The Promise Of Excellent Boobage Has Brought Down Many A Man Better Than I

The Promise Of Excellent Boobage Has Brought Down Many A Man Better Than I

08.16.05 (5:28 pm)   [edit]
So, about those tits I saw at the gig the other night...

No, you have to wait. I'm going to drool some more over my new Special Happy Ain't-I-Gettin'-Nauseatin g-With-This-Love-Shit Love first.

Came home and thought about her. Made dinner and thought about her. Went to the library and posted my last entry about her. I HAD to. It was about to explode out of me if I didn't write it down.

Went to the store. Damn near tripped over six cases of motor oil when I saw an incredible babe waiting in line. She looked to be about 20. But the girl with her looked like she was in high school, and I'm terrible at guessing women's ages. No, don't want to go to jail, not tonight, Beautiful blonde, though. And...oh yeah, Jenny.

See? I'm still a hormone-fuelled asshole after all. Ain't it special???

Went to pay my phone bill. The girl who signed me up was there. Very Buffy-esque vibe from her. Even talks like Buffy. Was wearing glasses, first time I'd seen them. Cute.

But after FIFTEEN MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMN COCKSUCKING MINUTES, I was ready to throw Buffy headfirst into a meat grinder and piss on her bloody remains, because she was PISSING ME THE FUCK OFF.

Ahhh, that's more like a Dougie post. I'm baaaaaack!


I don't know if you know tis, but Sprint has a policy for incoming employees.

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Copied from the Really For True Honest To Gawd Sprint Employee Handbook:

Page 7, line 6:

All new employees should be WORTHLESS COCKSMOKING SWINE with the customer service abilities of brain-dead salmon with their gills stuffed with the shit of a million inbred plankton.
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True story!

Buffy and another guy were working the desk. They each had one customer. ONE. I was the only other person there. They were taking their sweet fucking time. Buffy even took a call from her boyfriend WHILE HER CUSTOMER WAS RIGHT THERE. They made no effort to ackowledge my EXISTENCE after FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES of barely even helping the people right in FRONT of their fucking faces. I hate to say it, but I've never wanted to punch an attractive young girl in the face as badly as I did there. I left. Fuck them. I'll try again tomorrow. I better. It's fucking DUE tomorrow. You'd think I'd MAIL it in, but nooooooo, I don't DO things that obvious.

I went to the SuperTarget. I loathe and despise Wal-Mart, and Target is genereally better suited to my needs anyway. Surely this will be a better experience than at the Sprint store.

It was. The place was CRAWLING with hot women.

I think my what-passes-for-focus in recent days has moved onto new things. You think?

OK, excuse me. I'm going to go play air drums to Todd's Bang The Drum All Day.

Shit, I'm tired now.

The Ever Popular Tortured Artist Effect. Great album by Todd Rundgren that YOUR LIFE IS USELESS WITHOUT. Buy one now.

So, where was I? Oh yes, washing powder.

There was an incredible blonde when I walked in the door. Another one 40 feet later in front of the cheese. Another by the onions. Another one in the juice aisle. I kept waiting for a brunette. A redhead. A one-eyed goblin with a limp and a cart full of live lobsters juggling cans of tuna fish. There's nothing but blondes here! Nothing but hot 20-something blondes! It's...it's...uh...blondes...20-something...uh...it's................

I need to get laid. NOW.

I had to walk to the exact opposite corner of the store for something. Then down one end, past the books and CDs. Shit. Don't. Don't even look. Oh, fuck it. Go ahead and look.

So I looked. At the pretty blonde with the tight pink top and open red shirt over it. With the nice ass. Lovely face. All alone. looking at DVDs at 9PM all by herself? What a shame. She needs a man in her life. A man with grapefruit juice, swiss cheese, two ice packs, an onion, and an avacado in one hand and his sausage in the other.

I realized that I had stood in front of the rack of DVDs staring at this girl long enough to have crossed the line from Guy Checking Out The Cute Blonde territory into Lunatic Stalker territory.

Think quick. She's by herself. Fuck it. Take a chance, asshole. You've got nothing to lose. She might be a nymphomaniac Emerson, Lake & Palmer fan who owns most the stock in the Sierra Nevada beer company and whose body has been simply aching for a fat hairy guy to play Hide The Incredibly Small Object in it.

Usually I have to be drunk to write this good. I'm completely sober tonight. Shit! This is cool!

I nearly had myself talked into approaching this girl I've never seen in my life whe something really bad happened.

I thought about Jenny.

Well, that's good, but...oh fuck...not THIS feeling...

Guilt. Pure, unadulterated, unneccesary, unEVERYTHING guilt. Why? WHY??? What possible reason is there for this? God DAMN it!

I pulled my head away from it. Like you pull two dogs fucking apart. In other words, it was damn near impossible. I was feeling guilty about looking at a woman because...because...of another woman who I owe NOTHING to.

I really hate this shit.

I fought with it long enough to get into Really Creepy Stalker But She Hasn't Noticed Yet Because She's Still Reading The DVD Case territory. I walked to the other side of the rack. No, not HER rack, the DVDs.

She still didn't seem to notice I was there. Totally engrossed in the thrid season of Seinfeld or whatever the fuck she was looking at.

Think of something! Fast, asshole! You want a woman, not a restraining order, you idiot!

I couldn't think of a goddamn thing. Except...you guessed it...Jenny.

I left. I looked back right before walking around the corner. She still was reading the DVD case. Shit, that must be some really small print. Or she's illiterate. Or she's waiting for the asshole with the grapefruit juice to get the fuck away from her. No, she didn't notice me. Of course she didn't. They never DO notice. Just like the bitch at the Sprint store. I'm not even there. Non-entity, baby.

Another hot blonde. Two of them. In line behind me. I barely looked this time. For once.

Got to the car. Put on some Steely Dan. Pulled out and stopped for pedestrians coming out of the store.

There was the blonde from the DVD section. Not alone. Tall skinny guy with a very short haircut with her. Well, I guess that worked out for the best...

I cranked up Deacon Blues and drove off. I was happy again. Thinking about Jenny. Sweet Jenny. Ahhh...I want to devour you, my little vixen. Here, let me help you get out of that shirt and...

BARK!

I literally BARKED at the stupid motherfucking goddamn PIG-FUCKER who wasn't letting me get around him to get into the lane I could make my right turn in. Within a tenth of a second, I went from thinking about sweet love to absolute psychotic rage, making a noise that sounded like a crack-fed pit bull getting his nuts bitten off by another pit bull on crack.

And within 3 seconds, back to Jenny.

Oh yes, I'm still VERY bipolar. I felt it all hard. Felt the love deep in my chest. Felt the hate with every ATOM in me. Then I felt the love again, practically buzzing inside me. Like turning off all the lights in a giant warehouse (or even the one I work in) and right back on again. Lithium is good, but it doesn't stop everything. And you know what? Sometimes I don't mind.

Right as I turned onto the road my apartment is off of (passing the VP with the most expensive gas prices I've ever seen in the Midwest) my phone rang.

It's Jenny! It's Jenny! She's calling me! At 9:15 PM! She wants me! She needs me! She wants to meet me in the park, where she'll take my hand and lead me to a private meadow full of birds and squirrels and chocolate and rare soundboard recordings of Hendrix and she'll lay me down in the grass and make beautiful sweet passionate love to me and call my name as she has the most intense orgasm of her life and declares her undying love for me!

It was a guy baked out of his skull trying to order a pizza. Wrong number, buddy.

That's it. I'm out of my fucking mind.
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OK, enough of that. Let's talk about thsi past weekend.

Sheryl called me ten minutes before I was ready to leave to go visit Katie. Katie's sick. Fever. She had one earlier in the week and it had gone, but it was back. Damn. My little girl is feeling bad. All the energy that had gone towards a totally different world from the one she's in went right back into I've Got To See My Daughter. Make her feel better. Show her that her Daddy is still there for her. It breaks my heart to be away from her at times like this.

Two hours later, I was there. When I crossed the line into Ohio, I felt the split again. The split between the two worlds I live in. It sounds pretentious as all fuck, but it's there. The world I live in, and the world I left behind but get to visit once a week. The world of the flat boring cornfields, barely being able to pay bills, and falling in love with a woman I may never even get to touch...and the world with the hills and green of the Ohio Valley, the woman I still love but who I utterly failed, and my incredible daughter.

I thought I lived in two worlds inside my head while I was married. Now I do it for real. I suppose ti's better. But it takes some convincing to get me there. .
Katie, the little lunatic, was naked when I got there. My kid is a wacko. She was feeling better, but still didn't have much energy, and it hadn't been long since the fever had dropped after taking her medicine. I didn't think ti was a good idea to go out. We mostly sat and watched TV. She sat in my lap for a long time, in the recliner where we sat back when I brought her home from school. We'd come in and watch a little TV together, and she'd sit in my lap, and it would be among the best times we had. Holding my wonderful daughter.

I thought a quick trip out to the library would be OK once mid-afternoon hit. She fell asleep in the car five minutes after we left. I dropped books in the slot and sat in the parking lot with her. Half an hour later, she woke up covered in sweat. Miserable. "I want to go home. I don't want to have an adventure today. Can we go to Bill's next time?" We had talked about seeing our friend Bill, who we've stood up twice in two weeks now.

We went back and Mommy put in Monsters Inc for her. What a fun movie.

But I didn't get to see it all because I had a gig. Dammit. I didn't even know until 11 that morning when or where it WAS because I'd been playing phone tag with the guitar player all week. It was at a private party in a guy's back yard near Monroe. And he wanted me there two hours earlier than I normally drop Katie off. Dammit. Not only was she sick, now I had to leave her early. I tried to tell her that Daddy loves her and we'd spend next weekend together, just the two of us, for two full days back here in Indy. It felt kinda hollow. I felt like I was abandoning her. I know I shouldn't feel that way, but I did.

So I got there and there weren't many people there yet, but the guy whose birthday party we were playing for (a friend of their old bass player, which felt odd, but he was a very cool guy) was cooking on the grill and the guitarist already had the PA set up. People in the pool right in front of the deck where we were set up.

I got my amp going and into the PA. I'd boiled my strings (haven't changed them in nearly two years) and sonofabitch if I didn't have a really damn good tone. I love my new SWR. Sounds great, and has sounded better with each gig. I can't wait to have new strings and really tweak this bastard into serious tonal madness.

The drummer showed up half an hour later. Already I was a bit irritated at having to show up so early. We weren't going to play for another hour and a half, and I knew damn good and well that just because we were getting done much earlier than the bar gigs, we'd still be there all night breaking down, because we ALWAYS take five times as long to break down as we should. For no reason I've ever been able to figure.

The singer wasn't there yet. He's the drummer's dad. And he's got a serious cocaine problem. His son only talks to him beause nobody else in the family will. He's always showing up for gigs at the last minute. Two weeks ago he was on time, but had a different guitar and amp. His old ones were "stolen." But hey, it has a happy ending because this time he told us he found them - they were "in the woods" near his house.

I don't think his constant sniffling had anything to do with allergies...

We got to hear about the found gear after waiting FOREVER for him to show up. He could have been dead in a ditch for all we knew, and nobody would have been surprised. He showed up five minutes before the gig started (half an hour after I thought it was supposed to) and we actually went on twenty minutes late. He looked like seventeen layers of dogfuck. His voice was just on the edge of acceptable, his guitar was constantly out of tune, and his amp was pointed DIRECTLY INTO MY GODDAMN EAR. Somehow, I wasn't nearly as bothered by this as I could have been.

Well, you don't tend to care about ltitle things like tinnitus and walking death ten feet away when there are WOMEN IN BIKINIS RIGHT THE FUCK IN FRONT OF YOU.

People kept showing up. Probably close to 100 by the end of the night. Lots and lots and lots of women, most of them fabulous. Almost nobody under age 30, though a few of the girls seemed to be early 20s. Judging by the cars and the conversation, 90% of the audience were yuppies.Well-off white folk who are NUTS when they get drunk. I had expected some kind of degenerate biker party, since that's where this band usually ends up. But the biker crowds are always sedate compared to this crowd. Well, the WOMEN in this crowd. The guys mostly hung out and watched the women.

Drunk ladies in swimwear yelling requests. Beer and barbecue everywhere. I love rock and roll.

The band up north are like brothers to me. I love the guys, and I enjoy most of the music. It's more of a real "oldies" feel, but we crank it up sometimes. 50s/60s with some 70s and a bit of 80s. Great guys. Clean guys. Normal small-town guys. SANE guys. I love them.

But the band in Cincy has more edge. In Marion, I'm a twisted freak. In Cincy, I'm the naive Christian boy who took a while to figure out that there was cocaine in the air. Gee, the singer sure does seem active tonight...ohhhhh, THAT'S why!

60s and lots of 70s. Some newer stuff. Heavier. The drummer is a 28-year old metal freak. He's going to see Megadeth soon, but he also likes Van Morrison. Everybody in the band but me has been to jail, the drugs are damn near on public display, the attittudes are harsher, and the music has far more potential to really rip the fuck out of the sky. Given the choice between the two, I'd take the guys back in Indiana because I feel a stronger responsibility to them and I don't have to worry about if I'm going to have to go pull one of them from his car when he wraps it around a HOUSE because the Columbian Dancing Dust impaired his ability to function like a mammal.

But I'd really miss these guys.

I get along with them all. They seem to hate each other, but they have a bond. The guitarist and singer have known each other forever (both are old enough to have learned these songs when they came out - you know, when I was in diapers) and the drummer is the singer's son and has known the guitarist since HE was in diapers. I'm just the bass player. And I do like them, even though a couple of them irritate me sometimes. I like the drummer the best, and he works with even more hot women than were at the party Saturday night. (Another story, I don't think I've told it yet.)

We started with Sunshine Of Your Love, which we've never played together before. It ROCKED. I was instantly full-on into tribute mode to my favorite bass player on the planet. Jack Bruce, baby. King of the aggressive ugly bassists. I toyed with the riff, I threw fast pentatonic fills into the chorus, I punched the rhythm with different accents. I played my ass off. And I stole every goddamn note of it from Jack Bruce, even though he never played it exactly like that. He plays NOTHING exactly the same every time. Which is why he's my hero. I love you, Jack.

That was actually the best thing I played all night. It was a good gig and I played well, but it wasn't exceptional except for a few other times. A pretty damn fine Closer To Home (me doing Mel Schacher doing Jack Bruce) and a version of Oh Pretty Woman that sounded damn near like it was Corrosion Of Conformity rather than Roy Orbison. Too Rolling Stoned done up faster than Trower, but not really better. Still good.

Two weeks ago we played the best gig I ever played with them. We DESTROYED a bar in Blanchester (read: fucking NOWHERE) Ohio. We played harder and heavier and tighter and groovier and more metallic than I've ever played with anyone. Before the fourth set, I went outside with the guitarist for some "fresh air." Did you know you can get high from being within FOUR FEET of some people? Our fourth set was incredible. I know this even though I've never in my life been that separated from any usual concept of time. I don't consume herbal entertainment objects often. in fact, this was the 6th time I ever have, I was FUCKED UP. I wondered where the fuck I was at at the same time I was RIGHT THERE. I played the whole set as minimalist as possible, mostly because I was TERRIFIED of playing any more notes. I was convinced I'd fuck up, even though I never once did, and was more locked in with the drummer than I've ever been with any drummer. I was a groove-monster. I've never played so few notes in a whole set. Very different from my normal Jack Bruce-worshipping self. And very, very cool.

I had one fuck of a headache on the drive back, though.

But that was two weeks ago. Back to this weekend. Remember, there's tits involved.

A very athletic blonde with the tightest-looking ass I've ever seen spent lots of time in the pool. A woman with glasses and the firmest, roundest, big fuckin' tits EVER talked to me for ten minutes about how cool the band was. I think she was wearing glasses, andyway. I can't really tell you a thing about her. Except that I want to wear those tits on my head like Carrie Fisher wears those earphones on her head as Princess Leia.

My favorites were Kiera and Amanda. Amanda was a tall big-boned blonde who acted like she owned the place. Kiera was a brunette who had a LOT of alcohol and kept walking around singing Carry On Wayward Son on our breaks, She had a really nice voice. Then she sat in on drums on a weird version of Suspicious Minds. It atarted off just as the singer and guitarist acoustically. Then Kiera came in on drums, Amanda sang harmony, and Dave (the guy who DID own the place, it was his birthday) sang a LOOOOOOOOW harmony. He sounded like the guy with the bass voice in the Statler Brothers if you dropped his balls another four feet. Then he sang American Pie. It was BIZARRE. Same guy came up with his trombone when we did a ten minute funk jam in E.(One of the gutiarist's ideas.) Not a bad player. Not a great one, but not bad. It was stilted and too long, but it was kinda fun.

On one break, I was in getting a burger. (The 40 pounds of ribs Dave grilled were GONE within an hour and I never even saw them.) Kiera was talking loud about something. Amanda was telling our drummer than we should do the Boston song that shared her name.The drummer left right before the best part of the night.

Kiera looks at Amanda. "Do you think tan lines are sexy?" Amanda says "Yes!" Kiera asks me. "Oh yeah." Kiera is really drunk. She's looking at me like she wants to fuck my brains out. It occurs to me that she's probably looking at every guy within 20 miles the same way.

Then Amanda says to me, "Do you think I should bite her tan lines?"

"Only if I get to watch."

She did.

Kiera pulled down one side of her bikini bottom for Amanda. THEN she said, "Here, bite THIS!" and pulled down the FRONT of them. I caught a quick flash of bush before Amanda STUFFED HER FACE IN.

I looked at the two black guys taking a break from putting relish and onion on their weenies (seriously) to get a better view of the action, and I said "You know, it's times like this that I have to just say 'Thank you Jesus' that I took up the bass."

Amanda was laughing as she removed her entire skull from Kiera's snatch. OK, not really. It actually all happened so fast that I saw very little. So what? It ranks up there with the finest moments in my musical career.

Amanda (who at this point had me "standing at attention" for the rest of the night) had an announcement for the band: "If you guys play some Journey, I'll show you my tits."

I immediately turned to my comrades in arms. "Gentlemen, I'm going to Best Buy and spending my share of tonight's pay on the entire Journey catalog. Do an acoustic set without me, and when I get back we can spend the next break STUDYING THE ALBUMS. This young lady has made her request and offered the reward for our compliance, and I believe it is incumbent upon us to deliver her wish unto her. I'll be back in half an hour. Jimmy, think Steve Perry. You are Steve Perry. You ARE Steve Perry. Now concentrate, goddammit! I shall return ASAP with the necessary learning material."

By the way, I fucking HATE Journey. I'm such a whore. But let's face it: the promise of excellent boobage has brought down many a man better than I.

Nobody knew any Journey. We never saw Amanda's tits. But I knew I could count on Keira. After all, Keira had drank more by 8:15 than everyone else in the back yard had all night. Somewhere towards the end of the night (the details are fuzzy, and I really don't care anyway) Keira jumped up out of the pool onto some bald guy's head and looked right at us. Then she threw her top off, threw her arms out, hung on to that pose for about 15 seconds, then jumped back into the pool.

I immediately started reharmonizing the bass line. With minor seconds. OK, I was a fret off. TITS!!!!

I heard the drummer yell "Holy shit! Did you see that???" and drop three sticks. Which is impossible, since he only uses two at a time. The singer was smiling and forgetting the lyrics. The guitarist was so busy playing some shit that didn't really belong with the song in the first place that he didn't get to see them. They were NICE. Average size, but very, very nice. After I finally remembered what key I was supposed to be in, I heard Zappa in my head."Here's your fifty bucks, Mary."

And that's the story of the tits. And yes, I've already spanked it to Keira. I know the drummer has. He thought he was actually going to have a chance to nail her at one point, but she disappeared. He looked CLINICALLY DEPRESSED when it was time to leave, and if he didn't end up beating the bishop that night into a used towel, I'll eat...uh...Kiera's tan lines.

We got to see tits two weeks ago too, but she was probably 55 and drunk in a far less entertaining way than Keira. Actually she looked good for her age, but there just wasn't much appeal to it. Kinda like "OK, guess I should take my tits out now. Here. Yeah, they're here. OK, you done looking yet?"

Kiera, on the other hand, was ENTHUSIASTIC about sharing the fruit of her top with us. Makes all the different in the world.

And when I think about enthusiastic women happily attacking her work, I think about...Jenny.

I kept hoping for a woman who'd sorta look like her. I finally saw one. Well, sorta. Kinda like Jenny. If Jenny ate a lot more cornbread.

(Now, I like cornbread myself, but a few weeks ago, when I was homicidal over the temp agency fucking with me, I heard myself refer to these rat bastards as "a bunch of cornbread-eating motherfuckers", which I still think is a pretty fuckin' funny phrase.)

As expected, it took a stupid amount of time to load gear up, even with five extra guys helping. I can't figure out how this happens, but I take it as the price for making $20 a gig more than I did with them four years ago.I was irritated. I want my money, I want to leave, I want to find some Kleenex and whatever issue of Hustler's Beaver Hunt that Kiera undoubtedly was in.

I thought about Ohio as I drove out of it again. I thought about the band and ther crazy shit from the night. I thought about my ancestors settling this part of the world 200 years ago, drifting up the Little Miami River. I thought about my family. An ex-wife I made promises to that I was incapable of keeping. A little girl who I love more than anything, and though I spend much of my time questioing why I moved so far from her, I know that even the time we do have together is essential for her growth. For mine even. And given the tone of the gig, I thought about Chris Rock's routine on being a father. "My relationship with my daughter now will affect her relationships with men for the rest of her life. The rest of her life. And I realize when I look down at my little girl, that my ONLY job as a father is to keep her off the pole. Keep my baby off the pole! If you're a father and your daughter is a stripper, you fucked up!"

"Katie, this is a video from Daddy's band recently. Yeah, they had a swimming pool. Now, I want to show you something. see those two girls? See the one with the dark hair and...yep, see what she did there? Honey, if you ever do that, you'll never get to be the Senator from New York. And that's important, you know."

I hit Indiana around 2:30.Goodbye Ohio. I will missyou, but at least i've got Jenny to keep me moving through the week.

Sunday morning I barely slept. I did a practice wtih the band up north. This was after my post talking about how well I sang in the car. At the practice (the singer is on vacation) I sang Get Back. I sucked. Oh well...

I came home and took a sleeping pill and was out for nearly ten hours. What a fucking weekend. When I woke up Monday morning, I re-read my card for Jenny about 47 times. You know what happened next. It's Tuesday morning as I write this, and I'm PRAYING TO GODS I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN that some little thing, some cute turn of phrase from me when I see her today, ANYTHING will melt her heart and make her love me. I want this move to indiana to be worth it. I still don't know if I'm going to get a guitar teaching gig, and I know I can't keep up this psychotic weekend schedule of driving all over the goddamn place for another year if I'm still just a shmuck in a warehouse. Gawd, I hope I don't fuck this up.

Gotta go to work. Jenny's there.

Love,
Dougie