25 December 2007

OGDC and the Kids Tenders

Typically one would expect a holiday themed entry on the day of Christmas, but the problem inherent is that you limit the relevance of the writing. Though stories of twinkling lights, epiphanies, gluttony, family, love, and gravity defying mammals all make good fare for writing, I’m going to write about something which is different yet, I feel, equally worthy: perversion.

My Dad has significant hearing loss in both ears. To allow him to enjoy watching television we put on the closed captioning. As the action occurs we get blocks of black with white letters across the screen, sometimes accurate, sometimes giving you reason to wonder if child labor is used in this capacity in Texas (I believe in a child’s right to work damn it!). Yesterday, Christmas Eve, some family members and I caught a boxing championship on some network. Sadly, closed captioning isn’t used to cover sounds as well, so no “thwaps” or “pffts” or “coo coo cachou.’ They did relate the commentary of announcers and officials. “He went at him like an octopus!” was one such line. Shortly later, the following words were said, but more importantly, printed on the screen: “He likes it when a guy comes in hard!”

Seeing the words allowed me to take them out of context in my mind and, like any self respecting man of intelligence, twist them into an entirely different meaning. You may think this is only my own immature, or rather quite powerful, ability to pervert innocent statements. But it wasn’t just me! My whole family laughed. We are all talented and imaginative.

I was reminded of a few years ago when my sister and I discovered the joy of soundboards on the internet. We came across clips for a show which I will call “Oso in the Grande Depressed Casa” to avoid issues with libel and such. OGDC was a children’s program combining actors donning fluffy costumes, puppetry and cheap animation. When looking at the sound clips that were available, every part of my being that loves to laugh tingled and my perverse sense of humor ejaculated forth from my hand onto the mouse, into the computer, and out of the speakers. Phrases of pure perverted gold trickled and dripped from my brain and I created many deliciously decadent statements. “Its too big Oso, it’s too big! Mgghhh!”, “Let me lick it Oso let me lick it!”, “I’m coming, I’m COMING!” and maybe a few others I can’t quite remember.

Some would say this is repulsive. I say it is alluring. Others would say they detest such perversion. I say lay back, open up, take a deep breath and just get ready to take it. Like it or not many people have a sense of humor. This is one of the best parts of a human personality. We may get shit on, things may not go as planned, and you can get red dots in places you don’t want (hypothetically speaking of course). Be it saintly or satanic, anything can be funny. After all if you can’t enjoy a menu item at a movie tavern called “Kids Tenders”* you can’t enjoy life.


*Real menu item.


Seventeen weeks of planning, preparation, and perspiration

Seventeen weeks of second-guessing, double-checking, and


Seventeen weeks of worry, and hope, and laughs, and reading and writing and stress and

cramped muscles and headaches.

Seventeen weeks of running from the Blue Line to Lincoln Hall so as to never be late.

Seventeen weeks of driving Gring
O and The World’s Biggest Asshole mad

with my schemes and my fretting.

Seventeen weeks, waiting for this.

Plan A: 27 August 2007 – 23 December 2007

As the guy no one elected but is still the President would say, “Mission Accomplished.”


Mad ups to the Crunk Monk Mafia and to The GringO and TWBA for all their support. Without you...

12 December 2007

New School...

...new banner. Look at banner, person!

Old School...

We kill everything. Even expectations.

11 December 2007

Look What I Can Do!

Several things I am oddly proud of:

  • I can grow a great goatee;
  • I somehow attract extremely talented artists into my circle of friends;
  • My ability to leave a skidmark after even the most vigorous, industrious flushes;
  • That I always have a nugget of information about obscure topics;
  • My death metal vocal stylings;
  • My encyclopedic knowledge of the psychologies and philosophies of comic book characters;
  • I have never completed any writings of James Joyce;
  • That I make people laugh with inappropriate comments;
  • That no one can insult me as well as I can;
  • My belches are both sonorous and have surprising longevity;
  • That I can enjoy with equal fervor Spice Girls and Slayer, especially one after the other;
  • I have expressive eyebrows.

So, whaddaya got?


05 December 2007

Mmm...boot leather

I was working in Hell on Sunday when I did the unthinkable, the unrecoverable, the unforgivable, but yet still understandable, most feared act in all of customer service.

A rather bulky gentleman was looking through a table of shitty clothes that I had just folded, in the men's department, checking for sizes and such. I was annoyed so I walked over and said, to his back, "May I help you, sir?"
And he turned and stared at me. So I smiled and said, "Do you need any help, sir?" And he continued to stare. I stared back. Insert sound effect from Tom & Jerry of two piano keys corresponding to blinks.

And then I smelled what I was stepping in.

"I mean, ma'am?"

SHE continued to stare, and I felt her piggy little eyes boring into my back as I walked away.

When I revealed what I did to Wonder Woman, the coworker in closest proximity, she said, "Do you think you'll get fired?" And I thought about it. I have said some really bizarre and belligerent shit to both customers and staff while in my tenure at Hell, but I had yet to fully mistake someone's gender. At least, out loud.
So I answered, "Well, no, because I think that it's neither the worst thing I have ever said here and that I am most likely not alone in thinking that SHE'S a dude."

Two points in my defense: I have had gender differentiation issues before. I remember thinking that RuPaul was one hot cup of chocolate when he broke on the scene. I was twenty, what the fuck did I know? And the person SHE most resembled is this guy, from the back and the front:
I challenge anyone to be able to tell me a dude is not a dude when said individual looks like Mr. Color Commentary himself. SHE even had the haircut.

Thanks to the growing demographic of bull-dike lesbians shopping at the store, it will most likely happen again. And you know what? It will be just as funny then, too.


26 November 2007

The Last Time..

I saw a pussy, it was a black cat crossing my path.

::The GringO::

23 November 2007

Deja Vu

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches!

I had the same conversation with two very different people, The World's Biggest Asshole and my sister Pinky, in the last 48 hours. It went like

The World's Biggest Asshole/Pinky: “We know what Plan A stands for.”
Z: “Yup.”
“So what’s Plan B?”
“And Plan C?”
“Plan C stands for ‘crazy!’”

Enjoy today, for while we feast, it is genocide for the turkey.


22 November 2007

Naughty Thoughts

After a long hiatus from thinking dirty, I recently had several epiphanies concerning my most favored of subjects.

I can think of a lot of good reasons to date a teacher; the first on my mind is the potential pillow talk.
  • “The more you fool around, the longer we’ll be here.”
  • “You’re not going anywhere until you finish your work!”
  • “How does that make you feel?”
  • “You’ll just have to keep doing that until you get it perfected.”
  • “You’re behaving like an animal!”
  • “You did a great job!”
  • “Now, for extra credit…”
Well, it’s got to beat lawyers any day.
  • “Were you injured in an accident?”
  • “Prior bad acts are admissible in your case.”
  • “Objection!”
A little FYI for the ladies & guys with a penchant to fellate: with a cock in your mouth, your dirty talk sounds like “aaaoowwww,” like you’re romancing a sexy puppy.

It’s a good thing I like pale skin, cuz if I didn’t then my masturbating in front of the mirror would be creepy.


21 November 2007


Radiohead sucks. Why should I be interested in the music and lyrics when Thom Yorke is clearly bored with them? Seriously, the guy sounds like he’s doing all this stuff because he’s been told he can’t go back to sleep until he’s finished recording.

(Scene: some recording studio in England. Weather forecast is misery with a chance of mildewed melancholy, winds from the sad at forty tears per hour)

“Thom? Thom. Thom!” (kicks couch)
zzznnnrrrraggRRAGAgSNORT! “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“Sing the song, mate!”
“What, again?”
“Yeah; it takes more than one song to make an album.”
“All right, but one take and then I’m going back to bed.”
“Fine. Put your pants* on, Thom.”
“Jesus Christ, but you are a needy bugger, yeah?”

I just don't get the appeal of slow, offbeat musical drudgery with groggily atonal whining serving as 'singing.' Maybe I'm too American to understand. Or maybe I like to look at the sky instead of my shoelaces; maybe I live in my space instead of on MySpace; maybe I like to be entertained and not bored, especially if I am paying for it; maybe I don't confuse emotional disorders with genius; maybe I think life can actually be a lot of fun every once in a while, and that music can, and sometimes should, reflect that.

Or maybe they really do suck and a lot of people are deluding themselves for reasons that I cannot understand.

I like to give my readers options.


*Yes, I do know what ‘pants’ are in England.

17 November 2007

Use the Force, Zeep

The Light Side

  • The ‘Hawks are doing well.
  • My pull box at Dark Tower has produced nothing but amazing comic books.
    • Whedon and Cassaday’s X-Men story continues to be the best I’ve read (here’s a sample, but be cautious; this may make you like comics!), the new Thor and Atom are great, and Mouse Guard is simply stunning. If you don't like comics, check out Mouse Guard.
  • Speaking of Joss Whedon, he will have a new show soon once the networks and other idiots give the writers what they deserve. While reality TV may seem like a good idea, that’s just because most shows aren’t written by Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, or Joss Whedon.
  • Both women I am pursuing are showing enough interest in me to keep me interested.
  • I know Kung Faux.
  • I am still working on the boats, and I am still loving it. I am the Deck Monkey!
  • My co-teachings/observations are going great, confirming that all the bullshit I have put up with from UIC’s Council on Teacher Education has so far been worth it.
  • I’ve made some friends that I really hope to have for the rest of my life. Crunk Monk Mafia holla!
    • I have spent more time with my old friends recently than I have in the previous months, so the friends front is going very well.

The Dark Side

  • I need to get serious about grocery shopping.
  • I’ve reawakened my coffee addiction.
  • Since both women are showing interest, I cannot just move on one.
    • This might not be a bad thing, since it will force me to do the friendship first thing, which I wanted to do anyway. And it's probably best to wait until the end of the semester. But now I walk a keen edge, and my balance isn't all that good…
  • The Bears are sucking like a Thai whore with a fifty spit-taped to her forehead.
  • CTE’s bullshit is still bullshit.
  • I still work in Hell.
    • The boats won't go year 'round, and since I need the cash to woo the ladies and pay bills and whatnot, I must take more hours in Hell in order to make ends meet.

The dark side will always be defeated by the light side, because bad is dumb. Shitty paraphrase, I know, but fuck it, I am in a good mood for once; let me enjoy it while it lasts.


two posts in one day! how lucky are you? very lucky, indeed. if only gringo would get off of his dead ass and write something. -z.

Pictures, With Words

In case you didn’t know, the World’s Biggest Asshole has a blog now. Yup, he’s decided that inflicting his thoughts on those of us who have proven too stupid to run away just isn’t satisfying anymore; he’s going to force his bizarre mindset and reality onto the general population as well. Luckily, there is a carrot that comes with that stick; he is going to give us beautiful images on a fairly oftenish basis. So far there’s been at least an image per entry. His photos are like pizza; even when they’re bad, they’re still good.

Something I learned from his blog is that now he drinks tea. It reminded me of something. The last line says it all. Jesus fucking Christ.


14 November 2007

I Blew Out My Sequitr Sequencer

I have no problem with my source of food being ugly. I wouldn’t kiss a pig, but I’d slather it in applesauce.

The first person to eat shellfish was starving.

What the fuck is wrong with a man who leaves his love when she needs him most?

“You’ll find her when you’re not looking.” I have heard this several times from several, very different women. This statement alone just proves how little women know about men, and just how differently our brains have been programmed to function. We are always looking, ladies. Always; on the train, at work, after work, in bars, in cars, with green eggs and ham. We look, we hunt, we stalk, we seek, and we track you. I can think of only two periods in my life where I wasn’t looking, and that is quite a low number amongst my peers. And only women would think that passivity is the way to solve a problem. Advice to ladies: don’t say that to a guy; don’t sit around and wait for a goddamned thing, because the only thing that is sure to come is death.

One of the best things to see is a total stranger realize that s/he has just shit his/her pants.

A cure for my sporadic insomnia: I had a brief but good conversation with Professor Hottie after class, and I slept like a baby last night. She really is pretty.

The GringO and I are working on a book. Interested? Let us know and maybe we’ll put some of it up on the bloggy-blog-thing. We will be selling it, since it’s not free, and you can’t live off of what you can kill in Chicago.

A reason it is awesome to be a guy: the world is your urinal.

If you don’t know who Taylor Mali is, just know that every English teacher in America thinks of him as their Superman. Check him out.

Professional wrestling is as gay as three guys wearing chaps blowing four guys wearing fairy wings.

Speaking of gay: the coolest thing I saw this Halloween was a couple dressed as Quicksilver and The Flash. It is most definitely my favorite couple-themed costume set EVER.

I really like the shoes I wore yesterday. They’re comfy and they make my feet look like dinner rolls. My shoes look like the shoes Bill Watterson draws.


07 November 2007

The Roulette Wheel of My Brain

Some of the thoughts I remember just before falling asleep last night:

I doubt the writer’s strike will affect “Smallville,” since it is written by retarded chimps kept on a perpetual high of marijuana and Pixie Stix, which as we all know are no longer afforded membership in the WGA unless they are working with, for, or are, Judd Apatow.

What’s funnier, a fart or a burp? I say a fart, until it is possible for people to shit themselves while burping.

The English word “army” has its root in a word similar to the German “Armen,” which means “the poor.”

Favorite “Futurama” quote I was able to sneak in while greeting in Hell: “If for any reason you're unhappy with our service, I hate you.”

The Blue Line, between Western and Austin stops, rocks and shakes like it’s being raped by Godzilla after a four-hour binge of Viagra and trucker speed.


06 November 2007

The Need for a Mic, Part I

While hanging out after work with The GringO's new crush Gun-Mol, the following conversation took place:

Mol: Yeah, I don't mind posing nude for you, but it would make me uncomfortable.
G: What would make you uncomfortable?
M: Well, working with you after you've seen me naked would be weird.
Z: Shit, Mol, it's not like you'd be the first coworker he's seen naked. I think there's a membership card and a special discount at Hell or something for y'all now.

Yeah, while the food and beer cost me $45, the opportunity to flirt with my new favorite waitress Mary Katherine and render The GringO speechless was worth so much more.

Give her credit, she took it like a champ. A wide-eyed, punch-drunk champ, but a champ none the less.


03 November 2007

In the Arms of Morpheus

I was unable to sleep for seven days. A week, from one Tuesday to the next, with less than fourteen total hours of sleep; why is what you are probably wondering. Well, it’s a simple word with an insane number of connotations.


Just as my eyes would close, I would speculate about the end of life, which I cannot avoid and live in utter and total fear of. As a man who believes in God (I will go no further, because what else I believe in is none of your damned business), I have faith in an afterlife, a place with all the answers to my questions, and a sense of peace that I have felt on Earth in only a few spare moments.

But for the last week, I have wondered if I may be wrong. What if it’s just pain and then nothing? That thought is so terrifying that I am shaking, nearly crying, just thinking about it.

And it is totally, completely unavoidable. I will find out if I am right or wrong.

I would rather live forever. “But Zeep, what about all the loved ones who will die around you?” Well, I will miss them, but I am pretty good at making friends, so I suppose I will have new ones to love. It sounds cold, but it’s not like I will get a chance to find out if I am right or not.

I will not live forever. I will die.

My brother Bob passed away when he was 35, three years after he cleaned up from years of cocaine abuse. With a natural arrhythmia to his heart, the abuse caught up with him and he died. I am the same age as my brother when he sobered up. Like others who have lost siblings, death has a sense of immediacy with me. When grandparents die, they are fulfilling their role. They’re supposed to die; they’re old and therefore the perfect first lesson in mortality. But siblings are supposed to be as immortal as trees. They aren’t supposed to die until you’re going to die.

When you lose a brother or sister, your whole timetable on death gets skewed to a much earlier wake-up call.

There were other reasons for me not sleeping: I usually have a bout of insomnia at least twice a year, but not to this extreme; I am feeling really lonely and currently have teetering prospects for a date, and I am wondering if I should even bother since student teaching is just around the corner; my body is trying to get used to the weather and the blankets on the bed. But it’s the fear of nothing that keeps me up.

I’ve been taking Tylenol PM, which is definitely doing the trick. I am trying not to become dependent upon it, but the certainty that I will sleep, and have some really awesome dreams, is too much for me to stop just yet. It keeps the ghosts in the closet, which is all I want right now.

Well, a milkshake and a backrub would be nice, too.


24 October 2007

Not a Kitty, but a ...

While discussing Act II Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, I referred to Romeo as “a pussy.” This upset a woman in my class, and she told me so during our break. She began to tell me all about the strengths of the pussy and how I was wrong to use it like I did, and that I was degrading women.

I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.

I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.

So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.

I am such a fucking pussy.


23 October 2007

Worst. Hero. Ever.

I have the lamest superpower. Well, maybe not the lamest. I'm not Squirrel Girl, after all. But my power sucks, nonetheless.

I have the ability to subconsciously detect and woo virgin women. This power can extend to women who have never been in a "serious" relationship before, but it mostly applies to physical virginity. We date, fall in love, take care of business, and then she leaves me.

My hero name could be StarterMan, the guy you use to get ready for the real world. Or the Deflowerer, but that doesn't roll off the tongue very well.

Seriously, how many folks do you know that have a 70% virgin-non virgin ratio? I found two over 24. It's gotten to the point where if I find someone cute and interesting, chances are that there's a hymen involved.

It's like I have a V-Chip, but not the device Republicans and lazy parents love.

Is there a BBS or chatroom, a bathroom stall maybe, out there with my face and contact info, saying, "For a first time, call..."?

I would have no problem with having this power if only the stereotype that I had believed in for so long was true. It is the one about how a woman wants to marry the guy she first falls in love and has sex with. Clearly, looking at my track record, it only happens once in seven tries. And she still leaves.

Sweet Jesus, I don't want to find out if it's one in eight. Or nine. If I get to ten, I'm becoming a priest.


Yes, they really did come up with Squirrel Girl. My faith in comics is more often challenged than my faith in God.


14 October 2007

Cheers, Geeks!

A few random tidbits while out at the bar with several of my classmates:

“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”

B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”

B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”

“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”

Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”

We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.


13 October 2007

Breaking 1 and 2

One month ago, I was in bad shape. The world was looking more than usually fucked up. I had no place in it, I had no love for it; I was seriously considering if I should even be in it. All the things that I loved and enjoyed, like writing and school, were turning from deep and challenging to hollow and difficult. I didn’t know who to talk to about it, so I kept my mouth shut about it.

To get out of this funk, I got a new job. It’s a great job, and I love it. I work with really cool, diverse people who I can see becoming my friends; the work itself is autistic-monkey easy; and I am finally interacting with the public in a way that that is not inrusive or rude, like in Hell. A great change happening at a great time.

But it wasn’t enough. I was still off.

Then I got punched.

I was at Lizzie McNeil’s, an Irish pub on the River, and I was hanging with a few of my new co-workers and friends of theirs. I had come initially because it was my first invite to an after-work thing, and I was excited to participate. I was also going because a woman I met on the boats asked what I was doing that night, and said she would meet me there. Smiles all around!

At the pub there is a birthday celebration going on. As per standard, I buy the birthday boy a drink and wish him many happy returns. He is gleeful and gives me a hug. He is very, very drunk.

I have my one drink, and decide to see what is on the jukebox. Since I have only four drinks a month, I have more money to spend on jukeboxes at bars, which is a benefit that I did not expect but enjoy greatly. The juke’s got the new Dropkick Murphy’s album (at this time, it was “The Warrior’s Code”), which I had not heard but wanted to. If you don’t know about the Murphys, you should. Boston Irish Celtic Punk; what could go wrong? So I select three songs, and wait for the wonderful noise.

The second song has barely begun before Birthday Boy screams, “What is that shit?” I yell back, “It’s the Dropkick Murphys!” And he says, “That music fuckin’ sucks, man!” And I say, “Well, it’s punk, so it’ll be over in two minutes. You got two minutes worth of ‘ignore the music’ in you, don’tcha?” He rumbles for five more minutes (three minutes after the songs are over, by the by) about how punk and Irish music both suck. Guess he didn’t read the signs on the walls, above the door, or in the bathroom. I ignore him and enjoy my tunes.

Three hours later, as I am talking to the woman who I spoke to on the boat (totally gonna nail her, it was obvious to everybody there), I see one of my coworkers arguing with Birthday Boy. Another coworker and I go over to break it up. It turns out that Birthday Boy was insulted by the way my buddy wanted to shake his hand, and called him a faggot and an idiot. So I said, “Look pal, clearly the party is over for you and us. So we’ll just go to our corner of the bar, you go to your corner, and never shall our paths meet, okay?” He looks at me in the eyes (by the way he was staring, I must’ve had, like, twenty-three of them) and yells, “Fuck you and your stupid fuckin’ Irish music!” drunk finger providing syllabic punctuation all the way. I say, “Dude, do you even know where you are right now? For your sake, I’d shut up with the Irish bashing.” As I turn away, it happens. Thank God for it.

He punches me in the back of my head.

If you have never been hit, allow me to let you in on a secret; it feels like the shittiest day you’ve ever had. All the rainy days you’ve been dumped just after getting fired from your job have nothing on getting punched. It really, really sucks.

But then, the cobwebs clear, and that euphoria you feel about that day being over and GODDAMMIT YOU ARE STILL HERE! just charges right through you, and it makes you more alive than you ever felt before, including the best fucking of your entire life.

I turn and punch him, and he falls just like a sack of shit should.

Of course, the bouncer grabs me and takes me outside. I don’t resist, I just go. We get outside, and I say, “I’m sorry, but he hit me twice. I know I shouldn’t have hit him back. If you have to call the cops, I understand. I f you want me to go, just let me go inside and get my stuff and say goodbye to my people.” The bouncer looks at me and says, “Dude, don’t worry. We got you out here so we can mop up that sloppy fuck and get him out of there. You can go back in as soon as he leaves.”

The second bouncer comes outside and says that the guy is out cold, and his buddies are saying that I hit him in the face. I am not bragging at this point, because it is nothing to brag about. What follows is a statement of fact and nothing more: I have hit a lot of faces. Punching a face has a distinctive feel to it, like how you can tell corduroy from velvet. It didn’t feel like a face when I hit him; felt more like a neck or upper chest.

The bouncers get the guy and his friends out of the bar, and let me back in. A cute waitress is wiping up his blood. Maybe I did hit him in the face. So I go and wipe up the rest. Hey it’s my mess.

They called me “Drop Punch Murphy” for the rest of the night. And that woman did totally want to sleep with me, but she had a big ring on her left third finger, and Zeepdoggie doesn’t wreck a home unless he lives in it, so I put her in a cab and sent her to her hotel.

But not getting laid didn’t even register. I got in a fight.

I got in a fight.


06 October 2007


Hey everybody! I have a few quick bites about what is in store for you, my loyal readers, in the coming days.

  • Future art teachers have no idea how many classes they have to teach in a day in high school. Zeepdoggie's prediction: none.
  • Two future teachers did not know that FDR was crippled; one of them will be teaching history. Most of the students in this class I am enrolled in did not know how long FDR was in office.
  • When did 'diverse classrooms' come to mean 'no white kids?'
  • Something I did not really know until Thursday: for the current crop of 18-22 year-olds, it is very dangerous and frightening to have a strong opinion about anything.
  • Remember that line in "Fight Club," where Ed says that it's really hard to start a fight with a total stranger?
I am also in the process of figuring out how to set up a .pdf download for you all. I have a longer form story that I'd like to share with you. Push comes to shove, I'll just email it to those that are interested. But we haven't given up hope yet... Bullshit, of course we have. That's why there's no fear, right?

Peace and chicken grease,


02 October 2007


A huge entry from The GringO is on the way. Seriously, it's worth the wait. Until then, enjoy his special, homey rage brought to you by alcohol and bureaucracy.


Monday I encountered one of the most ridiculous policies ever. EVER.

It was Crippy's birthday and we stopped at a liquor store to buy some Jack and diet coke (gotta watch the figure right?). Due to my general level of poverty I don't usually provide all of the booze for occasions, so when I get to its kind of a big deal. I grabbed my liquid refreshments and stepped up to the counter, and this gem of an exchange ensued:

Liquor Lady: "Could I see some I.D. please?"

Me: "Of course." I pull out my wallet with my state identification card in a laminated sleeve.

Liquor Lady: "I need a license please."
Me: I raise my right eyebrow and lower the left and say "...so, you need to see it outside of the wallet?"

Liquor Lady: "No I need an actual driver's license not a State I.D."

Me: "What?"

Liquor Lady: "Its on these little signs right here..." as she points to a 5"x3" card at the register.

Me: "But I'm 21. Actually, I'm 23 so...."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to you unless you have a license."

Me: "So I guess I'll just get my friend out of his car to buy it then."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to either of you because you both have to have a license."

Me: "Wait, so, I can't buy alcohol unless I can drive?"

Liquor Lady: "Uh...."

Me: "Well great, so you basically want me to drink and drive, nice." I walked away.

Liquor Lady: "I don't encourage drinking and driving...."

End scene

So I may come off a little prickish, a little short in the temper, but that is why I mentioned my rare opportunity for buying drinks. It is important to me. Then I sat there feeling embarrassed and stupid because I couldn't buy drinks. The thing is that in my mind if you have a valid photo I.D. proving you are of age, why does it matter if it is a driver's license or not? I really do think it is extremely idiotic that you can't buy alcohol there unless you can drive away with it. Its like saying you can't buy bullets unless you have a gun...or...yeah.

Maybe I should just get a license, but I'd have to go to the damned Thompson Center downtown and wait in line to take the written test and get my photo taken and I generally have other things I would rather do on my day off. Like staple my fingers together, shave with broken glass, eat rancid milk (you know, because its moved to a chewable form after a while) or smear myself in honey and kick grizzly bears in the nuts.

::The GringO::

01 October 2007

Today, and how it was...

  • I was awakened by another phone call for the student Steven Durell from his concerned schoolmasters; so concerned are they that they refuse to change the contact number for young Mr. Durell, who I can tell has a bright future in being a total drain on society, despite my repeated calls to inform them of the faulty intelligence. Perhaps the faulty intelligence is not with the information, but with those who utilize said information. Seriously, if anyone knows this taint's parents, let them know that he is not attending any classes, and that I think that is probably in his teachers' best interests. Get that boy a shirt with his name on it, cuz he's gonna need it.
  • I got a letter saying I will not be receiving one of my grants, since the school lost my online FAFSA application, forcing me to reapply, making me ineligible due to the time constraints of funding the grant.
  • I had to disclose to my professor why my placement at Clemente for observations would be a bad thing. Nothing like telling your professor that you feel that you couldn’t get any kind of work done knowing that at any moment you might just bump into the last woman you loved, and are probably still not totally over.
  • My rent got raised after a two-hour long conversation with my landlord that got pretty heated pretty quickly, and didn’t die down until I was able to convince him that, should he raise the rent I may just die of malnourishment. After the scurvy incident, it’s a pretty fair card to play.
  • I headed to UIC to print up class material, and the printers in the main lab for the East campus still cannot print from any one of the twelve Macs on the floor. The IT dude tells me I should use a PC. I yell, “Don’t tell me what to do, Poindexter! I don’t want to use a fucking PC, I want to use a Mac! There have been problems with the fucking Macs since the beginning of the fucking semester! What the fuck good does it do to have all of you fucking nerds working here if you can’t get even one of these fucking Macs to print?” Security was called, but they arrived well after I left.
  • My hottie professor had to take today off because she wrenched her back. I knew this going into class, but it did not make it any easier to know that the one thing I can look forward to on Tuesdays isn’t going to happen. What happens when Zeepdoggie hopes for a surprise? He gets a disappointment.
  • The five dogs downstairs have done nothing but bark loudly since I got home three hours ago; nobody is home down there, so there's no one to tell them to shut the fuck up. Every time I do it, they just bark louder.
  • I got some new trade collections of some great comics in the mail, one of which, "Maintenance," I had never read before and it surprised me pleasantly.
  • For dessert at lunch, I had cookies and milk.
  • My rent did not get raised as much as was in the original plan.
  • The looks on the kids faces in the computer lab as I completely wigged out were more than worth the potential arrest.
  • I got to say "fuck" a lot in public in a loud voice, which is really its own reward.
A new motto: you win some, you lose many more.


27 September 2007

Ding Dong...

Bill Wirtz, owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the man who did more to ruin hockey in Chicago than Gordie Howe ever could, died yesterday. I can officially be a Blackhawks fan again. Unless his fat apple didn't fall too far off of the tree and his son is just as much of a money-grubbing fuckhole.

I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.

I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.


18 September 2007

For Kelly: 17 September 1996-18 September 2007

This morning, at 0104, the morning after her eleventh birthday, my puppy Kelly died. After getting a clean bill of health from the vet after her surgery, she died. She was with her Mommy, who is the best Mommy Kelly could ever have, for her last day, and I know she was happy on her birthday. She passed in her sleep, quietly, loved.

My baby is dead; my little puppy, who always took up tow-thirds of any bed she shared, is dead.

She loved to swim, but hated baths, or walking in puddles. She would chase snowflakes.

She loved squirrels; one time she caught one, and she licked it. I could hear the other squirrels teasing him, “Man, your mom’s a real bitch!” I saw a dead squirrel on the way home last night. Kelly has someone to chase, and, possibly, bathe.

Kelly-belly; Cowbell; The Princess; Kell, Huntress of the Wood; Kelly-puppy; The Tail that Wrecked Hartford; The Tongue of a Giant.

I know that eleven is a long time to have a dog. But for a dog like Kelly, it is not enough, nowhere even near enough.

I don’t think God knows what he’s in for, with both Kelly and Fritz up there with Him.

I want my puppy back.


16 September 2007

Thinking Just Slows Down the Tongue

Some direct quotes from the past week:

"I can't stand it when people don't even bother to listen to you. I just want to smack them over the head with, like, a gopher. Becuase it would be ironic."

"I call this one "boa," this one 'constrictor,'" I said while pointing at my left then right bicep respectively.

"Its like a carnival in my pants and all the rides are broken."

Not only do I think a lot faster than I speak which results in my mumbling, even when I am intelligible, I still don't make any sense as the majority of my ramblings is merely word vomit. Meh.


13 September 2007


I just had lunch with The World’s Biggest Asshole, and now I am feeling quite queasy, so I am not going to class today, which is all right, I guess. I’m taking two good pedagogy courses right now. They are the last steps to student teaching, and are required for this semester; today’s is the least fun of the two, mainly because the professor for the one on Tuesday is quite attractive, and Tuesdays are the days where I have maybe four hours of sleep before I have to work from 0600-1230, and then attend class. By that point, my internal editor is just gone, and I pretty much say whatever falls out of my mouth. I'm sure that I'll write about Tuesdays a lot more as the semester goes on.

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; I enjoy pedagogy. It makes me feel good that there are very intelligent people out there thinking about bettering the education process; how we teach is one of the more important considerations a society can debate. I like subjects that give me a chance to think, argue and grow; educational theory classes do that more than any others.

I should go to class; attendance is important, and I have some questions concerning the week's readings. But I have a funny feeling my questions won't get answered, and this is why.

I have been lucky enough to have some of the people writing this stuff come and talk to, and in one case teach, my classes. I always get excited, because here is the person who wrote this stuff, and I have questions and issues with it. If there is anyone who can resolve this stuff it is the author/architect/designer, right? It’s like bumping into God on the street and getting the chance to ask, “Paris Hilton; what did we do to deserve that?”

On Monday, one of the people responsible for a new method of teaching held a session of “process drama” (a fancier way of saying role playing) for the two sections of the English pedagogy class. We acted out a scene that was supposed to generate in us an interest in a particular book (The Summer of My German Soldier, for those who care), as well as stimulate the class into a thought-provoking mood. I went along, and really tried to get into it, but fell short simply because for me role playing isn’t any fun unless it is totally unreal and I’m slaying dragons with a laser sword, or some shit along those lines. Basically, the high school student in me found it dull and a little dumb; it didn’t do what it was supposed to do. That, and I had some issues concerning the whole process, and I was eager to ask my questions.

We finally got around to a Q&A session. She said that she had been defending this topic for twelve years now and was sure we had some questions about it. Great! My hand was the first one up, and I asked my question. She said, “Okay, let’s think about that,” and started showing some charts on the projector that had nothing to do with my question, but they had everything to do with the article she wrote that I read the week previous.

She then says, “But that’s not answering your question,” to which I replied, “No.” She then says, “Okay, let’s consider the stance I took,” and breaks out more things to show on the overhead projector. I am getting a rereading of what I read by the author, like I’m at a bookstore for an appearance or something. This material is something I already understood. My question isn’t based on ignorance of the material, but that I didn’t agree with some of the ideas being introduced. Ignoring my question and retelling me what I already know is not going to help me. I am not your fucking prompt; I am not pretending to be a part of the crowd to give you an excuse to shuck your jive to the masses. Answer my question!

She then asked if that answered my question, and I again said no, it had not. And she asked me what I meant by my question; so I tried to break it down to simpler terms, and she seemed to get it. She then tried to explain some of the background of my question to the class in case they weren’t aware (and they should be, since they have all taken THE SAME ED PSYCH CLASSES I HAVE), and finally said that she didn’t consider that particular thing when she was crafting this method, nor that she knew much about it, and that I should read someone else’s writing in the subject.

So, what did I learn? I learned that you can defend something for twelve years and still be stumped by a smartass in a classroom; that I think differently than every single one of my classmates AND the two professors teaching the course; I don’t like being the intro to your presentation, especially if it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I was asking or saying; that the pros whose job is to defend this stuff don’t really do their homework; and that passing the buck is a total dick move if you’re a teacher.

To make it elemental, I learned that pedagogy has much in common with politics; no one wants to explain what they mean, they just want you to believe it. I still love it, and like most things I love, I will have to come up with my own answers for the questions it will generate.


11 September 2007

Oh. My. God.

Seriously, I got nothing.


There's Good, and Then Other Stuff

As some of you know, I have a new job. I needed to fill the void left by the library job, and my coworker at Hell, named Smurfy, suggested I become a deckhand on a tour boat.

It is the closest I have ever come to my dream of “no work AND pay.” Even at the most extremely busiest part of my day, which really isn’t very busy at all, it is still a joy to be there. Everyone I have worked with so far has been so cool; I haven’t been in this laid back of an environment since I used to get really, really high a number of years ago. It is a great place to work, and no, I will not tell you how to apply because I want this all to myself, dammit! If it weren’t seasonal, I would consider doing it for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to Hell. When you have one job that is awesome, and the other one is, well, hellish, it is really, really difficult to perform at the bad job. And since I need the crap job to fill in for when the good one ends, it adds this sense of helpless imprisonment. I feel like a POW; I know there is a better place for me out there, but I am fucking trapped in this hot box, my only escape being in the bonding with my fellow walking dead. Di-di mao!

And Cob is not doing anything to make it better. Hopefully, GringO will chime in on this a little bit, since it affected him much more than me. We have three registers per counter; I am sure you can imagine the layout of three registers on a rectangular counter, so I won’t go into detail. Well, when the need arises for a third register to be opened, Cob states that it must be at a different counter (we have three counters with registers). Why, do you ask? Because she thinks that, should there be a close proximity of workers to each other, they will talk to each other. So there must be an empty register between the two ringers, otherwise they might get to conversing, and possibly enjoy the work environment, and hence ruin her plan of subjugation through abysmal morale. When a customer asked me about the situation, which to him looked odd, I explained. HE said, “She must be some kind of bitch.” If I had nodded any harder, I may have broken my neck.

What Cob doesn’t understand is that the work is not the reward, no matter what you’re doing (unless it’s fucking your rich spouse; that’s a two-fer bonus!). The rewards of the job are the relationships developed while performing the work. I don’t keep working at Hell because I like lying to people to convince them to buy something they probably don’t need at nigh-prohibitory prices; I do it because I can hang out with GringO, Wheels, Rolling Thunder, Smurfy, Mel, Don, Toots McDego and all the other cool cats I work with. Even at the new job, where the work is quite easy and also a lot of fun, it’s the conversations with my coworkers that make it so great.

Cob thinks that people getting along and enjoying themselves at work will get in the way of productivity. What she doesn’t get is that unhappy people don’t work. Morale is an essential function of crew performance. In the Navy, one of the chief concerns of the captain was crew morale; when it began to head south, he’d make a point to try and improve it. Good leaders care about their crew, and a happy crew will follow a captain like that into the mouths of hell. Cob, with the social awareness of an autistic sloth, doesn’t get that; she probably can’t. She also probably can’t get laid, which is most likely the real root of all of our woes in Hell.


10 September 2007

Too Much?

Go fuck yourself. And you know what? Go beyond that and fist yourself, up to the elbow. No lube. Maybe a little spittle to get things moving; otherwise, just shit and blood.

Sorry, that was a little graphic.


07 September 2007

Sneaky Petes

This is for my fantasy football logo; we are the Nantucket Sneaky Petes. Mad props to The GringO for that name.

02 September 2007

You Can't Take the Skies From Me

You scored as Serenity (Firefly), You like to live your own way and
don't enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different.
Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.














Which sci-fi crew would you best fit in with? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Well, duh. Of course I belong with these rogues. After all, I have an affinity to accurately and nigh-continuously split infinitives, and I reckon I could master the space-westernese. Chinese would be tough, but from what people I know that speak Chinese tell me, the crew didn't speak much Chinese anyway.

Thanks be to The Big Man for this particular meme. Try it your own self and let us know where you belong, since none of us are clearly at home on this mudball. We belong amongst the stars.


30 August 2007

The Princess Comes First

Fuck Cob, my boss in Hell. The Princess is in stitches, and I am responsible for making sure they don’t rip out, and that she gets her meds according to her doc’s prescription. Every eight hours, no matter what. So when I called on Wednesday to let Cob know that I wouldn’t be in on Sunday, she said, “Oh, and Monday is Labor Day? Hmm…”

She thinks I am making this up to get a day off? She’s calling me a liar? I am the guy who took on extra hours for the floor sets. I am the guy who gives up going to church when I want to so that she can have an opener on Sunday, when I would much rather work on Saturday. I came to work directly after my uncle’s memorial service.

She thinks I am making up that my puppy is in pain?

Think I am lying now, you frigid bitch?

If it weren’t for the fact that the good job is seasonal, I would have quit today.

I suppose, that for a bitch who has no problem bullying people into situations that are bad for them but good to her, intimating someone being a liar is no big deal. After all, if you have no honor, how can you understand the damage you do when you insult someone who does possess a sense of rightness and self respect? If she did any of the things she does for the betterment of society, I would just deal with it. But retail does not better society; it damages it. It inflicts wounds on people that don’t heal.

Perhaps, since she has done nothing else with her life besides this, she cannot understand those of us who do. We who grow are as confusing and as mysterious to her as faith is to an atheist.

If it weren’t for the fact that she is an unlovable twat, I could almost pity her. But pity has never been my strong suit, so she can go suck a crooked dick and take the diseased wad right in the eye.

It's okay, puppy; Daddy's not going anywhere.


25 August 2007


I am a comic book geek. “Total fanboy” is a term I long ago embraced. I can’t begin to count the amount of time I have spent on comics: buying, reading, discussing, daydreaming. Some of you charming readers may know of my obsession. You have been there during the countless debates on the best character in the Marvel Universe. You’ve heard me bitch about how various creators must be purposely trying to destroy the comic industry. You’ve seen the collection I have amassed. And, if I have known you for more than two weeks, I have probably tried to get you hooked on one comic or another; hopefully, I have succeeded.

Mostly, I read Marvel. I love their characters, and the “superhero soap opera” never gets old for me. They were the first to do it, and, mostly, the best at it. My only beef with Marvel is that it almost entirely takes place in New York, Manhattan specifically. That is because the original creators were born, and lived and worked, in NYC. With that in mind, I decided to add some links to comic book creators living and working here in the greatest city in the world.

You cannot mention comic creators in Chicago and not think Alex Ross. He brought photorealism to comics, and there is no one who does it better. If you haven’t read Marvels or Kingdom Come, go out and get them ASAFP. Alex Ross changed the way I looked at comics forever. He’s also responsible for Earth X, which is the best Marvel story ever told, period.

Here is Mike Norton. I really like his style; he reminds me of those cool Saturday morning cartoons, like The Real Ghostbusters and Gargoyles. He reminds me of Ringo, which is a good thing.

Next is Skottie Young. I love his style; to my eye, he is like a bizarre combo of Marc Silvestri and Bill Watterson. I would love to script a story for Skottie; something dark and funny and harsh. He’s done some top shelf books; do yourself a favor and pick them up. I hated New X-Men until Skottie started drawing it. His Human Torch is (pun alert) fucking hot!
I will have links for these guys from here on in, so go ahead and check up on them from time to time.

Until recently, I didn’t know there was a podcast for comic books. It turns out there are several, with two really good ones coming out of the Windy City. If you decide to check them out, I recommend “Around Comics,” which is recorded at Dark Tower Comics, 4835 N. Western in Chicago. Chris, Sal and Tom remind me of those guys who were fun to talk comics with; they have deep knowledge of all things superhero, as well as the great graphic literature outside of the world of spandex. And they are hilarious. Another bonus for AC is that Skottie has been on it a few times, so you can hear what he thinks about stuff. "Word Balloon" is another good one, with great one-on-one interviews with comic creators and other folks in the entertainment industry. There’s a podcast called "iFanboy," but they dissed my hometown in their recent podcast. Fuck them in the ear ; you boys hear me coming?

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because of the last post. For the last twenty-two years or so, I wanted to work on a comic book. Not having the artistic talent of my uncle or my shit-headed brother, I have focused on writing, which is either plotting or scripting a comic. I am going to try and plot and script a comic, which I will of course keep you updated on. It would be unfair and wrong to not mention another party responsible for my new drive. I must give thanks to several conversations with The World's Biggest Asshole; too many times has he said that I should try and get my stuff published, and I hemmed and hawed about it. It's funny; I am always pushing him about personal shit, and he's always pushing me on professional shit. We're more married than me and my ex-wife ever were...

Don’t worry, you’ll still get plenty of my humiliating stories and endless ranting bitch-fests which you have come to expect from me. But this is going to be something really fun and exciting to explore, and I think you, as a reader, deserve to read more than the bad shit happening to me.

Oh, and I have no idea where the fuck The GringO has been. He refuses to give me more than one joke’s worth of material at a time.

I went fucking nutso with the hyperlink today...


22 August 2007

Someday No More

My Uncle Danny died recently, and I haven’t really dealt with his death yet. So I am going to force myself to do it. He was an exceptional artist, and he had the most intricate sense of detail. He did this drawing for my mum of a ram; Zeepmomma is into the horoscope stuff (despite all of my lectures concerning astronomy and stellar distances and blah blah blah I am a killjoy), and she is an Aries. I once tried to count all the lines in the horns of the ram; after three days, I stopped at one thousand. Oh, and the picture is drawn on a piece of 8”X10” paper.

He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.

Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.

He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.

My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.

Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.

Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.


21 August 2007

The Final Solution

By now, you have either had the opportunity to listen to my top ten, or you have completely ignored it. Either way, you’re finding out today what the best song I have ever heard is.

The criteria were diverse and strictly followed. The research was long, arduous, and many, many times, very tedious. But no expense is spared for a song that I will bear in my heart as my most favorite song, EVER.

The winner is here.

“Orion” is by far my favorite. It is a masterpiece, and symphonic in nature. It starts out with a growling intro, which gives us the measure and beat of the first movement, a good mid-tempo to get the blood up.

Soon the second movement, introduced with a rhythm break and staccato guitar, comes in thundering, with a fast stop-start riff, and a recapitulation of the first movement’s primary riff.

The third movement follows a trio (or is it scherzo? I could never tell them apart), with Cliff’s bass playing a soft melody, the guitars floating over it slowly with bluesy bends and one of Kirk’s most understated, controlled, and best performances (more on his solos later). The three-part harmonization between the two guitars and the bass on the same line is so tight and so smooth it is amazing that the producer was able to keep their voices distinct; had he not, we would have missed out on Cliff’s amazing bass lines that run under the guitar work in the third movement. It is in this song, and especially the third movement, that shows us how much of a genius the world lost when Cliff died in 1986.

It is fitting that it is Cliff’s incredible solo, so essential to the mood of the third movement and the best I have ever heard recorded for bass, that takes us to the bridge between the third and fourth movement: Kirk’s solo. Not enough can be said of Kirk’s performance during this piece, but this solo is everything that he is capable of. It is the signature solo of his career.

The song ends with its fourth movement being a recapitulation of the second movement’s riff, with a much faster drum performance by Lars, his fills coming frenetically, and just when you think he will be unable to get back on beat, he cracks his snare right on the four count.

This song is great for any and every event in my life, big or small. It fits any mood I may be in, either by enhancing it or changing it. It is the best song I have ever heard. If you have never heard it before, give it a listen; if you have, hear it again. It may surprise, but it does not disappoint.

So what’s yours?


12 August 2007

Now Who's Wrong?

Geneva Convention relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950



Article 16

The wounded and sick, as well as the infirm, and expectant mothers, shall be the object of particular protection and respect.

As far as military considerations allow, each Party to the conflict shall facilitate the steps taken to search for the killed and wounded, to assist the shipwrecked and other persons exposed to grave danger, and to protect them against pillage and ill-treatment.

Article 18

Civilian hospitals organized to give care to the wounded and sick, the infirm and maternity cases, may in no circumstances be the object of attack, but shall at all times be respected and protected by the Parties to the conflict.

Article 19

The protection to which civilian hospitals are entitled shall not cease unless they are used to commit, outside their humanitarian duties, acts harmful to the enemy. Protection may, however, cease only after due warning has been given, naming, in all appropriate cases, a reasonable time limit, and after such warning has remained unheeded.

The fact that sick or wounded members of the armed forces are nursed in these hospitals, or the presence of small arms and ammunition taken from such combatants which have not yet been handed to the proper service, shall not be considered to be acts harmful to the enemy.

Article 21

Convoys of vehicles or hospital trains on land or specially provided vessels on sea, conveying wounded and sick civilians, the infirm and maternity cases, shall be respected and protected in the same manner as the hospitals provided for in Article 18, and shall be marked, with the consent of the State, by the display of the distinctive emblem provided for in Article 38 of the Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field of August 12, 1949.

This is not what anyone would call a "political" blog. This is for the co-worker who argued with me about how the US continues to violate laws that it helped draft and has enforced with violence in the past.

Fuck you. What is your excuse for being wrong this time?


11 August 2007

Seven Hundred Fifty-Six asterix

I watched some of Barry Bond’s press conference last night (I know I’m late, but, in my defense, I cannot stand baseball), and I could only think of two things:

Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.

The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”

Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?


10 August 2007


You know what people really can't drive?

Quadruple amputees.

True story.

::The GringO::

09 August 2007

A Request from Management

To my dear readers,
You know that I love and appreciate you all. One thing you may not know is that I really enjoy reading the comments. It's the best part of the blogging thingy. I work on crafting an entry, and you tell me how it soared or sank. I love that bit.

But I would like to ask that, should you post, please put a name in there. It doesn't have to be your real name. It's not like my parents actually named me Zeepdoggie; and while The GringO is pale enough to warrant the title, it is an honorific only.

I don't like anonymous posts; they are hard to respond to, since I don't know how to address you. At least with some callsign I can easily refer to you in a response.

I ask, please, no anonymous posts. Since they are moderated, anonymous posts will not be allowed unless: I can tell who you are by what you say; it is too good of a comment to let die on the Interweb.

Peace and chicken grease,