Robo-Pirate vs. The Beer gut!

Update!

2009-05-07T12:07:00.002-05:00

Since the last post, I am now down to just under 36", and the ol' beer gut's circumference has been that way for about five weeks now.

After three months of mostly walking, I added some jogging and light weights (my apartment complex's gym is low-rent and smelly, but all I need are some dumbells). Mostly, I do a lot of reps with the little barbells (depending on what it is, between 5 and 15 pounders), and since I used to be a butterflyer, I have been doing short sets of butterfly motions using 5-pound plates for resistance. I think the key for me has been not taking any rest between sets.

Basically, after jogging for about 45 minutes or so around the neighborhood, I come back and do shoulder and tricep exercises and bicep curls in sets of 12 reps (or 24 if I can only do one arm at a time). It seems to be working; all told, I think I've lost over 20 pounds.

Here's a vegetable for you.

2009-02-24T10:49:00.002-06:00

I've broken 38". Now 37" is the number to beat. I've been eating a lot of celery instead of entire boxes of crackers.

38

2009-02-17T14:39:00.001-06:00

maintaining.

WEIGHT LOSS!

2009-02-12T10:01:00.000-06:00

I broke 38"! Per Molly's suggestion, I've even eaten a vegetable here and there.

Weight loss vs. Annihilation Time

2009-02-03T10:09:00.002-06:00

My stomach is in the process of changing its official policy on alcohol, or at least carbonation. I haven't had a soda since mid-December, but beers and soda water (the stuff that goes on top of whiskey) seem to make me queasy. I had three beers over about four hours last night at the Annihilation Time show, and me no feel too hot this morning.

Who knows. Maybe I'm done drinking; we'll see if this helps me lose weight.

Weight loss vs. superbowl

2009-02-02T11:18:00.001-06:00

I've barely eaten meat over the past two weeks, so the deer sausage I ate yesterday really packed a wallop on my stomach. Oh well.

Weight loss vs. beer

2009-01-27T10:07:00.002-06:00

Had to do some "research" for a column about TCU kids and bars. Got way too much "information."

Oops.

Ramblin' Man

2009-01-26T10:26:00.002-06:00

Came into some extra cash, so I ended up buying a Nano, and I went on a nice two-album walk yesterday. Of course, it was in the 60s, so it made the walk a lot more pleasant.

38" and holding. THere's a Jack Johnson song the lyrics of which insist that "losing hope is easy." While that might be true, losing weight is not easy at all, partly because of the way the human body works, and partly because laziness is a tough hill to overcome.

Aw crap

2009-01-21T09:45:00.002-06:00

Well, anyway, I'm maintaining 38" of gut. I tried jogging sans music yesterday, and I just couldn't focus on it and gave up. Guess I'll buy an iPod nano. Of course, getting my iPod stolen was a drag anyway, but it held sentimental value to me, too. Now it's an even greater inconvenience. I have this time to exercise, but I am having a rough time doing it. Oh well. At least I haven't eaten any garbage, and I did get in a couple hours of walking when I played frisbee golf on Monday afternoon.

WEIGHT LOSS DISPATCH #1

2009-01-13T09:55:00.002-06:00

Well, it's the New Year, and I've already lost an inch. Back to the high fiber diet, which is really just a lot of beans. I would say that my dietary staples are toasted peanut butter sandwiches andRanch Style black beans. I was doing pretty well with walking, but then someone recently stole my iPod. I know I walked just fine for 26 years or so without one, but walking deliberately to meet an end goal eventually (within the second outing) becomes a chore. I need the distraction. In any case, I'll keep you posted with my progress.

R.I.P. Bettie Page

2008-12-12T14:08:00.001-06:00

And a bunch of chicks in Austin, L.A. and Sacramento wept...

Miss Page was 85.

My personal hell...

2008-12-10T15:06:00.002-06:00

May include the sound of people being paged by the speakerphones.

BVOOOOO!

For ever and ever.

Seriously, even.

2008-12-10T13:28:00.003-06:00

Dear This Serious Person I see every day,

I will do my utmost to keep any joke, remark, comment, non sequitur, jest, aside, fun or frivolity to myself. It's obvious that you think I'm a jackass, so I'll stay out of your way.

seriously,

Steve

My Draft of This Week's Last Call

2008-12-03T13:49:00.003-06:00

So anyway, I occasionally write Last Call, the FW Weekly's nightlife column, which means I go to bars and make them sound different and presumably interesting. Since I mostly drop into dives, and dives are mostly similar, it's kind of a challenge, but it's one of my favorite things to do. Of course, About half the time, my draft gets significantly... altered, and a lot of times the spirit of my comments gets lost in translation. As such, I present to you my original draft for the column that comes out in today's paper.

LAST CALL
The Buggy Wheel

It’s official. According to the National Bureau of Economic Research, we’re in a recession. “Finally!” says I. After all, we’ve only been talking about it for a year. Now we can at long last heave a big sigh of depression and blow the head off the top of our beers. Seriously—if there is business that stays, uh, busy regardless of the economic climate, it’s the booze biz. Or the beer biz, anyway, if you happen to own the Buggy Wheel. Situated along the Jacksboro Highway where the fabled road blows through Sansom Park, the Buggy Wheel is a “beer-and-wine-bar,” where you can watch a game, shoot some pool or knock back bottles of Schlitz for a mere $1.75.

When you walk inside the Buggy Wheel, it’s a little bit like walking into a roadside bric-a-brac emporium. In other words, there’s a lot of tenuously-related junk on the walls, including a framed-and-autographed picture of the Temptations. My research team (comprised entirely by Lifters’ bassist, Cliff Wright) postulated that perhaps the Temptations photo was a gift following a performance, given the slightly elevated part of the room that appeared to be a stage. Anything’s possible after all, especially in a bar where you can ostensibly bring your toddler, at least until 5 pm (it says as much on a posted sign). Unless, of course, you want to order liquor, which is actually not possible. Well, you can order it, but you won’t get it from the Buggy Wheel.

I’d run into the phenomenon of the “beer-and-wine-bar” before in Longview, when my band played a particularly bizarre gig at a place called Benny’s. When I ordered my usual double whiskey soda, the bartender icily rasped that Benny’s was beer and wine only, but that I could go down the block, buy my own whiskey and she would sell me the soda. Obviously, I was baffled, especially when they told me I could take my drinks out to the parking lot. Everything was backwards, from the booze rules to the teenage metalcore band burning our ears from the stage (which also featured a robed, plastic skeleton identified by paper signage as “The Previous Comedian”). I just figured that Longview is in the Twilight Zone (along with Temple and every gas-pump-and-a-stoplight town along I-10), and did as the Romans. So when I made the same mistake at the Buggy Wheel, I surmised that Sansom Park exists in yet another pocket between science and superstition, especially given that its neighbor bar, The Wrangler, had the same alcohol policy.

The Buggy Wheel might inhabit the Fifth Dimension (as vast as space, as timeless as infinity and where Bud Light is inexplicably cheaper than Schlitz), but it is not without its charms. Did I mention the cheap Schlitz? Not only is it cheap, but at this bar, it is delightfully devoid of irony. And while the service was initially as cool as the beer, I chalk that up to personal gaffes: first, ordering booze when none was for sale, then attempting to open a tab when cards aren’t accepted and finally having to run down the block to an ATM, leaving Cliff to temporarily fend for himself. Once I stopped being an awkward tourist, the bartender was a little friendlier.

While the Jacksboro Highway’s days of secretive poker rooms and gangland power struggles are long gone, there are a slew of hidden dives to be found in between the used car lots and sagging apartment buildings. Stay tuned for more reports from the field, when the Last Call Team tackles The Wrangler’s Sunday evening country jam.

The Buggy Wheel
5704 Jacksboro Hwy
Fort Worth, TX 76114
(817) 378-8545

It's official

2008-11-23T13:27:00.001-06:00

I've been up for an hour and thirteen minutes, and I have already looked at everything that is interesting on the internet.

I guess just put it in the Goodwill box with the other old toys.

So anyway

2008-11-14T14:11:00.002-06:00

I had a bad start to the week. Had a bad dream about Jackie that really sent me in a tailspin. I don't normally put too much stock in dreams, and I didn't in this one either, but when I awakened, I felt sick to my stomach. It just made me think of a million mistakes and wrong priorities I made when we were together, and that combination made for a really dismal Tuesday.

But I'm okay now. Not great, but well, who really is? Alexander was, I guess, or so his title would suggest. King Cyrus of Persia, also. But they're long dead, so they don't really count. In any case, I'm in a better mood. I'm really glad it's Friday.

I just called the cops

2008-11-12T19:14:00.002-06:00

I mean honestly, if you're going to scream and slap each other in an apartment complex hallway, what do you think is going to happen? That the rest of the complex can't hear you carrying on?

Steve

Maybe it's because it's the end of the day.

2008-11-11T16:37:00.001-06:00

I feel a little better.

But I still wish I could move right away.

I wish

2008-11-11T08:35:00.001-06:00

I could move today.

Bad Dreams Lead to Introspection, Finds Area Man

2008-11-11T01:55:00.004-06:00

I am:

without a car

overweight

depressed

anxious

having bad dreams

not performing

learning to play "Jump in the Fire"

Spending too much time in my head

unproductive

making crappy artwork

unappreciative

frustrated

feeling so lonesome surrounded by friends*

(but jokes aside, I'm pretty lonely)

self-medicating

foolishly coiffed

getting insufficient sleep

uncertain

full of regret

embarrassed that I'm writing this in a public forum, but aware that I need to air it to someone, and that it might as well be anyone and everyone

overly nostalgic

lackluster

disappointing

disappointed

unsatisfied

Steve

*this is a NOFX lyric, proving that despite other things, I have not lost my sense of humor.

Good job, Democrats.

2008-11-05T17:01:00.000-06:00

Now don't fuck this up. Don't make me regret my decision.

Steve

I wrote this a few weeks ago and forgot to post it. Here it is, in posted form.

2008-10-29T16:48:00.002-05:00

"You can't choose your circumstances," she said, "but you can choose how you react to them."

That's sort of paraphrasing, but she said it in response to my tirade about how the bad guys stay on top, God doesn't really help and wah wah wah I have to fix my van again. It's really changed my outlook, and lo and behold, there is a silver lining if you don't get pissy and forget to look for it. And as it turns out, I've got a goal to look work toward and tons of opportunities to make it happen.

So there.

Steve

p.s.

If you view Some Kind of Monster, A Year in the Life of Metallica, and Cliff 'Em All in that order, and it's a little bit like watching the Star Wars saga in the order of episodes IV-VI and then III-I, focusing on Darth Vader, except if episodes I, II and III weren't frustratingly lame.

Read the following and that comparison will make more sense.*

Watching the Metallica docs in reverse order gives you the following portraits:

Some Kind of Monster: Metallica in 2002-03, when they've pissed off each other, pissed on their fans and saddled with the hassles of making their worst album. Worse, they unintentionally portray themselves as the sort of out-of-touch rockstars on which their collective 20-year-old selves would levy withering and palpably demoralizing contempt. By the time you watch Cliff 'Em All, you'll wish for the power to travel time for no other reason than to journey back to 1983, kidnap Cliff Burton and whisk him forward twenty years to whip Lars' ass while he's watching his Basquiat get auctioned for $3 million at Christie's. To wit: they have a "fan appreciation day," as if they are the fucking Oakland A's. Lars sells art while sipping champagne. James goes to rehab, and cuts their days short so for family time. I can’t necessarily fault him for this, and frankly, it is nice to see him come to grips with what is really important to himself. On the other hand, you kinda wish they’d just hung it up. I bought their “comeback” album, and while it’s pretty good, I wouldn’t say that it’s necessary—in fact, what it inspired me to do is listen to Kill ‘Em All a lot more, and consider that …And Justice For All is a good album after all. So you see a band losing its way and sort of finding it, but not really. If that doesn’t sound tragic enough, SKOM also features plenty of shots of Bob Rock, their longtime (since the black album) Canadian producer and human diaperwipe/ballsucking music industry cliché. With his layered Jennifer-Aniston-bob, pirate earrings and mid-life crisis paunch, he looks like an old lesbian. But way worse than both of those elements are the therapy sessions. To the tune of $40K a month, the band talks about their feelings with a Cosby-sweater-wearing psychologist whose last name is Towle, which probably rhymes with "coal" but which I will forever pronounce like the thing you wipe your hands on after you use the toilet.** Hearing James Hetfield say he's "not comfortable" with something is like hearing a baby talk about the death of an ancient civilization. It's mind-boggling and amazing in a really unsettling way.

A Year in the Life of Metallica: Metallica in 1991-92, when they are recording their berzillion-selling self-titled album (if you are unfamiliar with this album--and how has your stay on the Moon been, by the way--it's the one with "Enter Sandman" on it, which you've probably heard as bumper music between turnovers at an NBA game) with--guess who--Bob Rock. Here, his hair is longer but just as lame (it's ponytailed, for starters) and his name-dropping is alternately astonishing (D.O.A! The Subhumans! How did that happen?!) and embarrassingly believable (Loverboy, Motley Crue). Metallica are at the top of their game and on the cusp of going from enviably rich and successful to rich and successful on a Croesian level. The second half (or tape, if you got this when it was released way back when on VHS) is the supporting tour, where they still seem to be all about the fans and all about hanging around in towels backstage after concerts, which is at least as weird and surprising as it sounds. But if you were a teenager in the early '90s, you'll probably remember exactly how you felt the first time you saw the video for "Unforgiven," or "Sad But True": that these guys were totally badass and didn't take shit from anyone, and that in a past life, James Hetfield might have slain Conan the Barbarian. In other words, this is Metallica at the height of their power. Say what you want about the Black Album, but they were totally at their peak. And then the next fourteen years with Bob Rock happened. With the exception of the videos for "Whiskey in the Jar" and* "St. Anger," I can't think of a single Metallica moment that was even on the same continent as awesome.** Year in the Life gives you a good indication of the kind of douchebag Lars would become a decade later. He holds up recording sessions with long showers. He whips around Hollywood in a Porsche. He pokes holes in his snare heads when he gets mad. In other words, he’s kind of a real prick. Way worse, but also way more interesting, is when the band hassle sJason Newsted, deceased bassist Cliff Burton’s replacement. In SKOM, he’s been fired/quit and is sorta bitter-but-not-really about it, and he kind of mentions how he was always picked on in the band, never welcome, blah blah blah. When you see the band throwing pies at him and making what appear to be good-naturedly snippy remarks, it’s obvious that there wasn’t a lot of good nature in them at all.

Metallica in 1981-84, when they had Dave Mustaine for a little while and Cliff Burton for a little while longer. Apart from a show in a smallish club opening for a band called Raven, there is little indication that even in their nascence, Metallica were ever a small band. Young band, sure, but never a small band. James and Kirk play flying Vs (until the Master of Puppets era, when Kirk switched to cheesy Jacksons and James to some kind of ESP modeled after Gibson Explorers), James has yet to sling his axe down by his knees, and you get a inkling about what the band would have become had Cliff survived their tragic bus accident in 1986. They’re confident, they have tour buses, but they’re not assholes. No one drives a Porsche. They seem to subsist on Coors Light and Grolsch and while they’re kinda sloppy, they’re lean and hungry to conquer the world. Dave Mustaine looks weird playing with them, and you’re glad he got booted. And Cliff Burton. Jesus God, he is amazing. When wanky bassists wax poetic about Victor Wooten, Stanley Clarke and Jaco, if they neglect to mention Cliff Burton, they’re betraying their ignorance. Watching him play in the band makes you think about the hole left with his untimely demise, and while Metallica might not have gotten to be the “biggest metal band in the world,” they would probably have remained one of the best. While Cliffemall is kind of a scrapbook with not enough Cliff Burton, it’s still a must see if you’ve seen SKOM, because you realize that James and Lars were not always a couple of dickweeds fractured by fame and haunted by the ghost of a great friend and amazing bassist.

Steve

p.p.s.

I recently watched Get Thrashed, about the birth of thrash metal, and it has plenty more of the Metallica of eld, plus plenty of Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth. Oh, and a bunch of other bands that might not have been as good, but were at least as crazy. I remember some older dudes in high school who cut school on a Friday to go to an Exodus show in San Francisco, and the following Monday, they looked as if they had had a transcendental experience. Apparently, it really was that gnarly, and the documentary confirms what those guys were talking about.

* Maybe.

**No, I don't pronounce "Towle" as "pants." Or "hair."
***Okay, I thought of one. Robert Trujillo is at least a better bass player and suitable replacement for Jason Newsted, and at best, he is a serviceable replacement for Cliff Burton.

Fuck yeah.

2008-10-27T13:32:00.000-05:00

Dear Red States...

We've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and
we're taking the other Blue States with us.

In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon , Washington ,
Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We
believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to
the people of the new country of New California .

To sum up briefly: You get Texas , Oklahoma and all the slave states.

We get stem cell research and the best beaches.
We get Elliot Spitzer. You get Ken Lay.
We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood.
We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom.
We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.
We get 85 percent of America's venture capital and entrepreneurs. You
get Alabama .
We get two-thirds of the tax revenue, you get to make the red states
pay their fair share.

Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the
Christian Coalition's, we get a bunch of happy families. You get a
bunch of single moms.

Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war,
and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If
you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids
they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and
they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's
caskets
coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq , and hope that the WMDs
turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's
Quagmire.

With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent
of the country's fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple
and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 percent of
America's quality wines (you can serve French wines at state
dinners), 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech
industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods,
sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and Seven Sister schools, plus Cal,
Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.

With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88
percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care
costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the
tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern
Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh,
Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.

We get Hollywood and Yosemite , thank you. Additionally, 38 percent
of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a
whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the
death penalty or gun laws, 44 percent say that evolution is only a
theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11 and 61 percent
of you crazy bastards believe you are people with higher morals then
we lefties.

By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt
weed they grow in Mexico.

Peace out,

Blue States

What does pay it forward mean, anyway?

2008-10-19T20:32:00.001-05:00

Seriously, some please explain it to me.

Last night, I paid a musician money out of my own pocket because she did her best to promoter her performance, she drew the most people and she was nowhere near meeting our overhead requirements for bands to get paid. Why else did I pay her? Well, for starters, she had to take off work in order to play her slot, and as such, she now has her budget compromised. And I've been in situations where Darth Vato brings a certain amount of people and then gets paid a fraction of what our draw merited, and I know how much that blows.

But here's the thing:

Because I paid her (and one of the other bands, who came from out of town), I basically ended up working for free last night.

Never mind that I will probably have to buy an alternator this week.

Never mind that I am trying save money.

Never mind that I will probably have to buy a new car.

I guess that makes me a nice guy, right--a paladin among promoters. A guy who puts himself in someone else's shoes, who puts other people first, even if it means personal inconvenience. Someone who really cares.

Well, that would all be true if I had opened my wallet with a kind heart. But I didn't. I wanted to say, "Yeah, it sucks not getting paid when you did your part to get people in the door. It sucks to get put on a difficult bill. Sometimes it sucks to be a musician. You know what you should do? BE SOMETHING ELSE." I wanted to tell her that you either have a solid back up plan or you learn to eat shit if you want to make your living from making art. I wanted to tell her tough fucking luck.

But I didn't. I didn't tell her any of those things, and she was grateful and thanked me and I appreciated it, and I felt like a total jerk for having those feelings. At the same time, I felt like a chump, because why does she get paid and I don't? I am supposed to collect 10% from the door, yet somehow, I ended up paying 5%. She made $30 for strumming a guitar for 50 minutes. I made zero for standing behind a bar for 5 hours.

And after being mad about feeling like a chump, I felt bad for getting mad. So what if I lost $50 last night--I have other avenues of income, soI don't need that extra money. And sometimes it sucks to be a bartender or a promoter or an astronaut or whatever and not make any money. You know what I should do?

BE SOMETHING ELSE.

I'm trying man, I'm trying.

Meh

2008-10-19T04:54:00.003-05:00

That's how this weekend has been.

On Friday evening, I fell asleep watching Darkon, a documentary about people who deal with the doldrums of regular life by dressing up as fantasy characters and whacking each other with padded swords. At 1:30 am I woke up. I guess it didn't matter--I'm still without wheels, so it's not like I could've gone out anyway. I'll walk 3 miles to the bar for work, but I just can't bring myself to do it for fun. I ended up doing some "artwork." Pretty crappy, but whatever. At least I'm drawing again.

Today (or yesterday, if you want to get technical), I slept in until 11 or so, and I walked to the Texaco to drop off my keys so the van could get looked at again. On Monday, I had the shop look at it. "It needs a new battery," said Ruben the mechanic. "We can't get it until Friday." I asked if I could just go get a battery and change it out myself, and he said that would be fine. So that's what I did. And the battery solved the problem of the van not starting. Unfortunately, upon starting, the engine basically screamed, denoting another, more serious problem. It was so loud, I couldn't walk in front of the engine to see if anything looked abnormal, like if there was something stuck in it like a cat or a demon or some bullshit. Since there weren't any guts or whatever demons have inside of them leaking onto the pavement, , there is obviously some kind of mechanical baloney going on. My dad suggested it's the starter, and then he suggested it might mean the alternator needs new bearings. Both of these sound like reasonable diagnoses, especially since I know exactly fuck-all (look! Britishness!) about cars, though through these three vans, I have learned about what a few dire noises mean.

Anyway, after that walk, I walked some more to Blockbuster to return Forgetting Sarah Marshall and then to Tom Thumb to get shampoo. While I was there, I picked up a corn dog and some fried potato wedges. Then I walked home, stopping at WalGreens for a redbull and instead buying a box of crackers and an US Weekly because the cover sought to convince me that Jenny McCarthy cured her son of austism. I know that magazine is for 30-something women and all, but when someone claims to do the impossible and makes the claim in the pages of the magazine, I feel compelled to buy said publication whether it's The Economist or People or fuck, even Highlights. If Highlights had an article where Goofus and Gallant built an electric car or did something more amazing than washing their hands before dinner, I would have no choice but to buy it. Of course, now I have an unread US Weekly on my counter. I also do not have any shampoo, as I totally forgot to buy it. Potato wedges are nothing if not distracting. They are also nothing if not delicious.

Following my mostly unsuccessful shopping trip, I had a couple beers in the sun with my friend and colleague Danielle, who has been nice enough to haul me to and from work for the past couple weeks on account of my lack of transportation. I owe her big time; I had to take a cab on Friday, and while the cabdriver B.O. was free, the ride wasn't--a trip to work cost $17.25, which really meant $20 because I am a softy. If you don't believe me, just ask the bands who played tonight at the Moon; despite not even making our overhead, they still got $25 per band. Out of my pocket. I'm about to stop booking the bar because I am now losing money--because it was slow and I felt bad for the bands not making any cash, I basically worked for free tonight. I joke occasionally about being a recreational bartender, but tonight it wasn't all that funny. Recreational bartending is a blast provided you make a net profit. Oh well. Live and don't learn.

It is now 5:15, and I guess I'm tired enought to lie in bed and wait for the sun to come up. Hopefully Sunday will stretch itself out.

Borrowing from Galatians 6:7 for my own, self-pitying purposes.

2008-10-07T09:18:00.002-05:00

"Do not be deceived; God is not mocked."

But I sure am!

The joke is getting funnier by the minute.

Just tired

2008-09-28T23:02:00.001-05:00

tired
I'm tired of not being able to get ahead.

I'm tired of feeling guilty for complaining when others are worse off than I.

I'm tired of working my ass off for a band and getting nothing but broken vans and broken relationships for my effort.

I'm tired of the universe rewarding sloth and pissing on effort.

I'm tired of the bad guys getting bailed out.

I'm tired of being whiny.

I'm tired of feeling bad for being whiny.

I'm tired of being fat.

I'm tired of being alone.

I'm tired of being aimless.

I'm tired of being tired.

Things I did this weekend

2008-09-22T15:58:00.005-05:00

1. Watched Junior graduate from basic training. Fraternal pride bursting to seams

2. Saw a glimpse of a possible, personal future: gray-haired, cul-de-sac'd,
mustachioed, paunchy dude scribbling an entry into a personal journal at the airport Chili's at O'Hare.

3. Played a show at a new club, tried out my Danelectro DC 3 bass

4. Drank waaaaaaay too much whiskey, to the point where I was later foiled in an
attempt to cut pork chops at Ol' South.

5. Watched Some Kind of Monster; left with a feeling of pathos for James Hetfield that conflicted directly with my flabbergastment that these guys used to be the toughest, fastest, leanest band from my childhood and teenage years, and now they sell Basquiats and talk about feelings to a guy who wears Cosby sweaters. And furthermore, one of the most awkward things to watch in a rock documentary is when they show the frontman writing lyrics and recording vocals. For whatever reason, this totally takes away from the magic and power of recorded music, at least where a rock album is concerned. I guess watching some R&B guy do a vocal take isn't that big a deal, but when you see a guy who normally looks like a Hell's Angel working hard on rhyming shitty couplets about anger and then spitting them into a microphone while clad in an Aloha shirt and flip flops, it's worse than finding out how a magic trick works. Or getting excited about Six Flags and then going there.

6. Spent Sunday morning hungover, later played a '74 jazz bass, which was totally
awesome.

7. Watched the following: Super High Me (decent), two episodes of Firefly ("Out of Gas" and "Ariel") and Crumb (ugh. But totally fascinating)

8. Left dishes on the living room floor, ate entire box of Wheat Thins.

Jon Ward

2008-09-14T11:59:00.000-05:00

Please pray for my friend Jon. His cancer has returned, and he is back to where he started. Tumor is back to its original size despite three rounds of chemo.

Here are some updates. And parentheses.

2008-08-26T13:41:00.004-05:00

Not a lot of flash here, but the handful of you who still read this might be interested to know that:

I'm single again. This time for good (and yes, I know that's what was said the last time, but this time, there's, like, apartment transfers and such). It was mutual, and there are no hard feelings. Perhaps one or two soft, possibly fragile feelings, but no hard ones. I do, however, miss Paxi terribly. Paxi is her dog, and I love(d) him as if he were a son.

My bills have gone up considerably, which means I'm very grateful to have my job(s), even when it (they) bothers(r--fuck it) me. I will, however, be working more at the bar (two or three nights a week now) in order to meet the somewhat aggressive savings goals I've set for myself.

My brother seems to be doing well at basic training, though he has remarked to my mom that (implicitly relative to him) there are a lot of immature people there. Which would suggest to me that he is undergoing basic with a division of infants. But in any case, I am relieved and I pray for him every time I think about praying.

The band continues to fight the good fight, booking shows, trying to get the new album up on iTunes (why is it that major label bands have trouble keeping their songs from being put on iTunes early, while nobodies like we are can't get our record up for download on time or, now, two weeks late? Wait, never mind), and searching for the exact right balance of booze and execution.

To that point, here's a graph:I've been journaling a lot, though not where anyone can read it. In general, it helps me remember things that happen, because there are lots of things I forget, like, for example, that I intend to write things every day, seeing as how entries are often a week or so apart. It's good at reminding me of my various adequacies and inadequacies.

The Fort Worth Weekly thing is fun, mostly, though my editor often translates my submissions into Dudebro, sometimes resulting in adjudicated intentions and ruined jokes. But, like Homer's idea of what a pelican should say when being used as a cement mixer, "it's a living."

I'm also trying to get a D&D game going.* For reals, even. At 30 years old. Having never played it before. What? Is that weird? I drive a van, too. And I ate a whole can of bean dip with Wheat Thins the other night. I know, I know. I'm quite the catch. I'd love to meet your beautiful daughter, too, but right now I'm just not in a good place.

Steve

*This is hopefully to charge my imagination with fantastic inspiration. Plus, honestly, it sounds fun.

I Think My Older Brother Used to Listen to Lagwagon

2008-08-19T10:00:00.003-05:00

Well, obviously, I haven't kept up with US H20 Polo like I wanted to. The Men's Team are in the medal round, they got a bye, and I believe they face off against the winner of Spain v. Serbia.

But more importantly, NOFX is playing the Democratic National Convention! Winter of 1994 Steve doesn't know how he feels about this. On the one hand, NOFX is his new favorite band (they're so funny! Not like those grouchy Bad Religion guys), but they're playing for the Democrats? Like, for the Clintons? Summer of 2008 Steve, however, thinks this is pretty awesome, though he wonders if Fat Mike will tone down the cocaine references. He's just guessing, but he doesn't hold out hope. Rich guy hubris usually trumps having enough sense to keep one's mouth closed for the greater good.

Also, Lagwagon's new album has the best title ever:

I Think My Older Brother Used to Listen to Lagwagon.

It sums up how I felt the last time I went to the Warped Tour.

Steve

Better get your heads in the game, guys.

2008-08-12T12:52:00.001-05:00

You do have to play Serbia tomorrow. A 12-11 slide over Italy makes me a little nervous.

Incidentally, how about that Michael Phelps!

USA! USA! USA!

2008-08-10T13:26:00.002-05:00

US Men's Water Polo beats China 8-4!

Yep. Getting my four-year water polo fix.

A conversation, as I would have liked to have had it

2008-08-08T10:56:00.004-05:00

"Hey, Steve."

"Hey."

"What's your day look like today?"

"Well, right now, I'm trying to get through this song by Sahg. They're a melodic Swedish death metal band. Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it?"

"Maybe?"

"What do you need?"

"Have you made any progress on that interview draft?"

"You mean the thing I tried to tell you about yesterday in the meeting, but didn't get to because you were talking and talking?"

"Maybe..."

"I'm totally on it."

Last Call 073008 Original Draft

2008-07-29T15:15:00.000-05:00

Ever heard that saying about how little man really knows about the ocean? You know, how he supposedly knows more about space than he does of the ocean’s deepest, darkest depths? Well that’s sort of how I feel about the Mid-Cities. I honestly think I know more about Los Angeles and its surrounding environs than I do about the mysterious suburbs northeast of the Fort. Once, a long time ago, I referred to them out of frustration as three large growths metastasized around the main artery between Fort Worth and the airport, choked and throbbing with chain restaurants, sports bars and about 8,000 clogged onramps. So I sought to better understand these enigmatic wastes and unlock their potentially beautiful secrets, in this case, three legendary dives, The Starlite Lounge, the Den and Volcano’s.

My previous drinking experiences in the Mid-Cities involve two house-parties about twelve years apart, and at both of them, I was so hammered I could have been hanging out in the fields of Mars for all I knew. But I did find people to drink with, which meant that there must be places to get drinks other than some dudes’ refrigerator. I got in the Erin Gray (my van, repurposed here for the purpose of research and exploration) and set out at 9:30 for Volcano’s. At 10:30, I still had not found it. I’d like to point out that my disorientation was not the fault of the bar’s. I’m just terrible with directions. But, I reasoned, these places aren’t that big, so maybe if I just exit somewhere, I’ll bump into it eventually. This succeeded about as well as you’d think, and my next thought was, Jesus, did that sign just say “Colleyville?!”

At this point, I was desperate for a beer, and finally, I saw some green neon. I exited, parked, and, encouraged by the sound of “Stranglehold,” wandered into Papa G’s Sports Bar. Now, I generally don’t like sports bars, but what with the aforementioned desperation and all, I swallowed my inner snob and bellied up for a Pacifico. The joint was packed, but I felt totally out of place, so I downed my beer and returned to my quest. At 11:30, I was on the right track, though I was beginning to feel as if I had entered the eerie, evil weirdness of Stephen King’s The Wastelands. But low-and-behold, there, across from the Bell Helicopter plant lie The Starlite Lounge. And it looked pretty divey, though it smelled like Chinese food, probably on account of the fact that it serves Chinese food. Anyway, I was confronted with a heretofore unknown (and probably apocryphal) fact: HEB bars often have gambling facilities. There was a poker game going on, and some slot machines, and from the juke came a cover of “Viva Las Vegas.” Not quite what I expected, but whatever. I finished my beer and headed to the The Den.

Now, since The Den is on Industrial Parkway, I had to make a decision to either look for it or give up and go to a strip club. But I soldiered on, to my eventual disappointment. If the Starlite Lounge was not quite my cup of tea, The Den was like a glass of motor oil. Or marbles. There. Was. Karaoke. And in between the “performers,” there was… Nickelback. Of course, the song was “Rock Star,” broken up into snatches of bumper music, and the entire bar was knowingly signing along. I was the proverbial square peg at Papa G’s, but at the Den, well, I was a guy who doesn’t like Garth Brooks and Nickleback in a place where they are revered as gods.

I never did find Volcano’s, though I hear that it is more up my alley. And to be fair, all the folks in those other bars were having a blast. If you’re into poker and karaoke, you know where to go. For me, I’ll let the Lost Dives of the Mid-Cities stay that way.

They do no such thing!

2008-07-25T15:23:00.004-05:00

From a Craigslist' Musicians post:

"I'm a lead guitarist in a metal (all kinds, death, black, thrash etc.) band
called Tears Bring Fire..."

TEARS BRING FIRE?

I had no idea! In my experience, tears have brought sympathy, embarrassment, pathos, derision, comedy, commiseration, joy, schadenfreude, capitulation and of course, sodium chloride, but obviously, I have really underestimated their carrying and delivery capacity.

I submit that tears might also bring:

trouble

nothing to the table

enough for everyone

paper plates and napkins

famine

blanket-borne smallpox

presents

their gameboys

their A-game

their purses

snacks

a world of pain

solid fundamentals

a message of peace

about a paradigm shift

a change of clothes

invasive, foreign fauna

way too much luggage for three days

the wrong maps

their own dice but no Monster Manuals

your ex along, much to your chagrin

it on

the dead to life

me flowers

the wrong cables

up who she's sleeping with now

that one guy who's totally sketchy

you Chuck Liddell vs. Tito Ortiz plus $2-wells and $4-Jagerbombs!

an end to the suffering, at least

--Steve

Sure it's funny, unless it's your van driving over the manure.

2008-07-25T14:31:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, while driving over the quaint, authentic, old-timey bricks of Exchange Boulevard, I had to slow to a crawl because I was cut off.

By a man riding a horse.

I fucking hate the stockyards.

Dubious accuracy, but hey, I'll take it.

2008-07-14T12:01:00.003-05:00

My mom's scale claims that I am maintaining 186. Shortly thereafter, I ate tri-tip. And a baked potato. And some more tri-tip. Whoops!

Tour diet sucks. Especially when your tour takes you to Hermosa Beach and you are surrounded by people who exercise constantly.

Steve

3 servings of vegetables!

2008-07-10T18:32:00.002-05:00

Well, this is gross, but one fun facet of touring is being backed up a lot. I'm sure it's the anxiety of being in new places, and that it has nothing to do with eating hamburgers for a week. Coffee and cigarettes occasionally break the "log jams," but I've taken to drinking V-8. According to the bottle, it constitutes 3 servings of vegetables. It turns out that you can also put vodka in it, which makes it health and fun!

Steve

The tour goes well. But not the diet.

2008-07-07T05:33:00.002-05:00

Ugh. Ate a Big Mac. That's what, a whole cube of butter? Tour food sucks. However, tour art wins big. Stay tuned for my piece entitled Eric's Leg, Covered in Pictures of Dicks.

What? It's a surrealist piece.

Steve

Who steals sweaty t-shirts?!

2008-07-04T10:37:00.002-05:00

So last night, Darth Vato played our kick-off show for our West Coast Tour (Tour of Doody is the tentative name). It was a thousand degrees in the bar, so I took off my shirt (as I am wont to do) after the second song because it was drenched in sweat. I tossed it near the snarl of cables dangling from my bass head. And somehow, someone got back there while we were playing, got on stage and snaked my sweat-soaked Me-Thinks t-shirt. This was the first time I wore it. And let me tell you, I am pissed. You see, the Me-Thinks are my favorite band. Their frontman is a very good friend of mine, and when they come out with a new shirt, I am super-stoked (this means I have been super-stoked twice). And even though all their larges sold out, I was able to squeeze into a medium without totally making the ol' beer gut look like a third trimester. And some fucker stole it. What a load of crap. I hope that guy gets diarrhea.

Oh and also, if you've ever been in a 7-11 and contemptuously wondered who on earth eats those taquitos that have been rotating all day, well, you've obviously never been drunk and in need of an afterparty-powerup booze sponge. I will concede, however, that 7-11 drunkfood is pretty low-rent. I guess I have very little shame.

Steve

p.s.
Despite my best efforts, I am still at 37" around the gut. And by best I mean worst.

Ceterus Parabus?

2008-07-03T07:56:00.002-05:00

I think that means something different. All things being equal, THE GUT has returned to a size of 37" across the navel. Bet you didn't think you have to imagine my navel did you? But anyway, that's the smallest I got it to when I was working out and eating right at the beginning of the year. As the prior posts show, I have not been as diligent about doing time in the gym as I should be, and I've still had the late-night Shitaburgers and beer blasts. So who knows. We'll check it out in a couple weeks. I'd bring the tape measure with me on tour, but that sounds kinda gay.

Steve

What do you put in a vegan kids meal anyway,? (Answer below)

2008-07-02T11:22:00.005-05:00

I've talked about the Spiral Diner, Fort Worth's award-winning vegan restaurant before, and our tour departure date looms near, I've got fast-food on the brain. While we are planning on bringing a small tailgating grill with us, I'd be kidding myself if I said we're not going to eat any fast-food. When you're driving on several interstates for two weeks and visiting places you've never been to, eating Crap in the Box is pretty much unavoidable. And while Caca Bell apparently has this new "Fresco Menu," our options for eating somewhat healthily are limited, at least while we're driving between tour stops. If only there were a chain of vegan fast-food joints! I say vegan, because you can still have fatty food that doesn't have meat in it. Unfortunately, I have a hard time imagining that a chain like that would survive very long in America.

What do you guys think?

Answer: Hemp sanctimony!

The uphill struggle

2008-07-01T14:59:00.002-05:00

I figured out that I really don't spend a lot of leisure time in bars--when I'm in one, I'm either playing with my band or slinging drinks. Unfortunately, both of these endeavors facilitate getting more than one or two beers into my mouth. If I had to lay blame on a single contributing factor to ten or twelve years of steady weight gain, it's beer.

There is an obvious solution.

It is actively ludicrous.

It's not impossible for me to quit drinking beer; I did it in 2007 for almost a month, and I also did it for a few weeks in January. During those periods, I also did a lot of jogging, and I lost a noticeable amount of weight. Darth Vato goes on tour in a few days for two weeks; making a healthy routine during that is not a reasonable expectation, but I'm committing to seriously pursuing one when we've returned to the real world.

What a boring post! I hope that if anyone reading this is trying to lose weight, you focus on the regimen and discipline, and also, change your metric. I suggest ignoring the scale and using a measuring tape around your gut or butt or wherever (chins? Can you measure chins? You can certainly count them!) as a bar. While the results are not as immediately dramatic and rewarding as seeing the scale's needle dip a pound or two every few days, losing inches is much more demonstrative of your progress. It helped me last year, and I know it will help me again when I hit it hard in a few weeks.

Steve

i'm overhung...*

2008-06-28T11:22:00.006-05:00

If you get that heading in an email, it probably has something to do with P3n1s en larg3m3nt.

But anyway, I got roped into bartending last night, and because I felt cheated out of a weekend night, I stayed up drinking beer with Eric until about 6 am. A funny thing about getting hammered at someone else's house is that when you wake up (and it's always no more than four hours later), it's always such a surprise. It never fails--every time it always takes me a minute to determine who I am, where I am and how I got there. It's a little like Jason Bourne coming to on the Greek freighter, except that your mouth tastes like a litterbox and you don't wake up mysteriously able to speak French. In fact, it's more likely you have forgotten English; try articulating yourself to a Whataburger drive-thru after a night of heavy drinking--you may not have wanted onions or sweet tea, but oh well, that's what your getting.

And that's another thing--is there anything worse for a hangover than sweet-tea? Ugh. It's bad enough sober, but when you're hammered or post-hammered, it's such a huge disappointment. Imagine being in a Whataburger drive through at 3 am, drunk, desperate and deliriously thirsty, listening to George Noory tell you about some water heater he endorses because regular people only tune into Coast to Coast AM during its crappy commercials. And it's hot, and you're exhausted, and all you want is some grease to sop up the booze in your stomach and a little bit of caffeine to keep you awake and more or less driving between the lines, and so you start to dream about that Whatasized tea--it's so cold and strident and that first sip will be like jumping through the waterfall in those old Irish Spring commercials, and who knows--maybe that tea will totally sober you up, provide you with winning lottery numbers and teleport Adriana Lima into your bed. And so you wait. And because this is Whataburger, you wait some more. A lot more. Fucking eons. You can feel your tongue swelling. This might be what dying of thirst actually feels like. You try to focus on the local plumbing service commercial crackling out of your door speakers, hoping against hope that it will end and George will be back to coax some shocking truths out of an alien abductee who has also been raped by a ghost. But he's not. This time it's a commercial for bee-pollen capsules or some bullshit. You wonder if bee-pollen capsules makes you sober. Or handsome. And then the Tahoe full of dimwitted sorority girls ahead of you pulls forward, and you're one step closer to quenching your thirst, to putting a little bit of food on your stomach and to passing out on your bathroom's amazingly cool linoleum with your pants around your ankles. And by God's immortal and forgiving only begotten son, you are so fucking thirsty! You think about that fucking meathead doublefisting Skyy and sodas and ice-waters. Remember how you inwardly mocked him? Remember disintegrating him with glares of withering disdain on account of his muscles, and chiseled good-looks and the 20-year olds in thigh-length sundresses hanging on his every word? Oh how they laughed! And at what? Some rehashing of a Family Guy episode, probably. Of course, you thought, if they would only talk to you, they'd see what real comedy was. If they could see past the bags under your eyes and the gut under your t-shirt, they'd discover your boundless wit and bathe in your intellect as your jokes and remarks flit between scathing commentary and undeniably hilarious self-deprecation. But no, they were laughing at him, and he was beneath your contempt, what with his responsible drinking and hydrating and all.

By Christ! If only you could get that fucking iced-tea!

And finally, after what seems like an eternity, you see an orange-and-white-striped bag extend through the window, and a tanned, skinny arm reaches out of the Tahoe, and oh thank Jesus in his fabulous mansion, THEY HAVE GOTTEN THEIR FOOD. And then you see it: the Whatasized beverage. It is not so much passed as magically floated from the drive-thru window into the car and you think about how the driver, oh how spoiled and clueless she is! will probably plop it down on her coffee table and eventually forget about it, or worse, drunkenly spill it on her lap! But for that instant, of all the jealousies you harbor for that girl, her cold, life-saving beverage is what you envy most.

And finally she leaves, off to probably bang that fucking meathead, he of the abs and head full of thick hair and the polo shirt and the bright and successful future, but at this point, you don't care any more, for your Whatasized iced tea is nearly in your grasp, sequestered within the bricks and under an orgy of frantic beeping and neon lights. And by Christ, George Noory is back! And he (and you, since he always says "we") are talking with the lady whose past-lives were murdered by chemtrails, and while it's fascinating and all--OH MY GOD!!! HERE IS YOUR FUCKING FOOD!!! NO YOU DON'T NEED KETCHUP!!! AND NO NAPKINS EITHER--DO YOU LOOK LIKE YOU USE NAPKINS--CLEARLY YOU ARE ALREADY WEARING PANTS!!! AND OH YOUR GOD IN HEAVEN:

HERE IS YOUR ICED-TEA!!!

Never before have you ever delivered a look of that is as simultaneously abject and full of gratitude as the look you deliver to the guy in the window, who, incidentally, is named Cody and whose hand tattoos indicate former gang-membership.

You put the tea between your legs but realize that it is sweating with condensation, which you don't want on your pants but that you do want on your forehead, so you hold the cup up and boy does it feel good--if it feels that good on your head, imagine what its contents will feel like sliding down the balsawood tunnel of your throat!

So you pay, ignoring the fact that you've probably overdrafted, and you drive off. And as you pull into the street (careful to keep the dotted line about a foot to your left and always a foot to your left), you think, well, we need to sober up but fast! so you cram a mouthful of piping hot fries into your mouth and mash them down with a chicken strip so hot that a geiser probably escaped when your teeth tore it open. A piece of skin burns on the roof of your mouth, dangling like the isosceles flags flapping over a used car lot. You have a murmuring afterthought that maybe you should have waited a minute or two before stuffing your face with scalding, still-congealing grease, but never mind that, because there is THE TEA.

As the straw punctures the pre-cut X on the lid, it makes that comical creaking noise, causing you to chuckle. And George Noory's disembodied voice chuckles along with his guest and everyone is having such a great time! Who knew that straw noises and government cover ups could be so goddamned funny! But they are, and it's all because of the palliative powers of your Whatasized iced-tea, so brown and a little acrid but refreshing and curative, lapping briskly over ice chips that look like frosty stones in a merry, babbling brook. And the straw goes between your lips, and it creaks again (this time the sound makes you think of a clown's bicycle horn) and you take that first, miraculous, ecstatic sip, a sip that sends the tea to the back of your throat and maybe into your very soul.

And you choke.

You choke and you spit and you look at that cup and chunk it out your window in disgust, because due to some communication foul up (maybe Cody's, probably yours) you received not the refreshing, rejuvenating Whatasized iced-tea you were anticipating, but a mockery, an aberration, an open sore on the scalp of universal order and goodness.

They gave you a Whatasized SWEET TEA, which is like being served 32 ounces of someone else's slobber. Because that's what sweetened tea tastes like.

Sweet tea is like those "chest-mimic" creatures found in D&D. You think your getting something awesome, but it's actually a nasty, dangerous, party-killing surprise.

This is why you shouldn't drink.

Steve

*overslept. i'm ripe, desheveled, perfectly unkempt.

Gut war update

2008-06-24T09:26:00.002-05:00

Well, I made it to the gym again. Got a 30 minute run in until the fire alarm went off. It's a funny thing when a fire alarm goes off on a sunny afternoon at a gym full of self-interested college students. I noticed that everyone's sense of urgency was... lacking...

Anyway, I measured the beer belly this morning, and it's inching (haha) back down toward the 37" mark. I'm sure that wasn't an immediate response to a couple of jogs, but it's encouraging. Moreover, I managed to make it through the entire day without eating anything bad, i.e. chips, cookies, or bits of broken glass, which are often high in saturated fats.

Interestingly enough, I received a letter from the Lodi High School Water polo team, inviting me to participate (through a donation or, um, physical activity) in an alumni tournament in August. After the grueling 30 minutes I spent swimming laps a few weeks ago, I can't imagine how hard playing five minutes of water polo would be. Needless to say, I'll likely send a check. To underscore this point, I had a dream where I played in an alumni tournament against a squad of dudes who played against me at my rival high school. Upon waking, I sort of laughed because in the dream, I was afraid of guarding the same people, who, fourteen years later, had still maintained the same brute strength and killer instinct.

--Steve

The Worst Bartender in Town (hint: his name rhymes with Steve)

2008-06-20T09:19:00.003-05:00

So this week, I've eased back into the gym, which really means I went once. I would've gone on Wednesday, and I even went to the trouble of changing into gym clothes, but then I got caught up in a couple (ten or twelve) Halo 3 games, and well, you can see how this worked out. I did, however, try to assuage my sloth-based guilt by doing sets of 100 jumping jacks in between games.

Yeah. "A" for effort, right?

Another awesome thing that happened this week is that this local bar aficionado/drunk sack of crap bestowed upon me the title of "Worst Bartender in Town." And while you might think that hurt my feelings, I was grateful and even gave something of an acceptance speech.

Here's the thing:

I like bartending, particularly since it is no longer my primary source of income. In fact, it's almost a hobby. I've been doing it off and on since 2002, and while six years might seem like enough experience to really make me a pro, I'm the exception to that expectation. In other words, I've never really learned to make shots, because I really don't care.

My booze philosophy, especially as I've gotten older, is that when you're in a bar, you socialize, and I've conditioned myself to socialize while holding some sort of liquid-bearing vessel in my hand, be it bottle, glass or alleged cup of Christ. And while shots certainly meet the requirements for holding liquid, they don't do it for very long. When you're 21, this means you end up taking shot after shot after shot, eventually to the point where your friends are hosing puke and Whataburger gravy off you before you stumble into their parent's house at 3 am. And moreover, I just don't like drinking shots. They're sorta, I dunno, gay. I try to point this out to college guys whenever possible.

Me: What can I get you?
Dude-bros: We need two purple hooters.
Me: Why? Are you guys on a date?

And so on. My other issue with shots is that they are tacky and they waste my time. In the time it takes to make a batch of surfers on acid for one polo-shirted dickhead, I could have made regular drinks for the six people waiting in line behind him. Typically the order goes like this:
a dude-bro orders eight shots of something I don't feel like making. And I go make them, and I when I'm setting them in front of the guy, he almost always says, "Oh, hey, can you make two more?" Meanwhile, the line gets deeper and deeper. And then, more often than not, the same guy is back two minutes later for another round; shots are so named for a reason--the turnover rate is astounding. And while the point of working at a bar is to serve as much booze as possible, the frequent fliers fly in the face of one of my cardinal, bartending values: get fools out of my hair as soon and for as long as possible.

To sum, shots are fucking gay and I hate making them.

Anyway, this chick, she is one of those see-and-be-seen types, and she probably goes out every night, and she's also on the later side of her mid 30s, which in my mind is way too old to be ordering spring break treacle like red headed sluts or pineapple fucks. But order them she does, and I make her first round. And her second. And then she ordered her third.

Now, the way I learned to make red snappers is with Crown, Amaretto and Cranberry juice. But at this point, she's been up to the bar three times in five minutes, and I'm simply tired of serving her, so I made my patented yuckface shot. Here's the recipe:

Steve the Put Out Bartender's Patented Yuckface Shot:

1 1/2 oz well whisky
A bunch of cranberry juice
Something else that's red, fruity and alcoholic

Dump ingredients into shaker, think about shaking, pour into plastic cup. Serve with withering contempt.

In this case, the red, fruity booze was actually black. But at least it was raspberry. I made six of these things, served them and waited for the ensuing revulsion. Sure enough, I was rewarded with six simultaneous grimaces and choking noises.

Now my friend Matt, who is an expert bartender, was a lucky recipient of a Yuckface, and he congratulated me on making the nastiest shot he had ever had (which means he hasn't yet had one of my other patented shots, the Total Bummer or a Warm Shot of Pee). And coming from him, that is a complement on par with winning a Perkin Medal. His friend, however, the aforementioned barfly, began to fulminate somewhat loudly about A). how terrible my shots were, B). how terrible my service was and C). how I was the worst bartender in town.

I caught this last part, at which point, I turned and said, "Finally! I thought I'd never get the recognition I deserve."

It's nice to feel like a winner.

--Steve

Whoops!

2008-06-17T19:56:00.002-05:00

Well, I goofed yesterday. Seeing as how it was my 30th birthday and all, I met a few buddies at Malone's Pub downtown. Part of the trip was to discuss a business venture, and I figured I'd have a beer or two. Or four. And a couple whiskey sodas. And a kamikaze. And something that was orange. And since I drank all that, I also figured that if I didn't have a booze-sponge of some sort in my stomach, I'd be really sorry in the morning. So I stopped at Whataburger and got the three-piece chicken strip meal. With an extra chicken strip. And I burned the roof of my mouth.

To my credit, I went for a short jog prior to going out, but the good it did was minor compared to the crap I ingested over the subsequent hours. Oh well. I did better today--the only thing I ate out of package were some pretzels. Hopefully, I'll get a run in after I've digested the salad I ate for dinner.

--Steve

Dammit

2008-06-16T21:46:00.003-05:00

Just went for a short jog and not a moment too soon; I just measured the gut, and it's almost 39 inches, which is almost where I started from last year. Sheesh. So hard to achieve, so easy to undo. Unless it's a tight belt.

Line? Line???

--Steve

Irony? Nah, just bratwurst-fueled pathos.

2008-06-16T14:54:00.004-05:00

One interesting detail I failed to mention about my renewed interest in healthy eating is that part of my motivation came from an article in Time about how American kids are getting increasingly fatter. While that in an of itself is not all that interesting, I think it's funny that I was reading it while lying on the couch in partial misery after eating four bratwursts at the pool.

Whoops!

--Steve

So anyway

2008-06-16T05:06:00.002-05:00

I turn thirty today. The big three oh. What a milestone. And how have I spent it thus far? Well, it's a funny thing--I'm grappling with a bout of insomnia right now. Earlier, I thought I'd be responsible and get the apartment ready for the week (laundry, clean the kitchen, clean the bathroom--I swear, no meth was involved) and while moving some stuff around my closet, I managed to overload the flimsy wire shelf and it tore itself out of the wall. Needless to say, this was pretty noisy, and seeing as how it was about 12:30 am at the time, I won't be surprised if I get the stinkeye from my downstairs neighbors.

So why am I still up? Well, I'd like to say that I am reflecting on what it means to turn 30, but the simple truth is that I drank a Red Bull on the way home for the grocery store at about 10 pm, and wouldn't you know it, it's kept me wide awake. Thus far, I've done the following:

Cleaned my apartment
Walked the dog
Beaten Contra on Xbox Live Arcade (and I used a sum total of 72 lives-- why did Konami make their games so fucking hard?!)
Taken a shower
Eaten a sandwich
Had faint hallucinations about a bug in the bedroom
Imagined the light fixture on the ceiling fan turned into a face

It's going to be a long day. Red Bull totally puzzles me. During the week, when I drink one to stay awake on bartending nights, I still feel faded, sleepy and totally inured to them. Why in the hell did it kick in now? It's really foiling my plan.

Speaking of that, I'm supposed to be up in fifteen minutes, in time to stretch and head to the gym. See, around March, I managed to successfully drop about fifteen pounds (from 197-180ish, give or take) and I got rid of three inches off my gut (from 40 to 37). My weight loss was a slow, steady effort begun in October, and while it took six months, I felt a lot better. Of course, I cut my beer intake to almost nothing and exercised a lot more (mostly jogging), but I kept it simple and burned more than I took in. It paid off.

Of course, three months later, I've totally fallen off the wagon (okay, so really, I fell off the wagon in early April, and now have finally taken stock in the consequences), and while I've only put half an inch back on, that somehow translates to ten or twelve pounds. My goal is to break 170; I entered college at 167, and I'd like to hit that mark again. This is why I bought good groceries, and why I planned to hit the jogging track first thing in the morning. Best laid plans, etc.

Anyway, while today might end up a wash (how's that for positive thinking!), I'm committing to reaching my weight goal. I guess I should also shoot for a gut-circumference goal as well, though I'm not sure what's reasonable. If I could measure 35 1/2 around, that would be awesome. We'll see. I've learned that you can't really crash diet, and you also have to stick with the good habits once they're in place. Anyway, for the time being, I'll be posting stuff about this "journey," mostly as a means of staying accountable. Feel free to read, comment, ignore, etc.

--Steve

Is it March yet?

2007-12-22T23:03:00.000-06:00

Right now, I'm listening to my mom feign interest and wonder at one of Junior's friend's ear gauges. See, we're in Lodi for Christmas, and because he can't spend time being bored and misses his friends, he is going to spend the night at his other friend's house.

Now, I know how being at home with your parents during holidays is boring when you're nineteen, but we hadn't been back from the airport a whole hour when he boosted off to go hang out with his friends last night, and now this is an extended stay tonight.

I can't really blame him, but this is one of the core differences between he and I. For instance, when I lived at home, I made a point of keeping all my chemical misadventures under very tight and out-of-town wraps; he left coke straws and other paraphernalia in his pockets for my mom to uncover. I rarely brought a girl over for dinner; he got caught banging one in his bedroom. When I came home for the holidays, I stayed home until about the middle of the visit. He goes out the proverbial minute he walks through the door. And what's worse, he premeditates little niceties with my parents in order to buy himself a do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want card for later. It's not that my parents are stupid, it's that Junior is stupid in that he believes no one can see through his bullshit. He's a peculiar mix of sloppy indiscretion and cagey scheming. While he is ultimately self-serving, he is also a total follower. I'm looking forward to his report-for-duty-date in March.

I have also listened to Junior make the following sweeping statements in the time between touching down at SMF and right now:

"I don't turn the heat on EVER!" Yet somehow, we have an electric bill that is nearly $170, due January 7th. Maybe he's right; maybe he never turns the heat on, but he also never turns the TV off.

"In Texas, everybody drives like idiots." This from the kid who got three speeding tickets while living in California, never mind an unreported accident in Fort Worth where he sideswiped some lady in a minivan. I don't know about everybody in Texas driving like idiots, but I do know one person who does.

"They honk a lot in Texas." This was news to me; apparently Fort Worth is similar to a movie about New York City traffic. He later explained that his friends honk all the time, which I suppose gives superficial credence to the statement directly above.

You'll notice also that his generalizations frequently feature the prepositional phrase "in Texas." He justifies this because his experience in Texas is limited exclusively to Fort Worth (though as of the past two weeks, it includes now downtown Dallas and Weatherford), and therefore, he has nothing else to base it on. For Junior, Fort Worth is Texas. Granted, this actually makes a lot of sense, and I do recall seeing a Fort Worth tourism brochure that referred to Cowtown as the "most Texan of Texas cities." But man, I can think of few people in Austin who would beg to differ. And a couple in Houston. And now that I think about it, there are probably some people I know in San Antonio that would take offense to that. I don't know about Dallas, because I hate Dallas.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

I have stories to write, and I'm stuck, so

2007-12-02T21:09:00.000-06:00

I'm going to bitch. I'm going to bitch because it will temporarily relieve me of a bit of writer's block. I am mentally constipated right now, and I say constipated because even if I could get the ideas out of my head, I'm pretty confident they are shit anyway. So I am going to bitch.

I bought an Xbox 360 in June of '06. I'd saved money for this purpose since it debuted at the end of '05, and for over a year, I only had one game for it. It was a nerdy Adventure/RPG called Oblivion, and it has consistently held my interest FUCK I CAN'T FUCKING THINK!

I could go back and edit this and make it all clever, but Junior is here right now with one of his friends and they are sitting in the living room blasting away at Halo 3. Who cares right? Well I do because I am having a hell of a time tuning out the digitized grunts, explosions and machine gun fire murmuring through the wall. I am having a hell of a time tuning out the audible side of a moronic phone conversation being held by his friend, and I am having a hell of a time getting over the fact that I am exiled to my bedroom because of a couple 19 year olds.

"Hey, maybe you could grow up a bit. Aren't you almost thirty or something? Yeah, I am, but here's the thing:

I bought Halo 3 shortly after getting the internet, because I thought playing online would be fun. And for a while it was. But then Junior got a hold of it and totally ruined it for me. Now I don't even like looking at the box. I know that sounds ridiculous, but bear with me for a bit.

Getting the internet wasn't a huge ordeal, and neither was getting a subscription to Xbox Live. The thing about Xbox Live is that you can subscribe to it for free, but in order to take advantage of its best features, you have to pay fifty bucks a year. I think that's pretty reasonable, especially when one of the key features is a sort of gamer-matchmaking function that pairs you up with gamers of comparable skill. In other words, when I logged on to play Halo 3 multiplayer, I was matched with people who were just as bad as I am. So I forked over $50, and I bought a year's subscription to Xbox Live Gold. Junior promised that when he had extra money, he'd pay for his own account so he wouldn't have to use mine. I knew that the likelihood of $50 extra dollars appearing in his wallet was on par with me riding a magic elephant on the moon, but I didn't really care. I didn't see it being that big a deal.

I held that opinion for almost an entire month.

As you may recall (assuming you read the super-sad post from a month or two ago about how I felt lost and more like a dad than a brother), Junior was smoking a lot of pot. And all that pot smoking was really fucking annoying by itself, but what made it worse, though, was that around this time, all Junior did when he wasn't working was get high and play Halo. And this was okay for a while, but then one afternoon I picked the controller up, logged on and got my ass kicked consistently for a good hour and a half before I quit. Now I know I suck, but the last time I had gotten around to playing online, I wasn't terrible--I probably had a pretty even win/loss ratio. What happened was that because Junior has played so goddamn much, my gamertag (what Microsoft calls your account) was under the impression that I was really good at Halo, and as such, I was matched accordingly. Now it is no fun for me to play.

Truth be told, it's not that much fun anyway. The single-player game is short, until the end where it gets tedious. The multiplayer is mostly fun, unless you're bad and made to play against people who aren't. Then it totally blows. If you've read stories about how Halo is easily ruined by racist jerks, well, they aren't too far off--I didn't encounter too many racists (on the contrary, I seemed to play with a lot of black dudes), but I did find a lot of jerks, especially after turning up in last place every time I played. But I didn't buy it so I could shoot computer-controlled opponents by myself. I bought it in order to shoot real people on a team.

If you reread the paragraphs above, you'll notice that I have written "I bought" two or three times. I know that's not a lot, but with a bit of backstory, you'll begin to see why counting that phrase is relevant.

See, in order to get internet, as you are probably aware, you have to pay extra to get it set up. And even though he works two jobs, Junior never has any money, so I paid for it to get set up. And so we could both use the internet at the same time, I also paid for wireless router. Not the cheap one, mind you, but the one that was made for gaming. I also paid for Halo 3.

As you may have guessed, I am chafed because despite the fact that I paid for the fucking game, I have played it the least. This really pisses me off.

But then again, how can I be mad at him, really? I mean, he's not doing anything wrong. In fact, he's pulled a 180--he stopped smoking pot and will be enlisting in the Navy in a couple weeks. I'm very proud of him and the choices he's made of late. But fuck, man, am I sick and tired of hearing that goddamn game!

I complained about this to Kerry a while back, and he figured out what my problem is: I don't like to share my things.

I honestly couldn't argue the point. As evidence:

I miss my one-bedroom apartment.

I miss being able to use my Xbox whenever the fuck I want.

I miss jumping in the shower and finding my body wash was right where I left it (rather than in, say for example, Junior's bathroom).

So in other words, I'm kind of a jerk.

Sharing. Sheesh. Maybe I need to go back to pre-school.

--Steve the Fucking Jerk

Ah, fuck it.

2007-11-29T07:25:00.002-06:00

I wonder how many blog posts share this one's title.

I wrote the one below on my MySpace page, and so I hedged a bit because while few people actually read it, I know them, or they live in my town. In the swirling anonymity (I cannot, for the life of me, pronounce that word) of the greater (re: extra-MySpace) internet, it's easier for me to proverbially pin the ol' heart to my sleeve.

I ran into Jackie on Saturday, for the first time in over a month. I'd say five weeks to the day, maybe even. We had a show, and she came to it. I was rattled for a good four songs.

Now granted, I was also rattled for a couple other reasons. See, the show was an annual reggae party we play. I can't call it a fest, because it wasn't all day in some fields and no one was selling shitty bead jewelry or Bob Marley flags. It was two bands and a DJ/MC combo (said combo was called Mcpullish feat. The Judge, and it was awesome). Darth Vato occupied the middle slot.

As such, the stage was backlined. The headlining band, Pablo and the Hemphill 7, has six members (funny, right?), and since we're only a three-piece, it just made more sense for them to have everything up there. What this meant for me is that I didn't have to lug my bass cab up there, an opportunity I am nearly always on the lookout for. But since Jackie's arrival had already kind of knocked me into a self-exacerbated dither, I made myself susceptible to just about anything, and using their bassist's (Matt Hembree, so you know) rig definitely fits within that parameter.

A word about Hembree: he's one of my favorite bass players in town--his runs are a little unusual, and I'd love to figure them out, and the guy is as precise as he is animated. While watching a shitty Fall-Out Boy performance on SNL, a friend remarked, "I don't know how they actually play notes with all that spinning and jumping." I immediately thought of Hembree, who always demonstrates that one can be rock solid while occupying space a foot or two off the ground. I forget what head he uses, but he uses a 410 SWR cab. Since this might not mean a lot to you, here is what that means to me:

SWR bass amps are endorsed by (among others) P-Nut from 311. Now I hate 311, apart from exactly five songs, and part of the reason why is P-Nut. Here's why I don't like P-Nut. First of all, his name is P-Nut, which I find neither funny nor cool. He's a phenomenal bass player, and his tone is best described as growly thunder. Unfortunately, while that sounds like it might be something I'd like, he has a very funky, spanky style, and while this tends to impress a lot of other people, I just don't care for it. That's the other reason why I don't like him. But his tone is cool, and from what I gather, he gets it from using SWR rigs and Warwick basses. If you've ever gone to Guitar Center and seen some black dude (yes, sorry to stereotype, but this guy is at every Guitar Center, and he's almost always a black dude, and he's almost always awesome) wanking away on what looks like a walnut coffee table, chances are it's a Warwick. As I am a Fender guy (despite the fact that my J-bass has been a bit of a lemon--and it's an American, for fuck's sake), I can't stand Warwick basses, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that they look like walnut coffee tables. Anyway, P-Nut gets that particular growl from a combination of his skill and his gear. In fact, I would say that his gear brings out the best in his skill. When you're as on-the-money as he is, an SWR rig sounds great.

I, of course, am not nearly as on-the-money as P-Nut, or Matt Hembree for that matter. And I swear, even though I used my own amp (which I love as if it were my own child), his cabinet grabbed a hold of every inadvertent pop and squeak and held up it for the crowd to see. It felt like getting pantsed in front of the whole class. My bass rig (an Ashdown ABM 500 EVO II run through an Ampeg SVT 410 cabinet) is geared for warmth, not spank. It's a perfect for a guy who learned to play from listening to Scientist and Sly and Robbie. But Hembree often plays with a pick, and he needs gear that gives him a brighter sound.

So that also had me rattled. And I had to take a crap, but before I got there, someone managed to back up both the men's and women's toilets, which left me, almost literally, up shit creek, sans paddle. You try getting amped up about playing bass with a torpedo in the tube.

But yeah, Jackie, man that was weird. As you may have guessed, I'm not exactly over her, which explained why I called her the next night and poured my heart out. While it was weepy on both sides of the phone, I doubt it changed a whole lot. I'm happy that she is doing well--she just got a teaching job and loves it; I just wish I was there by her side.

--The Robo-Pirate

See? Don't you wish I'd gone to the gym?

2007-11-29T07:25:00.001-06:00

Anyway, if you read the post below (or is it above? Sometimes MySpace does weird shit like that), I have had something of an interesting November. At the risk of sounding like a teenager, I have experienced steady sets of emotional waves that swell and crest and break with very few breathers in between--some I have caught and ridden as far as they would take me, and others I have tried to duck under and hope for the best.

We recorded our new album during the first two weeks of the month. This experience was markedly different than our other sessions. Sure, we had a pretty big budget (for us, anyway) , so we we got to try some new ideas and weren't too worried when a bass take took longer than I'd normally prefer. And we don't have a release date, so we weren't constantly watching the clock. Our other three recordings (two EPs and an album) were made a little bit under the gun, so being able to relax a bit was a welcome departure from having to race through tracks to put out something we weren't totally proud of. Better still, we had our longtime friend and producer out for actual pre-production, and he got to mull the songs over in their rough, garbagy phase before putting them to ones and zeros. That made a big difference, and I feel like the result is much more focused, determined and even funnier than all our other records combined. It's like some of those old songs are masks, trying to be something we aren't, and while I don't hate them, they tend to embarrass me on occasion. I am finally confident that we captured who were are as people with these songs. And if, in March, when this album hopefully comes out, people gripe that the songs are darker, sadder and grouchier, well life isn't always free tamales and days off.

So our recording process was a lot of fun. And then it was over, and I realized a couple days later why I could hardly bear to sit at my desk through the day. I felt funny thinking this, but I honestly experienced post-studio depression. After all, I saw one of my best and closest friends for a couple weeks, vented a lot of frustrations, reached some new heights, and flexed my creative muscles with very little strain and head-thumping--going back to work was bound to pale in comparison. I guess it's gone now, but being sequestered in that environment made me feel like a different person, and I enjoyed being that guy a lot more than the one who clicks on a computer all day.

I am trying not to think of our two weeks spent recording as a vacation from my real life. Obviously, playing music is my career of choice; computer clicking is a means to make that a reality, and I try not to think of it as two weeks away at a Rock Band Resort (and really, since I only took two days off from work, it's hard to even call it that). Unfortunately, at this stage, as I sit with no out of town dates booked, no record to hock, no salacious stories or tales of woe to tell, music still feels like an escape. My hope is that in 2008, we'll be able to do everything we can to make our band a life rather than something to do on weekends.

If you think that's depressing, I'm sorry. I don't mean it to be, but I have to be a realist. We're getting older, after all, and the bills pile up and the responsibilities mount, and no matter how much I've tried to keep permanence at bay, it still inexorably stacks in the background like a cinderblock fence built by a contractor you don't remember hiring and workers you can't even see. But whatever. I still have a van and the debt gets paid on time, and 30 is the new 20, according to ephemeral Yahoo! Lifestyle articles , and so doesn't that make me 19? Right? Right??? That's okay. I'll keep telling myself that anyway.

But yeah, permanence, it's there; I can see it, and these days, I don't sprint from it like I used to. Shirking responsibility used to be a blatant source of pride for me, but in the past year or so, it's been like I inconspicuosly sneak around the corner, hoping it doesn't notice me. It's like, "hey, don't tell the boss, but I'm going to duck out of here ten minutes early." Thing was, it used to be twenty minutes.

So the record is a big deal, and maybe, just maybe, the contacts we've made will matter (or even exist) this time around and actually come through for us. We work as hard as we can, and I've always been one to immediately mistrust these dickheads who promise us hookups that likely don't exist. Unfortunately, where we are, we need a little lift from someone who is legit. If you're a band that can tour at the drop of the hat, you don't need these people; of this I remain forever convinced. But we're not that band. We haven't gone on a real, multi-state tour in over three years, and it's been life's looming, concrete shadow that has kept us from hitting the road longer than a four-day weekend. So while we will continue to work our collective tails off, it would really help if someone could give us a leg up. And it's not like I want to hear myself on the radio or live in a mansion; I just want to tour and for the other two guys to be able to pay their bills.

Is that whiny? Yeah, probably. In light of little perspective, I almost want to delete this whole post. If I could find my gym ID card, I wouldn't have even started it. Such is the result of getting up early with no place to go. Fact of the matter is, this isn't all that's been bothering me, and really, it's nothing new; I've been bitching about this stuff for three years at least. But it's all I'm willing to write about in this semi-public arena. I could go on with what's actually got me down and then mark it private, but what's the point of that?

--Steve

Baloney Casserole

2007-11-11T17:46:00.001-06:00

In an effort to inure myself to the sting of bad circumstances, situations or the unpleasant consequences of bad decisions, I make jokes. Sometimes, they're even funny. Humor's good for that; it gives you a bit of safe distance from the blues, a little bit like how a trench and steel bars gives you a bit of safe distance from tigers at the zoo (or orange and black, if you prefer strict consistency).

I figured out today (after about three weeks) that I am suffering from a broken heart. I know that's melodramatic and all, and before you ask, my music tastes are no worse than they were before. But I've felt a little crazy, and after screaming at one of my best friends the other night over the use of a fucking amplifier, I kind of made the leap and admitted that this sort of baloney is probably rooted in my recent break up.

So here's what's funny. It's funny how heartbreak seems to come in waves, except these waves are ones you seem to catch every time. You don't seem to have the option of diving under and waiting them out. I guess that isn't funny at all.

Steve

Telecommutathy

2007-11-08T21:21:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I managed, via foolishly clicking an unloaded link secreted within a MySpace message, to fill my computer with over 30 trojans and viruses. There are several lines between which you may read, but whatever. What this meant was that the IT guy at work had to spend two days trying to figure out what to do, ultimately settling on wiping and reloading everything, which was fine, since it works moderately faster now. However, during those two days without my work computer, a wonderful thing happened.

I got to work from home.

Now, before you assume that I hate work and my company and my colleagues and am just another person who didn’t date enough skanks in college, I want to be clear on a few background details:

My company, while not as fun as it was three years ago, is still Hella Fun. The reason why it is less fun is that it has nearly tripled in size.
I am very lucky to work here, and I have a position that makes use of my most prominent aptitudes. So for that I am grateful.
Most of the people here are a joy to be around all day, and even the ones who aren’t 100% fun 100% of the time are still pretty cool.
I don’t have to tuck in my shirt or even wear real shoes if I don’t want to, and the three people I am directly responsible are awesome and I love them.
I’ve been here three years, and I’m still allowed to be hourly, but with benefits. So really, this place is pretty awesome.

So, I like where I work, but here are a few key differences between unfolding my laptop at my desk at the office and unfolding onto my coffee table at home:

If I work from home, I don’t have to drive there. I hate driving to work because I hate stoplights, and I swear, Fort Worth seems to have stoplights every twenty feet. And I’ve mentioned before that pretty much every place I go regularly is narrowed at some point by orange cones, so that also beats me down. Never mind that driving to work means rumbling over two sets of brick-paved roads, behind pokey work trucks, behind pokey day laborer trucks and occasionally behind pokey cattle.
At my house, the only traffic past my workspace is me. For whatever reason, out of the three different rooms I’ve been in at the office, two of them have been high traffic areas. Now, I am out of my seat a lot, and I know where I’m going, which is no where important. But most of the other traffic is all busily work-related, and this annoys me. It’s pretty much “CHOO CHOO! OFF TO ANOTHER MEETING!”
The other thing that fills my office during the day and eventually causes me to go outside is the constant VOO! VOO! as people are paged over their speakerphones. I’m sorry, but I cannot ignore this. My brain won’t let me. My apartment is for all practical measurements devoid of ringing phones. No one really calls me, and I enjoy it. But up here, man I can hardly think for all the fucking phonecalls.
At home during the day, my complex is mostly silent, and I have the sliding glass door to look out of. Now granted, my view contains some old lawnchairs, Junior’s friends’ cigarette butts, but it’s a lot of natural light, and this makes me happy.
I honestly get more stuff done.

Basically, the things that stick in my craw are the sort of things that would stick at my craw in any office. I mean, how many businesses never get phone calls? If you answered ones that are out of business, that’s probably the best answer. But man, I am pretty distracted anyway, and all the interference makes it all the more difficult to focus.

I don't know if it's ADD or if I was supposed to be autistic but my wires crossed correctly at the last possibly instant, giving me a brain that developed mostly normally. But I am highly susceptible to the sound of other people's voices, and it takes all my focus (or a really compelling Wikipedia article--say, one about G.I. JOEs, for example) in order for me to ignore it. Other people's voices, combined with incessantly ringing telephones, combined with what is probably waiting to be spoken on the other end of the ringing telephones makes me fucking crazy sometimes.

Anyway, I like working from home.

--The Robo-Pirate

Nerd Alert!

2007-10-26T03:36:00.001-05:00

I've picked up the past oh, like four issues of the New Avengers, written by Brian Michael Bendis and drawn by a guy named Lenlil Yu (I think). Since I've never read his stuff prior to the New Avengers, I think Bendis must be one of those love-him-or-hate-him kind of writers, in that he fills his panels with snappy dialogue, and slowly building plots. After wading through a pretty boring 12-issue arc of Uncanny X-Men (they were in space), and the slightly more interesting follow-up arc (they were in the sewers, fighting some renegade Morlocks) and the interminable wait due the don't-even-care-about-it-anymore postponings of Astonishing X-Men (which used to be my favorite title, since Joss Whedon has written it for the past three years), New Avengers is my New Favorite Comic. And that's a really long sentence. But if you care, New Avengers is basically the main resistance to the Superhero Registration Act of last summer's Civil War crossover. While I am apathetic about most of the other post-Civil War developments (The Initiative? Meh), New Avengers is pretty f'ing cool, and I think it's largely because of Bendis. I'm a sucker for good Spidey jokes, and given that the current story has employed Dr. Strange (who I unfairly dismissed as a superhero for weirdos when I was a kid), and the team features Wolverine, Spider-Man and guys like Hawkeye (now called Ronin), Luke Cage and Iron Fist, all of whom I never really appealed to me. So in other words, if you are so inclined, go pick up the past five or six issues if you can find them. I think you'll dig them, especially if you expect to hear another delay in Whedon's final Astonishing X-Men arc.

--The Robopirate

FORE!!!

2007-10-26T03:16:00.000-05:00

So anyway, here I am, up at 3:17 am because of combination of fajitas, beer and golfing.

That's right, golfing.

At one point, a golfing partner said, "oh my gosh you really have never done this before." I replied that having known me for three years, was there anything about me to suggest that I would have ever set foot on a course.

Turns out, golf is kind of hard. Even with the assistance of beer. Which led to the comment made by another golf partner, "you'll do better once you've had a few beers. Which is true about everything in life, really."

Golf

Bass

Work

Parenthood

Yeah, I can see it.

--The Robopirate

Can't shake it.

2007-10-21T23:16:00.000-05:00

Man, I am just sad.

There aren't any other words beyond those.

Bet you really wanted to know this.

2007-10-09T21:20:00.001-05:00

You know why I liked living by myself? Because a closed door and drawn blinds ensured that alone time meant that I would actually be alone. Now, I have to apparently lock my bedroom door.

On a different note, how do you get someone to stop smoking? At this point, I'll tolerate Junior's weed if it means he ditches the Marlboros. In addition to his failure to recognize that no lights and a closed door is the universal roommate sign for don't-come-in-here-or-else-we're-going- to-have-an-awkward-rest-of-the-evening, he's raised my ire tonight by constantly hacking and coughing. Here's the conversation I had just now:

"Are you sick?"

"No, I just had a cigarette."

"Junior, why do you smoke."

"Because there's nothing like having a cigarette when you come home from work."

I should point out that he is highly susceptible to the sort of phrases and ideas that are bandied about as part of a lifestyle conceived by a marketer in order to sell something. Throughout his life, this has ranged from breakfast cereal to toys to Marlboro Lights.

"Do you even want to quit?"

"Eventually..."

"What have cigarettes ever done for you?"

"KOFF KOFF HACK KOFF KOFF"

And that was the end of the conversation. So it goes. The problem I have is that from time to time when I get hammered, I think that a smoke will go with those 7 or 8 beers just fine. In its temporarily pickled state, my brain gleefully follows the dubious logic that if my exterior smells like a bar, my interior might as well match. And then the next morning, I always think jeez that's the last time I do that, because I totally feel nasty. So in other words, I'm that guy. The guy who rails against smoking but who is ironically a social smoker. So I have a problem effectively yelling at him. The difference is that my tobacco missteps are so occasional that they're hardly worth mentioning beyond barely founding a case for my own hypocrisy. Same with the dope.

But all the same, I wish he'd knock off that goddamn coughing.

One night, I think this was the first or second night after we moved into the new place, I came home from bartending to find him camped out on the balcony getting high. And camped out is barely an exaggeration. He had a chair. And a black light. And a reading light. And his iPod and its speakers. And a towel. And his bong (on a side note, he refers to all of his paraphenia as his "pieces." We used to just call them pipes). And I went through the roof. Why couldn't he just smoke a joint in a chair on the balcony without making it such a big production? Why did I have to come home to find an array of blown glass drying on a towel on the kitchen counter? Why did I have to find a copy of High fucking Times in the bathroom?

In other words, I wanted to know why he couldn't just smoke pot instead of being a stoner.

I explained to him, with the rage of a 1,000 sitcom dads, that it is stupid to see this chunky kid who used to be a D-1 athlete take the time to set all this shit up on a balcony just so he could get baked. He, of course, didn't see what the big deal was, and as I realized immediately, I didn't actually realize what real big deal was either. I didn't catch it until afterI had explained to him, this time with saltwater running down my cheeks, that it was weird and sad for me to see this chunky kid all chinese-eyed and addled, talking about "pieces," and "baba kush," when what I remember when I look at him is the 7 year-old who fell asleep in his Sonic the Hedgehog costume after trickertreating. Or the 3 year-old who thought that the pregnant cat my dad brought home from work would eventually lay eggs. Or the four year-old who fell asleep on my dad's shoulders during the Electrical Parade at Disneyland.

In other words, what I really wanted was for him to be a kid again. And I say this with complete sincerity, unsmirking, without a gram of smarm: my heart broke.

As if that weren't bad enough, I found myself able to empathize with my parents over a whole catalog of hurt feelings. I could now appreciate the anger and disappointment they felt when I came home from my first semester of college, reeking of Keystone light and a 2.4 GPA. I understood the resignation in my dad's voice when I told him, no I'm not going to quit the band. And finally, the defeated sadness in my mom's eyes when I told her I had foregone with saving myself for marriage no longer looked like martyrdom. In these instances, I bristled at all the various manifestations of parental disappointment, because every fuck up seemed to be a matter of how I was reflecting on them, not how I was reflecting on me. At the time, I always thought, fuck, it's my life and my mistakes, and you guys weren't perfect either. I'm pretty sure this is exactly what goes through Junior's head the instant I begin to pontificate.

Once again, I wish I could be a big brother. I feel like I don't know how. More than that, I feel a little lost.

And by a little, I mean a lot.

--The Robo-Pirate

My Life has Turned into a Dorm Room from 1997, Minus the Bob Marley Poster and Curlies All Over the Floor.

2007-10-04T13:01:00.000-05:00

Let’s see here. Last post prior to the last post was in uh… February. Pretty terrible. You didn’t miss much, though. Band played some shows, I saw Valient Thorr a couple more times, got a new amp, my brother moved in with me…

Obviously, that last one is sort of a big development.

If you dropped by this spot often enough, you might dimly recall that my brother, who I’ll call Junior, was going to college and playing water polo (or wasserball, in German, apparently). Well, that didn’t work out. If you believe that marijuana (or, let’s face it, booze) is not a gateway drug, well, I have some bad news about the tooth fairy, too. Long story short, he moved here in August in order to grow up a little (and by a little I mean a lot) and get back on track. Results, as they say, may vary.

Now, I don’t care if he smokes weed. We’ve all been 19, and some of us have clung tenaciously to 19 for over a decade. But there’s a line (and not a fine one, I think), between recreation and self-medication. I mean, yeah he’s working two jobs and he’s sort of figuring out that life for most people is not an episode of Entourage. But the one-dimensionality of it all is wearing pretty thin. I don’t know. I hate saying that I took him in, because it makes him sound like he was some sort of junkie everyone had given up on, which wasn’t really the case. I suggested he move in with me so he could get a taste of living on one’s own, and how it sucks when you have to work crap jobs in order to barely have enough to pay rent and fill up your gas tank. And more than that, our parents needed a break.

He’s doing okay. I think he’s learning a little about gratitude (which in my mind has been the most egregious offense to our folks—he treated them like ass in exchange for free room and board, car insurance, a cell phone, etc. etc. etc.). And moreover, he’s a good kid with a good heart. I feel bad for being hard on him. I just don’t want him to echo the same mistakes I did. And he’s putting down the bong (or rather, leaving it alone) more and more.

What I was initially worried about when he moved here was not having his head in the proverbial clouds. It was him getting depressed and lonely because we are ten years apart and I don’t know too many people under 21. Fortunately, he met some kids at one of our shows with similar interests, and now I routinely come home to an apartment full of 19 year olds. This is good and bad. On the upside, he has people to hang out with, and they’re pretty cool kids. Junior and his new buds smoke Marlboros and what, if I had to guess by the smell, might very well be dirty diapers. I’ve never been a gourmet when it comes to dope, but whatever they’re buying is definitely shitty. They also play a lot of video games, which as Jackie pointed out, is adorable. Prior to getting Xbox Live, this was Mario Kart and Goldeneye (Junior is, without a shred of irony or kitsch, an old-skool gamer, which is one of the many things I love about him—in fact, he is almost completely devoid of irony. This is a subset of his personal naïveté, a character trait that is simultaneously endearing and worrisome). Now they stay up until 4am playing Halo 3. And this is what's annoying, coming home yet again to a bunch of kids who don't have to get up and go to work.

In the latter activity, I wish I could hang with them. If not for the ol’ dayjob, I’d love to stay up drinking beer and shooting red or blue iterations of Master Chief with Junior and his friends. But I can’t, on account of the frustrating advance of adulthood. And this is currently the big sticking point between him and me.

For several years, my mom has complained that Junior “rats around all night.” And I never thought it was a big deal until I discovered that he slept in until the mid afternoon because he’d been up until four doing whatever the fuck he does. I don’t care about the staying up late. But I’ve been of the mind that the price for staying up late having fun is suffering through the morning of the following day. Even on weekends, I am out of bed before noon, and usually I’m out of bed before 11. And this also was the case during college, when I had marginal jobs and no places to be. Yet Junior has an entirely different philosophy. And so we go round and round; I fulminate and sermonize, he makes promises, and then when he gets up an hour before he has to go to work in the afternoon, I shake my head and think up a big sarcastic speech to deliver the next time we have some time together. Repeat. I can’t say that he’s as lazy as he used to be, but the constant sleeping still pisses me off to no end. And yes, I’ve considered that he’s depressed, especially when you couple the sleeping with a constant cannaboid fog. But lying in bed in hot bedroom that smells like burned Pampers is no way to pull yourself out of a funk.

Still, the whole process seems to be moving forward. He owes me money, and I’m being a jerk about it, and when he can’t afford to buy crappy shwag maybe then he’ll really get what I was talking about when I said, “my life really isn’t as big a party as you think it is.”

And then, what would be really great, is if I could start to feel more like a big brother than a parent.

--The Robo-Pirate

Look, a blog.

2007-09-27T23:22:00.001-05:00

Don't call it a comeback, but I'm back in the writing saddle again. It's all rusty and cracked (making the writing saddle an edifice made of iron and uh, porcelain?), but I'm sitting in it again, and slapping the reins.

If that didn't make a lot of sense to you, you're not alone.

Anyway, I had five or six beers earlier while watching my friend's band play at a fancy grocery store. The kind where the rich folk in your town send their hot wives to grab fresh fish and fennel after their tennis matches. It's true. I've checked their carts. But yeah, the beers have given me a headache.

Jackie is asleep right now because she got offered a long-term sub position, for which she gets training early tomorrow. I'm so stoked for her!

I started reading Kevin's Smith's blog today, and on paper, he's an amusing motherfucker. And honestly, Clerks was pretty damn funny (and uncomfortable, since I rented and watched it with my parents--should anyone's mom ever have a snowball explained to her?); his other movies have been hit and miss for me. That led me to read about Jason Mewes' struggle with drugs, which was equally fascinating, only because it showed how much Tons o' Fun cares about him. It does not, however, make saying "snootchie bootches" funny.

Sorry about the lack of links. I don't feel like futzing with the code.

Band is set to record in November with a guy who's pushed levels and twiddled knobs for Edie Brickell (known for shooting rubber bands at the stars and other egregious album titles) and Pantera's Reinventing the Steel album (whose title is the opposite of egregious). So that's pretty cool. I can already foresee a few headaches and headbuttings over stylistic differences, especially when it comes the mixing part, but I guess that's part of the fun of having a band.

In other band news, the Grampus (our beloved touring van, not that we go on too many tours, and by "too many," I mean "any") needs its balljoints replaced. Before you get too caught up in laughing because "balljoints" is a funny word (as are scramble, dribble and drapes), consider that replacing them costs over $900, and not replacing them eventually causes the wheels to fall off. Not so funny now, is it? In hipster parlance, broken balljoints is the new broken A/C. It's a really hot repair right now.

And finally, since I mentioned hipster parlance, check out this video, entitled the hipster olympics. Normally, I am leery of such deliberate parodies, but this one is right on the money.

Oh and also, I've become obsessed with modern archecture, particularly Googie. I hate that word. Googie is essentially the future as envisioned in 1955. If you've ever been to Tomorrowland in Disneyland prior to the late '90s, then you've seen and enjoyed this type of design.

While I am obsessed with Googie, I'm even more obsessed with as I am with hoarding and hiding change. I'm like a dragon in a D&D campaign.

--The Robo-Pirate

(Eric's face + power windows) carwash = hilarity

2007-02-05T13:09:00.000-06:00

Darth Vato - The Grampus Gets a Bath

On the way home from our show in Houston, we gave the Grampus a bath. Eric got one, too. Music by The Ziggens.

"Vegetarian Mumbo Jumbo"*

2007-01-29T11:28:00.000-06:00

There is this vegan restaurant in Fort Worth, called the Spiral Diner. I love it. They magically take some vegetable product and make it taste like bacon. The building has this cool retro-diner vibe, the music is either of the world variety or ambient indie, and the waitstaff is for the most part friendly and unobtrusive. It's comprised of what you'd expect--hippyish peace punks with sleeve tattoos, grins and socialist ideas. They share their tips and the restaurant has a sign reminding diners that while the staff are there to help, they are not to be treated as servants. As a former waiter, I can totally appreciate this.

As for their politics, I don't really care one way or the other. Thanks to the trigger-happy oligarchists in the White House, my beliefs have increasingly skewed left, so I don't mind the muted presence of various fliers and get-involved literature lying around, nor am I terribly bothered if one of the staff mentions whatever liberal cause he or she is interested in. So, when the one who waited on me and my girlfriend on Saturday asked if I wanted to get involved with building a free skatepark in Fort Worth, I happily took his email address.

This conversation was a refreshing in light of the server I got on Thursday night. My buddy Cliff and I went there for dinner; we ordered magically meat-like sandwiches, and hummus for an appetizer. What we did not order was thinly-veiled condescension; apparently, you get that for free.

The dude came over and dropped off our hummus.

"Thanks!" I said.

"No problem, man," he said "Listen: do you guys support democracy?"

Now, it's been my experience that when someone like this server broaches the subject of government, the conversation usually doesn't end well. I looked at him fixedly, so as to not roll my eyes.

"Yeah, I'm a fan. Very grateful for it."

"Where do you guys work?"

Ah. A twist. I don't work in oil, I don't cut down old-growth forests, and as I am not president of Nike, I thought I was safe.

"I work at an internet marketing company," I said.

"I work for my family," said Cliff.

"Are your jobs democracies?"

Well what the fuck. Are any? I mean besides the ones had at vegan restaurants? If businesses (and I'm strictly talking about their employees, not shareholders) were democratic, what would get done? I'll bet that tiny indie record labels can get away with equal represenation, but everyone knows that tiny, indie labels don't make any money unless they happen to have something to sell off like Nirvana.

But he was earnestly looking at me, waiting to see how I would deal with his rhetorical trap. And frankly, I failed spectacularly. As you read the next exchange, keep in mind I have a B.A. in poli-sci; allegedly, I know what the word democracy means.

"Yeah, it is."

"So you guys get to vote on all the decisions?"

"No... I mean, we can wear whatever we want, well, we can't wear shorts, I guess. And we have a non-traditional management structure... But no one voted on them, so yeah, it's not really a democracy at all."

Apparently, the idiot half of my brain had wandered out of the Nintendo room and down the hall to my mouth. The logical half must have been on the toilet. I confirmed this later because when I encountered him again, he smelled like Glade air freshner.

"Oh..." he says, eyes hardening in smug satisfaction.

The best I could do was return his forced smile. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh no reason. I'm just trying to start a revolution."

He walked away, basking in his own glowing sanctimony, or at least what I imagined was glowing sanctimony. I could be wrong. He was probably glowing from that bacon magic.

--The Robo-Pirate

*Big points if you know this reference.

Would you guys just stick to conspicuous consumption and hos, please?

2007-01-16T09:58:00.000-06:00

I'm in week two of my attempt to shrink my beer gut. I've been eating much better (a lot of shrimp, beans and trips to this vegan restaurant), and since the 6th, I've had little more than a couple beers and a few shots of rum. This is in tandem with speedwalking for an hour every day (except for yesterday, due to MLK Day closing a lot of stuff down) at the gym.

As such, I've started watching TV again.

Now this is not to say that I am one of those effete, artistic people who proudly proclaim how they don't watch television. As proof, below is a short list of my favorite TV shows of all time:

G.I. JOE
Roseanne
The Cosby Show
Jeopardy
The Simpsons
Futurama
King of the Hill
Entourage
Firefly (though sadly, I never watched it on TV)
Heroes
In Search Of... (that show with Leonard Nimoy talking about mysteries such as Stonehenge and Shatner's hairpiece--heyo!)

See? There are eleven shows there! So I like TV. I just that I don't have cable and my reception is bad. But since the gym is on TCU's cable network, I end up watching about an hour of TV a day.

Mostly, I watch the news or Simpsons/King of the Hill reruns. If there is a compelling car-rebuild, I flip between Pimp My Ride. On Sunday, I was lucky enough to find Sinbad and That One Time When He Looked for Fabulous Treasure While Fighting Awesome Ray-Harryhausen-Monsters on Turner Classic Movies. This was especially great, because TCM doesn't run commericials during their features (I think--I haven't had cable for a couple years now). Typically, I stay away from music videos,though; this has a little bit to do with the artists but a lot more to do with the fact that it's mostly hip hop videos and hip hop videos are almost universally similar and dumb.

As a case in point, I watched the video for "Cupid's Chokehold," the new single from Gym Class Heroes. Now I like Gym Class Heroes. It's mostly clever hip-hop made for Fall Out Boy fans, which I am not, but whatever. They're cool. And the song is fine. It's basically a grass-is-greener-as-relating-to-girlfriends public service announcement, but the video bothered me because it features perhaps the most irritating trope in the entire history of rap and hip hop videos. I'm talking about the totally lame old white guy trying to prove otherwise.

In this case, the Totally Lame Old White Guy is represented in the visual narrative by the MC Travis McCoy's flashy new girlfriend's (not the original, dependable one he reunites with fifty seconds later) rich, white, turtleneck-and-blazer-wearing father. The poor guy, who looks a little bit like Marvin, Vince's accountant on Entourage, is sitting there having to pretend to like with this pierced-faced, parka wearing, hip hop guy dating his daughter. All he really wants to do is enjoy his martini. And then Travis's boys come in, and they're of course loud and disruptive, and the poor Totally Lame Old White Guy grimaces, and the music switches to some freestyling and beat boxing. But then, when the music switches back, Totally Lame Old White Guy is irrhythmically nodding to the mad beats.

Old Rich White guys aren't that funny, and they're even less funny while trying to be anything other than old, rich and white. In fact, they're really more like the enemy of everyone, from golf caddies to goonies to pants-peeingly hilarious rappers. They are a joke that's been tired at least as long as the old lady mewling out "Rapper's Delight" in The Wedding Singer.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

Faith in God renewed by the drunken generosity of SAE's, AKA "Everything's coming up Milhouse!"

2007-01-10T10:00:00.000-06:00

I never thought I'd say this, but I was glad to see the frat kids back in the bar last night.

See, on Tuesdays, I check I.D.s, bar-back and mop at my friend's bar. If the joint gets busy enough, I get to jump behind the bar as a third and get the other two bartenders caught up. Then I get tipped out from the other two bartenders, usually doubling my normal take. Of course, it's been about a month since I've had to bartend; school's been out, and the bar has been pretty dead. Luckily, all the kids have to drag their khaki-covered butts to class on the 17th, and they were easing back into form last night.

I like bartending. I've been doing it part time (always as a supplement to whatever 9-5 I've been doing) over the past five years. It's way more fun when you only have to do it for an hour a week. This is because all the things that college kids do to rankle a full-time bartender (not knowing about tipping, getting legendarily plowed, snapping their fingers for drinks, walking tabs, etc.) are not nearly as aggravating when not encountered on a nightly basis. After all, the money I make at the bar is pretty much spending cash anyway.

Except, of course, for this week, when I had three checks floating around in the banking netherworld and the electric bill set to be debted out of my account on Thursday. I was sort of praying to either get a FW Weekly check in the mail or make some extra cash last night, as one of my three New Year's resolutions is to go the entire year without any overdrafts, and I had set myself up to break it two weeks in. Some time after Christmas, I posted an angry, resigned gripe about God, Bush and the war, because my faith at the time was pretty much at a low point. Every so often, however, God does come through in the clutch. Or at least it looks like He does. Granted, college students usually come back to school a week early, and it's easy to call an answer to prayer a coincidence rather than divine benevolence. Ultimately, though, I think life is a little sunnier without a haze of cynicism coloring one's perception. So thanks, God, for sending the college kids (like manna from heaven, if manna were clad in Northface vests and Ducks Unlimited hats) to get drunk and give us their parent's money.

Oh and also, I booked a Sabbath tribute band for my birthday. It's in June, but you know, whatever. You've got to take care of the important stuff in advance.

--The Robo-Pirate

German guy needs to pay better attention. (Joke about a German stereotype included)

2006-12-29T11:25:00.000-06:00

I like to poke fun at Germans. I got really excited when I heard the hidden track on NOFX's most recent album, called "Insulted by Germans Again," The chorus goes, "Germans love to insult me/the whole country condescends/we call it arrogance/they call it making friends." Condescending Germans are hilarious. Anyway, Kerry sent me this Reuters story about a German guy who inadvertantly flew to Sydney, Montana while attempting to visit his girlfriend in Australia. The article is mildy amusing, especially given the German reputation for being efficient and meticulous (the kid does find it odd that he would travel to Australia via the US), but I was interested by what the author left out.

As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:

"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."

It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:

"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."

--The Robo-Pirate

"Tonight, on the History Channel: 'My Dad Telling Some Story'."

2006-12-28T10:26:00.000-06:00

I love him.

--The Robo-Pirate

NorCal, the westernmost province of Redneckistan.

2006-12-27T04:20:00.000-06:00

The short of it: went to a bar in my hometown with another hometown expat who lives in San Francisco. Came to the conclusion, in conjunction with evidence observed yesterday, that Northern California is at times just about as country as North Texas is. Thus, for the time being, I will be referring to the place in which I grew up as South Carolodi. Or maybe Lodisiana? I dunno. Pick your favorite. Slowdi is easier to say, but it doesn't convey the same sense of jerkoffs roaring past you in jacked-up F-250s. I mean seriously, it's the same NASCAR hats, same Calvin-pissing-on-whatever stickers, same same tacky goatees. If not for the weather and the scenery, I'd swear I never left cowtown.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.

Dear God, I hope You're not just making this up as You go along.

2006-12-25T14:18:00.000-06:00

After spending a wonderful Christmas morning with my family, I got around to reading my friend's blog. I hadn't been by in a while, and when I ran across the post linked here, I teared up. Fallen soldiers are tragic enough, but when casualities are personified beyond the dreary statistics of a headline, the emotional impact is always heavier.

Our military has suffered nearly 3,000 deaths. On an intellectual level, I understand that dying is an occupational hazard one assumes upon choosing to be a soldier. But that doesn't make stories like the one above any less heartbreaking.

Of course, I want this heartbreak to weigh upon the men who started this war with the same totality as the families of every person killed in battle. And maybe it does. Maybe I'm just sad, angry and presumptuous. Maybe I'm making unfair assumptions about our leaders. After all, what do I know about sacrifice, railing at them from the safety of a suburban home? What do I know about the pressures and guilt of running a country in time of war? How dare I presume to know the heart of men who send others to give their lives for their country? Well, President Bush, I guess I have to give you a pass, because I can't read your mind or hear your heart. But God can. I hope you and He are cool about all this.

And what of that, anyway? Given Bush's public proclamations of faith, I wonder what it is that he and God are actually talking about every morning. I hope he isn't asking for wisdom, because if he is, God doesn't seem to be listening. When I started this post, I was filled with righteous indignation, excited at the prospect of declaring "fuck you, President Bush" in big, bolded, angry capital letters. Now I am just sad and even a little frightened. If the President, whose faith is apparently embedded in his character, can't get an open channel, what hope have we who have lapsed into cynicism and doubt?

Maybe he isn't asking God for wisdom. Maybe he's asking for, I dunno, catfish filets or a cure for hiccups or something. I kinda hope that's the case, because I still like to think that God is a pragmatic being. I expect to get denied when I pray for two aces on a split pair of tens. However, wisdom in times of crisis is a very reasonable request, and I don't think God should be silent when His children come looking for some. I can handle it if this disastrous war is a function of Bush's praying for the wrong things. I am ill at ease, however, if he is praying for an end and God is saying no.

Then again, maybe God is counciling President Bush on the direction of the war. If that's the case, then the universe is way more existential than I am comfortable with.

Sorry to bum anybody out. Appreciate the moments with your family and friends, for God doesn't have a rhyme or reason that makes any sense. Life may turn according to His plan, but that doesn't make it any easier.

--Steve

Feliz navidad!

2006-12-25T11:54:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and R.I.P., James Brown! Show those stuffy angels what soul really means!

--The Robo-Pirate

The end of my Wooderson phase. Funny pictures and title tags included!

2006-12-23T21:47:00.000-06:00

I've been growing beards on and off for the past few years. Once they start to approach gnarly status, I try to trim them, fuck them up and then shave them off. I grow beards partly because I continue to get fatter; beards are good for several things, but they are really good at distracting people from added poundage. In fact, it's possible that Vikings and wizards grew gnarly beards because they were self-conscious about double-chins. Another reason why I grow beards is that they are totally awesome.

Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.

Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.

Here's why:

Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.

The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.

So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."

"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.

Scenario 1:

"Nice mustache, douche!"

"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."

"Why's that?"

"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."

Scenario 2:

"Nice mustache, douche!"

"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"

Scenario 3:

"Nice mustache, douche!"

"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."

"What do you mean just grown it?"

"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."

Scenario 4:

"Nice mustache, douche!"

"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."

Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.

Guess I'll get started on the next one.

--The Robo-Pirate

Look, a post! In half-assed list format!

2006-12-23T14:31:00.000-06:00

A List of Super-Rare Wishlist Items That You Probably Won't Get No Matter How Good You Are

1. Enriched uranium

2. Dilithium crystals

3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)

4. Clemency

5. Liver transplant

6. Cop when you need one

7. Chance to do college over

8. Wisecracking pet griffin

9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker

10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots

11. Invulnerability

12. Wings that work

13. Bill Waterson's return

14. Dino DNA!

15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son

16. A way out of this crappy deal memo

17. A "yes" answer to your prayer

18. For uppity rock critic to like your band

19. Indiana Jones IV

20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.

--The Robo-Pirate

"PUHING ONA RITZ!!!"

2006-12-13T11:40:00.000-06:00

Rest in peace, Peter Boyle.

love,

The Robo-Pirate

The stirrup pants of the '00s

2006-12-13T10:24:00.000-06:00

Dear women who insist on wearing gauchos,

In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.

You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.

I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.

Sincerely,

The Robo-Pirate

Pauly Shore gets punched out by a redneck in Lubbock.

2006-12-12T10:09:00.000-06:00


Sorry, Pauly, but for once, I'm siding with the redneck. That's what you get for getting Drama kicked out the the Mansion.

Making people on relatively flat expanses of concrete nervous.

2006-12-05T17:27:00.000-06:00

Here's a picture of my longboard. You know, in case you're interested. I just like over-using the one piece of html code I know.

--The Robo-Pirate.

A long, boring post about writing comic books. Toward the end, I mention my new skateboard.

2006-12-05T11:37:00.000-06:00

I've been very slowly working on my comic book. I used to get annoyed when people said, "Gosh, there just aren't enough hours in the day!" but it turns out it's totally true. This is my third attempt at making sequential art. My first was an original hybrid of Ninja High School and Captain Harlock. I made it in 9th or 10th grade, back when I was obsessed with anime. At the time, you couldn't find it everywhere, so I was limited to the available (and mostly Americanized) manga The Comic Grapevine had in the back shelves. I thought my little three-page story was hilarious back then; it's amusing now because I unwittingly aped most of the same techniques I saw in stuff like Macross and Ranma 1/2. Since Ranma 1/2 occasionally showed boobs, I kept these hidden under junk on a top shelf in my closet. If you were a normal, non-nerdy kid, this is probably similar to where you hid old Playboys. I haven't really thought about that little comic (drawn on typing paper with this runny, expensive roller-ball pen) in a long time until I got into writing the one I'm stuck in now.

Prior to getting off my ass and starting, I read four books about Sequential Art (comics). Two were about writing, one by Denny O'Neil, who wrote and edited various DC titles for millions of years, and the other by Peter David, known to me for his lengthy stint on The Incredible Hulk. I'm partial to this last one because Peter David was mostly a Marvel guy and I'm kind of loyal to that pantheon. Anyway, those were helpful to me in terms of learning how to pace and work in subplots--if you've ever read a How-To-Write-a-Screenplay book, they're pretty similar.

The other two books, however, were a little more esoteric. Written by Scott McCloud, they deal more with the theory behind Sequential Art. While Making Comics focuses more on the craft and is therefore similar to the O'Neil and David books, Understanding Comics is a heady dissertation about what makes comics tick. What's really great is that McCloud writes them in comic-book form.

What I've found out, though, is that now I've almost over-educated to the point of uselessness (you'd think I'd learned my lesson about this already, but whatever). Back in 9th grade, I just told a story. I drew pictures, filled in balloons and channeled my imagination onto 8 1/2 X 11 sheets. It was a lot easier before I knew about things like pacing, decompressed stories and how not to ruin a climax with a talkative ending.

Frankly, it is fucking hard. I imagine this is what learning to walk on two prosthetic legs might be like. Well, that's probably waaaaay harder, but you know what I mean.

In On Writing, Stephen King reiterates that telling the story is the most imperative and important matter when you sit down to write; editing and tightening are what second and third drafts are for. So I try to keep this in mind. And in all fairness to my grownup self, nerdy 14 year old had the advantage of things like Legos and free room and board and actively using his brain on a daily basis. I guess I have to do my best to approximate that context.

Yeah, I know. First post in a week, and it's pretty boring. Well, my friend put together a longboard for me last week, and that's kind of exciting. I've been diligently practicing frontside turns over super-steep 7-degree angles in my apartment parking lot. Yes, I know that's wimpy--I'm old and inflexible, okay? If you're lucky, maybe I'll have pictures. Hopefully not of a trip to the hospital.

--The Robo-Pirate

The Frost Giant's Daughter

2006-11-30T11:40:00.000-06:00

I'm apologizing in advance, because this post is pretty much a repeat of the one last year about how people can’t drive when it’s cold. Not surprisingly, I really can't complain enough. Why is it that in this dumb town, whenever the weather is rumored to freeze, people completely lose their abilities to make rational decisions when sitting near the wheel of a car? Last night, I went over to watch a movie with Kerry (funnily enough, it was An Inconvenient Truth). He lives about five minutes away, and that's if the lights are bad. But last night, the traffic idiocy was such that my trip took fifteen fucking minutes--all because the mercury dropped down to 45 degrees. Every four-way stop featured retarded jackoffs simultaneously barreling into the intersections as if right-of-way rules have never existed. Imagine a bunch of near-sighted old people on acid driving bumper cars, and this is a little bit like what happens here every goddamn winter. I'm not saying I am the best driver, and frankly, I am terrified of driving on ice, but at least I error on the side of caution. These other assholes, though... it's like they forget/ignore all prior knowledge and experience of physics, traffic decorum and common sense.

I wish I lived in Hawaii.

--The Robo-Pirate

Ulysses

2006-11-21T16:28:00.000-06:00

I should write about Darth Vato's trip to Austin. So here's the short of it.
The tread ripped off a tire near Itasca. We changed it, and made it to Austin in time for Kerry to buy a Les Paul at a vintage shop. We ate Cuban food. We played at Headhunters. It was a good show. We went back to motel, and the next day, Kerry took the Grampus to get new tires. He found out it needs about $1100 worth of repairs. Then we drove home. Someone parked their truck in the space where the trailer goes. I wrote him a snooty note. He moved his car. The End.

Actually, that's the long of it. Here's how it went. We got a flat and fixed it. Kerry bought a guitar. The show was good.

But here's what I'd rather write about: all the scattered thoughts/songs/pictures that cycled through my head today.

"Zyclone B. Bathhouse"
This is a crappy NOFX song off 46 or 47 Songs That Weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums. Though I'd like to, I can't actually listen to it, because it's on my broken iPod, and my computer here at work has a broken headphone jack. Thus, one single half-line continues to bounce around my head indefinitely.

"The Space Jockey"
This is the weird fossilized alien thing in the spaceship where Kane found the xenomorph eggs in Alien. It's gross and thinking about it gives me the willies. And I can't not ponder it. Why is it fused to that weird turntable/telescope thing?

"Busey and the Beach"
I watched this episode of Entourage last night. It's the one where Turtle knocks over this ridiculous sculpture of Gary Busey's. Then later, there's this party in Malibu thrown by that eel Josh Weinstien, and Busy later pours a bucket of water on Turtle's head. He also tells Ari, "you're a gut maggot, without any guts." Ari goes, "you're going to spin right off this planet, Gary." This episode has a lot of good lines in it, and Busey is so fucking weird, which makes it one of my favorites. Also, Monica Keena looks swollen.

"IO"
This has to do with work. It's boring.
"So tell me, Luke... What's a Friday night like in Fantasy Land for you? Do you meet up with the Care Bears and cruise around in that cloud car?"
This is a line from the comic I'm working on. I don't think it works very well, but I like it and can't seem to part with it. It's just really cumbersome. But not "Cumbersome," because then it would be completely terrible and a relic from 1994.

"Doritos"
This is a new Darth Vato song I've been working on this song for over a month. It's about being how pathetic and depressing life is when one just sits at home alone smoking pot. I'm having trouble with the second verse. Since I don't sing, my melodies always always sound half-baked. It's actually a pretty moronic song, which is par for the course of Darth Vato.

"How much I hate phones"
I hate them. A lot. Especially when they are ringing or other people are using them. This corresponds with how....

"I hope I get to be self-employed someday"
I have a really hard time tuning things out and focusing, and I feel like it makes my performance at work suffer. But why should I be the "special needs" employee? Just because I get bothered by other people's meetings and phone calls doesn't mean I should be allowed to separate myself. But I really do bristle whenever someone is on the phone longer than necessary. You become painfully aware of everyone's verbal tics when you hear them several times a day for extensive periods of times. I recently read this book about an austisic teenager called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. In that book, he talks about how he becomes overwhelmed by everyone's voices, and I can totally relate to this.

"The Asteroid"
Apparently, there is an asteroid that has a 1 in 50,000 chance of hitting the Earth in like 2029. That's a pretty good chance--better than winning the lottery or even that stupid Chili's Guest Satisfaction Survey. NASA is trying to come up with a plan, and not surprisingly, one of the plans involves landing an astronaut on the asteroid and somehow causing it to change its trajectory like three degrees or something. This is all based upon what Kerry told me; I tried to watch it on CNN.com, but what the idiot reporter lady wanted to talk about was how she imagined Bruce Willis might be interested or something. I don't know, because I quit watching. It really pissed me off. Here, I wanted some information, and all this fucking bitch could do was be a fucking moron. If I wanted this kind of fluff, I'd hit myself in the head with a brick and get my news from E! Online. All of this has made me consider that:

"CNN is fucking useless to me."
I don't want to watch a video that has a 20 second ad tacked to the front of it. It's part of why I like to read things. Thanks for not helping me out, CNN. Maybe you can get together with Apple and make more iPods that quit working.

"Would I rather be a dolphin or a dog?"
This is a tough call. Domesticated dogs have it pretty sweet. Everything is exciting for a dog, and nothing seems to rival dogs in experiencing pure joy. However, dolphins are highly intelligent. And I love being underwater. And they team up and beat the shit out of sharks. Still a toss up.

"Is 'Luke or Han?' an appropriate question for a dude to ask a girl on a first date?"
Probably not. But it should be.

"But anyway, what if he askes and she says, 'Luke'?"
Then you should never call her again. Any girl who would pick Luke over Han is probably prone to melodrama. And if you're a dude who hopes that she'll say Luke because you're a nice guy and Luke's a nice guy, well, we know how nice guys finish.

"I hope our show at Fitz's is good on Thursday."
Indeed. Darth Vato is playing at Fitzgerald's again on Thanksgiving night in the first slot. Hopefully this turns out well. Hopefully I have shit enough before hand so as not to feel bloated and tired.

"How'd I get so far into debt?"
Rhetorical question.

"How'd I get this fat?"
Again. Pointless to ask. Beer, pretty much.

"Why does working out suck?"
Because I'm out of shape. And it's hard.

"Why does my brother like Avenged Sevenfold?"
It's embarrassing.

"What if I had gotten good grades in college?"
Then I'd probably have the stress of a more successful job.

"Will I ever get my tattoo finished?"
Only time will tell. Gayest self-answer ever. Which really means, "probably never."

"Does my failure to anticipate the plot twists of the current Astonishing X-Men story arc mean that I am not as perceptive as I think I am?"
This probably will leave most people scratching their heads. I include this because I often question my own perceived intelligence, especially when I miss the hints to major plot revelations in movies and books. For instance, in hindsight, the end of the Sixth Sense was totally obvious, yet I was among the many who was totally surprised. I did pick up on Amanda's impending doom in Saw III, but the clues weren't exactly subtle. As for the comic mentioned above, understanding it required a lot of research on preceding backstory. Basically, this malevolent psychic entity called Cassandra Nova has caused a bunch of illusions, in the process incapacitating the X-Men one by one. Her goal is to use one of them to transfer her essence from this blob into--you know what? Who fucking cares? I read this title because Joss Whedon's dialogue is the best, not because the plots make any sense..

"Maybe I should work on my comic book."
But when would I drink and sleep? I guess during work.

"Zyclone B. Bathhouse."
See? Still there.

"What's the difference between Monet and Manet?"
You'd think I'd have learned this in college, but the fact is, I really didn't learn much of anything in college.

"Flights are expensive."

"I hate the Dallas Cowboys."

"I hate that Dallas Cowboy fans quote Larry the Cable Guy."

"I hate 1310 The Ticket."

"I hate the Colts for losing to the Cowboys."

"I hate that I ever think about football, even for two seconds."

"Having a band that can't tour constantly is kind a of a bummer."
I've been thinking about this one for three years. Oh sure, we go out of town a couple times a month on average, but never for more than a weekend. If you want to make music your life, your biggest obstacle will be debt. It's amazing how cheaply one can live if one does not have to pay on student loans, credit cards or vehicle notes. When I worked at Chili's, I made around $10/hr, which basically worked out to $1600 a month. My current rent and utilities, in the most expensive and nicest apartment I've lived in, are under $700 per month. When I examine the choices I have made over the years, the only ones I regret are the ones that were the most expensive. Dumb dumb dumb. And what's funny is that I have never used my degrees for anything.

"This one Garfield strip."
I know. It's not cool to like Garfield, and I'm not really a fan anymore, but there is one strip where Garfield leaps at Jon's cheeseburger, and Jon says "Stop right there." And Garfield is left suspended in mid-air, his mouth crossed in an X of perplexion. Jon says, "Sometimes that's all a cat ever understands." This always killed me when I was a kid, and it still makes me smile. I like it because it shows how every cartoon, even a hack-job like Garfield, indulges in absurdities that don't translate nearly as well in other media. And there's also the implication that a cat understands anything. Or rather, obeys anything. I love cats, but c'mon, it's their world. We just live in it. They are the embodiment of aloofness.

No One Wants to Play Sega with Harrison Ford
Brandon Bird is one of my favorite artists, and this is one of my favorite paintings. Though it's easy to get burned out on pop culture tweaks, his are always surreal, wry, and spot-on.

"Science Friction."

Though this is probably also the name of a porno, it's also the name of a Hot Wheels car I had as a kid. It was maroonish, with an orange laser cannon on the roof.

"Transformers, as a concept, is kind of stupid. The level of belief suspension is not for the faint of heart."
But I guess that's why it's a cartoon, right? I hate what adulthood can do to one's imagination.

"Heroes is awesome."
Next to Entourage, this is my favorite show. Though I'm relieved as to how Monday's episode ended, I'm now frustrated for a bunch of new reasons.

I could go on. I love to backtrack through thought patterns, and looking back at this list is interesting when I consider the intangible threads between each item. As I sit here excited at the prospect of my work week ending on Today, I hope that someday, I'll make my living doing this sort of thing. Not because I'm lazy (okay, maybe a little bit), but because it's a lot easier for me to be passionate about thinking and writing than it is anything else. For those of you who are able to do this, (Heather Armstrong, I'm looking at you), I am totally jealous. God bless you, and may your ad revenue continue to roll in until the internet collapses or that asteroids collides with the Earth.

--The Robo-Pirate

Doppelganger

2006-11-15T11:47:00.000-06:00

If you go to this week's Onion A.V. Club, there is an interview with one of my heroes, Chuck Klosterman. Read the interview if you want, but the most important thing is that he looks a lot like my friend this guy.*

--The Robo-Pirate

*That guys is my friend, Walker. He writes songs and hangs around the bar I work at, and is an all-around nice guy.

A message from TXDOT

2006-11-14T13:51:00.000-06:00

My dad, a recovering technophobe who is finally joining the rest of us in the AGE OF COMPUTERS, sent me this forward today. It's a safety warning. Rather than forward it, I thought I'd post it here. That way, ONLY MY READERS WILL BE SAFE. I think that logic went into writing the Bible. But anyway, feel free to pass around a link to the Robo-Pirate or just tell your friends why you shouldn’t use cruise control on wet roads yourself. If they are skeptical, make sure to tell them you read it on the internet.

A 36 year old Kilgore, TX resident had an accident several weeks ago and totaled
her car. She was traveling between Gladewater and Kilgore. It was raining,
though not excessively, when her car suddenly began to hydro-plane and literally
flew through the air. She was not seriously injured but very stunned at the
sudden occurrence!
When she explained to the highway patrolman what had happened he told her something that every driver should know - NEVER DRIVE IN THE RAIN WITH YOUR CRUISE CONTROL ON.

She thought she was being cautious by setting the cruise control and maintaining a safe, consistent speed in the rain, but the highway patrolman told her that if the cruise control is on and your car begins to hydro-plane (what happens when your tires lose contact with the pavement), it will accelerate to a higher rate of speed and you will take off like an airplane. She told the patrolman that was exactly what had occurred.

The patrolman said this warning should be listed, on the driver's seat
sun-visor - NEVER USE THE CRUISE CONTROL WHEN THE PAVEMENT IS WET OR ICY.

A couple of comments:

1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.

Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*

--The Robo-Pirate

*Or is it?

Escape from Fort Worth. Except that I just went to work. Which is in Fort Worth. My old title was way better. Just read it, okay?

2006-11-13T12:20:00.000-06:00

Prior to the panic I experienced upon discovering I am to be a Leader of Meetings (see below), I drove to work. Driving to work is worth mentioning because it always depresses me. I'm not going to kill myself or anything, but the time spent between my apartment and my job nearly always bums me out.

I live about eleven miles away from my office. There are basically three different routes which I may use, and they all take about twenty minutes. The one with the least congestion is the most out of the way. The one that is a little shorter is rife with cops, stoplights and the occassional horse trailer convoy. The most direct one has the thickest traffic and biggest stretches of construction. It is this combination that shrouds my day in gloomy frustration.

I'm sure that every moderately large city is plagued with bad traffic, but in Fort Worth, unfinished road maintenance is such a salient feature that it might as well be mentioned in the city's tourist literature. It's probably not as bad as I make it out to be, but it is for me because the areas which I normally frequent end up squeezing cars into one lane. As if this weren't annoying enough, these areas have the country's (allegedly) most poorly-timed stoplights at every block. As far as I'm concerned, Fort Worth traffic is an ordeal on par with flying standby at Christmas.

Today, however, was especially bad. I don't know if it was because I went to work earlier (what a nice reward for trying to get a head start, right?), but the lines of non-moving cars made me want to yank my eyelashes out. So I went a different way. In the process, I became the idiot that you yell at for pulling out at the wrong time and almost t-boning you. Know why? Because I pulled out at the wrong time and almost t-boned this guy in an Acura. As he will probably be telling it for the rest of the week, I was that "idiot in this shitty white-trash van" who continued into a four-way intersection that only had two stop signs. And of course, because I wore flip flops today, I got hung up on the gas pedal and nearly missed stopping in time. And then, when I slammed on the brakes, a hail of change spilled out of the overhead sun visor and onto my head. It's what I imagine hanging a leprechaun upside and shaking it would be like. Or, every day for Super Mario.

Between the excitement of my near miss and roadblocks the traffic and orange cones, I half-expected Lee Van Cleef waiting for me at the office. "We'd make a great team, Steve," he'd say.

I'd light a cigar, give him an icy stare and hiss,

"Call me Plissken."

--The Robo-Pirate

"I'll be doing what?"

2006-11-13T11:18:00.000-06:00

My eyes are crossing in trepidation. I just read a meeting request that contained the sentence "Steve will lead the meeting."

I have no idea what leading a meeting entails. It might as well have read, "Steve will be planning the next space shuttle mission" or "Steve will be demonstrating how to turn pickles into chickens."

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
On the plus side, this looks like a job for....

STEVE'S MEETING PANTS!!!

Racist frat guys are upset about being portrayed as racist frat guys.

2006-11-10T12:19:00.000-06:00

I haven't seen Borat yet, but I know there is a scene in which he encounters some drunk frat guys in South Carolina who, over the course of a bunch of beers, say some really awful things bemoaning the absence of slavery and the apparent power surplus enjoyed by minorities. So in other words, they have made themselves look like bigoted retards in a nationally distributed film. Good work on that, duders.

Not surprisingly, the two guys filed an anonymous lawsuit against 20th Century Fox, alleging that they were basically tricked, and that they have suffered a bunch of the usual nebulous damages (emotional, physical, loss of income, humiliation) because of their appearance in the film.

I'm sorry (wait, no I'm not), but I really can't feel too badly for these two fucks. Too bad you guys were too stupid to keep your racist bullshit under wraps in the presence of a camera. And really? Loss of reputation? What reputation were two redneck frat guys from South Carolina cultivating before? Presumably, if their attorneys can prove that they were essentially tricked into signing waivers after getting hammered (I think there is a precedent set by some regretful Girls Gone Wild stars), they have a leg to stand on, but hopefully, it will not keep them getting their asses whipped by someone big, black and justifiably angry.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

Don't worry, K-Fed. There's always Wal-Mart.

2006-11-07T17:09:00.000-06:00

Well, it took her long enough.

Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.

In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."

Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.

Why I heart the Me-Thinks

2006-11-06T16:40:00.000-06:00

Look to the links under the things that make my ears hurt and click on the Me-Thinks. On the FW Weekly's dime, I took them out last Wednesday and then tried to remember the details. It'll run in the Weekly on Thursday, but you can read it down below first.

An Evening with The Me-Thinks

If you drive east on Belknap, you’ll end up in Haltom City. You’ll know because the background scenery turns into a loop of pawnshops, used-car lots and shade-tree mechanics. It’s a little like being in a cartoon, if said cartoon were directed by T.S. Elliot. Sometimes the scenery is broken up by a Vietnamese or Mexican restaurant, but mostly it looks about as industrial as a suburb can be. It’s not bad; it’s just, you know, Haltom City.

This is where The Me-Thinks are from. When you hear them, it makes perfect sense.

Ever year, The Me-Thinks win the Weekly’s Best Hard Rock award. If you had to describe them in two words, I suppose Hard Rock would work, but it does no justice to the poetic inebriation that makes them my favorite band in town. Instead of Hard Rock, try these:

The Me-Thinks are the sound of smog, collected and sculpted into grinning, slaphappy gargoyles.

They are the sonic manifestation of the bong rip you took right before puking.

They are an ’82 Monte Carlo, painted by Earl Scheib and driven by Rat Fink.

They are talented burnouts.

They are perpetual adolescents who have extended their glory days instead of merely longing for them.

They’re funny, they’re loud, and they bask in self-deprecating wit, while remaining untainted by precious, cutesy hipster-irony.

And also, they bring their own fog machine.

The band used to be a three piece, but now it’s a quartet. Ray sings and plays bass. He’s also Fort Worth’s answer to Coop, as his subversive takes on pop art have advertised pretty much every rad show in town for the past three years. Marlin is lead shredder; he also operates the fog machine. When he plays, he looks like a statue of Bacchus, if Bacchus hung out with the Norse pantheon. Will used to play drums, but now he trades leads with Marlin. His other forte is biting wit. In any other band, dual guitarists would merit coordinated rock poses, but that sounds like a lot of effort for these guys. The latest addition is Trucker John, who has filled Will’s vacant drum throne. He’s in a billion other bands, most of which are some permutation of hardcore. They are buds since junior high, and they make their own fun. Whether it involves booze, pharmaceuticals or vintage amps, they still manage a good time.

For the past 800 years or so (by my estimate, anyway), they’ve been chronicling their good time on an upcoming album. It’s called Make Mine a Double, so named, because it’s actually a double-E.P. If making a double E.P. rather than a single album strikes you as a cleverly moronic thing to do, you’re absolutely right. It’s reason #108 why they are the coolest band in town. But now the record is finally in the can, and it’s awesome. I’m biased, but I defy anyone to find a better blend of stoner-garage-punk around. It’s like Motorhead playing Circle Jerks songs, or the Stooges fronted by Fat Mike. Songs like “Burnout Timeline” and “Permanent Krokus” perfectly encapsulate life in the HC in its entire gritty splendor. If there is a need for a soundtrack to a house party gone off-the-tracks (and I posit that there is), that soundtrack is Make Mine a Double.

People tell me that my band, Darth Vato, plays party music, and I always respond with, “you should listen to the Me-Thinks instead.” Our partying is bush-league compared to theirs. I don’t mean to sell Darth Vato short, but I’m okay with being second-string. We’re in illustrious company, after all. To be fair, I think some of the best nights I’ve had have been playing with the Me-Thinks at the Wreck Room. When the “Best Of” issue of the Weekly comes out every year, I am genuinely puzzled that “Darth Vato and the Me-Thinks, Any Time They’ve Played at the Wreck Room” is not a nominee. I realize that we were nominated this year for our shows at the Moon, but I think our shows with the Me-Thinks are way better. This is not to say that the Moon shows suck; I just prefer watching the Me-Thinks churn out Turbonegro covers while drinking enough to forget my own songs. But whatever. Opinions, assholes, etcetera.

So I love the Me-Thinks. Even though they claim to be “Fort Worth’s shittiest band,” everyone knows different. Sure they get ripped, but they also shred, and they usually do both at the same time. They have a funny rule, though. They don’t headline. I know because I asked. Darth Vato is playing with them on December 15th. Since I think they’re pretty much kings, I suggested they take the midnight slot. Ray said, “Nah, because we’re only functional drunks past eleven. By twelve, we’re totally useless.”

Last week, I found out that this is really only a half-truth. I took them out for drinks in honor of their double-E.P. release on Saturday. Predictably, their capacity for functional booze absorption is a lot greater than they let on. What follows is foggy record of my attempt to hang with them and their crew.

* * * * *

I guess I got the memo wrong, because I show up at Fred’s at 7:30. We’re starting early, but not that early. I kill my time with a Maker’s-and-Seven at 7th Haven. So really it’s more like two Maker’s, but whatever. I reason that with these guys, plus or minus a drink isn’t going to change the evening’s outcome too dramatically.

Eight o’clock rolls around, and I roll back to Fred’s. Ray, Will and Trucker John have arrived simultaneously, and a couple schooners go the way of the dodo as we await burgers. Will and Trucker John will later be mocked for sharing an order of fries between them.

We’re on our third beers when the burgers arrive. Between bites, I get a bit of Haltom City Punk Rock History from Ray and Will. I ask them about Hasslehorse, an old band of Ray and Marlin’s in which Marlin actually played keys. Hasslehorse’s history is given cursory treatment, because it quickly gives way to a more enthusiastic discussion of life in the early to mid-‘90s. This thread leads me to believe that those years were little more than a series of keggers rumbling between the HC and Riverside Drive. The stories are populated by heshers and whippets and a trio of pilled-out scenesters, three chicks who would barrel into every party like Andy Capp tussling with his wife. Nowadays, the radius of the party zone is a little narrower. For the Me-Thinks, the epicenter is now their rehearsal space, a non-climate controlled tin shack, where they claim nothing ever gets done, except for a lot of drinking and the occasional screening of a Vivid Video.

It’s now 9:00, and we’ve put away three or four rounds. I should probably keep better track of this, but whatever. We make plans to hit 7th Haven before calling it a night. I know this will likely never happen given the pace we’re at, but it’s good to have goals, I guess, the road to hell being paved as it is. The next stop, anyway, is the Shamrock. Prior to this, we sit in my van listening fIREHOSE. Weed may have been involved. I don’t really know; at this point things are already hazy. Marlin never made it, and his absence prompts Will to deride his bandmate’s affinity for cock-rock such as Poison and Cinderella. Ray defends him, as much as is possible, on the grounds that Marlin just really likes hot licks. This, I think, is a dubious argument, but I say nothing, since it’s now 9:15 and there are still drinks to be had. We amble to the Shamrock.

The Asian Media Crew is waiting for us in the parking lot. They are as much a component of the band as Marlin or Trucker John.

The Asian Media Crew is a two-man operation whose ostensible function is to accompany the band everywhere and record any ensuing hilarity. There is a video camera, and I’ve seen them use it before, but tonight it will be employed intermittently. The Asians are Rat and Calvin, and they wear matching jumpsuits. Mostly they just drink and crack jokes. This past summer, I asked Ray if he was coming to the FW Weekly music awards. “Maybe,” he said. “Depending on hangovers, we might just send The Asians.” Sure enough, Rat and Calvin were the only ones present to accept the Me-Thinks Best Hard Rock Band award. I asked Rat where the band was, and he said, “I dunno. Probably at home being lame or something.” I can think of no other local band that makes public appearances by proxy, and this is yet another reason why the Me-Thinks are my favorite crew in town.

Anyway, we bounce into the Shamrock, where Marlin has been patiently waiting for the past hour. Apparently he didn’t get the memo either. Marlin is soft-spoken and considerate, and like the rest of them, enjoys a lot of beer. It’s 9:30ish. Round one (or round five or six, if you’re counting), is a flight of Sierra Nevada that everyone quickly polishes off. By 9:45, we have emptied round two, and One-Fingered Will (front man for hardcore outfit One Fingered Fist) brings over a bunch of Patron shots. When my stomach gets wind of this development, it knots up in anger. Its relationship with tequila is at best stormy; most of the time it is one of pure hatred. But down the hatch anyway, stomach be damned. I notice that Ray, Will and Marlin toss these down without blinking. Same with the Asians. I hope no one catches my grimace.
I didn’t walk into the bar clearheaded, but now my view of the Shamrock looks like a Monet painting. The joint is kind of empty; in my current state, it looks positively cavernous. Like Bat Cave cavernous. For all I know, Batman and Alfred are picking the songs on the jukebox. Evidently, they like Black Sabbath.

I don’t know what time it is by this point. My phone is on the floor, probably because I am unable to make a convincing fist. Still drinking, Ray and Will are discussing the Pogues. There is one rule about this particular topic: you can never talk about the Pogues’ music, but only about Shane McGowan’s gnarly teeth. Like an idiot, I break this rule by saying something about how Flogging Molly sounds like the Pogues. Will graciously steers things back where they belong, in the realm of Irish punk band orthodontics. Someone buys some Jager shots. After these go down, Marlin says they can call me a cab later if I want. I don’t know when later is, because it feels like 3 AM. Though I’ve drank with these guys at a number of shows, I forget that I am a rank amateur. It’s like being proud of getting your orange belt and then sparring with Chuck Norris.

My phone says it’s 10:42. I think it’s a fucking liar.

At this point, Rat is animatedly talking about grilling fish. He’s so excited that I think he has won the lottery. It turns out that he just really likes fish. He schools me on where to eat pho in the HC. I go to Tu Hai, which he says is good, but I’m supposed to go someplace else, which is better. I’m not sure, but I think Calvin is taping this exchange. He’s cracking up, regardless. But the whole table confirms, that yes, whatever this other place is called, it’s where you go for pho.

It’s 11:05. I’m trying to ease the booze-throttle back a bit, not that it matters a whole lot now. Will says he has to check out around midnight, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. Same for Ray. While some more beers arrive, he tells me a story about being sixteen and sneaking backstage at a G.B.H. show in Dallas. I think this is about the coolest thing in the world, until he tells me about being a kid and showing up to skate a pool only to be overrun by the Zorlac Skateboard guys. Marlin gives me a burned copy of a Peaches album. I unsuccessfully try to stuff this in my shirt pocket. The three of them duck in and out of encyclopedic music debates, gently giving me crap for being a relative lightweight and giving each other crap over Rolling Stones songs. I wonder if it is midnight yet. It’s only 11:15.

The next time I check my phone, it’s almost midnight. I think the Asians have just left. Something about work the next day. Marlin has taken tomorrow off so his booze-cruise is still merrily afloat. Will and Ray are comfortable with loping into work beneath clouds of staggering hangovers, though Will leaves shortly after this proclamation. Something about driving home before he gets too gone. Eventually, Ray and I remain. When he leaves, I follow. I will nap in my van. My fortune is such that I have to make 9:00 flight the next day. I’m pretty sure I won’t notice any of it. I figure I won’t remember too much of the night anyway. Hopefully someone will, and I think this is pretty much par for the Me-Thinks course. It makes me wish I had my own Asian Media Crew. Too bad I didn’t grow up in Haltom City.

--The Robo-Pirate

Win Ben Stein's Vote

2006-11-04T11:47:00.000-06:00

So I'm in Lodi, waiting to go to Davis to watch my little brother play water polo. Since he wants to transfer, this may be the only collegiate game I get to see. I'm disappointed, but that's a whole 'nother post.

Anyway, in case anyone who lives outside of California is interested in who Ben Stein supports for Governor, it's Schwarzeneggar. I just answered my parents phone, and he told me so. I'm a big fan of Ben Stein, not only because his game show was one of my all time favorites, but also because he is Jewish AND politically conservative. That juxtaposition fascinates me in the same way that a black dude fronting a hardcore band does, or a cat nursing a litter of abandoned puppies.

--The Robo-Pirate

The Google

2006-10-31T11:39:00.000-06:00

If you look at the comments in the previous post, the fourth one takes issue with my and my friend Lauren's fun at the expense of the President's assumed lack of geographic knowledge. Okay fine. For all I know, George Bush is a geography wizard. It could be that he knows exactly where Carmen Sandiego is at all times, and if he doesn't, he can find her with the most basic clues. If that's the case, than I'm being unfair. I seriously doubt it, but whatever.

Regardless of what George Bush does or doesn't know about foreign capitals, it's obvious that his public articulation is laughably confused at best. Yesterday, he he told this lady on CNBC that he "occasionally" uses "the Google." Reread Lauren's first comment, and then say "the Google" in a generic foreign accent out loud; it will further prove her point. I used to know a kid from the Czech Republic whose favorite Nintendo game ever was "the Excited Bike." He probably uses "the Google," too.

But really, I'm just belaboring a point. Making fun of George Bush's elocution is an easy and tired target. Everyone has a slip of the tongue now and then, and some more often than others. Usually, though, those in the latter category don't fumble and backpedal their way into the Oval Office. In my previous post, I cited plenty of instances in which our disarmingly befuddled president has had dubious reign over the words plopping out of his mouth, but today I have video. I know it's not like Bush is the first President to sound confused, but at least Ronald Reagan* had an excuse, given that he was developing Alzheimer's. For Bush, what might have once been folksy charm has long since degenerated into country bumpkinism. In light of "the Google," I maintain that it's probably safe to assume that upon first hearing the word "Tbilisi," George Bush probably thought it was something he would be eating for dinner that night.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
And I see your most recent comment, Oh really?, but I maintain that he's still an idiot. If you read any of the articles I linked to, you'd find that he doesn't appear to think through what he says before making it public record. For a guy who has a teleprompter in front of him half the time, he makes a lot of mistakes, and that's pretty telling. And furthermore, I voted for him the first time around. I haven't been this disappointed in something I believed in since I found out Santa Claus was really my parents. I could forgive his public ineptitude if it wasn't constantly utilized to spin half-truths and outright lies.

*Plus, Ronald Reagan was a fantastically compelling speaker. Even Jim Wright, who hated the man, will acknowledge this if asked. And so you know, I did.

Stay the course. Repeat.

2006-10-25T10:44:00.000-05:00

So you know all the great Presidents? You know, Lincoln, the Rooselvelts, that millionaire playboy who was shot in the head? Did they ever have to eat their words or retract previous statements? Because the one we have right now has to do this all the time. Currently, Bush and his smug cadre of lying self-servants are having to explain what his oft-repeated catch phrase "stay the course" really means.

Said President Bush, "The characterization of, you know, 'it's stay the course' is about a quarter right. 'Stay the course' means keep doing what your doing. My attitude is: Don't do what you're doing if it's not working -- change. 'Stay the course' also means don't leave before the job is done."

I had no idea that "stay the course" was such a mutable phrase. Bush makes its meaning as maleable as the word "smurf."

"Laura, hon, would you stay the course with the ketchup?"

"Oh man, after all them Dr. Peppers, I have to stay the course big time!"

"If we stay the course about these Al Queda ties, they'll have to go along with the invasion."

Sure, it's probably just semantics, but underneath it all, I think the President's usage of the phrase belies one ultimate truth:

"This is way harder than Dick and Karl made it out to be. I have no idea what I'm doing."

--The Robo-Pirate

Exuberance and optimism all because of some french fry oil.

2006-10-24T15:16:00.000-05:00

Check this out! Dakine, which makes skateboards and snowboards and the smelly beanie I wear in the winter is sending its skate team up the West Coast in a vegetable oil-fueled RV! Last year, Surfing ran a story about the Malloy brothers and some other guys hitting a bunch of breaks from Oregon to Baha in a bio-fueled truck, and my interest in this stuff was really piqued. I also know this guy who runs his truck on bio-diesel, and he swears by it. Maybe it really is a way for the rest of us to break free from the oilogarchy that's ru(i)nning our country.

Go to Greasenotgas.com and read about it.

--The Robo-Pirate

OUT-FART THE GORILLA AND WIN A FREE RING TONE!

2006-10-23T17:22:00.000-05:00

Thanks, MySpace ad, but I'm all stocked up on ringtones. You can take your rapid-mouse-clicking games and shove them up your ass.

--The Robo-Pirate

Gym Class Heroes Kick Ass or Damn I Wish I'd Thought of That #133

2006-10-23T11:47:00.000-05:00

From "It's OK, but Just This Once!" off Gym Class Heroes' recent LP, As Cruel As School Children:

"I got no time to player hate--
I'm the type to crash your party with Teddy Ruxpin and a Slayer tape."

Probably the coolest line I'll hear all month.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.

This band is tight, like Bob Cratchet's Christmas budget. For those of us in DFW, they're coming to Will Rogers Auditorium on 11/21, opening for the crappy All-American Rejects. Between this show and The Sword on the 5th, November is looking to be pretty rad.

Where I talk about No Shame, Pepper's new album. And also how editors don't always know best.

2006-10-18T15:39:00.000-05:00

This is the original draft of my review of No Shame, the new Pepper album. You can click here and read how the editor hacked it up. In his defense, it could have been broken up a little bit, but I maintain that the content in my original is way better than the published draft. I'm just saying is all.

Pepper, No Shame
(Volcom/Atlantic)

There’s this scene in Blue Crush where surfer girl Anne-Marie Chadwick goes to rescue her lil’ sis Penny from a party at the Volcom house on Oahu’s North Shore. And in the movie, Penny is understandably pissed, because her big sister is ripping her out of what appears to be a pretty cool party, abundant with kegs, hot chicks and gnarly locals ripping on a half-pipe. The whole movie paints Hawaiian surf culture as a constant pursuit of leisure, a breezy drink-till-it’s-time-to-check-the lineup sort of lifestyle. Kona Town, the second record by Kona, Hawaii’s Pepper, encapsulated that vibe with its blend of reggaefied rock and boozy aloha spirit--the record is equal parts double-vision party and hangover hindsight. In short, it felt real.

Unfortunately, Pepper seems to have lost their way home. They moved to San Diego in ‘99. They’ve been on the road for five or six years. They made a fan-alienating record with Ron St. Germaine. On No Shame, their fourth outing and first on a major label, there are glimmers of Kona Town, as well as some interesting forays into new horizons (check the single-minded bounce of “No Control”), but a lot of the time, the songs sound alternately forced and distracted. It’s not a bad record, but the band’s talents seem a little misappropriated.

Pepper normally gets knocked around for ripping off Sublime, but this isn’t entirely fair. While dual frontmen Kaleo Wasserman (guitar) and Brett Bolinger (bass) both sing in the same breathy tenor as Bradley Nowell, Bollinger’s voice has the lecherous richness that Nowell sometimes lacked. Besides—it’s far more obvious that they’ve been stealing from the Police.

Predictably, the tracks on No Shame that sound like a Police song are the best ones. Once you skip the annoying intro skit (and there are two more of these, which is never a good sign), the album kicks off with “Bring Me Along,” a sunny reggae shuffle that grabs its licks from “Every Breath You Take” and its heritage from island acts such as Po’ Hana. The guitars echo for miles, the bass flows like mercury and after the next song is finished, you’re fooled into thinking that Pepper wised up and made another Hawaiian record. “Lost in America,” a hooky ode to life on the road perpetuates the ruse, but when the hang-loose varnish starts to crack, a disingenuous grab for radio airplay becomes apparent. It’s disingenuous, because the track is bookended by another stupid skit, the only purpose of which is to distract the listener from the jarring shift of “Your Face,” a gaudy slab of overproduced pop. After you’ve settled into the stripped-down space of a couple clean guitars, bass and drums, getting slammed with a bunch of tacky overdubs and keyboards is pretty annoying.

From there, the album repeatedly shoots for the mainstream, but for the most part, it doesn’t even hit the backboard. “Like Your Style” is a corny attempt at a club hit. “Point and Shoot” is marred by unnecessary raunch. Plus, the last third is broken up with another unfunny skit. Apart from the plaintive low-key rocker of “Zicky’s Song,” the rest of the record tries too hard. It’s shameful that No Shame makes you sit through a bunch of phony grins to find the groove of a real feeling.

--The Robo-Pirate

Just an observation. We mean no harm.

2006-10-13T14:11:00.000-05:00

A couple years ago, when I was looking into an Alternative Teacher Certification program (you know, because I was too stupid to have bothered to do this in college), I had to take a test at UT Dallas. It was on a Saturday, so I really didn't get a feel for the campus or the student population.

Last night, Darth Vato played at UT Dallas at the Pub, which is located within the student union building. Though it did resemble a pub, it served no alcohol. I could blather on with a lengthy discussion of form, function and purpose, but this is already a pretty boring post. Rather, I'd like to present my first impression of the students at UT Dallas. I always assumed that it was a commuter school, but there was a decent crowd, and the show itself was fun. We played like crap, though. I think this had something to do with sobriety, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, in pulling up to the load-in spot, we had passed three students talking on phones and to their friends. A fourth student walked past our van, talking on her phone. Kerry looked at me and said,

"I haven't heard any English yet."

--The Robo-Pirate

As if watching giraffes have sex wasn't awkward enough.

2006-10-12T11:32:00.000-05:00

Uh oh. Someone had better tell Jerry Faldwell. According to Reuters, there's a gay animal museum in Norway. The obvious implication here is that since animals aren't sentient, being the homogay is not a choice but a natural phenomenon, not unlike ball lightning or the aurora borealis.

From the article comes the following quote, which may be one of the funniest paragraphs I have ever read:

"One photograph shows two giant erect penises flailing above the water as two
male right whales rub together. Another shows a male giraffe mounting another
for sex, another describes homosexuality among beetles."

I think it's safe to assume that the mental image of swordfighting gay whales* was the furthest thing from your mind when you got out of bed today.

In any case, the next time you see a chimpanzee on rollerblades, you'll know that he's not just doing a bit.

--The Robo-Pirate

*or gayles, if you prefer.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!!

2006-10-09T09:14:00.000-05:00

Every time I watch Entourage, I wish I were an actor. One with a mansion. For almost a minute, I consider the possibility of taking acting classes and think that yeah, maybe this would be something I could do. And then, I remember that actors, though often talented, are almost always aggravating.

I'm not talking about Hollywood dickheads who spend twenty bucks to have a pack of cigarettes delivered to them. These people are as far-removed from my reality as the characters they play, and therefore, they hardly exist in three-dimensional space. I will never meet or know them because for all practical purposes, they don't exist outside a writer's imagination. In other words, there is no real Eva Longoria. When I see her on TV, graciously smiling and waving from within the safety of velvet ropes and red carpets, she is no more real to me than Homer Simpson.

Ac-TORS, however, have been flitting in and out of my life since high school. These people don't make it to Hollywood, though some of them move there. They do theater. And I fucking hate theater. It drives me nuts, what with all the over-acting, and the panting, and the rouge, and the delusions, and the drama that bleeds over from the production into real life.

In high school, I had a good friend who said frequently and with grave determination, "I'm going to be an actor." As if by making such definitive statements, one could make it so. "I'm going to acquire the hope diamond." POOF! Cursed blue diamond, right in my pocket. "I'm going to drive a German half-track." POOF! German half-track, right in my pocket. Same thing in college. I was friends with a few theater people, and a couple of them frequently said the same thing, usually with a nonchalance that suggested they were a little surprised that it hadn't happened already. And then one time, my friend Bryan, who WILLFULLY lived with three other theater dudes threw a party, and the TCU theater department showed up, and when I and my roommate arrived, I overheard one girl say to her friend, "who are those guys?" and her friend replied, "I don't know, but they're definitely not THEATER PEOPLE."

Geez, girls, how did you know? Was it because my pockets weren't rattling with bottles of anti-depressants?

So I find theater people universally annoying. Perhaps you are wondering, however, why I would bring this up. Well, this weekend, Darth Vato played in Galveston, which is a city south of Houston on the gulf. We normally have good shows there, but this one was sort of screwed up in that the opening band cancelled, we had to play for an extra hour (which means playing more covers, which I hate), and we had to compete with terrible metal bands in the adjacent room. But it wasn't a big deal for us, because we have electric instruments that can drown out other electric instruments. Unfortunately, this was not the case for the one-act play that went on before us.

You might think that I am using one-act play as a metaphor or a euphamism for a crappy band, but I'm not. Prior to us, two people, in costume, paced around each other spouting unfunny, circuitous dialogue in some play about a woman who thought she was a superhero. It was dumb and it was irritating, but ultimately, I just felt bad for them.

See, they got started around 9:00, shortly before the first metal band started sound checking in the other room, and it was as awkward as getting a boner in church. The situation sort of went like this:

DELUSIONAL ACTOR 1: So you're saying you're NOT Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive....
DELUSIONAL ACTOR 2: No, I am Superwoman, and I am here to defeat the League of EEE-ville.
TERRIBLE HIGH SCHOOL METALCORE BAND IN ADJACENT ROOM: JUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!!!
DA 1: But our files say that you ARE Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive, married to Mike, mother of Jack, 7, and Mary, 5, and they say nothing about any "league of evil."
DA 2: Then your files, Doctor, are CLEARLY erroneous, and have probably been fabricated by the League of EEE-ville themselves!
THSMBIAR: JUGGEDAJUGGEDAJUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!! How you guys tonight? We're called A Dying Death of Dying...

And so on. It was uncomfortable, and it pretty much made the night a total gong show. The cellphones rang. The bar's phone rang. Detuned power chords rang. I finally bailed and went to the other room to watch teenagers with hair in their faces growl and chug away on crappy amps. But this was just as uncomfortable as the shitty play, as their crowd was as many moms as it was friends. The friends were politely standing, but the moms were doing the over-the-head-Michael-McDonald-concert-type claps. To tuneless, rhythmless hardcore.

The nice thing was that we still had some people come watch us, and we made more money than we were supposed to. Eric made us get up at eight the next morning and leave shortly thereafter so he could be back in time for the Cowboys/Eagles kickoff. This made me grouchy, but he really, really likes the Cowboys, so it wasn't like I had much of a choice. He says that the Cowboy's performance affects how the rest of the his week goes, and this makes very little sense to me, but whatever.

At least we weren't leaving early so he could make it to a one-act play.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
I saw The Departed. Holy fucking shit. Just go see it, all right?

Another partial retraction:

2006-10-06T16:11:00.000-05:00

Midlake is from Denton. And Midlake is pretty great.

--The Robo-Pirate

I'm an idiot. No, really. I admit it freely.

2006-10-06T09:46:00.000-05:00

I have had three hours sleep. This is partly because I'm an idiot. Here's why: Darth Vato played a dismal set in Denton last night. Denton is a funny city where all the cool music is supposed to have come from since around 5,000 B.C. I don't know--the only band from Denton that I've ever paid attention to is the Riverboat Gamblers, and I don't even like them that much. It has this gritty-looking, fairly liberal state university (University of North Texas), relatively famous for its music program. A lot of dudes with glasses and beards go to this school. They're all in bands, a lot of which are "interesting," which really means they are terrible. When someone raves about the latest noise-rock band from Denton, I automatically assume it's a matter of The Emperor's New Clothes.

Anyway, we get paid to play in Denton at this bar, and usually it's fun. Last night the crowd dwindled to tumbleweeds, and frankly, I would have rather stayed at home playing video games. I don't know why that show sucked. Kerry had to be in a meeting early this morning, so I got stuck settling money, and after receiving the check, I headed out. This was around 2;15.

Before I continue to the part where I'm exhausted because I'm an idiot, I need to explain how easily I get lost. You may have noticed that my blog alias implies an interest in pirates, and this might lead you to believe that I have a similar enthusiasm for maps. I do, in fact, love maps. But I get turned around really easily. One time, it took me four hours to get from San Francisco to Lodi, a trip that normally only takes about 90 minutes. Bottom line, I'm terrible with directions, and as such, I departed Denton on the wrong fork of I-35.

Now I-35E intersects I-30, which would have taken me home, but it intersects it at Dallas, which is around 30 miles from Fort Worth. Realizing that the ETA to my bed would now be 30 minutes later, I sought a way to cross over to I-35W. For no reason at all, I chose to drive through Lewisville, a suburb which I have never visited. In fact, there are only two things I know about Lewisville: a person who works at my company lives there and so do firemen who date TCU girls. And really, this latter fact is merely an assumption based upon a girl I knew 8 years ago. So really, I know nothing about Lewisville, least of all its relationship to I-35W, which, it turns out, is completely estranged.

Eventually, I ended up on the North of end of state highway 121. During the day, 121 is the parking lot that threads through a post-apocalyptic wasteland of chain restaurants and mega-car lots, but at 3 am, it's not too bad.

Around 4, I rolled into my apartment. You'd think that this ordeal would have compelled me to go to bed and forget the whole thing, but you'd be wrong. Recall first that I am an idiot. If the gallumphing narrative above does not adequately prove my assertion, then consider the following piece of information: when my ass dragged into my apartment this morning, I did not go directly to bed. Instead, I plopped into my couch,and played Xbox for another hour and fifteen minutes. So, rather than ardently chasing every minute of sleep between my arrival and my alarm's strident beeping, I chose instead to stay up even later making potions.

Now do you believe me?

--The Robo-Pirate