pissshiver

Fun At Bars

I actually made a point of dressing down, so as not to fool myself that I was going to get any pussy tonight. I don't even want to TRY. Beer and chicken wings, that's all.

Christ, I really have caved in to my miserable masturbatory fate, haven't I?

So I'm sitting at the bar, enjoying some stupidly hot sauce on some anemic wings that even Tyson wouldn't inflict on the general public, drinking Guinness. I vaguely hear a guy down at the other end of the bar talking to a woman, but I don't pay any attention to it. Or to the TV, which is broadcasting some shit on ESPN. I give a fuck for sports, after all. Actually, I don't one bit. I couldn't give a fuck if the Bengals beat the Motherfuckers, or whoever they're playing, or if some asshole with a golf club gets it in the hole before I do, or who ends up in the wall on turn three. It's not that I have anything AGAINST sports, mind you, I just don't CARE. Which apparantly makes you some kind of social LEPER in this backwards-ass excuse for a nation, because after all, the big tragedy of 9/11 was that football had to be cancelled. There's actually idiots in this country who think like that. Even the WOMEN care too much about sports, and that fucking frightens me.

Anyway, I hear a loud THWACK, and look over to see the guy holding his face while the woman stands up and starts yelling at him. By the way, she's not bad looking at all, but she still comes off like something from a bad Springer outtake. I bet that's not her real hair colour, is all I'm sayin'. Nothin' like a ten-dollar blonde to remind you where you live.

The guy looks to be...uh...twice her age, now that I think about it. She's probably 30. This guy looks like he's about to collect Social Security. Am I gonna be hitting on teenage girls still when I'm 90? Probably.

She yells something like "You prick!", another guy starts walking towards them from across the room, and immediately I see a few bar employees with that "time to call the cops" look on their faces.

The new guy says "Tina! Are you all right?" and the old guy just starts drinking again. Big fun on the bayou is about to ensue, I can just smell it.

"Kick this guy's ass, Tony! You fucking pervert!" and she thwaks him AGAIN. This time he looks pissed. Now the bartender is trying to calm them down, reaching for the phone at the same time.

The old guy, obviously liquored up beyond repair says, "If you don't want to get hit on, don't cme to a fucking bar, bitch." And she hits him AGAIN. He's still just standing there taking it, which shows how much you can take from somebody when six gallons of Jager are involved, I guess.

The other guy gets in the old guy's face and starts yelling at him. "What the fuck are you doing, asshole! Leave her alone!" By the way, this guy is a big thick-necked jock-head-looking assface who probably watches ESPN 12 hours a day. You see these fuckers everywhere in the Midwest.

"Tell your girlfriend that if she doesn't want to get hit on, she shouldn't come to a fucking bar dressed like that." Me, I understand the basic idea, but she's dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, not exactly "I'm a whore, fuck me now" apparal.

"Just because you're in a bar doesn't mean everyone is trying to hit on people," Thick-Neck says.

That's when I started laughing.

So did the guy two seats from me, some 40-something scrawny guy with a beer that looked like bat piss ina glass.

The guy turns around in what could have been some film-approved slow motion turn-of-the-head. "What are YOU assholes laughing at?"

The other guy shut up. I raised my glass. "You!"

Thick-Neck Jockstrap took a step towards us. The old guy hits him on the head with a beer glass.

That's when the fight started. Me and the scrawny guy both looked at each other, slammed down our drinks, and got the fuck out. We laughed our asses off all the way out, said goodbye, and drove off. Last I saw, the old guy was half-dead on the floor while the woman was cheering Thick-Neck on like it was some kind of tournament.

Welcome to Ohio, boys and girls.

Love,
Dougie
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I was on myspace and just had a friend request from a STUNNING 25-year old blonde who actually WASN'T trying to get me to her webcam page. For once. I ignore all those. Yeah, I'd like to see you naked, but if you're asking me to be your friend and all you have to offer is a fucking webcam page, I don't care. I can get my porn elsewhere. Believe me, I KNOW that I can. I often DO.

Anyway, she's fucking hot as all hell, but is probably a 48-year old truck driver, Hell with it, I added her anyway.

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Just had a fun little chat on myspace with a fabulous little brunette vixen that used to be here on tblog, named after my favorite rum, who is really into cars. Hadn't talked to her in eons. It's kinda fun to exchange goofy innuendo with a chick you KNOW is never going to fuck you, but is a lot of fun to talk to. I really like her. By the way, I don't link to or from here and there because my myspace page is far more sedate than the wackaloon shit I write here and the people I actually know are more likely to find me there, but if you look around and know who i'm likely to have on my friends list, you can find me. I also have some killer Twin Peaks music on my profile right now, since Badalamenti has his own myspace page now too.
------- Just spent a while on Angelo's page, now I want to finish this big fuckin' glass of bourbon and go watch Fire Walk With Me.

I just put my favorite picture of a fabulous young redhead with darkly fascinating green eyes on my desktop, and it's starting to bug me that she started writing me again but seems to have once again disappeared. i know you're out there. Talk to me, baby. Come on, I'm a thousand miles away, it's not like you're gonna lose anything but the time.

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Orgasms Beget Contentment

So, I was doing an MSN search for things she would stick in her pussy first, and...

Oh...

Ever notice how fucking stupid people are? I do. I've been hanging out on myspace recently, and I found a profile for a girl who lives right here in this town, a very cute 18-year old.

But I read this and immediately started looking for other profiles: "I can't stand to be alone for more than 5 minutes! I just NEED my friends!"

Must...escape...torrents of...douche-wash...Spooooooooooooock!!!!!!!

What kind of deranged misfit can't be alone for five minutes? What will happen if somebody has to go take a shit and they've had the Speedy Gonzales and don't come back for, oh, six minutes? Are you going to slit your wrists with a rusty tuna can lid, you goofy cunt?

You "NEED" your friends? OK, I kinda see this. We all need friends, Someone who we can depend on to love us, listen to us, have fun with us, clean the puke off us and drag us out of the toilet to the car after we've gotten hammered out of our skulls on cheap bourbon because that WHORE wouldn't accept our awkward, juvenille sexual advances. Yeah, I get that.

But NEED in this context implied something that bugs me, as I sit here totally alone on a Saturday afternoon. And ENJOYING it.

Loneliness in an underrated concept. Sure, we humans don't want to be alone all the time. Companionship, friendship, someone-to-fuckship, all those things are important. And hey, I've not only been wanting to fuck, I've been wanting something a little more "meaningful" too. Well, mostly I want to fuck. Let's be honest here. One thing at a time now. Sure, I'll hold your hand on moonlit nights after a candlelit dinner and warm conversation. But first, can you deepthroat? I mean, I won't hold it against you if you don't, but I'm just asking here. That's all. I'm just INQUIRING. And hoping. With all that is within me...

But goddammit, I LIKE being alone sometimes. If I could deepthroat myself, I'd just stay in and order out for pizza and beer. And lozenges.

See, friends are great, I love mine, some of them happen to be some of you reading this stupid shit, and I love you fuckers. I love that I can call you "fuckers", because THAT is friendship. "I love you, fucker." "Sure, assface. I love you too." It's fuckin' BEAUTIFUL, ya know?

But the fact is, we're humans, and that means we get sick of each other. Your best friend in the world is eventually gonna make you want to go home and get away from the annoying bastard, just like YOU are going to make them sick and tired. I know my friends get sick of me. I'm annoying as hell and not that much fun. I ACCEPT that, because it's human goddamn nature.

Some days, you just need to stay in and forget about people. I slept nine hours solid last night, the most sleep I've had in what feels like biological EPOCHS, I'm sucking down coffee and eating one of my more lame stir-fry experiments (I somehow undercooked the rice, and am low on all the cool shit I like to throw in there, but hey, I've got loads of garlic and baby corn), listening to Joe Pass (I think ONLY single guys listen to Joe - you don't tend to have on a Joe Pass album when sixteen drunken women are in the room and the pork chops are almost done on the grill, it's just kinda made for the bachelor experience - but goddamn, I'd give a nut to play like that) and I don't even care if I SEE my own dick today, let alone use it for anything more than pissing away all this coffee and water I'm living on.

Well, OK. If the phone rang or there was a knock at the door and it was some chick saying "Me and my friend decided to have a dicksucking contest and we thought you'd make an excellent judge." then I'd get my socks on and get out the door, get the day MOVING. I ain't STUPID. I'm also not sitting here expecting that phone call to happen. Praying, yes. Expecting, no.

You just get sick of people in general sometimes. the half hour I went out today to the store, it occurred to me just how fucking annoying PEOPLE are. I went through the bank drive-up for quarters to do laundry (goddammit, I miss being able to do laundry right here) and there were six people in line, and all of them were apparantly cashing checks from somewhere in Uganda and making change from a buffalo nickel, because it took CENTURIES. Then I go to the dollar store, and as I'm waiting behind people who apparantly buy EVERYTHING at the dollar store, because they've got 1100 items to my two, a kid starts screaming. In the line next to me. For no apparant reason. And his mom doesn't do SHIT.

I love parents. You want to slap the fuck out of these cunts. This kid is sending bad signals up every spinal column in sight, and his mom doesn't even LOOK at him. Lady, I'm sure you might even have half a reason to expect your kid is not gonna shut up no matter what you do, I know that happens, but PRETEND to be interested. because right now you look like a CUNT, and your kid's annoying Cheetos-and-Wal-Mart-bran d-soft-drink-fuelled scream is making my TOENAILS scream for mercy.

It's either that numb bitch, or the one who immediately gets over-embarrassed and starts yelling at the kid like he's a puppy that shit on the floor. You know, the idiots that prove that there's something to the theory that you should pass an IQ test before you're allowed to have a kid, because some parents will yell at a kid or beat the shit out of him over NOTHING. Yeah, THOSE Toby Keith-listening motherfuckers. And I'm standing here thinking "THESE shitbags are fucking nightly in their trailer, producing scores of waterhead Jiffy Lube employees, and I can't get ONE blowjob a year? What the FUCK???"

By the way, I also saw a pretty damn cute girl who couldn't have been 20 holding hands walking through the parking lot with a guy who had to have a few years on me. So sometimes I find hope. Not much, but...

Now for the painfully honest shit.

The thing that bugs me when I turn all this stuff back on myself and get more serious is that I have a basic selfishness that I wish I didn't - when I talk about wanting to be alone, I ain't lying. But when I DO want to be around someone, it's usually pretty selfish. I TRY not to do that, but I know I have a strong amount of "Be here when I need you, and go the fuck away when I don't" and I'm not too thrilled to find that in myself.

Of course, if I got LAID more than once evry time Halley's Comet takes a shit on Uranus, I might be a little less wrapped up in myself. Women don't seem to understand that. "You're not very nice." Yeah, because MY ARM HURTS. If you'd FUCK me once in a while, I'd get a tad more cheery. ORGASMS BEGET CONTENTMENT. Don't forget that, ladies.

Love (and backed-up semen),
Dougie

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Check Him Out

http://www.myspace.com/dougst...

http://www.myspace.com/stanho...

THIS is a fuckin' Stanhope routine:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?...

Or this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?...

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I think Stanhope would appreciate the way I laughed my balls off just now when I checked my blog's stats and saw that someone hit me from an MSN search on this phrase:

things she will shove into her pussy first

I love the Internet.

Love,
Dougie
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If all goes well on this download, I am soon to have my hands on a shitload of "unofficial" Stanhope recordings. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Three Hams Will Kill Him!

Katie and I had a fun night. We got some fruit at the store, where she pushed a kid's size cart with one hand while talking to my mom on the cell with the other hand. She looked like a miniature soccer mom.

I've gotta save up for that shotgun. I can't believe how beautiful my daughter is, more so all the time. When I picked her up today, she was finishing up her dance class. The two women waiting with me outside the room were both watching Katie through the window and highly impressed with her peformance. When she came out and yelled "Hi Daddy!" and ran into my arms, I got a couple very, very nice looks from these fine ladies. It's a very weird ego boost, but it seems whenever Katie shows her affection for me in front of people, it's noticed. And it feels very good. she makes me feel like the best dad in the world, even though I know full well it's still a learning process I'm in.

we came back here and ate, playesd with a ball outside, and watched a few episodes of The Brak Show. I'm finally catching up on some of these things. I LOVE Brak,. What a fucking twisted show.

I'm listening to a Hendrix boot called The Sotheby Auction tapes. i've had a shitty mp3 copy of this for some time, but my new version (I love the Internet) sounds so much better it's ridiculous. It's mostly Axis: Bold As Love outtakes, and it's a load of fun.

Struck out with a girl at work today. She started Monday, when I wasn't feeling good to begin with. (By the way, other than still not sleeping worth a damn, I'm about 90% back to normal, whateve rthe fuck that might be.) I'd worked with her at my last temp job. We've been making basic bullshit small talk through the week, and I think yesterday she could tell I was going to make my move. I did it this morning.

She's taken. Shit.

She was actually friendlier afterwards. She's probably in her mid 20s, a big girl, but very pretty, long thick blonde hair and massive mammalian protruberances.

You know what I'm talking about, guys. When you want to nail a girl just so you can try to fuck her hard enough to get those monsters bouncing around so that she gets double black eyes from getting hit in the face with her own Winnebago Delights, that's some massive fucking tittage we're discussing. I don't know what tent-and-awning shop she bought her bra at, but Praise Jeezus they weren't very good at their handiwork, because just pushing a hand jack (huhuhuhuhuh) those fuckin' puppies were a joy to behold in all their bounce-a-riffic splendor. I'm talking some fuckin' TITS here. Now I know where Saddam hid those WMDs at. Jimmy Hoffa is trapped between those things. If I stuck my head in there, I'd probably see things the Hubble hasn't found yet.

So that's pretty much all I thought about all day. Oh, and her ass. Which is about as big as a parking garage, and I have just the "vehicle" in mind, huhuhuhuhuhuhuh.

"Am I evil? Yes, I am
Am I evil? I am man, yes, I am." - Diamond Head

Love,
Dougie
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The Sotheby Tapes finished, I'm now enjoying what claims to be the best recording of Jimi jamming with Jack Bruce and Buddy Miles, with Jim McCarty on second guitar. Hey, how can THAT be bad? Over 1/3rd of a show from the current Roger Waters tour is on my drive as well. Gosh darn it, I love the Internet.

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Memories, Dreams, Shit Like That

Somebody hit my blog tonight from the March 2005 archive of Sheryl's blog.

So I spent some time reading it. And then my own.

When you travel back a year and a half in time to when you were barely able to function as a human being, it can get weird. It's better when things have improved to the point when you can go back and think "Fuck, I feel better now."

We've coem through a lot. And we're better for it. I know that. but mostly I just keep thinking about the drive.

The thing that pulls at me the hardest is what's already been pulling at me the whole time I've been sick these past couple days. I kept walking (stumbling, really) around the apartment and ending up in front of a U.S. map next to the front door. I'd stand there like an idiot for five minutes, retracing the route I took west last year, retracing the route I WANTED to take west last year. New-tracing the shit I wish I could do now.

The urge to drive and drive and motherfucking drive is bordering on insanity right now. Oh, I'll come back. I don't want to LEAVE this time, I just want two or three months to EXPLORE. i'll never get it at the rate I'm going, but a boy can dream.

I was online way too late last night, unable to sleep anyway, reading about the little corner of southeast Arizona that I fell in love with last year. But I also fell in love with San Diego, with Roswell, with Woody Creek, with a couple cacti somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

Georgia Motherfuckin' O'Keefe, baby.

My current hero, Doug Stanhope, lives in Arizona, right by the Mexican border. You have no idea how much I want to drive out into the middle of the desert and ingest some really dangerous chemicals with that guy. I think I could learn a thing or twelve.

I spent a while with my white Strat copy before moving to the bass, playing along with Jimi. I think he'd understand my desire to be free, to ride the breeze.

Mankind was not meant to live this modern life. I believe that more than I ever believed in Jesus or any of that other shit. The technology is grand. The structure of our daily lives in service to said technology is POOP. We were hunters and gatherers not so long ago. Now we gather plastic shit to put in our plastic homes, and the best Hunter I knew of blew his goddamn head off with a shotgun, which hardly seems a bad idea in this fucking world.

I'll find my way to operate around this shit. I'm confident of that. I'm not so confident of how LONG the shit will take, since it takes me goddamn CENTURIES to accomplish anything of any real value, but I'm fucking trying, and with the soundtrack I've got going right now, maybe I'll snap into a groove for a while and make it an extra mile or two down that road.

But the road that's calling to me right now is heading west. And I can't go there. Shit.

I even want to see Kansas again. How fucked is THAT?

"I’m an outsider by choice, but not truly. It’s the unpleasantness of the system that keeps me out. I’d rather be in, in a good system. That’s where my discontent comes from; being forced to choose to stay outside. My advice: Just keep movin’ straight ahead. Every now and then you find yourself in a different place." George Carlin

I wish that place was really hot with a lot of fuckin' sand right now.

Love,
Dougie
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The CD I'm getting ready to burn for Katie:

1.) Jimi Hendrix - Bold As Love
2.) - Drifting
3.) - The Wind Cries Mary
4.) - 1983...(A Merman I should Turn To Be)
5.) - Little Wing
6.) - Dolly Dagger
7.) - Freedom
8.) Charlie Haden & The Liberation Music Orchestra - America The Beautiful (Medley) (From Not In Our Name, one of the most emotionally stirring and beautiful pieces of music I've heard in eons, right up there with Neil Young's Living With War.)
9.) The Grateful Dead - Terrapin Station
10.) Thomas Dolby - She Blinded Me With Science
11.) Warren Zevon - Splendid Isolation

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Take That, You Virusy Bitch!

Steadily feeling better throughout the day (work actually helped, which was something of a shock) though I still have this thick fog around my skull making all thought processes suspect.

I switched my night with Katie to tomorrow. Sounds like she and Mommy had a great time at the Keneally clinic last night, and she got to hang out with Bill, which makes me very happy since he's leaving very soon. I'm hoping for us to go visit him tomorrow evening. Katie really loves him, and he's FABULOUS with her. I love watching them interact.

I got my check after work and ran around to get shit done so I could come home and collapse. Despite funds to the contrary, I treated myself to a small gift - an $8 paperback of Darwin's Origin Of Species. I nearly bought a book on Algebra. Math and science were my weak points in school, and I'm trying to rectify that - if you're gonna take on the Republicans who also don't know shit about either subject, you gotta get off yer ass. And frankly, I just need to sharpen my brain cells up some. Some hardcore math is good for you.

So is Hendrix, so I cranked the shit out of Band Of Gypsys on the drive and sank deep into the Cox/Miles groove machine. There is no question in my mind - Billy Cox was a FAR cooler bass player than Noel Redding. I have nothing really against Redding, and some of his parts are pretty nifty, but there's times it's like the Experience is driving on a square wheel. With Band Of Gypsys, Hendrix found a much more groove-sympathetic bassist, and though Cox usually does little more than the riff, he KILLS the riff. Kills it until it's dead and kills it some more. Then you listen to the First Rays Of The New Rising Sun stuff Jimi did just before he died (released by his estate a few years back under that title, released shortly after his death as Cry of Love and Rainbow Bridge), and Cox emerges as a very active and inventive player with some serious goddamn funk in his trousers. Dolly Dagger and Roomful Of Mirrors alone knock me on my dead white ass.

I just got through one of the more marginal of Jimi's albums, a live recording released a zillion times under a zillion names (mine is called NYC '68, one of the better known versions is called Woke Up This Morning And Found Myself Dead) which is little more than a loose jam with Jimi and Johnny Winter and a very drunk Jim Morrison yelling "Fuck her in the ass!" at random intervals. Not terribly essential, but it has its momoents.

What I find so essential about Hendrix is the FREEDOM he displays, the fullbore headlong rush into a rockin' neverneverland of joyous feedback and unhinged sexually-driven funk-pounding. He's FUCKING that guitar, goddamn it, he has that little six-stringed whorebag bent over and he's drilling it until it screams how big his dick is. Loads of guitarists have picked up that mantle and pissed all over it, confusing chops with music, and nearly all of them are boring as fuck, despite often having more technical skill (and better tuners) than Jimi ever had. FUCK them.

What with the craze for "tribute" bands all over, I have to say that if I could find a guitarist and drummer who actually understood this music, I'd love to play in a Jimi tribute band. Unfortunately, there's not many of them. Forty years of "advances" into super-clean technique and nicely placed 32nd notes have robbed guitar music of the grit, soul, balls, dirt, and goddamn glorious grime of what Jimi accomplished in a few years. A few of these guys get it, but it still ends up obscuring the music. As much as I love Stevie Ray Vaughan, and am in motherfuckin' AWE of his Hendrix covers, I HATE hearing countless bar bands with guitarists doing Hendrix through some kind of ubiqutous SRV Filtering Device. Fuck that. I wanna find some guy who spent ten years neck-deep in the original shit before he ever knew who SRV was. And a drummer who perfectly balances the frenetic wonder of Mitch Mitchell with the ass-slamming, snare-snapping groove (and hopefully not the vocal ability) of Buddy Miles.

A boy can dream, right?

Jimi not only had the lead guitar insanity he's known for, he also had SONGS, real fucking songs groudned in funk and blues and rock and some shit I'm not even sure what it is, and he KNEW where he came from, he knew the history of this shit and lived in it. He also was a friggin' monster of a rhythm player, a skill that has sadly become so unknown as to be practically useless anymore. Me, when I pick up a guitar instead of a bass, I'm a rhythm player first. Probably in part becasue my lead chops are so fucking erratic and underdeveloped, but also because I wanna hear some FUNK, some greasy chordal shit that fucks around with the tonality and MOVES somewhere. I learned a lot of that from Jimi.

He also had something to say, which is a bit of a lost art in music anymore. Any strivings towards significance seldom reach above yer basic Starbucks-liberalism, and few even go that far anymore. Jimi made more of a statement with simply a guitar mangling the Star Spangled Banner than most of these pathetic diet-soda rock-monkeys these days will ever concieve of. Rock and roll doesn't HAVE to have a real statement at all times, but goddammit, isn't a little of it better than NOTHING?

There's probably 15 comments on this blog I haven't got to yet. But right now I wanna play some fucking bass. Foxy. Lady.

Love,
Dougie
PS Cutter will be glad to know I'm drinking again. Flying Dog's Dogtoberfest not only has some of the funniest of Ralph Steadmans' beer-label art, it's also a damn fuckin' fine brew.

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I need this

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Fuck

The Keneally clinic is in an hour and a half. There's no fucking way I can go. Goddammit.

Hendrix has been keeping me company. I had a dream last night that I was standing on an orange cloud with him, with an old Jazz bass, playing All Along The Watchtower with Tony Williams on drums. Then God told us to turn that shit down, he was on the phone.

Fuck.

Dougie
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Later

As hateful and depressed as I feel right now, there's a bright ray of light shining from the CD player - The Grateful Dead's Terrapin Station.
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More later

Magnificent flocks of ebullient ninniness floatfloatfloatflock through backwards drywall. Dripping dog fruit enemas bring salvation to mind. Do you toad the toaster or show the way behind?

Make mine meat, Michael. I'm not fishing in your stove no more. Fuckfuckfunfart is in it's way, quite rare.

Radishwasher clogged with clanky crankshaft, not very ick in Igunanaland, says my mom in non won ton, son. Your terrific tacos shout "Glee!" and i ain't your basket, wickersham nightmare dildo.

Livestock! But I go on without fear. The end is not near. Only the closing, the blowsing, the knowsing of my posing. Goddamn grapefruit gains garkgarkgigaton google grins. And so does that fucking Cheshire cat, in a chat room chafing dish full of charbroiled chainmail, once worn by the almighty sorcerer of your Republican dynasty, no longer in effect these days, but supplanted by the anti-wisdom of the Cross, which crossed me one too many times while I waited patiently for its demise. My eyes!

Neverneverlandoverundersi dewaysfrown.
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For forty hours a weakest link to sausage wisdom, not easily found in your armour, all is a waste of the sanitary nakkin', and does that thing fish in your oily ponderosa, with Barbosa and Blinn, the haberdasher in Muncie, Indiana inn? It's not long before my wong can be drawn out of the wrong lawn while being sprayed by pesticidal homicidal genocidal genetics in ethics that aren't questioned by the cat, whose fat is in a vat of your unholy stew, that you and Farboo are plotting to grew in an epillectic ewe, while the few who flew over the Jew that you once knew in the zoo ain't new but did undo the thing you once knew and threw through the window that appeared before another sixteen ton weight that fell on your comedic plans for this century. Damn you!
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Towards the trying tidewater I flail
Not escaping your jail made of the aforementioned chainmail
But not truly captive in your hellish hailstorm

Born!
Not all it was once cracked egg to be
The overdone omelette with cheese and mushed rooms of purpose

Failing that flailing, I sail those seas
But not without a costly cost of caustic cause, which causes careful reconsideration of the backstory that I dare not reveal

Drained that anole, pissed through his reptillian hole
And dared to refer to it as foreign policy

Irate, I ran, though I wracked my agile mind for the left behinds who did not buy lock stock and burrow into the underlying premise that your revelation johned.

Whisper. Kissed her. Missed her. Frisked her in a mixer full of flowering lentils did I. Did I? Didymus did.
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The essentially esoteric eschatology of the Essenes, estranged from Esther's estuary, ain't got none. Fun, that is. Unless you are. R.

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Since I'm Still Awake...

From July 30th. A tad sloppy, but you get the idea.

Oh, and LA King rocks for letting me have the space to put this shit up.

Fucking tired but unable to sleep,
Dougie
PS The Onion fucking rocks - http://www.theonion.com/conte...

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This Made Me Feel A Little Better

"I send money to NPR, I support them, but it's UNLISTENABLE RADIO. When did conservatives steal rock and roll from us? All the AM radio stations, nothing but racist, facist douchebags, all their break music is this blasty-ass, gutbucket rock and roll. Bill O'Reilly will play the White Stripes for God's sake! Then you turn over to NPR and their break music is a sad, lonely saxophone echoing through a sewer pipe somewhere. When did that happen? Play some Zeppelin, for God's sake!" - Patton Oswalt

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Box O' Turds

I woke up at 3AM (which means I've not got more than 3 hours sleep each of the past four nights, a couple of them less than that) with toxic waste coming out of both ends. I somehow made it to work and got in 6 hours before the boss (who was very cool to me today, and had me working mostly alone with no time constraints) more or less demanded I leave before she had to drag my ass out. I had a fever (went away a few hours ago and now I'm sweating like fuck) I've been coughing like a 90-year old chain smoker, and my ass hurts. EVERYTHING hurts, in fact.

I'm supposed to be in Louisville right now enjoying a Keneally show. Instead I'm drinking water and eating bread, hoping my stomach doesn't explode, using some kind of generic ass-salve becasue I feel like ICBMs have been shooting out the hole all day.

Fucking Christ on a crutch.

On the other hand, I just got my first phone call responding to my ads for students. She's 47 and has a digital piano and hasn't played in 20 years. Only wants to do every other week, which is somewhat annoying, but it's $40 a month. I ain't bitching. It's a bit of a haul down there, but that's why I charge $20 now.

Shit, I can't even drink tonight. I don't even WANT to. How bad is that?

I've gotta get better so I can see Mikey tomorrow, dammit.

Love,
Dougie

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Damn, I Like This Album

I haven't kept up with him in a long time, but I love a lot of his stuff. This album is a shock - it's like some kinda jazzy hip-hop thing, nothing like what I expect from him. And I REALLY like it.

Anything to take my mind off wondering if that girl's pussy is the same color as the rest of her hair....AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! !!!!!!!!!!

Love,
Dougie (Why don't these women realize that I'd get down there and do them FIRST? And not stop until they come seven or eight times?)

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Gelatinized

The girl I saw last week who fried my brain but I couldn't talk to her. I saw her again tonight, and I talked to her. And had the most amazing 10-15 minute experience with...uh...she's 16.

That's legal. But kinda fucked up. Her parents are my age.

She ate up all my stupid jokes, and all my over-the-top compliments. Within 2 minutes I let go and wasn't even trying to hold back except for outright saying I wanted to devour her. She told me I'm cute. SHE SAID I'M CUTE. I immediatley started jumping around yelling "She said I'm cute! She said I'm cute!" like that Rudolph The Red-Nosed Fuckin' Reindeer bit, and she GOT it.

She wanted to touch my hair. It nearly made me collapse. She must have said 7 times how much she loved my hair, and when I showed her Katie's picture, she practically came apart babbling how beauitful she is, which is exactly what I was doing to HER.

She let me touch her hair too. I had to stop almost immediately, before I went nuts.

I expect women to be either scared of me or regard me as some stray wet puppy to feel sorry for. She didn't show a trace of that. She LIKED me, and said so.

But i'm 20 years older than her and she doesn't want to freak out relatives. She told me her mom went ballistic on her for going out with a guy who was 27 a month ago. She strikes me as a very upper-middle-class, very smart girl who probably has some serious plans after school. Fucking around with a guy over twice her age is probably a bad idea, but she told me outright that she likes older guys a lot more, can't stand guys her own age, doesn't really like anyone who's not ten years older than her. I asked her about 20 and she said, "Why not?" But she's trying to be a good girl for mommy and daddy.

I tried to half-jokingly, half-serious change her mind, but I knew it was a lost cause.

Jesus, my head is spinning. I just had an astoundingly beautiful young girl laughing at my jokes and telling me she liked me. She looks like a magazine cover.

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She told me where she hangs out. She wants to see me again.

I'm not sure I feel the same way. I think I'm going to get my ass burned if I do see her much more. I'm not worried about parents or shit like that. I'm worried about this girl fucking up my head. She comes off like the most amazing little sweetheart, but this girl could DESTROY a man. i have NO idea how I didn't reduce myself to a drooling freak in nanoseconds, but I didn't. I WANT this girl. The way an alcoholic wants the one last bottle he knows will kill him. It's a BAD IDEA. and part of me doens't give a shit.

ne80trj1v890tgj45 gjmq350gim y9-hi4pk, gioqm 5gm5-vm-3qgk-pvm5-yhj590g m34'pvm5-g45j-'p5mvp4m-gj m54pbm-kb-69pmb46p vm59-pmwmb9-5hj6-9hj4-pmh 69-hjm-6prmb5h-m6-mpbm4p6 mb6phmp bm;tr

Fuck, I've gotta go to bed and to work tomorrow, then to Louisville right after for a Keneally clinic. And i've got some girl bouncing off the walls of my skull. Jesus creeping shit.

Somebody shoot me,
Dougie
PS Abby, if you're out there, please write.

4 Comments

This Could Be The Last Time

"Yeah, but if SHE required dental work afterwards, then I'd be impressed." - D9

It didn't hit me until it was all over. Fuck. M is gone.

I got three hugs from Layla tonight. At the end of the night, I told her she better take care of him, and I know she will. "I'm happy for him with the new band. I'm happy he has such an beautiful daughter, and an incredible wife. I envy the FUCK out of him for that last thing, you know. Be good to him for me."

She obliterated my soul with one look, one moment inside the most perfect sea of blue I've ever seen, and promised me she would.

I spent half an hour with him in the parking lot. I owe him about a dozen CDs I'll be dropping by soon. This is the end of him in the band, but he's going to be around the area for a while. So it's really weird. We'll still be seeing each other, but not onstage.

We talked about those CDs, about Kevin Gilbert (I fucked his head up with "Thud" a year or so ago, still one of my favortie things to happen in the past 20 years or more), about his new band. And about her. The resolution I felt last month was not actually over something said out loud. So I said it tonight - everything I've written about him and his unspeakably beautiful, cool, sweet, supportive, understanding, funny, and intelligent wife here in the last few months, I condensed to three tight, concise sentences right to his face. And it changed nothing between us. Nothing at all.

He's my brother. And goddammit, I'm crying now. I don't want this to end. It's the right thing, but I still don't want it.

I'm supposed to practice with the band in Cincy in 11 hours. There's no fucking way I can get my head around that.

How can I be so happy and so fucking sad at the same time?

Love,
Dougie

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My Kid...

I told Katie and went on talking. A minute later, she showed me what she'd just written on her notepad.

BITE.

"I just sounded it it and wrote it."

My little 5-year old is learning stuff at a quick pace recently. I'm really proud of her.

Love,
Dougie

1 Comments

As A Matter Of Fact, It's All Dark

Katie slept through part of it (she usually does, and it cracks me up that she falls asleep with a live band mere yards away) but woke up in time to thoroughly enjoy the last few songs.

Dennis was there. I hadn't seen him since he moved back east months ago. We had talked about doing our duo thing for a short set this weekend (the only time we'd played together was at this festival a few times) but it hadn't worked out. He was totally beside himself watching Katie. He was raving to me how beautiful she is. Hehe. I'm a proud daddy.

She's on the floor now in front of the TV, watching The Wizard Of Oz. Too bad I don't have a Floyd album with me to add into the soundtrack.

I played well (and had one of the better tones I've had in a while, which always makes me play better) and got deep into my goofball stage antics, but I've got some stuff planned for tomorrow that I hope causes the entire band to train wreck. I'm REALLY enjoying this stupid shit. We do one song where we "bring it on down" and end up lying on the floor, still playing quietly. I've taken to not getting back up when we kick back in, finishing the song off on my back. Tonight, I laid on my stomach with the bass next to me, playing over the top of the neck, then flipped over and hung half my body over the edge of the stage. It was STOOOOPID and people loved it.

On another song, the singer gets behind me and plays the right hand part while I keep a Peter Gunn riff going with the left. Then he reaches around and starts doing some atonal shit. Tonight I let the keyboardist bang on it, the drummer whacked all the open strings with a stick, and the guitarist just tried to avoid me. (Typical.) :) Then I yelled out for audience participation, and the drummer's brother jumped up and played the right hand part from five feet below the stage.

Utter bullshit (I yelled "Hello Cleveland!" and worked the Big Bottom riff into one spot - let's face it, I've totally jumped into the realm of Derek Small-isms) but loads of fun.

Bizarre rush of new gigs. We've been offered our first-ever corporate gig in a few weeks, at a BEAUTIFUL venue in Indianapolis (one of my Genesis-fan friends used to run sound there) and couldn't turn it down. Unfortunately, the singer has never taken a corporate gig and gave them a rate that was well below what we could have gotten. But it's still more than double our usual rate, we might be able to weasel more, and it might open some serious doors that if are develped quick enough, might just keep me around longer. I'm not into the drive or the way it cuts into weekend time, but one gig a month of this stuff will SAVE MY ASS. I don't expect anything, I'm still not really prepared to go on more than a few more months, but if it happens, I'm there. This could be the leap away from a 40-hour-week-+-everything -else-I'm-trying-to-cram- in that I've been looking for.

Loads of family stuff to work in tomorrow before the gig, M's last with us. This is at the same place where we did our "farewell" gig in 1998, the last I played with them until last year. It's going to be one hell of an emotional ride tomorrow. But I'm betting it'll be fuckin' fun.

Love,
Dougie

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This Just Made Me Laugh My Ass Off

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A Big Ol' Bucket Of Fuckity Stew

Monday night I lost my internet connection, directly after hooking up my new monitor. (And thanks to the lovely D9 for said monitor, porn is so much LIVELIER now.)

I called Roadrunner Tuesday morning before going to work. the cunt had the nerve to apologize for not being able to help me over the phone even though she made NO EFFORT WHATSOEVER to do so.

So I was set up for the guy to come out yesterday. Except I wans't. I called in yesterday and found out the cunt hadn't actually set up the fucking appointment.

So it got done today.

In about 20 seconds.

There's a button on top of the modem. A standby switch. I'd apparantly hit it when moving the computer around to accomodate the shorter cord from the new monitor.

It's IMPOSSIBLE to see this button in this shitty room with my shitty eyes. So, in other words, I sent the fuckers out here for nothing, except to show me a fucking BUTTON that I was too stupid to look for.

Ahhh, I love life.

I'd planned on leaving with Katie tonight for Marion, but I had shti to catch up on. You wouldn't believe the EVIL that lived in my kitchen. I've barely been here for days. Just long enough to throw something in the microwave, eat, pass out, and wake back up and leave. SOMEHOW I've managed to turn a three-room apartment into a SHITSTORM after spending a grand total of six or seven waking hours in four days here.

A couple nights ago, I went out to a bar, first time in eons. Spent almost 20 bucks and got NOWHERE. Poon was not to be had that night. I had two women look at me like I was a wet rat asking for shelter, and another one let me buy her a drink and then left in less than five minutes, after pretty much telling me she wanted to fuck every guy on the planet but ME.

I could've stayed home, pounded off, ordered a pizza, and still drank as well and saved five bucks.

I went to the store tonight. Cute girl behind the counter. Big girl, but very cute.

I said hi, asked her if they were keeping her busy (which is a stupid question, but I'm not very imaginative when trying to get pussy) and within NANOSECONDS, she was scratching her head, her ring finger in clear view, showing off the ring.

Cunt. Just SAY I'm an asshole and you're not gonna fuck me. Don't do it in goddamn sign language.

Work at The Shit Shoppe (my new name for the outlet center) is going well. Not a bad gig, and I get to fuck with the supervisor. I called him an asshole five times today and he didn't fire me. Cool guy. But there's other suprervisors, and they're all female. Which leads me to an important question:

Why is it that every time I get a job at one of these places, the one woman in the entire building who I want to fuck the most is always the one I'm WORKING FOR???

C is a big-built lady in her early to mid 40s. Thick dark-blonde hair halfway down her back. Big rack. A BIG fucking ass. I LOVE her ass. She's worn tight jeans the last few days and I was weenus-at-the-ready for her. You could serve drinks on that ass it's so big, but it's also a model of geometric perfection in its utter roundness and...uh...assness.

her only physical flaw is that she wears more eye makeup than she needs to. Otherwise, she's not only hot with a killer ass, she's also very friendly and sweet, and cool, and...uh...

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! !!!!

Once again, I want to fuck The Boss. Jesus creeping shit.

The big festival gig tomorrow. Weather does not look promising, but we'll see. Two more days and M is no longer a member of the band. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that.

Lots of dishes done, vacuum run. The place almost looks liveable. Now I need to get the owner out here with someone to fix the garbage disposal (which went bye-bye recently) and the cold water knob on the bathroom sink, which broke off in my hand with almost no effort a few weeks back.

I've had Hendrix stuck in my head singing I Don't Live Today for hours now. I haven't midned one bit.

Love,
Dougie

3 Comments

Refill The Flagon Of Chuckles!

I'm fucking tired.

It took a while to get out of Marion, since Dad needed to do some stuff with the van before letting me take it - it hasn't been driven in the couple months since I alst used it, and has plenty of issues of its own.

I realized I was adding a half hour to my trip by heading towards Indy once I got to Anderson. Total brain fart. So I made a turn to get onto SR38, and...added another 20 minutes onto the drive.

Roy Harper is singing "Sleeping At The Wheel" to me as I type this. And I was. I was incapable of rational thought the entire trip home, having slept maybe three hours after one fuck of a long-ass Saturday.

I mentioned Amanda - she was her typical self yesterday, only letting so much emotion out, trying to disconnect herself. But I DEMANDED a hug, and it was a very sweet one. I could see in her spine-destroying eyes that little flicker of whatever it is she feels for me. Disconnected, yet super-friendly, with that little touch of extra warmth under the harder surface. That's Amanda. I'm really happy I finally saw her again.

My last stop before the accident was for an energy drink near Muncie. The girl behind the counter was slightly chunky, with a round beaming face, and obviously fake red hair. But it worked on her. She was VERY cute. So I told her - "You are really cute." She gave me a very sweet smile, said "thank you", and I left. That was it. My good deed for the day, do it and get out before you try to make it about YOU, fuckhead.

I did it at dinner tonight too. A waitress walked by with the most amazing hair. Obviously dyed, with a fair amount of black, but mostly this odd blonde/silver mix that was very striking. She came by our table and I caught her and said, "You have the most amazing hair. That is COOL."

Her hands went to her hair, she broke out into the hugest wide grin, and I heard quite possibly the most sincere and surprised "Thank you so MUCH!" I've ever got from a woman. Then she was called away, and I let it go. Another good deed for the day. That one felt great, too.

Didn't work half an hour ago, though.

I said NOTHING this time. This girl was ASTOUNDING. The kind of beauty that makes a man CRY. The most perfectly sculpted body in tight but modest clothes. Jeans cut off just below the knee, the most remarkable light skin. Perfectly cut long straight blonde hair, bangs and extra side hair falling around her goddess face. Lips that could kill you. Soft innocent eyes. An aura of delicacy and gentle warmth.

And if she was a day over 17, I'll eat the can this beer is in.

NOTHING I could have said would have come off like anything but the lunatic frothings of a psychosis-laden stalker-creep twice her age. I wanted to fall flat on the floor before her and beg just to be NEAR her. Insanity. Absolute unhinged motherfucking insanity. I had myself believing that I'd never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Get out. OUT. Your chemicals are twisted beyond rationality, Doug. You haven't slept in a long time and it's fucking with you. You are TIRED. You are WEAK. You are a DOUCHEBAG.

I can be so nicely cynical, so perfectly cold and convinced of the utter waste of time that is involved in ANY of this. Then I turn into CHEESEHEAD DELUXE and want to worship some poor girl who is just trying to buy a Coke at a convenience store. It's like shifting gears in my skull, stripping out the transmission with a hard lurch into LUDICROUS SPEED.

Kill me. Somebody, please.

The girl with the killer hair was at Lone Star. (I always do my best Rick Moranis voice when I see the sign - "LONE STAAAAARRRR!!!!") I picked up Katie finally at 5:00, and we went out for dinner. I've had more meat in the past week than in the past month, but I hadn't had a steak in MONTHS, and was craving one.

Lone Star constantly plays godawful current country music on the PA, but I never seem to mind it there for some reason. I tune it out, treat it as ambience, and enjoy dinner.

A KILLER sirloin, steamed veggies, and the most fucking amazing mushrooms I've had in eons. A giant Goblet Of Doom filled with Amber Bock.

This will be my last voyage into eating that well for a while. I've done a LOT of it in the past couple weeks, and I can't afford it anymore.

Katie was so sweet and fun tonight. She gave me a huge hug, and a kiss on the ear (little nutbar) when I picked her up, and she hugged me tight for an extra moment before she started into playing with my hair and looking at me like I was The Greatest Daddy On Earth.

She's such a great kid, and she's very talkative these days, very funny and sharp and full of surprises and wonder. She also has a bit too much of that Hermoine Granger know-it-all vibe (I think those Harry Potter movies have rubbed off in several ways on her) and is a bit too aggresive about forcing her way on other kids, and seems intent on WINNING AT ALL COSTS, which is kinda cute, but needs the edge taken off. I try to talk to her about this, but I don't think it's gotten through yet. The thing that holds me back from being harder on her is that she's also so friendly in her way. We can walk into a park and she'll see some kid she's never met in her life, and walk right up and say, "Hi, I'm Katie! Wanna play?" How many kids have that? She really does try to be good to other kids, and I don't think she has any idea when she's over-stepping her bounds, so I try to be gentle about it, but it's going to take some more work.

She's going to Marion with me for three nights this coming weekend. Lots of family stuff to work in around the big festival gig. She seemed very disappointed tonight when I told her about M and Layla leaving. she also was cncerned about the accident, and asked me when I first got there if I'd been hurt. We talked about the deer, and I tried to spin it while keeping it real - we love animals, and it's sad when one is hurt, but deer aren't exactly smart. (I can't wait 'til she's old enough for me to say "Deer are cool, but they're also fucking idiots. Here, have some venison.") She turned the tables on me when I left - I always tell her I need my hug and kiss when I leave. Tonight SHE needed it, and we both got it. Little issues aside, I've got an incredible little girl who I'm not lying to when I tell her I love her more than anyone in the world.

Shifted into rockin' mode with Roy Harper - HQ is making my chemicals line back into formation for the week. Gotta go into tomorrow with a good attitude.

Damn, that was some good fuckin' steak tonight.

Love,
Dougie

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The Continuing Adventures Of "Bite My Ballbag Bambi"

AAA only needs the reciept from the towing company for last night's job, though I probably won't see my money for a few weeks. The reciept, by the way, was missing for two hours until I felt into my front pocket for the FIFTH TIME and found it folded into a Chicklet-sized square underneath a few coins. Wow, I do some stupid shit at 4AM.

I did Ron White's routine on deer for the insurance lady - "my cousin has the gun with the laser sights and the .22 bullet travelling flibbity-miles-per hour. I hit one with a car going 55 MPH. Slow that bullet down and put a hood ornament on it and you'll get that damn deer."

I wish I was Ron White. Well, I wish I had his budget for scotch.

My head hurts.

Love (except to the fucking deers, who can BLOW ME, goddamn antler-headed, caught-in-the-headlights- staring motherfuckers),
Dougie
------------------------- -
Later,

I took a shower and went out to the car to get my clothes (did laundry here last night), and pulled out a pair of pants from the back. There was glass all over it. So I came up with a little toon:

Got glass
In my ass
I'm a little glassed-assed superstar
Got some glass
Up my ass
After a fuckin' deer hit my car

Jesus Glass, superstar
What in the fuck ran into your car?

I need therapy...

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Fuckin' Bambi Can EAT MY COCK

I've averaged around 750 miles a week for over a year now. This was going to happen eventually.

Roughly halfway between Muncie and Richmond, Indiana, on SR35, a dark winding little state road I've driven on a zillion times, it all happened so fast I can barely tell you a thing about it, except what I saw afterwards.

Fuckin' deer. In front of me with no time at all to get out of its way. THUNK. And it was gone.

I kept going, totally in shock, David Gilmour still singing about cruise missiles on the stereo. A minute later I heard the wind and the crinkling noise behind me.

The son of a fuck was hit by the front driver's side of the car, then somehow took out the driver's side back seat window behind me.

I got a mile or so up to a yellow flashing light and turned around. No sign of the cocksucker. I turned back and headed south about five miles, trying to find a place to get off the road that wouldn't get me killed by oncoming traffic.

At the interesection of 35 and 36, I pulled into a closed gas station and called home. I was about to call the cops when one showed up.

B is local police for the tiny town I was in. He's only part-time, which I imagine is common in this part of the world.

We tried to determine where the accident happened. 35 north of Losantville passes through three counties in just a few miles - I was in Randolph County. Heading back north, you pass through Henry County for a couple miles, then into Daleware County. He got a Randolph deputy out, who decided that I obviously had been in Henry County when it happened. Or maybe he was not into writing accident reports that night.

The Henry deputy took my license and went back to find the accident scene. He didn't find a trace of it. The goddamn deer was gone. Fuck, and I wanted some burgers. Meanwhile, I had an empty radiator, all the water probably having gone on the ground while still driving - it was dry under the car where it stood. My gauge said it was just short of overheating when I pulled over.

The Henry deputy gave me a small amount of shit (he thought I looked "nervous", I told him I was COLD and didn't have a jacket) then was perfectly easy to get along with. I was lucky - I hadn't had a drop of alcohol and that wasn't going to be an issue. I was totally cooperative (what the fuck ELSE was I going to do?) and they treated me fine. No problems.

I got on the cell to AAA. I lost them once, being on digital roam in the middle of Fuckstain, Indiana. They called back and told me I had 100 miles free towing. I hadn't known this, since it was Sheryl who set this account up - she renewed my AAA even after the divorce, and for that, SHE ROCKS. Let it not be said that my ex-wife doesn't think ahead and try to take care of things. She did NOT have to do this, but she did anyway, knowing how much driving I'd have to do just to see Katie when I was in Indy last year. So yay for her.

And a big "fuck off" to AAA themselves, who called back to tell me that they couldn't find someone to tow me home (Lebanon being under 100 miles away) but had called the local police, who would set me up with a wrecker, and though I'd probably have to pay them cash, they'd reimburse me later. Oh joy. There goes the money for the power bill,.

The local cop who had first shown up came back twice to check on me. The second time, I told him they had called in for a wrecker. He got on the horn and found out they'd done NO SUCH THING. So HE called the wrecker, and then spent 20 minutes bullshitting with me about cop-work, comedians, small-town life, and other stuff. B goes down as the nicest cop I've ever met. Down-home redneck kinda guy, but he's good people.

The wrecker showed up, and it was a guy that B knew. R got my car up on the back of his big fuckin' doohickey, and drove me back to Marion. I gave him my last $141, which AAA is going to reimburse or I will be difficult to communicate with in a pleasant manner.

R is a school teacher by day, and has just gone through a divorce with his wife of 29 years. They had their first court date last week. So we talked about that, and I gave him what little insight I had, probably useless given how different our situations were. but he appreciated it, said so, and did as much as B to remind me that out there in Cornland are some very fine people who will help your ass out at 2AM just because it's the right thing to do. Thank fuck for them, they saved my ass tonight.

I'm fine, if rattled. I came within 3 feet of a deer a year ago, not ten miles from this spot on the same road, at a point in my life when I WANTED to hit something and die. Tonight I wasn't so into dying. I had just finished enjoying a cigar (interesting occasion for me there) and had Gilmour's All Lovers Are Deranged (yes, hello, Amanda) cranked up when fuckin' Bambi had to be beamed aboard, Scotty two inches from my front left bumper with no advance warning. I was all into going home and spenindg tomorrow (today, now) with Katie. Goodbye to that now.

I demonstrated my sobriety to the local cop before he even asked for it, so that wasn't an issue. It might have changed EVERYTHING if I'd been drinking beforehand, and knowing me, that would have been a distinct possibility on any other night. I got lucky this time.

Good people out there in the wilderness. if not for them, I might be in far worse a mental state right now. As it is...fuck it, I'll figure it out later. Time for go to bed, Tor.

Love,
Dougie

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Near The End

And when you feel you're near the end
And what once burned so bright is growing dim
And when you see what's been achieved
Is there a feeling that you've been decieved?"
- David Gilmour

Gigs like tonight only remind me of why I want to stay.

We played for a bunch of Vietnam Vets. We did this last year, and went over huge - one of the best gigs we ever did. Tonight was fabulous as well, but it flew by. We only played an hour and a quarter (and got $120 each) but it was damn fine, even with the drummer being his usual not-putting-out-enough self.

It was our first gig with him in two months. Things might be getting interesting in that department soon...

It might have been the best overall performance I've ever given. Not so much in an overly ass-kicking bassboy kinda way, just that all the elements were firmly in place and I felt as relaxed and confident as ever. I played very well, whipped out a few licks I'd never done and stuffed them into the groove perfectly.

But the part that felt the strongest was just the presentation. This past year and a half has taught me how to be an entertainer as much as a musician, and I've finally found a way to do that that fits my personality. I've found a few goofy things to do and say onstage, ways off working off the singer, (who has become a great frontman) and I've found ways of posing that don't feel forced. It's fuckin' rock & roll, you've gotta do some of this shit.

I nailed it to the floor tonight. And walked away a bit sad, knowing that the end is coming.

Next week is it for M. He played damn good tonight, and I fucked around with him on the solos a bit more than normal. He was having a lot of fun, and it's hard to believe that I won't be playing with him again after next Saturday.

His wife and her sister were down front. I managed somehow to distance my brain from the feelings that can come up when she's around, but I felt that I was playing to Layla most of the night. And it felt OK for a change. It was more about what she represents to me than about her. But I do still love her. And him. Damn. I'm gonna miss them.

In the past year, I've come closer than ever to being able to refer to myself as a professional musician, and even entertainer. And it's why I have to hang on a bit longer while the new band in Cincy develops - I can't be away from the stage for long. It's found its way into my heart, for reasons that go way beyond the simple one I had when I first started playing bass at 16 years old. Then it was purely about music, purely about hitting The Big Note.

Now it's about that, and other things. It's about how good it feels to make an audience feel good. About looking out there and seeing people dancing and enjoying themselves. About doing goofy shit that makes the singer laugh and forget lyrics. About shoving In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida into any hole I can find in any song that it really doesn't fit at all. About the ongoing spiritual quest for how to perfectly integrate alcohol into a performance without fucking up. About the guitar as phallic symbol. About preserving the legacy of my heroes - Jack Bruce, John Entwistle, Paul McCartney, Geddy Lee. About pussy.

OK, not so much about pussy. Seeing as how I never GET any.

Fuckin' hell.

I've learned more about what is great about rock music and what is ridiculous about it. And how I can find my place in between the two. There's been a lot of dumb shit to go along with this, but it's all part of the game, and it's all given me a reason to play that I'd never had just sitting on the edge of the bed playing along to King Crimson albums that nobody will ever give a shit about hearing in the places I have to work in.

There's an awful lot of absurdity and bullshit involved in being a rock musician. And a lot of rewards. Soemtimes the two are the same, and maybe that's why I love it so much - I crave that mix of aburdity and profundity, it's what makes my life worth living.

I can't stop doing it. It won't last much longer with these guys, and that hurts like a motherfucker, because I love them and I really don't want to leave. But I have to find ways of going on, and something tells me that better times lay ahead.

There IS a feeling that I've been decieved somehow. Probably by myself. But the deciever is also a joker, and so am I. I know some of his tricks now. I'll have the last laugh on that motherfucker, if it's the last thing I do.

Shit, now I've gotta drive three hours back home.

Love,
Dougie

1 Comments

Head, Spinning.

On top of it all, the new guitarist is going to be gone for a couple of these, so ANOTHER guitarist is filling in (and might even play bass on the one I can't do) and I've known him for at least 15 years but never played with him. He's a very good player, and a HELL of a nice guy (we had an interesting conversation after my divorce last year, the last time I saw him) and he told the singer he really hopes I'm around so we can play together for the first time.

Wow. I'm still in this band. Holy shit.

Love,
Dougie
PS I saw Amanda for the first time in two months this morning. She gave me a hug. Whee!

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The Black Cloud Of Islam

Hey guys, I've got news for you - CATHOLICS don't take the Pope seriously. Why should you? Yeah, he's got stupid centuries-old ideas about your religion. And you still BEHEAD people, you fucks. This is an asshole who preaches against masturbation. YOU assholes got pissed off about some CARTOONS a while back. Cartoons? A cartoon pope? You're offended by THIS shit? You know what offends me, assholes? PEOPLE GETTING THE SHIT BLOWN OUT OF THEM. If you want people to take you and your religion seriously, try doing what the Christians are too lazy and stupid to do about guys like the Pope and Falwell, and SET YOURSELVES APART. If you are about peace and goodness, PROVE IT. until then, shut the fuck up about shit that does not matter and get a fucking clue. Frankly, I have far more respect for the Christians. They might be stupid and blind and unwilling to accept the consqeuences of their actions in a consumer culture that tramples over the rest of the world, but they don't tend to gather en masse and chop people's heads off anymore. They got over that a couple centuries ago. Take a hint and TRY CATCHING UP, fuckers. They suck. You are WORSE.

I posted this a couple years ago, but it bears repeating - a 15 or so year old song by Roy Harper that's just as good today. Says it quite well, in fact::

I'm sick to the teeth of the news on the screen
of hisbullah scum and jihad the obscene
whose men plant the bombs and then live feeling free
to watch women and children be killed on T.V.
which satan delivers a child a death curse
in the name of a worn out collection of verse
I've not read the book so I cannot recite
but I'd bet Salman Rushdie is just about right
underneath the black cloud of islam

What kind of publicity needs so much blood
that's not for some sad diabolical god
selling himself as a two-bit Macbeth
as the expert in sentencing cousins to death
and what kind of god can this be anyway
that you have to prostrate to him five times a day
with hate in your heart and a gun in your hand
is force the only thing you understand
underneath the black cloud of islam?

and the butchers who've got all this blood on their hands
are the ones who need god to be stood where he stands
blessing this kidnapping, murder and war
with books written hundreds of ages before
and woman in veils walking paces behind
doesn't sit easy in my mind
it speaks of oppression and no other choice
than rigid compliance with the loudest voice
underneath the black cloud of islam

You can put a lead bullet clean through this guitar
'cos I'm not overjoyed with the story so far
sharing a world with the nutters of god
is as good as being six feet under the sod
words that are written are all here to say
and these are the latest there are anyway
and I am the prophet so don't believe me
I'm the same as the old ones except that I'm free
to give you a piece of my mind which is this
you're the worst of jehovah's blind witlessnesses
with your feet in the door of the deepest abyss
which is underneath the black cloud of islam

Fuckin' A, Roy.

Love,
Dougie

2 Comments

Still Raining, Still Dreaming...

Good practice tonight. We've got a new guitarist.

He's pretty much like every other guy on the planet, straight-up blues/rock stuff, (just once I'd like to have a guy come in and warm up with some Wes Montgomery licks then say, "Hey, do you guys play any Electric Prunes?") but he's damn good at it. He's also a better singer than he thinks he is, but we've come to the decision of looking for a full-time singer. None of us really WANTS to do more than a few lead vocals. I'm into it when I'm on my own, but in a band context I'd really just rather play the fucking bass. I do have a few things I'd like to sing (I've got this bug up my ass about doing Free's Wishing Well right now) but mostly I want to groove off the drummer and be a goddamn bassist.

These next couple weeks are going to be inssne. I'm doing a long-ass weekend up north, working in family time with Katie (we're going to two grandmother's and my aunt and uncle's) between the gigs, then driving back here sunday first thing so i can do another practice with these guys. Then Monday and Tuesday I'm going to two Keneally clinics after work - one of them two hours away in Louisville.

I'm quite capable of these things, but I always still end up doing a big crash and burn for a day or two. Alcohol is usually invovled to a larger extent than normal. But hey, what else am I gonna do? Sit home and jerk off? shit, I do that enough anyway...

I told one of the guys today that the current job (putting together wooden bar stools for two days now) is different for me because I'm not very mechanically inclined.

"The only person who'd ever refer to me as 'handy' is MY DICK."

I thought that was pretty funny.

Love,
Dougie

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A Different Kind Of Hendrix Song On My Mind Today

You ARE a cute little heartbreaker, girl. Write me soon, dammit. :)

Love (and hopefully not confusion),
Dougie

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I Feel This Way Sometimes...

Hurrah i awake from yesterday
alive but the war is here to stay
so my love Catherina and me
decide to take our last walk
through the noise to the sea
not to die but to be re-born
away from a life so battered and torn...
forever...

oh say can you see its really such a mess
every inch of earth is a fighting nest
giant pencil and lip-stick tube shaped things
continue to rain and cause screaming pain
and the arctic stains from silver blue to bloody red
as our feet find the sand
and the sea is straight ahead...
straight ahead.....

well it's too bad
that our friends
can't be with us today
well that's too bad
the machine that we built would never save us
thats what they say
(thats why they ain't coming with us today)
and they also said
its impossible for man
to live and breath underwater... forever
was their main complaint

and they also threw this in my face:
they said
anyway
you know good and well
it would be beyond the will of God
and the grace of the King

so my darling and I
make love in the sand
to salute the last moment ever on dry land
our machine has done its work
played its part well
without a scratch on our bodies
and we bid it farewell

starfish and giant foams
greet us with a smile
before our heads go under
we take a last look
at the killing noise
of the out of style...
the out of style, out of style

2 Comments

Kontakt!

There are people who pay $400 for fake Christmas trees. These people scare me. Today, I put together a few of these trees, marked down to the amazingly low price of $279, and they were SHIT. Wobbly, badly concieved pieces of shit that could not possibly be put together properly. Welcome to the wide world of outlet malls, boys and girls.

If I've learned anything in my past year and a half of temp jobs, it's that American business is FUCKED. Ran by bottom-line seeking DIPSHITS hacking out POOT for consumer robots too fucking stupid to know how badly their ASS IS BLEEDING when they buy this wretched crap, whatever it might be. Americans aren't worth two shits at MAKING anything anymore, but we sure can SHOP for stuff. Usually while eating. We're a bunch of fat fucking consumer shitheads, boys and girls. THIS is what we work 40 hours a week for? Christ, we're idiots. We aren't into learning, or expanding ourselves and our life experiences, or EVOLVING. We're into buying crap, eating crap, and watching crap on TV. And for pointing this out, I'm "cynical" Yeah, right. The fucker who is making a FORTUNE off your fat ass is the cynical one, fuckface.

My fat ass ate a burger tonight. Pretty damn good one at Red Robin. My move away from fast food is going well, but sometimes ya need a fuckin' dead-cow-burger, and I liked the one I had tonight pretty fuckin' well. Tomorrow I'm going to bake squash and fuck with potatoes. Tonight I had some cow.

Speaking of cows, I was listening to Peter Gabriel singing in German today. OK, not the best transition. But bear with me here.

Gabriel re-recorded the vocals on some of his material in German, and you can get his third and fourth albums entirely in German, also with some interesting changes to the musical mixes, which sometimes are preferable to the English versions. In fact, these albums KICK ASS, because Gabriel's voice and this particular phase of his career (arguably his two most interesting albums) are VERY conducive to the effect brought on by these German lyrics. I'm in love with both these albums anyway, since they've been an invaluable part of my psyche since high school, and to hear them delivered with the menace and balls of the German recordings is pretty fuckin' awesome, baby.

The German version of Wallflower (on the fourth album, also known as Security) cracks me up. The phrase "hold on", repeated several times, sounds like "livestock" in German. I don't know German worth a shit, maybe somebody can help me here.

So I'm driving towards my temp office after work to get my check, and pass the farm by Katie's neighborhood. I saw the cows about 5 seconds before Gabriel starting singing about livestock, or whatever the fuck he's saying in German.

It's very passionate, serious, intense. Livestock.

Everytime I'd hear "livestock", I'd lean out the window and yell "Moooooooooo!!!!!!" I swear to you, one of those cows gave me a dirty look.

I played it for Katie tonight, and when we got to The Family & The Fishing Net (one of the more bizarre and truly fuckin' wonderful things PG ever did, if you ask me) I told her about "die familie und das fischernetz." Is that a great word or what? Das Fischernetz. Sounds like a fuckin' gang of German criminals. "We are Das Fischernetz! We shall fuck you! Seig trout! Seig trout!"

Somebody is going to be offended by that.

Katie was walking through the post office with me saying "das fischernetz" over and over again. I was LOSING MY SHIT laughing at her. How cool.

But the best is Shock Den Affen. I told Katie that "affen" is German for monkey (but didn't tell her about the video, probably my favorite music video ever, since I don't think Katie could handle that particular wackjob Jungian horror-show without severe psychological damage), then proceded to sing along with something that went from "shock den affen" to "Shock Ben Affleck", which I think is pretty fucking funny. Katie, of course, has no idea what the fuck I'm on about.

I drove home on a dark country highway screaming "Shock Ben Affleck, der schmuck!" in the stupidest excuse for a German accent in non-recorded history. And that my friends, is why I'll never be the President.

Well, that and the Internet porn. I'm outta here, fuckers. Nighty-night!

Love,
Dougie

4 Comments

My Girl Rocks

Sheryl took this. Apparantly Katie likes Gwen Stefani's new album.  

Love,

Daddy 

1 Comments

A Little Nostalgia For The Old Folks

Ahhh, typing away at my own desk. Warmed over chicken nachos, a can of Steel Reserve, and chips at my side. It's a good night.

Interesting band things going on. I'd told the guys in Indiana that I could do a gig in October (two weeks after the big festival that's M's last gig and was supposed to be mine) now that their bassist situation is totally up in the air. The singer just called and I've committed to Oct. 7 - we're doing TWO gigs that day, one of them around noon in Noblesville, and we'll be making $290 each in one day.

When he offered me this, I told him, "You fucking stupid cunt. How dare you waste my time with such trivial poop. Of COURSE I'm not interested."

I love my friends.

With the band down here in a very odd state, I might be hanging on up north even longer. They have nothing else scheduled in October. The November schedule works great for me - only two weekends, one of them a Friday and Saturday, which means more money and an easier excuse to do it, and the other weekend right after Thanksgiving when I'd planned on being up there anyway, partly to take Katie up there for family, and partly because I wanted to see them with the "new" lineup that night, which now looks like I can still be a part of.

Five gigs in December. One isn't too appealing. Two are another Friday and Saturday - very doable. Another is probably the night I'd be there for XMas with family anyway. The last is New Year's Eve and pays quite well.

Given the strange existence I have now - the band here in flux, and just starting a temp job that is guaranteed to be over at the end of October - it's starting to look very likely that I'll not be leaving this band for some time. And though the other reasons for not doing it are still there (time issues, the fucking three hour drive at a time when the car somewhat frightens me) the money just might make it worth it.

I really don't want to leave. I havne't wanted to since the day I said I would, back in May.

I'll spell it out - I fucking miss where I was at four months ago. And I love being here in SW Ohio again at the same time. I've been living a crazed double existence for years now - my marriage, then the year in Indy trying to make time for Katie as well - and now I'm just doing it again here.

So I'm used to it, and I'm up for the challenge. Hey, what the fuck?

And now for what I was meaning to write before all that other shit got in the way.

Now that I'm back online, I've been exploring my favorite torrent website for bootlegs, and am currently downloading a show from the new CSNY tour - they're doing a very political set list, including most of Neil's brilliant new album. One of my friends just saw them in Michigan, and it sounds like a damn fine show.

When I got that running, I noticed something in my folder - the last thing I'd downloaded before leaving Indianapolis. A ProjeKct 2 show from June of 1998.

ProjeKct 2 was a spinoff of King Crimson, and I saw their very first show in Nashville, Tennessee in Feburary of '98. I saw more shows in that year than any other - two P2 shows, 4 Keneally shows, Bela Fleck twice, Yes, the Further festival (with a stunning set by The Other Ones, and a highly enjoyable one from Hot Tuna, so I got to see both Phil Lesh and Jack Casady mangle their basses on the same night, and believe me, I was DROOLING) and I can't remember what others offhand.

The ProjeKcts were King Crimson's way of exploring different combinations of a six-man lineup in an improvised setting. P2 was Robert Fripp, Adrian Belew, and Trey Gunn. Belew was playing the then-new Roland V-Drums, Gunn was doing terrible things to a dog with a fork (OK, actually he was playing his Warr Guitar), and Fripp was...Fripp.

It's difficult to summarize the impact Robert Fripp has had on my life. He's been involved in some of the most mind-bending music my ears have experienced, and his writing - while sometimes leaning towards absurd pronouncments, such as his insane attitudes towards audience recordings of his performances - has just as often been completely inspirational. He can be both remarkably profound and highly goofy in his stilted English way, and I love him for it.

But mostly I love what he does with his guitar. Crazed yet precise pointillistic riffage, bursts of savage chord-mangling, psychotic screeching fret-burning, sustained fuzz for days and days. And lots more. Fripp is immediately recognizable in nearly everything he does, and he's displayed a committment both to excellence and individualism that is awe-inducing. He's also funny as hell sometimes, but sometimes you have to be looking for it.

My trip to Nashville in 1998 was, at the time, the longest I'd ever driven. Over 5 hours just to see three guys play music that they supposedly barely knew anything about themselves.

I remember finally finding The Cannery after driving past it about 8 times. It was off the road a bit, and was in fact an old cannery. It had been emptied out and turned into a concert venue.

I also remember finding a hotel before a show, and standing in a phone booth calling home next to a stunning blonde girl with a fabulous Tennessee accent that made my weiner warm.

Watching Belew that night was like watching a kid in a candy store. The warped pop/rock guitar-noise merchant, cut loose behind a set of electronic drums, wreaking havoc behind a pair of string-bashing gods instead of being one himself like he usually is.

Watching Gunn was like watching myself if I'd been one-zillionth as cool as him. The lucky sonofafuck who got to not only share a stage with those other two freaks, but was treated as an equal, and made some really fuckin' cool noises on his 8-string thingamafuck. He looked slightly out-of-place, but totally fit in. He was on stage with his heroes. MY heroes. I fucking hate that lucky fucker.

Watching Fripp was...most of what I did that night. How one guy on a stool can ROCK so much is something that can only be witnessed to be believed. The whole tone of the night was reflected on Fripp's entire persona - a joyous EVIL. A twisted little romp through the merry little dark corners of your sunny fuckin' doppleganger. Have a flower. It's killing time.

It was FUN. Vicious, dark, and terrible fun. The child-like wonder of a McCartney ditty welded to Hendrix-meets-Bartok in a back alley while beating the shit out of Mr. Whole Tone Scale with a bloody hammer. David Lynch re-films your favorite Care Bear episodes. Mahatma Ghandi does a two-step with Stalin. Mother Teresa hands a blanket to Satan while he pisses whiskey-stained death on her head. Dick Cheney plays Twister with They Might Be Giants. Syd Barrett records your favorite Meshuggah hits. Napalm Death's Christmas Extravaganza. The lion lies down with the lamb, the lamb lies down on Beelzebub, Stallone donates chocolate bunnies to homeless children, a little girl's favorite teddy bear cornholes Aleister Crowley while H.P. Lovecraft dances the Charelston with Dora The Explorer.

You know - Heaven. Dougiestyle.

I walked out feeling like I'd witnessed the birth of Something Special. The electronic whiz-kids of the '90s Crimson finally finding out how fun it is to act like the guys back in '73 and '74, when men were Brufords, and bass players were way the fuck too loud but sounded so goddamn cool you didn't mind one bit.

I was asked recently (by my insurance man, of all people) what would be my idea of the perfect band for me to be in. It's not an easy question, because what I REALLY want is a band that can and will do ANYTHING, at all, for no reason except that nobody ELSE will play Coltrane right after Hank Sr. tunes, after the 20-minute Pink Floyd medley that followed our tribute to Chinese polka, and by the way, next up is our xenochronic rendition of Varese's Deserts with In-A-Gadda-da-Vida and Like A Virgin.

I mean, come on, why the fuck NOT?

But if I had to do one thing and one thing only...my head would explode, but for the sake of argument...

I asked him if he'd ever heard of King Crimson. And suggested the '73-'74 band in particular.

It's not so much the exact sound they pulled off. It's just the over-arching idea of the thing. Melding tightly structred, super-intricate explorations into angular harmony and mutant rhythm with all-or-nothing fullbore improv, usually with a sense of evil lurking about, sometimes with some very weird (and out of tune) Mellotron, and always with mondo-fuzz guitar, crisp drumming, and a bass tone you could rebuild fourteen World Trade Centers on top of.

You see, '73-'74 King Crimson is kinda important to me. Once upon a time, one of the most important people in my life compared my bass playing to John Wetton's during that period, and while part of me utterly resists a compliment like that as absurdly over-kind, I know WHY he said that, because I've spent the better part of 20 years trying to BE something sorta like John Wetton (and Jack Bruce, and Les Claypool, and Paul McCartney if you filled him full of crank) in the very limited contexts I've found myself in, and nothing but NOTHING can take away the RAPTURE of finding some monster thick tone and waxing fuck-a-delic under a one-chord groove in a manner at least in the same galaxy as John Wetton in the 1973-1974 King Crimson, which might just be my entire goal in life - I wanna BE the bass guitar parts on Red. Kill my ass dead and reincarnate me as a 13/4 riff in Starless, and I WILL LOVE LIFE.

On that night in 1998, I felt that I was seeing something not exactly like that merry ol' band of yore, but something that at least had captured more than a little of that spirit, and at the very least had the same weird English guy on a stool doing the same kind of ridiculous and beautifully fucked things to his guitar.

When Crimson got back together a couple years later, it was supposed to have benefitted from the lessons of the ProjeKcts (there were three others, I've got recordings) and I was greatly looking forward to it. A new leap forward. This was the band after all that had recorded in The Court Of The Crimson King, Red, and Discipline, three radically different albums that had all pointed towards an exciting future that few other bands have still caught up on, all these years later.

Instead, they pooted forth some piece of dreck called The Construction Of Light, easily the most pointless and unlistenable SHITSTORM Fripp & The Boys had ever inflicted on the general public, with a complete disregard for the excitement and power I'd witnessed one night in Febuary 1998 in Nashville, badly produced with a rhythm section that really should know better than to be thar boring while Fripp recycles 30-year old riffs.

Actually, it's a bit better than that and doesn't bother me as much now as it did at the time, but I still regard it as Crimso's worst album, and my relationship with their output since then has suffered, even though the next album (The Power To Believe, just had it on tonight) is really not a bad thing at all.

I'll never forget that night. Maybe 40 feet from Fripp, watching him tear Hubble-photo-sized holes into the space-time continuum with a twisted glee, spending as much time shaking my head and laughing as anything else, walking out of The Cannery afterwards with my brain cells reorganized while Soundscapes fluttered over the PA and the house PA played...

"Won't you take me to
Funkytown?"

It had been playing when I walked in before the gig, and there it was again. Funkytown. Fucking FUNKYTOWN. Bookending ProjeKct Two. Never in my life will I ever be able to turn the station when I hear some shithead DJ put on Funkytown, because now that song has Special Meaning to me, and someday, someway, I will crank my Fender through a Big Muff and blast out some fuzzed-out Fripp-esque psychosis on top of MY version of Funkytown, (hopefully recast as some kind of metallic anal-fuckfest, with Wetton-sized bass, and guitar tones that would make Trent Reznor crawl into fetal position and beg for his Mommy) because goddammit, why the fuck NOT?

Robert Fripp, you are my hero. One of 'em, anyway. Shine on brightly, and may your lark's tongues always be soaked in aspic.

Love,
Dougie

1 Comments

I'm Swimming In Free Porn! Wheeee!!!

Also got a call from the drummer of the new band. We are officially a rhythm section - our singer just quit too. We're getting with the new guitarist (who he's finally heard and says he's excellent) and I'm leaning towards trying to do the vocals between the three of us. That might require some severe changes to the set list (I take it the guitarist can't do what our singer was doing, and I know me and the drummer can't handle all of that stuff) but I think we might just have a shot.

Of course, now we're realistically talking December before we're playing out. Fuck.

Started the new shit job today. Spent five hours putting together a really lousy excuse for a metal cabinet. It's an "outlet" store, and all the stuff is supposedly high-end (at least the fucking prices are) but most of what they have is SHIT that you can barely put together. Gonna be a fun, fun, fuckin' time.

OK, it's time to go jer...uh...surf for por...uh...spiritually enlightening websites.

Whee!
Dougie

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Queen Dogf**k Approximately

I woke up dreading work this morning. So I showed up and found out I was going to a new job - I start tomorrow. Similar hours, same shit pay. But I drove out there and it looks like it'll be a decent place to work for. One of those "outlet" malls, except this is all real high-end shit. Could be vaquely interesting. Or not.

So today I spend time looking for other work, because this shit pay ain't gonna help me none. Luckily, the band money and a surprise bit of extra assistance from my grandma are making life easier to tolerate right now. I even got to eat really well this weekend.

I had The Best Meal In The Fucking Universe last night. At least the most satisfying one I've had in months.

There's a chain in the midwest called The Claddagh Irish Pub. (Stone and I talked about the one in Newport, KY a while back. You sit outside and you're right next to the Ohio River and it fuckin' rocks.) Last night I was at the one in Mason. I've never thought of them as anything less than utterly excellent, but god DAMN they know how to cook some fuckin' mussels.

I had two pints of Guinness, a cup of clam chowder, and their "Steamed Black Mussels", a whole pound of the fuckers done up in a sauce made from Harp Lager with garlic and cream and onions and carrots and fuck knows what else, but it is GOD I tell you. As a beer, Harp is quite fine but hardly my favorite. But now I want to use it to cook EVERYTHING. Mussels, potatoes, roast puppy, spider monkeys, wicker furniture, Persian rugs, my own ass. Fuck it, I don't care. Holy CHRIST it was good.

The waiter got $5. Cool guy. Sorta looked like Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein, but what the fuck.

Still feeling kinda shitty, with this damn cold. But I'm getting by - I talked to a woman a little while ago who is experiencing her first cold in over 15 years. Some shit is in the air, I guess.

I have no speeches regarding the 5th anniversary of 9/11. You're gonna hear plenty of that everywhere else, and while I don't necessarily disagree with the basic idea, I find our American capacity towards over-indulgence on full display right now.

I'm getting a 4CD box set of Spike Jones from the library. Whee!

Tomorrow I'll finally be online at home again. Porn awaits. Yay!

Love,
Dougie

2 Comments

Born To Be Wild?

P, the new guitarist, got out of the hospital this morning and probably shouldn't have been STANDING, let alone playing guitar. She just had some kind of heart procedure. Still, I bet she could have taken three of us. She's a tough old lady.

She played OK, not great. But when she was on, it was very cool. We did Stormy Monday (never played by this band) and she sang it. That was fun. I live for that kind of jazz chord progression. I did my best Berry Oakley (the version on the Allman's Fillmore album destroys me) and it was a highlight.

Funnily enough, M was there too, supposedly just to observe. But we got him onstage for almost half the two hours. He played guitar on one song, and did a lot of backup vocals. I've had a cold since Wednesday and figured I couldn't sing, but I did fine the two times I bothered to. I'm glad he was there.

Of course, M being there meant that Layla was too. I somehow managed not to be too affected by that. It took some work to look away, though...

I got a nice almost-surprise. It occured to me a couple days ago that if the drummer for this gig was brought in by the keyboardist, it might have been one that I knew he'd played with before. I was right. I've known T since I was a kid - he's married to my aunt's sister. He's known around here as being a good drummer, but this was the first time I heard him. He was a BLAST to play off of. He managed to totally fuck up a couple things, but for the most part he was right on, rockin', very cool, often pretty inventive. He was playing some Latin shit in the middle of Brown Eyed Girl that made me totally change the way I approached the groove, and I've NEVER had that much fun playing that song. (Though I've always enjoyed it.)

Given some recent developments, it's very likely that he's going to be their new drummer in the near future.

Which kinda sucks for me. This was an exciting, edge-of-yer-pants gig, playing with people I've never played with before, and the results were mostly so damn good that I'm even more depressed about having to leave this band than I was before. The drive sucks cock (and I'm at my parents' now, so three hours on the road awaits me soon) but damn, I had fun today.

The drive soundtrack was Willie Dixon's I Am The Blues (mostly the stuff of his that rock bands covered later - Spoonful, I Can't Quit You Baby, etc) and a Keneally live tape from Cincinnati in 1998 (featuring the fabulous drum stylings of Horrifying Cock, and the deft bass-work of Explosive Unkindness, you've gotta hear this shit) that makes me all fuzzy and nostalgic for those three magical fall months I spent with my head as clear and uncluttered as it's ever been, brain chemicals flying about merrily, all because of some goofball with a green guitar. Damn, Mikey. I love ya.

I will have Internet at home again starting Tuesday. It's been three months. Yay!

Going back to hang out with Quakers tomorrow morning, then I'm renting a bike and hitting the Little Miami trail. Then off to Katie's new school's open house. She starts kindergarten Monday. Good lord, it's been five years? My little girl...

Love,
Dougie

0 Comments

Do A Little Dance, Make A Little Love, Get Down Tonight

Kill ugly radio,
Dougie

6 Comments

My God, It's Full Of Stars!

Spent three hours on the toilet. I'm trying to figure out what this might have to do with the chicken vegetable soup I made from scratch last night. With a lot of curry powder. All I know is I woke up with something akin to Elmer's Glue coming out my bunghole, and I thought I had bricks in my colon.

I didn't leave the house until 1PM. Called off work and went back to bed. I also hadn't slept worth a fuck all night.

I still feel kinda like warmed over dogfuck, but I'm functioning.

A very nice weekend. Spent Saturday alone, pretty much letting everything go. Quite relaxing. Sunday I went back to the Quaker church, which was interesting. I sat in on their business meeting (which they do instead of regular "discussion" on the first Sunday of the month) and while most of it was pretty dry, I enjoyed hearing the clerk (who "runs" the meeting", but every decision is made by group consensus, something they take seriously) reading letters from four students. They have a scholarship fund (education being something else they take seriously) and four college kids were writing asking for assistance, and letting them know what they were up to in school. It was rather inspiring to hear these kids talk about school, further cementing my own desire to go back.

One of them came in after her letter was read. She (and probably half the room, maybe 8 people) is a distant cousin. I've met a few of them now up there.

She talked about working with a disabled lady who has to use a similar system to what Stephen Hawking uses to communicate with people. She has a variety of problems that keeps her in a very restricted lifestyle, but she apparantly has a very sharp mind and wants to be a writer.

The silent service was broken only once, by a man I'd talked to beforehand who told me about leaving the Catholic church to become a Quaker. his own story of dissatisfaction with relgion leading him to this place was similar enough to mine that I hope to talk to him more. Very cool guy.

He stood to speak for a moment about a football player (I can't remember the name) that he'd seen a profile of on television. The guy was also a preacher, and became increasingly dissatisfied with organized religion. He compared him to George Fox, the founder of Quakerism. Interesting.

I read some of their current political literature, and was very impressed by the idealistic but realistic approach to peace and environmental concerns.

It's very strange that while part of me is doing it's damndest to get the last traces of my religious upbringing out of my head, I'm finding these people so enjoyable to be around. They are truly unlike any "Christian" group I've ever encountered. I made a crack to one of them that "my current prayer is 'Dear God, deliver me from Christianity', yet I somehow ended up here."

I'll be going back.

Damn, I'm almost out of time. I need a connection at home. I've got to tell a very cool Katie story from Monday.

Love,
Dougie

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A Little Something For The Hunter Thompson Fans

I'm wearin' my Gonzo shirt right now, in fact...

I just saw that the last book of Hunter's writing - The Mutineer - is now slated for a January 2007 release. Shit. It keeps getting pushed back. Supposedly it's something like 750 pages though, so I'm expecting the wait to be worth it.

You can also get the killer (and I mean KILLER, I've held one in my hands and had to refrain from holding something ELSE right there in the book store I was so excited) Tachen hardcover edition of The Curse Of Lono from Amazon for $36, which is a nice improvement on the $50 I saw it going for. But shit, it's worth $50. This is Hunter's book about being in Hawaii, with some glorious Steadman artwork. I read part of it from an old library copy last year, but I need to get this new version, becuase it's a real treat.

Also, I see that after he gets done filming the third Pirates movie, Johnny Depp will be ready to start filming The Rum Diary. This is based on a novel Hunter wrote in the early 1960s. I havne't read it, but I listened to an abridged audio version of it a couple years back and really enjoyed it. And hey, Benicio Del Toro and Nick Nolte are supposed to be in it too, so how can it possibly go wrong?

By the way, Depp's next project will be a version of Sweeney Todd directed by my favorite basket case, Tim Burton. Holy shit. The mind reels.

Love,
Dougie

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A Blowjob Behind The Tilt-A-Whirl

1.) The Bill Evans box set The Complete Village Vanguard Recordings, 1961 RULES THE FUCKING COSMOS. Very few things on this planet compare to the glorious sound of that trio. Scott LaFaro's bass playing makes my weenus into STEEL, I tell you.

2.) I'm nearly done with that book Misquoting Jesus. Which will make it the first book I've FINISHED in eons. As much as I like it, it's a tad annoying how often Ehrman repeats shit he just said, and I wish he'd go into more detail, though the details he does go into are often fascinating. A little tidbit for those into Christianity - the New Testament verse (the only one) that most explicitly sets out the dotrine of the Trinity? Added into it at a later date. And the part of Jesus' speech at the Last Supper that is the basis for communion? (You know, the bread and wine thing that Christians stole from pagans?) Also added in later. The amount of shit added in or changed to suit the theology of later scribes is pretty impressive.

That said, I want to clarify something since I like to write about this shit so much - I don't have anything against Christians per se. SOME of them, yes. The ASSHOLES among them, yes. Not Christians as a whole. Not even anything against Jesus. It's CHRISTIANITY that I have a deep loathing for. There's a difference between Christ (who was probably fun to hang out and drink Aquafina with), Christians (who I might not always agree with but who are usually nice enough people), and the bullshit religion known as Christianity (which pretty much sucks cock as far as I'm concerned.)

For a great way to appreciate the fun of taking apart stupid religions while respecting the basic humanity of people who happen to believe that shit, go watch the South Park episode "All About Mormons", from their 7th season. The last minute of that is a great twist, and something that I need to be reminded of sometimes myself. but the religion is still horseshit.

3.) I've got a crazed and probably unworkable idea in my head of a two-day jaunt in mid-October involving a Keneally show in St. Louis with a few stop for genealogy research in southern Illinois on the way there and back. It'll involve sleeping in my car and eating bolonga, but that hardly seems important.

4.) The guy who told me a year ago that utitlies in this town were markedly cheaper than anywhere else? Either he's a lying piece of shit or it's changed in the past year. My power bill today was a very annoying surprise. I'm figuring (based on it apparantly including more than one month since I moved here in the middle of a month) that it's 50% more here than what I was paying in Indy. Oh, and I now pay over FOUR TIMES as much just to have garbage taken out of here as I did in Indianapolis.

So, thank fuck I didn't stay in goddamn California, eh?

5.) Shit, I miss the desert...

6.) I cna't think of anything else. Have a nice weekend, fuckers.

Love,
Dougie

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