes I saw. So if you still have a party to go to, here are some ideas (good and lame) that I saw. The guy from Verizon (simple, black jacket with Verizon ID, phone, etc) and his fiancée dressed the same with a hard hat. Some guy came as Jose Cuervo-belt with bottles, sombrero, Mexican shirt. Another came as the guy from Dewar’s. I didn’t know there was a “guy” for Dewar’s, but he had a beret, flowing white shirt, kilt, shoulder strap with shot glasses, and was giving out shots of Dewar’s. OK, that’s points there. (Plus, he’s halfway to dressing up as Jamie from Mythbusters next year with the white shirt and beret. I wanted to go as the MythBusters a few years ago, but T nixed that idea. We would be Adam & Jamie. I wouldn’t even tart her out as Kari. In the outfit from the balloons flying a lawnchair myth. But I would highly suggest her to do so. Yum)

Another guy came dressed as a pirate captain and his wife came as a Coke can-Captain & coke. This couple always comes up with great couple ideas. Now, I’m not one for dressing up as corporate logos (yea, I’m looking at you Geico caveman), but these were good. Pregnancy was a big thing this year, too. A couple came as a soccer ball (the wife) and a player. She had a soccer ball design over her seemingly 11 month pregnant belly, while he has soccer jersey, shorts, shin guards and spikes on. I said she must not be a good goalie, because obviously he scored. OK, that’s an obvious joke, but funny after 8 beers. Another guy came in a big chef hat and an apron that said Bun Maker, while his wife was dressed as the oven.

Another couple came as a priest and nun, which I think is too obvious. Billy Ray Cyrus was there with Miley, even though I thought it would have been funnier if the dude was Miley’s older boyfriend. An Asian couple came as Dora and Diego. As in every election year, there was a McCain and Palin. That’s real simple with the McCain mask and a suit, but who dafuck wants to wear a suit on Hween? It helped that his wife did kinda look like Palin. Another couple came as the skaters from Blades of Glory. They had body suits on that had glitter and stuff on them. They both had wigs on. Never seeing the movie, I didn’t know who they were. The best part was they walked there dressed up in those costumes. A Las Vegas card dealer (complete with tables and cards, and I only lost $300)and waitress. I think that was it for the couple costumes. There were more couples who came in individual costumes; a zombie and a cat. And speaking of the cat, I think it’s time to retire this idea. There is no work to buy cat ears, draw a nose and whiskers on your face and wear all black. I say if you’re gonna do the cat thing, ya better be dressed as a slut.

More individual costumes; the host was dressed as a ghetto Gene Simmons. There was Moses, a drunk pregnant woman, Caesar salad (toga with salad stuff on it, and a headband made of croutons). Some guy with long hair came dressed as a Norwegian death metal fan or something similar. He had black and white make up on, studded wristbands, etc. I thought he was King Diamond. King Diamond would be a rocking costume, but I don’t think any of his 17 American fans were at the party last night. Of course, there’s always the one person who just writes up a sign and slaps it on for their ‘costume’. This year it was a girl who had ‘jeans $30, shoes $70, shirt $40 not having a Halloween costume priceless’ sign. Boorriingggg. And just a bit disrespectful of this great holiday. BTW, I am not paying $70 for shoes.

I was talking to one of the guys in a dark corner. We were both lamenting the lack of sexy costumes this year. “Yea, the sexy is turned way down this year,” he said. I then punched him for not ogling my wife in her costume. So he did. And then I punched him for ogling my wife. Yea, sometimes you just can’t win with me.

Beer pong soon followed. It was sparsely attended due to the cold temps. It didn’t affect me and my pink covered balls of steel. After clinking hands and looking for powers to activate, me and T won 2, then lost. I would later team with Senor Frog, who at this point I was calling Frogger, and we would lose. Dora came to life. After claiming to have never playing Pong, and getting blown out the first game, she kicked ass. Asian Diego was there for window dressing.

All in all, this was good, clean fun. We lost out to best costume to the Blades of Glory couple. Goddamn. I have to give credit where credit is due. These guys have come up with some great ideas over the years. This was the same couple that has come as Ric Flair and Elizabeth, Captain Stubing and Vicki and Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone. Fuck. I guess I see where this competitiveness comes to when it comes to Halloween. I think it’s all the guy’s idea. He always know how to slut out his wife. And I guess for this party, coming dressed as two dudes beats our hero idea. I carried a bucket around and T had a monkey on her back for this?

For me, this party had all the aura of Xmas Eve, New Year ’s Eve, etc. It was annual, a marker, a seasonal rite of passage, a harbinger that Halloween was/is right around the corner. Just looking around at the spiderweb lights hanging from the garage gave off that special edge, I just can’t describe it. I felt Halloween. Like a wave, I saw it coming. Somehow, amongst all the PVC hung ghosts, along with all these adults, costumed. Right along side the keg or the buffet table, it finally got to me. Amidst all these adults with varying degrees of costumes, it reached out to me. Yes, it has to burn and settle in my chest for a week. I only have a week left till I scare kids.

Man, how I relish in Hween, what a celebration of the macabre. As I take Bauer for his walks, I see the decorations creeping up. Gravestones, cotton spiderwebs, skeletons. I walked him past that fucking house one block up that kicks my ass Halloween night. They’re already building shit. They got dummies propped up, a tunnel constructed to lead kids to the backyard. They have such an edge over me. They got money and time to build-build!-all this shit, and the people to work scaring the kids. On the other hand, I don’t have the time or money to invest on upgrading my front lawn o’ scares. It’s been an exercise in self restraint to not buy Hween shit. T is a trooper and when we’re out she will ask me if I want to stop by a Hween shop. I grit my teeth and say no because I know my few scheckels need to go to mortgage, food, water, etc. It sucks, it really does.

From above, where irony would step in. As it turns out, we wouldn’t have even needed the dryer to make up our costumes. Yea, that’s a kick in the nuts, but at the same time, it still got me T dressed up as a sexy cop. Good Lord, she can arrest me any day. GGGRRRRRR

OK, so throughout this post, I have made many allusions to our costume. Rather masterful allusions, in my opinion. Now I want to know if anyone has figured out who we are. Much like Jigsaw, I have laid many clues. So please prove there are more than just me reading these posts, and post your best guess. I am reluctant to post my mug here, for many reasons, but I will post me in my costume. Until then, it’s up to you. Would you like to play a game?

Please be sure to check KevolutionTheory in a few days for bonus material I am far too lazy and drunk to post now. I promise it will be worth your while.

DVD Bonus features
Commentary
OK, so this was a classic case of starting out strong and just getting to be shit at the end. I mean, look at that ending. How lame. I apologize for putting you through that. Would you be surprised to know I was buzzogging pretty hardcore at the end there. I was torn because I was all full of inspiration and wanted to get this out in a timely manner. I added a new paragraph, added a gratitutious Kari pic. Added a new costume and tightened a few things up.

Deleted Scene
We were stuck as to where to find good purple stuff. T really looked at the pics we were able to find. She made a good discovery; apparently the previous people who thought of this used tights. OK, not exactly tights, but it’s more like ballerina type stuff. Yea, ballerina outfits. I really believe in this idea, so I say, go ahead and order them. We get them, and now I actually have to try this shit on. This is one of those “seemed like a good idea at the time” type of scenarios. T puts hers on and just laughs. I don’t know why, but I’m guessing that she knows I have to try mine on next. I swallow what’s left of my pride these days, and pull this tight purple ballerina top out of the bag. Christ, it even looks like it’s a panty hose package. So I put it on…..

Yea, it’s not a pretty scene. Some huge hairball stuffed into a purple spandex top. So it’s a chick’s top, and the chest comes really low. There is just no way this thing will work. Even T is laughing at me-at me-like a mental patient. I look in the mirror to see my hairy chest more than overflowing the neckline, my man boobs now a stretched shade of fay purple. Now, I have worn many, many questionable outfits over the years (neon, Zubaz, etc) and this just ain’t gonna work. It is enough to make me laugh, but it’s also enough to make us realize this isn’t the way to go. I try to find the sliver lining in this situation of trying on girls’ dance attire, but simply there is none. Just another memory I hope the booze will soon erase.

Unsolicited Praise

And isn't that the really best kind? There's nothing quite like hearing someone say they liked something you did. It's certainly not the kind I get from any of you jerkoffs. I write all these Klogs because they entertain me. Yea, I can say it; I make me laugh. I know when I'm up here in the office and I'm giggling like a mad scientist that I am writing something (in my opinion) is funny and entertaining. OK, and there are some klogs where it's just me spewing venom, but for the most part I do this for me, and am fortunate that through this miracle called the Internet that anybody anywhere in the world can read it. With like 14 gazillion sites to read on the 'Net, I ma flattered that handful of people read my stuff. I know a lot of my 'readers', but I hope there are a bunch of people I don't know that happen upon me.

I admit to sometimes getting caught up in the numbers. I will check my blog hits on MySpace and my hit counter here from time to time. Even though (I think ) I do this for me, it's still nice to know I am not another cretin on the Net who thinks his shit doesn't stink. I have to focus and write what I like and hope for the best. If no one ever read my stuff I would still be just as satisfied with it. OK, that's a blatant lie; I do want many people to read my stuff.

I know I haven't written much lately. Like everyone else, I do have real world stuff that I have to deal with. And writing for me is kind of weird. I generally can't sit down with a blank screen and come up with my usual brilliance and witty insight. I usually have an idea floating around in this otherwise empty head. I have a point, I have a general outline, I have some jokes and sometimes even a flow to the klog. I have to have the inspiration and also the time. There are times when I just know that it's "on" and I can klog my heart out. There are other maddening times when I try to force myself to write out an idea and just write utter shit. And you dear reader, certainly do not deserve any more utter shit than you already might have. Let some other internet cretin fulfill that need. There are many.

The time gods have conspired with the inspiration gods-and I hate when they do that-to prohibit me from writing anything good lately. I have plenty of ideas, just not the time or the mood to hack away. Halloween was last night, and I am working it out in my head, and hope to have it all funny-like in a few days. And that Hween post is not to be confused with the one I have to touch up from MySpace about the annual Hween party. (Lesson learned, yes, I can be too drunk to remember/write everything I planned to.) And I have another idea about how I will singlehandedly create world peace. OK, that last one is another blatant lie, but I'm trying not to sound too selfish. Yay world peace.

So it's ironic that I open up my email this morning and get a message from Helium. Helium is the site I post (cleaned up) versions of some of the stuff I write. I haven't put anything new up there for a month or so. I open it up, and it's an email from a guy who read my Hween post from last year, and liked it. (Search the Halloween tag to see the article he is referring to if you feel so inclined)

That is way fucking cool in my world.

To know I wrote something that a stranger agreed with and liked so much that he emailed me is a major kick in the pants. He says my "piece is put together nicely" (uh huh huh) and "moves well". He tells me he related to my experience and I did a nice job telling my tale.

It's ironic how these things sometimes work out. Right when I was in a funk and frustrated because I couldn't write anything decent, I get this from out of the blue. It's something I can bottle up for a while and use for inspiration. It's something I can use whenever I get around to writing the next few klogs. Although I do feel a bit more pressure for this year's Hween post knowing strangers might have expectations for it to live up to. But I guess that is kind of the point.....

As always, thanks for reading, and I hope to get some new klogs up here as soon as possible.

Housework

(Please read the commentary at the end)

You like peace. You like calm. You like watching sports. You like your house. You like half your stuff.

I think those are pretty good reasons for wanting to do some housework. But I have about 750 more words to kill here, so please let me elaborate. It’s only fair you do some of the house work. I recently conducted a very non scientific study, and my results told me that guys create most the messes. Sure, there might be very good reasons why those stale bag of chips and glass half full of something had been sitting on the end table for 3 days. But let’s try to avoid pesky things here like logic, common sense and the health department. Women are great with actually putting their dirty clothes in the hampers. Men sometimes seem to think the dirty socks go on the hamper till as such time there is need to put many dirty clothes in the hamper. I still argue that this does in fact count as cleaning up the floor.

Let’s get this out in the open. This is a man versus woman thing here. Fellas, we see this issue differently than the women. I am not saying it’s right or wrong, but it is in our inherent wiring. I have found out the hard way that there are 2 levels of clean. There is “guy clean”, whereby the male can survey the scene and declare that it is ‘clean’. And there is something else just called ‘clean’. The difference is hardly visible to the male eye. Thankfully, the female eye can point out the many instances of something not being clean enough.

Let’s look at something as simple as vacuuming. It’s a quite simple task. Turn on, run over floor and rugs until all debris is cleaned up. Pick up that annoying thread on the floor that won’t come up, then throw it on another section of the floor for another attempt. The floors are now “guy clean”. Resume bump-on- a- log formation on couch. But, no, you are not off the hook. She will walk in and say how you didn’t move any of the furniture around. You try to logic with her, saying, “But, honey, no one goes under the couch and the tables never move.” She will politely remind you that now “nothing is clean” and you better get to moving. Yea, I don’t get it either.

Another example is doing dishes. “Guy clean” is to take all the dirty dishes and throw them into the dishwasher. Never mind the fact you are never the one to actually turn the dish washer on or remove the dishes. Yes, yes, these seem like extraneous steps to me too, but apparently, this series of moves will actually reveal clean glasses. Wacky, I know.

Often, chores are a trap. She won’t tell you that, but I will. She lays the trap every Saturday and Sunday morning. Shortly after waking up, she will coolly ask you, “So what do you have planned to do today?” Here, she sets the trap, so be prepared. Right now, she wants to hear that you have a litany of housework to do. “Well, geez , honey, today I gotta dust, vacuum, pick up the dog poo (you earn bonus points for anything to do with poo), cut the lawn, blah blah, blah.” Honestly, after hitting her with the first 4 or 5, she will tune you out. She just wants to know that you are thinking of doing stuff around the house, too.

I have learned you have to give to get. If you are a football fan, I think you know what I am talking about. I will give up most of my Saturday to get Sunday ‘off’. If she sees me busting my butt around the house on Saturday, she is far less likely to give me any crap on Sunday. The fact that I totally mess up everything I just cleaned on Sunday is largely irrelevant. Besides, you always have to be sure you have something to do next.

Women are just turned on by guys doing house work. So it is to your benefit to make sure she sees you being Domestic Avenger. Make sure she’s around you when you’re fixing that light –i.e. changing the light bulb. You better be in view when fixing the smoke alarm –i.e. replacing the battery. Be sure to be seen walking through the house with a hammer and tape measure from time to time. Disappear into the garage and hammer the wall for all I care. The point is, she will be turned on just by the mere thought you are doing something manly. Be prepared if she does ask you what you are doing, though. It helps to talk the talk. The proper placement of pronouns and a curse word can work wonders here. For example saying something like, “I’m fixing those doors” or “I’m fixing that window” is pure gold.

A simple way to avoid confrontations is to clearly assign who is to do what. For example, when we moved into this house, she said I would do the vacuuming and dusting. Seems simple enough. However, the lesson I learned here is to prepare for the future. In my case, we got a yellow Lab shortly thereafter. In case you don’t know, they shed like no one’s business, and apparently all our rugs act as Velcro for the hair. I kind of hosed myself there. I often wonder if she had that figured out all along.

Sometimes when you split the duties there is still more work involved. Take doing the laundry for existence. Were you shocked to find out she separated the colors from the whites, too? Every time I do her wash with mine, I get a list of what can go in the dryer and what has to air dry. Another lesson I can pass along to you guys; never under any circumstances put their underwear in the dryer. Heaven forbid a pair of undies shrink, then it’s red alert to the “am I getting fat” discussion. There are no winners when that happens.

Hype yourself up. Are you taking out the trash? Not if she doesn’t know about it. Make sure you tell her everything you are doing. “Hey, honey, do you have anything to throw out? I’m taking out the trash?” “I gotta run to the market, can I pick anything up for you?”

Don’t forget chores to do outside as well. You want to be high profile here. Cut the lawn, shovel, trim the bushes. You can put this stuff in the bank for later. She might see you peacefully sitting on the couch, watching the big State game when she goes off on some tangent. She sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown. Here, you can say, “Hey, I was outside painting all day! Just ask the neighbors.”

It is to everyone’s benefit that you pick up the slack around the house. Sometimes it really is something as simple as taking out a full bag of trash. Other times, it gets more complex. Regardless, you share the place, so you should care for the place.

So in conclusion, there are far too many benefits not to do your share. If you are not slick, you will suffer. And suffer. And suffer. If you are slick, you can get your happily ever after.

DVD Bonus Material
Commentary
Right, so you're thinking what the hell got me to write something like this? And where are all the dirty words. So I was perusing the writers website I joined (Helium) and I was going through their contest topics. (They have weekly contests in a variety of topics. hardly ever do they have anything in the humor category.) I saw they had one topic like "why men should share with the housework. I feel one of my stronger areas is males vs females, so I felt this was an easy one and got all inspired to write. I checked out a few of the leading articles, and they all had a certain-if small-does of humor. And if that namby-pamby humor would work, surely something as edgy as mine would go over huge. So this is an example of me writing "clean". Kind of like an every day observational type thing. And I really do think this is funny for not using words like cocksucker.

I used another trick to help me. I immediately divide my readers into men vs women. I directly appeal to all my brothers. It's consciously written for a guy to read, and hopefully understand (and laugh and vote me to the top). And yes, it is humor driven. I tried to chop it down a bit, but it still runs at 3 pages, where most articles are barely a full page. I made one critical error, and had something screwy with it that really killed a strong joke. It was in this passage:
The proper placement of pronouns and a curse word can work wonders here. For example saying something like, “I’m fixing those doors” or “I’m fixing that window” is pure gold.
The first error is the use of the word "pronoun" I just put that it to correct it later. Words like 'this', 'that' are actually articles. I left in the wrong word. And the screwy thing that happened is that the site actually edited out the word . WdaF? So now you read that punchline as "I'm fixing those doors" or "I'm fixing that window". Fuck, talk about killing a strong joke. And I admit the ending was a bit weak, but it was a compromise.

My brilliant piece of literary wisdom ended up 40th out of 53 articles. I really didn't think it would sink that far. And I guess mostly women read the site and decided to take a shit all over me. Fucking ho-was. Anyway, I just forced myself to read the winning article. It was written by someone who claims to be a guy and married, but his name is "Pierre" so make any wild assertations you will. While it too was 3 pages long, man o man, did it sound like afternoon talk show puke. If this is what passes for "talent", I will never be a writer.

But I am more thankful that you have spent the time to read this and the reasoning behind it. That means more to me than those dunderheads over at Helium. I won't stop writing for them when the topic is right. And I expect more basement dwelling in the contests, but that's OK. Now if you will excuse me, I have to get my wife to do the goddamn dishes, clean the fucking bathroom and cut the fucking lawn.

Jury Duty

So I go through the mail one day to find it. I have gotten this before, once or twice. But it’s never pleasant to get it again. A summons. Thankfully, not to appear as defendant, but rather my presence is being requested to be a juror. Sure, you know the rigmarole by now, jury of your peers. Seriously, there is no idiot that is idiot enough to be my peers. Trust me, you don’t want to walk into no court and see 12 me’s being a jury. I will throw your guilty ass in the chair, yes, just for speeding.

The dreaded day comes along when you have to call the number to see if you are one of the lucky few. Now, I have been down this road before, and have managed to successfully dodge the bullet. Guess what. I did again this year.

OK, you all know me enough to call bullshit on that. Would I really write a Klog about not going to jury duty? No, of course not. Fuck, it’s my turn to go. So now, come Monday, instead of looking for a job and trying to be a productive member of society, I am being asked to judge productive members of society. And if you’ve never been to court, the prospect can be kinda scary. Even though I have been to court, this is no less unsettling. Many moons ago, we busted some kid stealing from my Sam Goody. Punkass contested, so a court date was set, and I got to go. I showed and the cop showed. Punkass FTA’d (cop slang for failure to appear). Hell, even the judge didn’t bother to show. It was just us in a small, undaunting empty court room. I was so tempted to jump up to the bench and just bag the gavel, but the officer advised against it.

And I know real court is not like the plethora of judge shows that dot the weekday TV schedule. Seriously, when you are an unemployed louse, and just sit around all day in your filth and squalor, watching TV and drinking 40’s and watching TV, it seems like there’s 50 damn judge shows on. People I never even heard of are there in robes, presiding over cases. I sit in my own robe over a case of Natty Light.

Monday comes-as it always does, ya know-and I dutifully arrive to the court house at the set upon time. I bring a bag with me that has far too many magazines and books for me to read in one day. But that’s ADD for you; an hour with Maxim, an hour with Uncle John’s Bathroom reader, etc. Before you go into the jury marshalling room, they scan the card they sent you. About 10 people in front of me is a woman, who has the card for tomorrow. Yup, she’s there on the wrong day. Do you want this motard to judge you? We all snicker behind her, then hurriedly check our cards to make sure we haven’t made the same dunderheaded mistake. I guess about 200 or so of us are now ‘marshalled’ into this big room.

A very polite woman gives us instruction as to what we can expect to happen during the course of the day. She then introduces a real judge. He thanks us for doing our duty, and explains the importance of having us there. And he cracks jokes. It’s a very good pep talk, the guy is very sincere, and his jokes aren’t half bad. OK, so now we’re all set. To wait…….

We don’t have to stay in this room. You can wander about the hall, or there is a lounge at the end of the hall with vending machines. The polite woman informs us that there is no WiFi, but you can get a cable to hook into the net out in the lounge. So right away, all the techno-nerds and work do-gooders get their cable and go to the lounge. The only way you can get on line is if you put your laptop on a shelf that is in the wall. Instantly, it’s full of people who suddenly resemble working in cubicles. Lemmings.

I had debated bringing mine in, and doing some klogging while I was there, but I’m glad I didn’t. Aside from the cable fiasco, I have a few, and just a few, pirated tracks on here, not to mention I am sure some porno some how slipped in. I would go from juror to defendant pretty damn quick. The polite woman also asked for cell phones to be muted, so it’s not long before you hear phones going off. That should be a surefire way to get appointed to a jury if you ask me. I mean, let’s make life easy here.

We know there are 2 cases scheduled for today. The judge told us the longer we are not picked, the better off the case has been decided without the need for a jury. Let’s face it, everyone is pulling for early dismissal like we’re in third grade. But we just sit. I use this opportunity to finish a book (about the history of jokes, who keeps working for you, baby?). Motards go outside in the hallway to loudly talk into their cell phone. There was this one yahoo that was so fricking loud, that I actually got up and closed the door so we didn’t have to hear his babble. I heard some people whisper “thanks”.

As I continue to write in stream of consciousness, I realize I left out a key point. The night before, we made tacos that were pretty damn hot. So all day Monday, I had terrible gas pains. I mean suddenly running to the men’s room because I really thought I was going to shit myself. My ass got a workout because I was clinching so much, lest I crack a rat out loud. Every time I would shift in my seat, I would feel some bubble conjure up in my stomach. I would try to time it somehow so that when I went to the men’s room, it was clear so I could gas away. A few times I went on the bowl just in case there was any “collateral damage”.

So after I Finished Maxim, I felt myself getting drowsy. I could fell my eyes closing, my head drooping. The polite lady takes the podium and says, “OK, we’re selecting a jury.” O shit! “We’ll call random juror numbers. If we call yours, please step outside to the hallway.” She even calls this bad bingo. All the juror numbers she calls are in random order, so you never feel off the hook, and she has to call 40 of us.

I realize now that a jury myth has been busted. I believe we’ve all head the theories about how not to get picked. Don’t shower, don’t comb your hair. Read books like The Anarchist Cookbook or The Satanic Bible. Read magazines like High Times, Oui or Cracked. Hell, even I will admit to toying with the idea of breaking out the old knee brace and crutches and feigning ‘hardship’. Now I am glad I didn’t, and you shouldn’t think about it either.

I dodge that bullet, I don’t get called. I am awake now after this close brush with juryness. Not too soon after, we get to go to lunch. I wander down to the courthouse ‘café’. An irony of this whole situation hits me. Uncle Sam will give me nine whole dollars for performing this vital duty today, plus mileage. Lunch is one Italian hoagie, a bottle of grape juice (the closest thing to wine I can find) and 2 soft pretzels. Total cost for lunch; 7.15. Now throw in gas and tolls, and I still lost money. Jesus, I just can’t catch a break here.

But lunch is actually quite good. I have the best damn Italian hoagie I have ever had in a courthouse. I break out another Maxim and start reading. An older gentleman, who isn’t wearing a juror badge sits at the table right next to me. I can only assume he is a lawyer, or someone who performs some vitally important civic duty. I am reading an article about how to give it to your girl rough. Yea…..

We re-assemble to the room. I proudly finish a Maxim and get halfway into the next. Soon, the polite woman returns, and says we are off the hook. You’ve never seen a previously well behaved bunch of citizens become an unruly rush to get the hell outta there. You have to get your card scanned out, so motards rush right up and wait in line whilst the smartest among us just wait out the storm.

So now I am off the hook for the next 3 years. Maybe you won’t be so lucky. And if you aren’t so lucky, and you do get called, I hope you think of this and it makes your life easier. And, o yea, you better find me innocent.

Political Signs

I don’t care who you vote for. Really. I could care less. And you shouldn’t care less who I vote for. You can vote for McCain. You can for Obama. You can vote for a purple M&M or Miss February, really, I could care less. What I don’t get is these pinheads that dot their yard with political signs.

Call me old fashioned, but I really don’t think stuff like this should be very public. For me, neither guy blows me away. The very limited research I’ve done on both show me that neither share my political beliefs very much.

Sure enough as I walk Bauer, I see these signs up on people’s yards, and I just don’t get it. I just don’t care who you vote for. I am happy you feel so inclined as to broadcast it to the rest of the neighborhood, but really, what do those signs do? Some of ‘em are even specific. “Women for McCain”. “Drunken Irish for O’Bama” Stupid Mc’s.

Some people get into voting for the state representatives, congress, house, etc. Cripes, I am not that up on local politics to even know who to vote for. I shouldn’t be knocking these folks for being politically aware, I’m just saying no one else really cares, or should care.
It’s funny how most of the varied signs in a yard are pretty much all for one party. I think that’s being kind of blind. Just because this guy happens to be in your party of choice doesn’t automatically make him/her the best choice for the job. You don’t see very many Obama signs in the same yard as Republican signs.

I often think of creating my own bullshit signs to put up in my yard. Stuff like
I don’t freaking care who you vote for
If I vote for this guy, will you, too? Can we start a club?
I’m voting for ___________
Obama? Mc Cain? I’m voting for both

As we get closer to November, we’ll see more and more of these signs. They serve no real purpose; they shouldn’t sway anyone to vote for one over the other. Personally, if I see a bunch of signs spring up for one guy on the block, I am automatically gonna vote for the other guy. My neighbors are idiots. Those signs can work against the candidate if you think about it. If you see the town idiot has his yard covered in so and so’s signs, can you really vote for him? “Well, look, hon, Crazy Old Earl is voting McCain. Guess we’ll vote for Obama now.”

It’s an interesting campaign for sure. Either way history will be made; either a black guy is president of a woman will be VP. (I would be lax to not point out that 24 had both a black president and woman president.) Personally, I think McCain has it in the bag. I think Obama is the flashy choice, and I’m sure he has some good ideas. He seems to appeal to the younger voters. But I really think middle America will have trouble voting for a black guy. They might say they will, but once that curtain is closed, they’re voting McCain. I think the biggest knock against Obama is his damn name. Barack Obama. What the fuck is that. I mean, you have all the ideals that the voting public would want, and look like Whitey McWhitey, but when you have a name like Barack, it’s a bit hard to swallow. Although check me on this, but I believe in Hebrew Barack might mean William? I am not sure about that. I think if his name was like Joe Smith, or Tom Miller, people would have a much easier time voting for him. Having a last name that rhymes with Osama clearly doesn’t help either.

And what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t offer an idea? Here’s a better idea for your signs. Instead of just blindly plunking down a McCain sign, how about explaining why you are voting for so and so.
I’m voting Mc Cain because ____________
Obama’s my man because _____________
Now that’s far better PR for your guy than just his name, right?

If either of these pinheads wanted to sway me in the sign department, they would print up signs like “McCain is a douchebag”. Now something like that would turn heads. “Obama is a Muslim and all Muslims hate America”. Gimme something that edgy.

I think there is a large contingent of Americans who just aren’t happy with either choice. I mean, both take in millions and millions of dollars from international corporations and special interest groups. The rich don’t want to see anything change. The middle class is absolutely desperate these days, and neither will properly serve us. It’s all about big money. So here’s another one of my patented Brilliant Ideas. I am going to create sign for those of us disenfranchised with both guys. Signs like:
Seriously, is this the best we could do?
Do over
None of the above.
I don’t like either
I know anybody but Bush, but c’mon here…..

Speaking of ‘none of the above’ I did hear a theory one time. When you go to vote, there should be a ‘none of the above’ switch. You still vote, but you don’t vote for either guy. I think that’s brilliant. Although, this would have to be an option right after the primaries. Could you imagine the chaos if on election night, the winner was ‘none of the above’ by a landslide? It would be anarchy. Dogs and cats living together. True chaos.

With the debates starting tonight, this will only get worse. While I have watched them in the past, it really gets to be 4th grade recess. “Well, my opponent says this, but I…..” “Tommy thinks the sky is green, but I think its fuchsia.” OK, maybe that’s not a great analogy, but I was just looking for a way to squeeze “fuchsia” into a political post. Done and done.

The ironic part is I am pretty much doing the same thing. Instead of my dog poop infested front yard, I am hanging my “sign” up in my cyberyard for all the world to see. The difference is there are no names on my sign. And I am no different than any of my neighbors. And just what the fuck do I know anyway? I’m just some unemployed yahoo in sweatpants and a 15 year old Bon Jovi shirt spouting off.



DVD Bonus Material
Alternate Opening
So they say the 2 things you shouldn’t talk about are sex and politics. Maybe religion is thrown in there, too. I find some inspiration in talking about ‘taboo’ topics. Other bloggers can drone on and on about Lindsay Lohan and whatnot, but occasionally I do like (to try) to write ‘think’ pieces. I do have certain experience about the whole ‘not talking about sex & politics’ thing, though. Many, many years ago, I was on a first date with a girl; some NFL cheerleader or such (hey, it’s my story). Despite my best efforts to the contrary, the conversation went to politics. Now, I know as much as politics as the lamp over there, but I’m half as bright. She says, “I’m a Republican. I mean, I’ve blown a few Democrats and all. But I mostly fuck Republican. I’ve never had an Independent yet, though. I wonder what I would do… Probably something I’ve never done before.” That was the year I voted for Perot and got 5th base.

Deleted Scenes
This is the time of year when I get political emails. I get them from guys who usually send me porn; evil, dirty, nasty porn. I’m inclined to open their stuff first. Instead of seeing some girl getting a Dirty Sanchez, it’s a political clip or link to something on YouTube. What a fricking disappointment. That’s deceptive, and it pisses me off every time when I expect to get something good and get some hype or commercial. So, dudes, my message to you: send me porn, but keep your fucking politics to yourself.

Wisdom

Originally written on 3/22/7, my birthday

The closer you live to a train crossing, the more likely you are to hit a train every fucking time by

Dogs can pretty much eat anything. Sure they might puke it back out in a few hours, or poop strange colors for days, but, still, technically, they can chow anything

While some grey has crept into my scruff over the years, I have found exactly one grey hair in my head, which I promptly pulled the sumbitch right out

All those kids I mock at the mall for dressing different and wearing the t-shirt of the band of the week were me 19 years ago

The older you get, the harder it is to have true enthusiasm

The older you get, the easier you become jaded

The Olympics are a waste of time and money. (Quick, name me 5 famous American Olympians. And saying the 1980 hockey team doesn’t count) Congrats, you trained all your life to win a gold medal in the three man luge. Now go back to greeting the white trash at the Walmart in Bumhicksville. The Special Olympics mean far more to those athletes

If Christina Applegate ever met me, she would totally fall for me. In a minute

It’s my experience that 95% of people don’t realize all they have and are ever truly grateful for it. Seriously, take a day, walk around your place, and be thankful for all in your life. Somewhere out there is a homeless vet who did more for this country than I ever did, and has less

I fucking had this look long before Nickelback, damn it

One of the things wrong with this country is that it’s gone the way of the few. If 4 jackoffs have a problem with something, well, then we have to change everything around

Whenever you can, support the little guy

After 21, there pretty much aren’t any big birthdays left

Rarely does the beer taste as sweet as the cheap beer you used to get wasted on when you were 15

If you really want to think “green” and save the planet, the solution is simple. Don’t have kids. All these fucktards that drive their 4 kids to lacrosse practice in a big ass SUV with Planet Earth bumper stickers on it are hypocrites

The coolest car in the history of TV is KITT from Knight Rider. One day I hope to be rich enough to buy it. Second place; Speed Buggy

Summer is the best season off all. And if you disagree, you’re a motard. Buffalo knows what I’m talking about

NASCAR hasn’t been the same without Dale Earnhardt

The best think to drink before going to bed after a night of drinking is Gatorade

The best thing to eat before going to bed is some cottage cheese and then peanut butter. You will have vivid dreams the first few weeks

No matter how bummed out I get, I just need a few hours looking at the bay or ocean to be a new man. For a few hours anyway

People who park in handicapped spots, even just to “run in”, are true scum of the earth

If there is a God, and he’s Buddha, we’re all pretty screwed

You shouldn’t live to work, you should work to live. When I hurt my knee a while back, I noticed I became more grumpy when all the things I liked to do were taken away from me.

I don’t write near enough

The decision makers at the top of big companies are rarely in touch enough with the real world to see the true impact

If you ever had anyone write a song about you, well, that is awesome

I try not to have regrets, but I do regret not going away to college, and I do regret never learning to play an instrument

You don’t spend enough time with your dog. Ever

Life should be the relentless pursuit of a good time. That’s my motto, and I try to stick to it

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, try to have a good time. It might not make sense in certain situations, but at least give it a try

Getting older means peeing in the middle of the night. Sometimes more than once

Added Commentary
This was written on my birthday last year. I can see I was in a reflective mood. I can see how some of these one liners have pretty much been themes in later klogs. I can vouch that a lot of the "getting older" ones are still too Goddamned true. I still eat cottage cheese and peanut butter before bed most nights, but the dreams have long since stopped. How ironic that line about the decisions made by the head honchos of all these corporations are rarely in tough with the real world. That's even more true today. Call me Kreskin. I am also guessing that this was a clearinghouse post. I had all these ideas floating around my head, but they weren't fully developed enough to merit their own post. Lately, it's been hard for me to hold to that relentless pursuit motto. I have learned now that it takes money. And I have failed miserably at that 'whatever you're doing have a good time' thing. And I know I am still so right about Christina falling for me....

Klog

Originally written 3/2/2007

OK, I admit; as I type this, it’s “filler”. You know, like most cuts on, say, a Sony or EMI cd. But it has potential to be deserving of being called a good post. As I type, I have one general idea/theme to get across, and that’s it. One hook with a few elaborations. And it might turn into a bit of a declaration. So let’s see where I ramble on-

Longtime readers –and by that, I mean people who have been reading the Miss for months or years, as opposed to those dimwits who might take 4 hours to read a 10 minute newsletter-will know my disdain for the word “blog”. Blog is just a nasty sound word. It sounds like a synonym for phlem. “Man, I don’t know what my problem is, I’ve been hacking up blogs all damn day” Blog sounds like it’s a yellow/green viscous mix mucus that has stink lines emanating from it. Blogosphere, blogging-all that stuff just sounds ugly & nasty. I would much rather ‘write ‘ about something than ‘blog’ about it. First of all, there’s like a million fucking ‘bloggers’ out there. Lord knows if anyone reads what the hell they’re ‘blogging’ about. Bloggers sound like bitter techno nerds who sit in the basement and deconstruct Stargate episodes or Futurama DVDs. But not me. I’d rather ‘write’, even if I do fall into the very same category of “who the hell reads me”. That’s OK, I know a few folks who I have some things in common with drop in from time to time. I guess after all, it’s just about getting a thought out, and not about how many people may have read it. Though I do admit I do get stoked when people read the message board (notice I didn’t say “blog’). I get jazzed when I see the occasional reply as well.

I have now found a way to get around this ‘blog’ situation. I have to give credit to someone who does kinda the same thing, and his first initial is P, so he christened in the “plog”. Using that formula, I now christen this the Klog. It works on 2 levels. 1) it puts my name into the title, and this is all about me and 2) klog is just a misspelling of clog, which is funny because I can say I am klogging your head with my shit. Get it?

With putting a title to this, I see it’s time to give it some definition. Trying to come up with a way to nicely file it in a box is difficult. I will try to say what I do, by telling you what I won’t do.

I won’t prattle on and on about my kids. I won’t blather on and on about how my little junior is the most precious thing in the world, and is so advanced for his age, and so smart, he changed the oil in the car. I say this with a some point of reference. Years ago I worked with someone who I personally deemed a bit of a character. Her work ethic seemed fairly solid, but there was always a better-than-you attitude that went along with it. She was very judgmental yet trendy. If you didn’t agree with her thoughts than you were obviously a retard, and not deserving of the air she could fart out. She was quick to cut you down based on what you wore, yet she looked like a salvage store gone wrong. I remember she would always bust on my shoes. Ok, that’s fair game. I cop to having zero fashion sense. And I cop to having big feet-and you know what they say about guys with big feet. Anywhoo, I do have big boats, so trying to find something fashionable in a size 12 or 13 is pretty fricking impossible. You might as well just give me two shoeboxes and laces, and tell me to lace the boxes up. True I can get dressed in the dark, because most of my stuff is black, including sneakers. I think they make my feet look less boatish. And for some reason, large size flip flops are far easier to find, so there is an actual reason to wearing flips. But she would mock me, while wearing these hideous boots that Broom Hilda wouldn’t wear. But that’s OK. I saw that she built her esteem up by knocking others. I can take it. There sure must have been no mirrors in her house though.

She goes off on her own way. And she gets pregnant. She starts a not “metal” at all site, blogging about her first devil spawn. Posts follow about how this baby can shit gold, solve pi, and name all the presidents of Uruguay on site alone. How fast was that descent from smarter than thou to mushy mom? Face it toots, no one wants to hear it. Even more so with your second kid.

Concurrent with the above-and yes, I am getting to the point here-I know someone else who started a website named after his kid, and it’s more picture and video of said rugrat. While I am certain having kids is a joyous occasion, that ain’t gonna be me, and I see no need to play the “I’m a great parent” card, or bore you with another freeloader that you don’t give a rat’s ass about. I mean, really, if I wanted to do that, I would have started BauerTheMissilePup.com, and told you all about his every yelp. But I didn’t. So the point here is that I won’t prattle on about issues of that sort. Got it? But the other day, Bauer did the cutest thing….

The aim of the klog will be to have some discussion outside our music biz. I use this to talk about other things that just don’t fit the print newsletter. It will be full of relevant, cultural references. And you should feel free to comment. Consider this the first in a very occasional series of posts about what the klog isn’t. And if I can do that by cutting down people, hey, that sure makes me feel better. So look for more posts on this topic as I can this of the angle. Thanks for reading, consider yourself Klogged.

Added commentary

Just for shits & giggles, I checked out the 'blog' I referenced above that isn't so 'metal'. God, what a bunch of puke. She apparently writes every day about boring shit. She got her haircut. it rained over the weekend. It's not even fucking entertaining. It's bullshit like that that makes me want to write more compelling, edgy shit. Not everyday fucking tripe with no point. I would love to see what she looks like these days. I can't tell, since the site is nothing but 500 pictures of her offspring.

I, on the other hand, am kinda proud that I've written on different topics, with the point mostly being trying to make you laugh. I ain't here to waste your time.

Since I klogged this, it seems every motard has a blog. Overall, I think it's a good thing. I think writing can be a release, an outlet. I am still flattered whenever anyone says they read my stuff. They might say it sucked, but I am still flattered none the less. From my own POV, it's been a release valve for sure this last year plus. You know how challenging it is to make depression and rampant alcoholism funny? Excuse me as I end this commentary because I need a fresh drink....

Concert Review: Quiet Riot

Originally written 4/23/ 2007

I need to state up top, I had absolutely no desire for this to happen. I am not proud, nor happy about this. But there is more to the story.

It was time to head back on the road to frigid Wilkes Barre, PA. We had booked Taking Back Sunday to do a signing, so I came in for the first of my 2 nights stay to the infamous Woodlands. The people at the front desk know me by now from previous visits (or just recognized my AmEx card). The girl at the counter says “O, are you here for the Quiet Riot concert tomorrow?” “Uh, no, I am here to cover the TBS signing, they’re a much hipper band these days.” I had known that QR was playing the hotel going up.

A radio station up there booked a ballroom in the hotel for their ‘birthday party’. Now, I don’t know much about this ‘classic rock’ station, but I’m willing to say that they don’t play QR songs more than 10 times a year. The station gave out free tickets to the show. It was quite a big to-do at the hotel. When I came back at about 6, they were already cordoning off the parking lot. They expected so many people to come to this shindig, they had off site parking at the racetrack down the street, and shuttles between.

Yes, for a Quiet freaking Riot show.

I had made plans with a former Gallery employee Kevin to do something that night. I was hoping that Kev would take me to the Slovak club, where the beers are like 75 cents. Now that’s my idea of a good time. I’m in my room for a bit, my cell goes off, and it’s Kevin saying,”Hey, you at the Woods?” “Duh, yea. Where we going tonight?” “Well, we’re coming to you. Me and a friend are coming to the show. We’re gonna hang out till it’s a bitch to get a beer.” “Um, OK, I’ll meet ya there.”

The die was cast. I was going to see Quiet Riot. But only to see a friend.

We meet up in the ballroom. We were strategically positioned by the door so we could get a load of the people that a free QR show would draw. And we weren’t disappointed. Plenty of NASCAR stuff (and for the record, I have to state that I coincidentally had an Earnhardt shirt on). We saw lots of mullet-type do’s, though not one strict mullet per say. We saw a few guys with the cap or do rag covering a bit of the party-in –the-rear-hair. I saw one dude in a denim jacket, long ponytail, carrying a QR LP wrapped in plastic.

Now, let’s take a look at that guy. Probably square dude, just got off working Radio Shack. But, let’s zero in on the vinyl LP. This begs some questions. 1) How long has he had said vinyl? 2) is he a true QR fan, or someone who just happened to have a QR LP hanging around and decided to try to get it signed? I would be curious to know.

It seemed to me that a lot of people were a bit nervous about being there. A lot of people seemed to be looking around, hoping not to see someone they know at the big Quiet Riot shew. I didn’t have to worry about that, since the only 2 people I knew in Wilkes Barre were already with me. Other people clearly embraced it. I saw one young kid-had to be like 22-23. He had on a 1984 QR jersey with the black sleeves cut off. He had on the Mike Reno/Loverboy red headband, too. I mean, c’mon, that was a joke right? There were a train of girls all done up in 80’s garb. Sadly, no frilly boots, though. And surprisingly, not enough animal print. I only saw one zebra print. I saw a few girls who dragged out all their 80’s garb they had in the closet for the last 25 years. Between you and me, most of that should have stayed in the closet. To quote the Rock, it was 10 pounds of monkey crap in a 5 pound bag.

There was a lot of people watching going on. Hell, there was a lot to see. But I really got the idea, it was people looking around, hoping not to be noticed at the big Quiet Riot show. They had 2 stages going on in the ballroom, so there was always music blaring. To be honest, some of the cover bands were actually pretty good. It’s getting past 11, time for the Riot to take the stage. They come out teasing Mama Weer All Crazey Now. And immediately go into a song I never heard of. Followed by another one. And another one. And another one. Lead singer Kevin Dubrow now sports a mid 80’s Rod Stewart do, complete with the hair in the back sticking up. It’s him, the original drummer, and 2 ‘other guys’ who I am sure don’t get paid squat.

They band was on the stage furthest away from us. And it’s funny how pretty much all the people between us and the stage could have cared less. I guess there were Wilkes Barre High reunions going on all over the place. It was just a mass of people hanging out; they weren’t even paying the band that much attention. I guess there were diehards at the front of the stage; I don’t know, I couldn’t see. It was becoming clear that the band was losing the crowd. Kevin and I said how they better slip in Weer All Crazy right about here to get the crowd back. Sure enough, that’s what they did. Then it was right back to the litany of songs no one ever heard. Dubrow made numerous mentions of their new CD Rehab, and played a lot of songs from it.

So it’s going on an hour now, and still no signs of Metal Health or Cum On Feel the Noize. Poor Kevin and his friend Jimmy had had enough, and decided to pack it in. They left. And I realized that I am now at a Quiet Riot show.

In the year 2007.

And I am by myself.

At this point, a decision had to be made. Clearly, I wasn’t going to see anyone I knew there. And we had been there for hours. I was thisclose to getting the 2 songs everyone came for. So do I now pack it in, or stay for the finale? I decided that I might as well stay for the money songs. Now you would think that irony would have the band play the 2 songs right after Kev and Jimmy left. But guess what? Not! They still had more songs to play. This was getting ridiculous. Finally, they get to Metal Health. Then Cum On. During Cum On, they went into a medley of another song I never heard. That was it. That was my cue to end the evening.

Ya kinda gotta feel for bands like QR. Clearly, there time has passed, and I think they know they aren’t musically relevant, and are never going to get another top 10 album. And here’s a band that has 3 popular songs (OK, 4 if you want to count Slick Back Cadillac) and 2 of those songs are covers. By the same damn band (Slade). In a way, I do admire them for playing on. What else are they supposed to do? It beats digging graves or washing houses. They still get to see the world, and live a bit of that old life now and then. Sure, it’s not as glamorous as it used to be. For this show, they had to take a red eye from CA to Jersey, and then get driven to the hotel. It seems like they are still making a living playing music.

But I really feel for them. Probably they close the show every night with those same 2 songs, which aren’t even theirs. I am sure the radio station doesn’t even play those songs too much. And then they play these new tunes that probably 95% of the crowd could care less for. I told Kevin I would admire them if they just got up, played those 3 songs and said good night.

The next morning, I was checking out, and the girl behind the counter kinda whispers to me “Did you go to the show?” Reluctantly, I nodded yes, and said it was just to people watch.

Added Commentary

How ironic this was my last visit to Wilkes Barre and my beloved Woodlands hotel. I had many, many drunken nights there. I still miss WB. All the people I met up there were cool, and it’s a pretty cool town. I think about those Gallery of Sound stores often. Truly one of the coolest indie stores left.

DuBrow died a few months after this show. The Riot has been Quieted. I still trade emails with Kevin from time to time. He’s moved on from Gallery to FEMA. He should be used to working in shitty conditions after working record retail so long.