Sunday, February 28, 2010

You Shall Not Pass

I don't go out to see shows very often anymore. Back in the day (oh man, did I just write that? I did. And I did it completely sans irony too) it was a given that from about Thursday on through the weekend I'd be out at the local rock clubs watching bands. I'd sit in the back of the store where I worked and scour the local papers (usually The Phoenix) looking for shows to go to. I knew a bunch of people in bands so I'd see if they were playing or if there was a band I wanted to check out. One difficulty was the fact that I didn't drive and my apartment was in Jamaica Plain. This meant that I'd have to gauge how my evening was going and whether or not I had to hustle to make the last train home or not. Taking a cab somewhere was a luxury back then and reserved for...uh, special occasions. Let's just say I took the train a lot :-( .

The mere fact that I worked in a copy shop gave me an insight into who'd be playing on the weekend. Guys would come in (it was always guys coming in too...never the hot female bass player/keyboardist) to get copies made of the flyer for whatever band they were in. These guys had slaved over this frickin' flyer and were usually the most anal of all copy customers. "Dude, how come the motorcycle that I cut out of a magazine and then pasted on this drawing of me with my Telecaster looks all faded out?" It looks that way because ... well because this is just a fucking copy machine and not a giant 4-color printing press. Besides, no one is going to give a shit about the slightly faded chopper or the fact that your drummer's name is misspelled as they throw your flyer out or staple their own flyer on top of yours on the telephone pole. And no, I don't think that using goldenrod paper will get you signed.

Going to see shows back then meant going to a smokey bar crammed with people and the risk that your shoes were probably going to end up with beer on them (or something far worse depending on the scenario). There's an art and an etiquette to maneuvering through a crowd at a club without pissing off a lot of people and/or getting too annoyed yourself. The main thing to employ is politeness. The fact that you're shuffling sideways probably dipping your shoulder slightly and saying "excuse me" and "sorry" every two seconds lets those whom you are shoving out of your way know that you're not an asshole, you just want to get by. Even if the person you're trying to move past is totally blocking and being a douche, the onus is on you as the person who needs to pass through to be polite. Most people understand this process and will accommodate your passage. There are the occasional assholes who get all riled up but they tend to be rare. I have to admit I've used the ol' "rigid elbow" move on a few jackasses in my day. Basically that means as the person who is annoying you tries to squeeze by for the 50th time, you lock your elbow and prop it so that as they pass, they get a nice taste of the bony end of it. It's stupid really but it used to make me feel better back in 1991.

I do still go out on occasion and on Friday the 19th I went out with the Wiff, Sistah Souljah and Dee to see Ad Frank and The Fast Easy Women play upstairs at The Middle East. The show was great and I love seeing them play but now that I'm an old person I have some, let's call them reservations about going to see a band play. I used to go right up front at shows so that I could really get a good view and also to maximize the amount of damage done to my hearing (earplugs? we don't need no stinking earplugs! That was my mentality back then. Actually, it wasn't even that I thought that earplugs were "uncool" or whatever, it was more that I never even considered using them. I now have a lovely high-pitched sound permanently reminding me of how dumb I am). Now that I'm far more fragile and cranky I tend to go to the back of the club and find a place to stand where my back is up against a wall or pole or something so that when I get tired I can lean against it. But here's the kicker. It now seems that no matter where I stand in a club it is a traffic area.

The Middle East Upstairs is one of the few clubs that I used to go to that is still standing (R.I.P. Bunratty's, The Rat, The Channel, The Abbey, et al.) and I hope it doesn't go away (ok, TT's is pretty much the same too). The entrance is all the way in the back of this long skinny bar and once you go through the door, it's like your standing on a Green Line trolley on the T. Everyone gets jammed up in the doorway waiting to get to the bar and the little wall that separates this area from where the bands play doesn't help the situation at all. After standing in this area for a bit I made my way to the back of the room (by the soundboard) to check out the bands. Almost instantly it became apparent that this is going to be a major thoroughfare of peeps going from the bar back over to the far side of the club where the toilets are and back again. After the 100th time someone bumped into me I moved over between a couple of trash barrels and pushed them ever so slightly forward so that I had a buffer zone.

I thought that politeness has taken a backseat somewhat at shows but that's not really true. I think what's happened is that since I don't go out as much as I used to, I'm more sensitive to the near constant bumping and people standing too close. I'm old and far more cranky than I used to be so I notice that stuff more. I just have to remember that and get over myself. Ultimately I had a good time at the show and I was glad that I had gotten my sorry ass out of the house even if I did end up with beer stained shoes and gum on the back of my shirt (seriously...there must have been a wad of gum on the back wall and I leaned up against it for 3 hours...awesome).

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Get Offa My Foot, You Little Freak

Well, it looks like what I had planned to post will be delayed a couple days. No worries. I hope to have it up by Monday (or maybe Tuesday).

In the meantime I want to address a pretty serious topic. Sexual harassment. Over the years there have been a number of famous cases of sexual harassment in the media from Clarence Thomas to Bill Clinton and the workplace environment has been drastically changed by the introduction of sexual harassment policies and laws. The public's awareness of this issue has also changed the way that victims are treated making it easier for those hurt by these acts to seek justice and support. However, what if you're being sexually harassed and/or battered by your own cat? This is my difficult story.

Our cat Mugsy died last year. During his life he did his best to be the tiniest diplomat in the world by working tirelessly to unite our feline-dominated household. His work in struggling to break down the long-standing sectarian turf battle between Molly, who's territory is the Second Floor (with her headquarters located in our bedroom), and Morticia who runs the First Floor from her vantage point of whatever chair she decides is most advantageous at the moment (usually this depends on which seat has been recently vacated by a human's bum and is now quite warm and toasty). This conflict has been raging for years now and although he never quite got them to sit down and hash out a cease-fire (or a cease-hissing/spitting at each other), his very presence bestowed a certain level of calm and dare I say civility amongst the rest of the furry little assholes. When Oliver was introduced to the household 5 years ago, it was Mugsy who tried to help him ease into what can be a potentially highly volatile dynamic.

As Mugsy's health declined and he became less active in the day-to-day political negotiations, the tension between the First Floor and the Second Floor factions escalated. After all, the food and water as well as the access to the basement (where we keep the piddle-palaces) are all located in what clearly is Morticia's territory. This area had long since been designated as a DMZ but it was a very fleeting and tense peace. Since his death, clashes in this region have intensified including minor terrorist attacks being observed in the form of unprovoked tail swatting and barfing directly into the water dish. Sources close to the Morticia camp indicate that Oliver may be a not-so-secret sympathizer with the Second Floor tribe. Mugsy would never have stood for such derision. In his mind, Oliver was the clear choice for successor to his legacy of peace-keeping. But this, sadly, does not seem to be what Oliver wants. The number of perceived infractions from Molly on Morticia's turf have gone up significantly since Mugsy's passing.

My praise of Mugsy and his own death have made the decision to share with all of you the dark side of his personality all the more difficult. I can no longer overlook his flaws. I don't know how to sugarcoat this so I'm just going to come out and say it: Mugsy was a catnip spray addict and serial foot rapist. There, now the truth can be told. I loved Mugsy and maybe that's why I never confronted him and told him how his actions made me feel. It made me feel dirty and it kinda tickled. This is how these "espisodes" went down. When I went to bed, Mugsy was usually curled into a little ball near the footboard. I would slip under the covers which would disturb his slumber and he'd walk around the bed for a couple of minutes before settling back down near my feet (usually using them as a pillow). And then, not every night but often enough, he'd wake up and with a weird primal cry he'd mount my foot and proceed to bang the fucking shit out of it. And this from a dude with absolutely no balls at all. This would wake me up and it may take a couple of seconds for me to process that my cat is furiously humping my foot before I'd shove him off me. This is where it turns really ugly. He didn't care at all. He'd just get right back on that horse and continue to rape my poor tootsies. Granted, the Wiff and I were enablers on the catnip spray front but that does not excuse his abuse of it.

Please excuse the shitty quality of the above video. It was taken by a crappy camera in low light conditions. It is basically my attempt to capture Mugsy playing on a chair while he was stoned out of his gourd. He had rolled himself off the chair a couple times previous to my video taping him and I was glad to capture his most embarrasing and from the sound of it, most unprepared-for tumble. He sobered up after this one and pretended that he meant to do it all along. I think he bruised his pride a bit.

Since I have forgiven Mugsy for this transgression (and subsequently outed him in this public forum) and he has passed on to meet his maker (or more specifically to reside in ashy form on our mantel in a wooden box), I assumed that the abuses would stop. But a disturbing trend has begun and I refuse to play the role of victim again. Oliver has been sexually harassing me. This started with "innocent" arm licking. He would come over when I was lying down and lick the inside of my arm while "making biscuits". I thought it was cute if not someone painful (the dude can really get into it and if we haven't clipped his nails recently his little talons can fuck your shit up) and relatively harmless. But lately he's been trying to shove his ass in my face just before and right after the arm licking thing. And last night I noticed that the little pervert had a fucking boner. Seriously. He did the licking thing, stood up, swung his butt around and into my grill and then sat down with his legs open. And there, standing at attention like a fucking evil gum stimulator from hell was his frickin' cat wang. "Oh DUUUUDE!" I exclaimed and tossed him off (ooh, poor choice of words..) the bed. "That's it," I said. "I'm filing a complaint."

I have not yet been able to find a proper authoritative source to whom I can submit my complaint. Would it be the SPCA perhaps? Would they offer some relief from the onslaught of cat dong that Oliver is trying to rub on me? Can they tell him to stop trying to shove his goddamn asshole in my face? Is there some recourse I can take? I'm just saying for the record that I will not stand for being sexually battered by my male cats anymore. This shit ends now.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Goddamn, I Lead a Dull Life

I haven't updated in a bit. You know why I haven't updated in a bit? It's cuz I don't actually DO anything worth mentioning on a weekly basis. You know what I did this weekend? I waited for a contractor to come to bid on our re-vamped pantry project, I watched TV, I probably farted a lot, and I sat in front of my computer trying desperately to think of something interesting to write about. But the thing is, I'm genuinely not that interesting. I get up, go to work, do work stuff, come home, think about the work stuff I forgot to do when I was at work, watch TV, go to bed and start the same shit over again the next day. The weekends are a variance on the same theme. All you have to do is add some more sleep time and considerably more TV watching and you have a typical weekend for me. Maybe I'll toss in a couple loads of laundry just to justify my existence. It's dull, people. Dull, dull, dull.

I'm not complaining that my life is dull, oh no. I actually kinda like it. I don't have kids so I don't have to be all that responsible or occupied when I'm at home. My job doesn't usually interfere with my off-work time (it will on occasion and I've been known to stress over work stuff but for the most part I'm able to separate the two), so I don't often have that problem. I don't really have much in the way of things I absolutely have to get done nor do I have any real hobbies. I do have a list of shit that I really SHOULD be doing and/or completing (painting the spare bedroom, organizing the attic, fixing this and that; boring shit really) but since I have no discernible deadline for said tasks, I'm apt to let them slide. I'm lazy at the core of my being I believe. No, seriously, I am.

But I have assigned myself the task of updating this blog right? What I try to do is update it at least once a week but I just looked at the number of posts and clearly I've slipped a few times. But sometimes I update a couple times a week so I figure that must even out eventually right? Ideally I'd like to post stuff that is interesting and hopefully funny or whatever but I'm telling you...nothing interesting or funny is going on right now. I sat in front of the computer on Saturday just staring at the screen with nothing to say. I thought about maybe talking about the whole why I didn't finish college thing but that just bummed me out a bit so I nixed that idea (I'll prolly still do it eventually though. It's too fucked up not to talk about). I downloaded some podcasts to see if maybe that would inspire me with a topic but all it did was make me sit there and play Snood for several hours. See? Lazy.

But I do have something planned for later this week (oooh, a potential 2-post week! How fucking amazing!). I asked some friends if they would submit their interpretation of this story where I ended up crying on the corner in Brookline. I've got a couple drawings so far and I've seen drafts of an animated gif that almost made me spit coffee all over my keyboard. So I'm hoping all of these will be ready by the end of this week. Oh, and today is the Wiff's birthday. I got her some PJ's (cuz she loves those kind of things) and a couple of pieces from The Enormous Tiny Art Show up in Portsmouth, NH. Other than that, there's not much to report. I'm just gonna go back to work now.

Sunday, February 7, 2010


Back in December I went up to New Hampshire with a couple of my friends (Matt and Adam) to this place where you can brew your own beer. When we were there, it was put to me to come up with a label for the beer. The recipe we had chosen was called "HopsZilla" and so I thought that maybe I'd do something along the lines of a bottle of beer destroying Tokyo or whatever. That seemed boring so we decided that our version of this beer would need to have its own name. We spent the rest of the time there brainstorming.

And we came up with a doozy. What is it? I'll let the label do the talking (yes, I know it is a terrible photoshop job. I don't care):

Big Frothy Cock: Drain one tonight

I know. It's genius. Try saying the name without giggling. Try using it in a sentence: "Hey, can you grab me a Big Frothy Cock?" or "Would you like some of my Big Frothy Cock?" or "Mmmm, this Big Frothy Cock is delicious!" I'm telling you, it is hands-down the best name for a beer ever. I'm 15 years old apparently. And now I'm thirsty, I think I'll have some Big Frothy Cock. Let's see Google filter this website now!

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Move Along...Nothing to See Here

I sometimes get visitors to ye olde blog who have clearly come here by mistake. They'll be searching for something on the interwebs and Google will send them my way. Personally I hope they stay and read my blatherings but what usually happens is they'll bail immediately once they realize this isn't the site they were hoping to find. Earlier today I got what is currently my favorite misdirected visitor. Click on this picture to check out what this guy was surfing for:

What the fuck kind of hyper-specific porn is that? I like the terrible typing "eussian" and "on a room". But rather than judge this poor Indian gentleman (you know it's gotta be a dude) for his wanting to see a Super Russian lady of age 40 who just happens to like to fuck a boy on a room, I'm more interested in why Google thinks that out of 658 results (which is a lot for this I'm thinking), my little blog matched perfectly. And what's that Trent Reznor sex link? Hmm. I'm curious now. I also like how Google didn't even bother to offer help like they usually do with the "Did you mean.." alternate spelling suggestions. I think this time they just threw up their hands and went with what he typed as gospel.

So, thanks Google for sending people to my site but if it's going to be this kind of bait and switch tactic I think it may end up turning them off in the end. That is unless I add some Super Russian ladies or whatever "bajar gratis kazaa musical sex" is. Lemme google it.