This Halloween post is a bittersweet one.
I had plans to experience a NYC Halloween with a few shows lined up at B.B Kings, The Cakeshop, and The Bellhouse – all of which are presumably still happening despite the fact NYC looks like they forgot to pay the electric bill this month. It’s a sorry mess in that city right now and I can only imagine I’d be going bat-shit crazy without power or cell-phone coverage, let alone not having the subway to easily get around on two bucks. Kudos to NYC’s perpetually never-ending resiliency and ability to “fuhgeddaboudit” like only you can. And how about Bloomberg’s sign-language lady?? Her faces are a thousand gold coins.
Anyhow, I just wanted to share these two shining examples of what Halloween means to me this year which is clever ways of combining America’s passion for ghosts and pumpkins…and PSY’s global smash hit “Gangnam Style.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a whole bunch of women’s butts to inexplicably yell at – ‘Tis the season!
BoltBus informed me moments ago that they’d rather not cart my ass to NYC on Tuesday because of Hurricane (Pecan) Sandy and I’m 100% okay with that call – I hate driving in the rain too.
Safety on the road aside, what I don’t understand when serious inclement weather is in our midst that most folks tend to religiously take the weatherman’s prophecies as cold hard fact. I recall countless occasions in my formative years getting my hopes up of school cancellations when the weatherman spoke of significant accumulation only to be dismayed early the next morning with a dusting of snow. I would get all hot & bothered by the promise of 6 to 8 inches one day, and severely disappointed by the actuality of a mere few flakes. Why don’t I have my homework ready? Blame the harlot on TV who teased me sweetly with snowfall throughout, and ditched me with blue-balls when the school cancellations aired on the local news.
Perhaps I’m not fully-grasping the severity of Hurricane (Pecan) Sandy and should heed all warnings and necessary precautions, but usually when something is over-hyped, I’m the last person to accept it’s actual awesomeness until it has come and gone. Like – Why didn’t anyone beat me over the head with The National’s Boxer or Tame Impala’s Innerspeaker? Where have all my tastemaker-friends gone?
That’s why we need more people like Accuweather meteorologist, Jim Kosek, delivering the weather like he hates delivering the weather. The difference is even when Jim gets the high’s and low’s wrong, he’s still entertaining as f**k. Jim makes it all peanut butter & jelly-time, all the time.
Unfortunately and ironically, Accuweather lost Jim to a television station in Salt Lake City and you know those mormons are known for their sense of humor.
Here’s one more fine display of Jim Kosek’s unique take on the weather:
Now, should fresh hell occur during Hurricane (Pecan) Sandy and the power goes out with no available WiFi – I will curl into the fetus position in the corner of my home and will worship in fear all weathermen & weather-ladies as bonafide Nostradami. For now, I’m not scared of a little rain.
I’m now regretting I didn’t stock up on these.
Thanks Jim Kosek!
& Thanks, Internet!
Darr Ke Aage Jeet Hai, indeed!
After hearing urban myths that Mountain Dew may significantly lower the male sperm count, I stopped reaching for Mountain Dew in the convenience store coolers. Actually, that’s a lie – I kept drinking it, but this was in my twenties and I was still invincible and didn’t give two damns about ingesting mass quantities of Yellow Dye No. 5. Now, I stay away from caffeinated high-fructose anything as much as possible only for the fact I’m sort of watching calories and afraid of having a heart attack at 34. In any case, I’m glad the legend of Sperm-Killer Dew is erroneously false – I’ve got women to knock up.
Okay, I have one woman to knock up. Sorry, other women who might be reading this blog – My muscle-milk is for another.
Muscle-Milk: Truly Protein Enhanced
Barring any unforeseen complications, come next May I will be a father for the first time. World’s Greatest Dad. A person with legal obligations to make sure a significantly younger person that I helped make does not die on my watch. It’s heavy shit, man.
For all intents and purposes I’m not going to turn this blog into my version of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” I won’t do that simply because I don’t want to berate you with any or all of the under-lying emotions and thought-processes which occur when it’s widely apparent that I got swimmers and my wife’s not afraid to use them! I’m excited, I’m thrilled, I’m overjoyed at what I’ve helped create.
An eerie glimpse of what the future holds. That kid is 110% adorbs!
Okay, so maybe there will be a smattering of future baby-related posts to come. I promise not to link you to my wife’s many baby-related boards on Pinterest, but I’ll certainly include you in our registry at Target and our Amazon Wish List when the due-date approacheth!
Thanks wife for willfully taking on the gestation process as only I can’t
& Thanks, Internet!
Today, an offering from something right out of the history books – The Cat Organ.
Katzenklavier in full effect, y’all!
You might think this to be a joke – but the idea for this musical instrument existed long ago with the premise to amuse and delight audiences who have grown tired of just hearing melody through brass, string, or other popular instruments. In fact the Cat Organ premise rings all the way back to the 17th century. Even then people were getting bored of the baroque and looking for the next big thing; How far can you really go with functional tonality, am I right? After all, the word ‘dull’ can be found in dulcimer.
So for a long time, the Cat Organ was simply an imaginative creation that existed just on paper. I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought just leaving it with paper & ink was complete bullshit.
As far as we know, there has been only one man brave enough to champion the future of sound – his name is Henry “Cat-atonic” Dagg. I added the nickname part mostly because I think this guy needs something a little flashier. The other one I came up with was Snoop Dagg.
May the sounds of the Cat Organ (provided by The H-Dagg) haunt your dreams.
And for contrast, the Mouse Organ.
Just a few shining examples that sometimes to make a name for yourself in this world, you just have to be out of your fucking mind on drugs to achieve greatness.
Learn from the greats…
Thanks, Cocaine & Pro-Wrestling
It’s been almost 7 months since I’ve thanked the internet for anything. Whuck, right? (That’s portamanteau action in your respective faces for “What the fuck.”)
What was so damn important that I couldn’t bother to open up another tab and paste some interesting meme that struck a fancy, or perhaps offered my thoughts on the triumphantly accurate bio-pic – Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter?
Nothing. No good reason. No excuses. For 7 months I selfishly took the internet for everything it had like some magic cow with infinite capabilities to give me all the sweet white nectar it can only provide. Now, quickly forget what I just said because that was a poorly phrased analogy and I’m not even a big fan of milk.
What I’m trying to say is the last 7 months can and shall be recalled in vivid detail with full color photos where applicable. Full color photos like this one:
Politics have no place in my blog, but this clever collage definitely does.
Ain’t that Amurrrca!