Solitary

I was told today by a friend/peer that I'm looked up to by everyone in our particular group. Um, why? I can't get a grip on my own life and people want to look up to me? I know there is a fine line between perception and reality, but this is drawing a little to the close side. Which side, I don't know. I wasn't the author of the strange little sentence. "You're like the guy everyone [here] looks up to." Spank me and call me Willy... or something. I have no idea what that means. That is one of those statements you aren't allowed to ask more probing questions about either. There have been times in my life where I've been told that I inspired someone... I was going to say that inspiring people and having them look up to you is different, but I don't think it is. A leader is someone that people follow willingly. A leader inspires by example.

Perhaps the statement above is validation that I've accomplished something in my life that is worthwhile. Does that make me worthwhile? Do I influence people around me in a positive manner? People struggle throughout their lives to find their place. I've found many places. When I left Germany after two difficult years, my boss took me aside. "Munkey, I just wanted to tell you that I've seen a lot of people play the game here. I've never seen anyone play it as hard as you did. You walked the absolute line and somehow walked away unscathed." I just looked at him and blinked. I never played a game. I did what I thought was right. I did my best to work to the limits of my ability. I strove to go further, and higher than I ever dared in my life. Is that winning? Walking away unscathed in his eyes, yet permanently scarred in my own. Who was right that day? I wonder if I'll ever know.

I've spent time in my life in deep self pity. More often, I've found myself exercising self-loathing. I see glimmers of the kind of person I could be if I could find that little motivation to go further, farther, faster, kinder, more gently. My tactic most of my life was to slam through all the barriers placed in front of me. Subtlety was and has been lost on me for a long time. This doesn't mean I'm not sensitive, rather, just the opposite. I see things that most people never will. I sense the reality inside other people's facade's. I often wonder why people don't see past my own. Is the wall really that strong? That opaque? So unforgiving and impenetrable? Do they give up or do they lack the capacity to see past the smile and the kind word or the other other side, the enigmatic look, the brooding evaluations.

Making Centurions - The Century Club

This is a drinking story where I didn't have a thing to drink. Hmm... drinking story and no drinking on my part. Say what?

For those of you who grew up sheltered and never heard of it, there is a drinking game that consists of drinking a shot of beer every minute for a hundred minutes. Doesn't sound too bad, right? I mean, a shot is an ounce of beer. So, a century is only 100 ounces of beer or around 8.5 beers. For you power drinkers out there, there is the Double Century. This will pretty much rock your world. I did a double century once and vowed never to do it again. Until a group of friends talked me into it when I was leaving Korea. The second time despite training heavily for the event, I was stopped cold at 163. I couldn't do another if you'd put a million bucks on the table and offered it to me for #164 down the ol' gullet. No, the double century is not for the meek or uninitiated.

I digress. After having done a few centuries in college and post college years I decided there needed to be some additional rules. To start with, a centurion must initiate others into being a centurion. This means, that you gather a group of wannabe drunks. A shot glass for each and a twelve pack of beer or more for each participant and you begin.

Now, The lead centurion must be sober (the reason for this is that if you are drinking, you will drop time and it's crucial that each player get each shot at perfectly spaced intervals). Century is best conducted with 6-12 people. Bottled beer is easier to pour than canned beer, but you do what you do. I'd also recommend you not use heavy beers to play. You'd spew around 45 if you tried this with dark beers like Guinness or Arrogant Bastard Ale.

Everyone fills their own shot glasses. There is no assistance allowed in this game. Failure to fill before the next call Drink! results in a penalty shot. You have one minute to accomplish the shot you missed, the penalty shot and refill before the call goes out again. Drink! The first twenty or so, are kind of boring, people tap their toes, comment that the minute hand on the timekeeper's (centurion) is slow. Switching shot glasses with another player will also result in a penalty shot. As will informing a player that they have not filled in time for the call to Drink! This is not a team effort. you are all there, but it's each individuals responsibility to conduct their own game.

The earliest recorded hurl I've seen in the game was one of my roommates that didn't really drink much. He hit 34 shots and blew chunks everywhere. Apparently the pace was too much for him. The closest I've seen anyone get and not finish was 97. The guy just couldn't hold it down. He had to puke. He later claimed that it still looked like beer when it came out. OK, empty stomach boy. Failed. No crowning you a centurion.

Now, as you get into the 60's and 70's, people are no longer complaining time moves too slow. They are like, "What? I just drank." Failure to fill penalties mount steadily during this phase of play. Also, there are penalty shots for spillage (overfilling your glass to the point of overflow or missing completely) and for arguing with the timekeeper. As the sober person (and timekeeper) it is essential that you not hand out penalty shots for kicks. The penalties must be duly earned.

Now, around the 70-80 mark, people start to realize the ol' bladder is getting mighty full. Did I perhaps mention the rule that you may not pee until you reach 100? I've literally seen guys with their hands down their shorts pinching it off to keep from peeing their pants to make it to 100. They hop up and down and you can almost see their eyes turning yellow. (Or is that the color of beer?) At this point, the 1 minute mark to Drink! seems more like 15 seconds. Drink! Drink! Drink! I've seen grown men beg for mercy. Other players may encourage another player to abandon by discussing flowing water or how good it feels to pee, etc. No penalty shots should be assessed for this behavior.

Depending on where you play this game, there is frequently not enough bathroom space for all the players to relieve themselves once they reach 100. It's not uncommon for people to stand in window sills and pee out the window after a successful run to 100. Pre-plan for this if at all possible.

Once everyone is reassembled, the timekeeper will invest each successful candidate into the Fraternal Order of Centurions with the ritual phrases: By the power vested in me by the breweries of this great nation and years of hard core drinkers, I now anoint you as a Centurion. Using an empty beet bottle as King might use a sword to touch their shoulders three times as they kneel before you.

Now, as we all know, the body can only process so much alcohol at one time. I'm not advocating anyone to play this game (especially the double century). I've seen people incur blackouts and incredible amounts of puking playing this game. I'd also recommend that anyone doing this stop drinking when they reach 100. The alcohol in your system will not hit you until some time has passed. You are now on a major drunk train and it's not coming back to the station anytime soon.

Illusion or reality

If I had to pick my middle name, it would be Antithesis. Not only is this one of my favorite words, but it describes me oh, so well. People have tried to stereotype me for years. To pin me down to a category. To classify me. It never really works. It's like nicknames. They just don't freakin' stick to me.

When I was in the military, my last name didn't even stick. The military is a Last Name Becomes First Name kind of place. In basic training, there were so many times when my fellow trainees were punished with having to do push-ups for calling me by my first name. I mean it's weird they would remember it when you see a name tag with 'MUNKEY' on it everyday and they still called me by 'MAD'. As I moved from base to base people always thought my last name was 'MAD'. *shakes head*

I'm heavily tattooed... ripped jeans, motorcycle boots and a Harley T-shirt are a patented Munkey look. I have three large gauge hoop earrings. Both ears are pierced. At the same time, I have beautiful suits and custom made shirts I wear with woven Italian silk ties. If you see me in the first look, two hours later you wouldn't recognize me in the second if you didn't know me. I'm not a pretty prada boy, my gaze is more likely to make you feel slightly invisible. That said, most people would say I'm nice and I don't have hidden agenda's. Like a Hell's Angel or a Bandido, it's all good 'til you mess with me or my friends (or those that can't defend themselves.)

Often to look at me, you wouldn't think I could put together a coherent sentence, but I have one of the largest vocabularies of anyone I know. I use words very specifically to mean very specific things. In fact, I've been accused (correctly) of being a skilled semanticist. I tend to talk slow. I also speak very softly most of the time.

I've been told I'm very intimidating, but once people get to know me, they are astounded that they were scared to talk to me. Hello, I'm just incredibly shy. Despite the fact that you don't think so. Reach out. Take a chance and talk to me. You might discover the rarest of things. A connection.

Com'ere

Say what?

The words just aren't there to comfort the pain. You want to reach out and take it into yourself. To live it. To breath it. To understand it. But you won't. You can't. With each of us resides the desire to become empathetic to another. To absorb the hurt for them. We reach out with frail words that do not alleviate our feelings, but rather place them under a glaring spotlight. Each utterance from our lips a failure. We squirm under the microscope of our own device. Did we fail or was it merely our perception? Only the other can know, and they cannot say for they know not that which we seek.

Fifteen year blink

Last time I checked, I was 21. The world was my oyster, my puppet. And I the master. I've played puppet master many times since the day I woke up to be 21. The day I could legally drink. A right of passage I still don't understand. I had less fun drinking that night that I think I ever did. It wasn't the people I was with (although only one name of all the people there sticks in my mind. Allen.) Or was it something else? Night after night drinking cases of beer the summer I turned 21. Busch Light Draft. 24 cans. 7 bucks. The feeling of unbridled energy. Being able to work a full day on 2 hours of drunken sleep. The easy laughter. The practical jokes.

I remember turning 25. Six Thousand Two Hundred and Twelve miles from home. Still drunk. Enough for a blackout. I remember the girl too. After the blackout. I've had many visions of perfection in my life. They were all different. They all were perfect for the moment they happened. Walking home the next morning with my shirt untucked. My eyes burning in the sun. A wry grin on my face. The smoke from the trash fires climbing into the pale blue sky. Far off black haired asian children squealing in delight at their play. Dogs chasing each other through the grimy streets. Nothing was new. Except the day. Simple perfection that day.

26 guess what? Yep, drunk again. 4623 miles from home this time. Berlin, GE. The day before my Birthday I slept in a Volkswagon Golf with 3 other guys. I have photos to prove it. That day I saw a Christo artwork live in person. HE wrapped the Reichstag (the seat of the German Parliament). A fan since childhood I was awed. The scale simply unbelievable. The royal blue rope will never leave my mind. Nor will seeing what was left of the Berlin Wall. Touching that rock that symbolized repression for so many years. Walking away with vigor and sadness in my steps.

Thirty-one came with the rocket's red glare. And nearly an hour of fireworks in the backyard that awed the neighborhood children. A $2,000 party I'll probably never see the likes of again. BBQ, fried chicken, slaw, mashed potatoes, biscuits, beer, wine, tequila, whiskey, 30 friends and cigars with a pretty girl I never kissed. They all flowed. Melded. Blended. Laughed. Told stories. Lied. Laughed some more. Red, white and blue decorations from the front step to the rear of the yard out back. I was safe. I was comfortable. I hadn't a care in the world. I'd become the master at throwing parties. The right blend of people. The right mix of personalities to make it interesting for everyone. The fireworks. They still dance in my eyes.

Birthdays are no longer milestones for me. The milestones are the people and the places. The pond in the park in Augsburg, Germany. Taking that pathological liars photograph. Some of the best portraits I've ever shot. I wanted her until I found out I could have her. Then her appeal dried up like the core of a old gnawed plum. Magical places filled with sounds I didn't understand and people I didn't want to know. The Gasthaus in Oberammagau where lunch turned into dinner with 5 friends of whom I remember two. Somewhere, I may even still have those hand-carved wooden monkeys. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Standing in front of the Vietnam Memorial and knowing nothing else would ever affect me that way. Years later standing at Ground Zero in Sept. 2002 and knowing I was wrong.

See, I really didn't blink. I didn't miss a day. 15 years. Almost. I have a curious spring in my step and grin on my face that won't seem to fade. I linger in my mind less than I used to and think more when I'm there. I mean it when I say thank you. I learned how to say I'm sorry. Compliments are sincere. Gifts are rare. People surround us, but they are rare too. Cherish the moments. Cherish the time. It doesn't change. You do. You really didn't think it took me 15 years to blink did you?

Thin cry

an angels death begets a lingering shallow
begone I say, begone or else
live beyond, live within, just not amidst
as you leach your presence I pale
blood faltering in my tired flesh
reaching, seeking, finding not
the chancre mechanic leaks insipidness
i state, i retract, i collate my brain
the devils soul is my latest toy
from whence I sprung to do this deed
friendless, fiendish, delightful
sickness permeates the darkened shroud
leave me, burning, diseased, broken
begone I say, begone or else

The Tabasco update

It's been a fun ride with the Tabasco folks, but the ride is over. Below is the latest and last e-mail exchange since my post on the Oven Mitt debacle.

Hi Mad Munkey,

Thank you for your e-mail and your comments. Unfortunately, we do not have left and right handed oven mitts, but I will pass on your comments to our buyers. If you have any further questions, please let me know.

Sincerely,
Tabasco Country Store
Customer Service

To which I responded:

Dear [Tabasco Customer Service Rep],

Thank you for your prompt response to my question. Not to be
pugnacious, but I certainly was aware that you don't have right and
left oven mitts. I'm severely disheartened by the lack of paired oven
mitts. Especially from the Tabasco Country Store.

Would it be possible to have one custom made? When you think about it,
all that would be required to make a left handed oven mitt is to turn
the fabric template over. Then I could really get into describing how
amazing the Tabasco customer service is to my peer group as I display
my fantastic 'paired 5 Alarm Oven Mitts'. I think they would all be
awed by the fact that Tabasco went out of it's way to satisfy the needs
of a single customer. Although, I'm sure we both realize this is not
just my need. Who doesn't need paired oven mitts?

Who knows, your ad agency might even find a creative way to work that
into a campaign. (Clever folks that they are.)

Sincerely,

Mad Munkey

Their final response:

Hi Mad Munkey,

I am sorry, but we cannot make a customized ovenmitt. We are required to order in bulk, therefore it would not be possible. If you have any further questions, please let me know.

Sincerely,
Tabasco Country Store
Customer Service


So, while I won't be getting a 'lefty' oven mitt any time soon, I'm gratified to know that the buyer have been made aware of the situation.

And for those of you who thought it really mattered... Look, I'm really not nuts. I just thought it was funny. Jeez. Get a grip. lol

MLK

Today was a holiday. I wonder how many people actually noticed. How many spent time thinking about why it's a holiday. I spent a little time and I also created the above image. If you ask most people about Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech on the Capitol Mall, they'll tell you the quote, "I have a dream." The speech was so much more. If you haven't read it in awhile, the text is available all over the internet. You might just surprise yourself if you go read it. Peace.

What do I do with the left hand?

Dear Tabasco Country Store,

I clicked on your 5 Alarm Oven Mitt (Item # 09168) in your on-line store. I was hoping to get two of this item. One right handed, and one left handed for taking large pots and pans out of the oven. To my dismay, you only offer the oven mitt in right handed versions.

Being fashionably correct is very important to me. I'm also dedicated to advancing the use of Tabasco products via home advertising and direct product placement when I have dinner guests. For example, I have a chili pepper bottle opener, a Tabasco labeled Pot Holder and of course various articles of Tabasco clothing along with various Tabasco food flavoring/seasoning products.

While I imagine I could use in tandem the Tabasco potholder and the Tabasco oven mitt, placing a potholder in my hand will result in a covered logo and reduced product exposure in addition to raising the potential of burning my skin on a hot pot or pan or the edge of the oven. Having two Tabasco oven mitts designed respectively for the right and left hand would ensure that not only am I being fashionable correct and safely protected from burns, but maximize the number of exposures by consumers to Tabasco products therefore reinforcing your premium brand position.

I hope that you will seriously consider my request to add the 'Lefty' 5 Alarm Oven Mitt not only for maximum logo/product exposure, but also for the benefit of left handed Tabasco consumers. I'm sure you can see the benefits the 'Lefty' would provide. Thank you for providing such excellent products and your attention to detail.

Warmest Regards,

Mad Munkey


I sent the preceding letter to the Tabsco Country Store today after searching for and failing to find opposable hand oven mitts. I'm confused why only one hand usable mitts would be produced. I'll let you know what kind of response I get.


The TABASCO® marks, bottle and label designs are registered trademarks and servicemarks exclusively of McIlhenny Company, Avery Island, LA 70513.

Where's my nametag?

You ever wish you had a job with your name on your shirt? Talking stereotypes and all, wouldn't that be a great kind of job in most cases? No wondering what you are going to wear to work. You get up and throw on a shirt that looks just like the one you wore yesterday. You get up on Monday and repeat. Perhaps you wear jeans (which would probably beat the uniform pants, which would be a downside.)

You go to work and none of your co-workers ever forgets your name. I mean after all, it's on your shirt. Now granted, you might work with some folks that are reading impaired, but most people can read simple names. Can't they? I don't want to get off on a naming tangent, but most people I run into with their name on their shirt have one or two syllable names. BOB, KEVIN, JOHN, etc...

I'm not saying these people are lacking intelligence either. They simply chose a different career path. I guess technically, most of these people would be called blue collar. Some upsides I haven't mentioned. Budweiser really is the King of Beers in some worlds. Whether it comes in 30 can suitcases or long neck bottles. This is the land of the nice cold one. Swigging from the neck with the refrigerator door open. No worries about whether you bought the right shoes. Generally, a nice pair of work boots would suffice. No worrying if your tie matches or has a tiny residual morsel of that lunch meeting you dripped sweet and sour sauce on your tie. There is no coming home from the office and whipping out the laptop and going back to work.

Burping loudly and proudly as you finish off that ice cold beer. Kicking your feet back in the lounge chair and surveying the domain. Knowing it's all yours and you could give a damn about Mr. Jones down the street and what kind of car he drives (but could the SOB bring back the socket set he borrowed last fall when he was working on the 'car'). Your preferred sport might be bowling. Where once again, you have your name on your shirt. And beer is definitely involved. Are we seeing a trend here?

So busted

Tonight I was chatting with a young woman on the phone. In the background, I had iTunes playing random music from my nearly 5500 song collection. Now, I have a lot of different kinds of music for many moods and times. I'll admit to having music I don't even know how it got on my computer.

So, conversation clicking away fine. Suddenly, she says, "Is that Kenny G?"

What? Kenny G doesn't fit in with our conversation at all. What the f... OMG She's talking about the music on the speakers. "Um... No..." My hands are flying to the keys and the mouse. Get this shit off here...

"That's Kenny G. You. Have. Kenny. G. ??"

"Uh, no.... not any...more..." There is no recovery for this. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No one to blame because I live alone. I can't even conjure up a fictional pet whose music it might be. I'm screwed. Pinned to the wall like a Tail in that childhood Donkey Game. Kenny Freakin' G. Great. I watch my chances glide out the window like a paper airplane on the summer breeze.

"You have Kenny G?" She's not relenting. I squirm like a pitiful bug caught in a trap. Where is the zapper when you need it to provide that quick death? Oh, man...

"I didn't say I listened to it, you know I have a lot of music I'm sure how it got on my machine." This is a lame excuse, but it's the only thing my feeble mind can think of. Instead of the vision of silken naughty's, I'm stuck with a blurry vision of the frizzy haired Kenny G chortling as he sees the paper airplane glide by. Waving his little wind instrument in goodbye, then he's gone. So's the girl.

"I have to get to bed..." But, but, hey, I can play you some Teddy Pendergrass or Barry White or Isaac Hayes or or or Marvin Gaye...

Sigh.

Delete. Delete. Delete... the Kenny G songs hit the electronic trash can with an imagined booming sound as though they were hitting a construction trash bin from 12 stories up. Anyone have suggestions for music to woo the ladies? Since most of my readers are indeed ladies, I'm hoping you'll have some ideas.

Unleashed

The raging murmur of your heart pounds
My ears reverberate with the tremor
Soothing, deep, sensual, safety it seems
The fire of passion unquenchable
Seething fury unleashed at last
Wild, reaching, unbridled, animalistic
Fingers tearing, fabric sundered
Guttural voice rasps in desperate need
Lost in the winds of the calm night
A faint whisper in the vast sky

Talisman?

For the last six months, I've worn my bone carving around my neck. I've only removed it when I'm in the shower (per directions for curing the bone for the first 6 months). I'm not a religious person and I certainly don't consider myself spiritual in the traditional sense, but this carving is slowly taking on some form beyond it's physical shape.

Have I lost my noggin? Have I gone over the deep edge? I think not, but that isn't really pertinent. The fact is that when I don't have the carving on, I feel naked. Not in the sense of the intangible (where are my clothes? or what did I forget to do today?), but rather the feeling that I am missing my protection in the world. That I've lost or misplaced a talisman.

I know the carving doesn't hold a power beyond what I give it, but the lore behind the carving is strong and thousands of years old. Ancient carvings took on the spirit of the wearer and was then passed on to their heirs. I hold no illusion that my spirit is contained within the carving I wear, but I certainly feel that I impart my energy upon it as an artifact. The power will grow over time and the care I put into feeding the residual power of the carving is ultimately available for tapping.

Perhaps a good analogy is a battery. Stored energy for the times you need it. I've found at odd times in my life that I seem to have a plentiful amount of energy to draw upon when I need it most. Or when I least realize I need it. Could I have the power within myself to transform this energy to an object for later withdrawal by me or a person I designate? The idea rests solely on belief. Faith if you will.

Now, if you've never considered this point of view or you are highly religious (doubtful you are reading this blog in that case), then you are likely snickering behind your hand or even laughing openly at this point. I don't care. My beliefs are my own and my own they will remain. I don't ask you to engage in my personal beliefs nor to believe in them. I merely ask that you consider my point of view and leave me to it. Right or wrong, it's mine.

I respect the effort that an artist and craftsman put into creating this carving specifically for me. I respect the beliefs of a centuries old system that has withstood even the ravages of modernization when so many have fallen forgotten at the wayside. I respect myself for being a person who tries to be the best I can without influence or modification by a system cultivated through the conquering of other spirits and the souls of people. Humans who stood for their beliefs and lifestyles and died for their courage.

Danger, danger

Hey, you! Yes, you with your face peering at the screen. I'd move from there if I was you...

Well, no, you aren't hurting anyone there, but that's the direction my ass is facing and lemme just tell you what I made fer supper. Homeade tacos. Extra meat, spicy sauce, cheese, tomato, black olive all on a soft tortilla. Oh, did I mention the refried beans? Yeah, refried beans. Brother. Now, you really don't want to go to the bar and have everyone ask what blast furnace you walked into now do you? Or hey, was you bobbing for french fries at McD's or what?

I'm warning you. This area is a blast zone. Git out while the gittin's good. Just move onto a post below and you'll be plenty safe, but if you stay here, you might could find yourself the victim of a mighty 'splosion. Now, I'm not real certain when this is going to happen, but if I were a bettin' man... and I is, I'd say that if I were at a Barn Raising, I could get that big ol' roof lifted all by myself. I might have to call them Guinness Book of Records peeps. There is no current world record for longest fart, but I might just have eaten enough beans to get myself in the book. I wonder if they accept recordings or if the record requires live witnesses?

That's kinda funny don'cha think? Live witnesses for a passing gas record. You going to give them people gas masks? Yessirreebob... They'd need 'em don'cha think? I mean, how else are they going to survive? Perhaps they'd give me an ass mask? This here is a blast zone we are talking about people. Do ya at least have your hard hat on? Don't worry, I ain't gonna try none of that fart lighten' shit you see young kids doin' in them dumb videos on the internet. I'm talking good clean wholesome gas here. Nothing but pure octane. Stand clear, we're ready for the countdown. Any minute now. You best git yerself ta the safe zone. Just click on any link on the right... bye now.

What love is...

I asked some people today how they knew they were in love. What defines love? I then answered the question for myself while waiting for their responses. This is what I came up with:


When I wake up in the morning and my first thought is of her. That I smile because of this. That I want to go out of my way to get her little insignificant gifts I know she'll like. That her smile is worth more than money. That a friend of mine can comment "she knows you pretty well". That she can make me shut the F*CK up without asking me to. When you listen to a song you don't like because they love it. When you finish each others sentences. When you want them to be more successful than they dreamed they could. When they support you without ever saying the words. When their ideas make you stop and think. When she startles me with everyday stuff (kind of reopening the eyes). This isn't a complete list. I think it's the sum of these plus a lot of other things we can't put our finger on. I think each of us finds different things that cause us to believe in it. Maybe the the key for me... I want to share...

True meaning

For the last week or so, I've been contemplating clichés and our inability to quit using them. Today, I'm going to examine some favorites and their hidden meanings.

There's no place like home - No other place will have me because I such a loser.

I'm all thumbs - I love my opposable digits like any good human carbon unit, but what I'd really like is a solid forefinger for awhile. Hey, and throw in a ring finger while you are at it. I need to place to hang this rock the old man got me.

Any friend of yours, is a friend of mine - I'm too effing lazy to make my own friends, so I thought I'd just steal yours.

Does a bear shit in the woods? - I'm not a nature person, how do bears wipe when they are finished?

Dressed to the nines - I couldn't be a ten if I tried, so I'm not even going the extra distance. I'm stopping at nine.

Give them an inch and they'll want a mile - And they said size doesn't matter. Sheesh.

Good things come to those who wait - So here I am with my thumb in my ass...

Let's do lunch - In different states.

Take the highroad - Dude, you are screwed no matter what direction you take. Kill yourself now.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer - how else are you going to piss on their shoes?

One in a million - Yeah, I can't stand the son of a bitch either.

Fickle finger of fate - Yep, fucked again.

My hands are tied - I could help you, but I'm a sanctimonious prick!

Every dog has it's day - Yes, I am screwing your wife.

I love it loud

Shhhheeeeeeiiiiiiittttt... it's Friday and I'm drunk again.

OK - obviously I'm kidding. I have nothing to blog about. It's been an absolutely fantabulous (yes, I know it's not a freakin' word) day. I couldn't find any poodles for the noodles though... Can't believe people didn't get the humor in that. I'm sooo disappointed in you all.

You ever have one of those days where none of the music on your iPod is cutting it for you. You are searching for a sound that moves you. That doesn't grate on your nerves. That energizes you. Lifts you. Doesn't remind you of places you don't want to visit again. The perfect beat to pulse in your veins.

Today, it was KISS. So many good songs in the collection. They have well over 30 albums to choose from. Not that I have them all. I have to save something for old age. lol Play a sampling then. Each album has a slightly different sound, but all unmistakably KISS. Interesting name for a band. When I was a kid, I wasn't allowed to listen to KISS. Knights (or Kings) In Satan's Service... lmao. That's almost as good as AC/DC - Anti Christ Devils Children. Yet another band I never tire of listening to. You'd think as I get older that I quit listening to hard rock and move on to the mellow stuff.

Yeah, not so much. Give me a nice round of Iron Maiden anytime I'm stressed out. Instant relaxation. Don't get me wrong, I'll listen to good wuss music anytime too. Sheryl Crow, Enya, and other 'chick' music all grace my playlists at one time or another. But none of them have the satisfying drive and thump that comes with a good driving bass beat and lyrics like:

Well my mind is gettin' dirty yeah around eleven thirty, uh huh
I wanna watch some asses shakin' to the noise the boys are makin', uh huh
Ooh, so I hop into my car, hit the local titty bar, uh huh
'Cause that's my kind of situation when I need some perspiration, uh huh
I do my one-step shoppin' for the girl of my dreams
'Cause I can always be sure that she's as good as she seems
Take it off, give it to me
Take it off, like you'd do me
I wanna see what's inside, 'cause you got nothin' to hide
Take it off, pretty baby
Take it off, drive me crazy
You know you make me so hot, I wanna see what you got
Take it off, yeah!

Wave your panties in the air, lick your lips and shake your hair, uh huh
Ooh, when you spread a little oil, yeah, my blood begins to boil, uh huh
Yeah, it's so hard to choose, when you all look so fine
But I got nothin' to lose but my money and my mind

....

- KISS

Something about the wanton release involved in this song (and other KISS hits) just has an almost tangible feel. The wild abandon that you crave. Not that it matters, for soon it will be another day and I'll be onto something else. Perhaps Three Days Grace or COLD. We'll see. I'm always up for a nice selection of TOOL too.

Where have I been?

I guess there should be something magical about the number 150. The first 50 were difficult. I think with the first 50, you are getting your feet wet. Getting used to the idea that you have at your keystroke a forum for your mind to use. The second 50 came pretty easily. I poured out the easy ideas. That stuff flowed like liquor at an open bar. The last 50 didn't come so easily. Perhaps you get to a point where you are not so enthusiastic about Blogland anymore. Or perhaps you worry that you are becoming trite.

Will the next 50 will come easily?. I don't know. I've been here less than a year, but long enough not to think of myself as a newbie. I set out to blog for myself. I've strayed from that path occasionally. I've delved into topics I never intended to discuss. I've posted wonderful graceful words. Words that made an impact on the people that read them. I've posted stuff I never dreamed I would and some of that has failed miserably. Misunderstood or simply trying too hard.

I don't often respond to comments publicly. Mostly, just to clarify a point here or there. I would be remiss to not thank my regular (and not so regular readers though). Without your comments, I would not have learned what I have. Nor would I have experienced the same change and growth. If you've been here since the beginning or dared to go back to the early days and read forward, you've seen the transition yourself. For that priceless gift, I thank the readers. I bow low in homage to your wisdom, your contrasting views. Your sly wit and funny comments to my scenarios and profligations.

When my wit has been steady and keen, it's been a joy to read. For the mistakes and poorly explored tangents, I cannot apologize. For they are as much my children as the pretty ones, and well do I love them.

Where have I been? Indeed. I have been places I only dreamed. I've been places that caused me great pain. I've been the happiest I've ever been in my life. I've hit lower lows than I can previously remember. Yet, upon reflection, it's been simply wonderful. This blog really started with the post The Reason. It's a post I return to frequently. It speaks to me still. Everyday, around us people accomplish the impossible. Isn't it your turn?

Bloody well time

I'm thinking my topic today is probably quite timely. Is there anything that surpasses a perfectly made Bloody Mary? Just the right amount of spice. Tomato juice, with horseradish and hot sauce, pepper and worchestershire sauce. Oh, and that other little ingredient vodka. Grey Goose please. Not that I'm going to taste the difference, but I'm a snob. Let's make it the best shall we? If there is is one thing we can say the french do well, it's their alcohol. lol

My first experience with a Bloody Mary (BM) was way later in life than it should have been. Coming when I was past 30. I could have benefited greatly from the wisdom of the BM during my college days. I had my first BM in Cancun. I was on Christmas holiday. Loving the sand, the waves, the tropical climate. The combination of these combined with the fantastic variety of drinks the bartender could (and did) produce made for a wicked hang-over one morning. I suffered to attend breakfast with my fellow guests and really wanted to just die.

A wise member of our group Jack ordered me a spicy BM. The smell nearly overpowered me, but as I sipped the spicy concoction, I felt my heart rate increase and my desire to die decrease. The tomato juice was fresh. This kind of fresh doesn't come out of a can. But rather from perfectly ripe tomatoes and the effort to make perfect tomato juice. I wondered by the bottom of the glass if I hadn't found some kind of magic potion.

I was born again. Not to religion, but to the all mighty BM. If we could all just bow our heads for a moment to the infinite wisdom of the man or woman that first conceived this drink and gave it birth...

Thank you. As I type these words, I'm indeed sipping this marvelous drink. Not because I need one, but because I love them. It's lacking in the spice department. I seem to have run dry of the Tabasco sauce. I do have the horseradish and the pepper though, so it's spicy enough since I started with The Tabasco BM mix 'extra spicy'. Sorry, I don't have the time or inclination to make my own tomato juice. Although, I do think fondly of Cancun every time I have a BM.

So, raise your glass and cheer in the new year as you move sluggishly though the day paying for your sins of New Years Eve. May you get everything you deserve in 2006 and may you deserve everything you get. Cheers.