It's Moving, Amazing, But God Damn Disheartening . . .

. . . to watch Angels in America, written for the stage by Tony Kushner and adapted to the screen in an HBO miniseries a number of years back. I watched all but the final episode when it aired, and now that it's On Demand, I rewatched the whole thing, only this time I was watching more from the perspective of a writer, hence the disheartening. It's just so damn good. I wanted to find a quote from where Pryor was discretely trying to tell Meryl Streep's character how his erections could tip him off of an upcoming visit from the angel, but I couldn't find it. Instead, I'll paste you a section from the only time my two favorite characters meet. Pryor, the one dying of AIDS who believes he is a prophet, and Harper, the pill popping wife of a closeted gay mormon husband. The two meet in a joint hallucination though they have never met . . .

Harper Pitt: I don't understand this. If I didn't ever see you before, and I don't think I did, then I don't think you should be here in this hallucination because in my experience the mind which is where hallucinations come from shouldn't be able to make anything up that wasn't there to start with that didn't enter it from experience from the real world. Imagination can't create anything new can it? It only recycles bits and pieces from the world and reassembles them into visions. Am I making sense right now?

Prior Walter: Given the circumstances, yes.

Harper Pitt: So when we think we've escaped the unbearable ordinariness and, well, untruthfulness of our lives it's really only the same old ordinariness and falseness rearranged into the appearance of novelty and truth. Nothing unknown is knowable.

Don't OVERDO the Dew

Caron Butler, an all-star NBA Basketball player for the Washington Wizards just gave up drinking Mountain Dew. He was up to six cans a day, and he lost eleven pounds after quitting. The man had to have one right before bed! When he finally quit, he was having withdrawal symptoms and said those first two weeks without the disgusting soda in his system were the roughest two weeks of his life. You don't believe me? Read this.


He was even knocking back two before games and some more at halftime. How could he shoot free throws like that? Wouldn't he be all jittery? And how did his teeth not rot out of his head with all that sugar?

Well, at least it's not real gangsta shit like coke and hookers. Nope. Just sodie-pop. : )

What's one of your stupid addictions, readers?

When I Told My Mom I Wanted To Be a Writer . . .

. . . she said, "Well, you've always had a unique way of looking at the world, even when you were a little kid." It's true. For example: When I was around two-years-old, my mom was telling me that the zipper in the front of my pants is called a fly, and I, thinking I had a new pet fly to follow me around, asked, "What's his name?"

I also could entertain myself for hours alone with my toys. I didn't just point my G.I. Joe's together and say, "bang-bang!" I didn't merely smack my King Kong Bundy and Ricky "the Dragon" Steamboat wrestling figures' bodies together until it got boring. No! My guys had elaborate story lines that would take them from one end of the house to the other, each room being a whole new scene, one a dessert, one a mansion, the dog an AT-AT Walker from Star Wars cause who the fuck could afford the toy? My hero would hijack numerous vehicles, wear an array of disguises, and would stop at nothing to save the world from eminent destruction, unless one of my buddies called and wanted to hang out, at which point our hero would pick up right where he left off the next day.


I'm also not sure most little kids spent as much time in their own heads as me. I used to climb the tree in the front yard with no better plan than hanging out. I remember the best time to do this would be when my folks would say it was almost time for dinner, so there really wasn't a whole lot of time to start anything. I mean, Christ, that would hardly be enough time to get through one murderous scene in my never-ending epic toy story line. So, I'd just sit in the tree for a while and think about stuff. Sometimes it would be twenty to thirty minutes, sometimes just five, but five minutes when you were a kid was enough time to think about just about everything because for one, there wasn't much to think about, and secondly, time moved by so very slowly when you were young.

I liked daydreaming back then. I still do it, but now I get mad at myself for it because now I worry about that time being wasted - that's time spent thinking about weird scenarios that will never happen, like would if I became a famous rock star despite having no musical talent, or what it would be like to just smack someone in the face out of nowhere, and not necessarily someone I don't like. And I don't just think about the immediate shock the person might have, I think about minutes, hours later, how I would justify to this person doing such a thing. That's the sort of weird places my mind will go if left to it's own devices.

Perhaps I should allow myself time to daydream about dumb shit completely guilt free, if only for just ten minutes a day. I only wish Chicago had bigger trees around here.

Titties

That is what the title of the last UFC piece I did would be called if it had a title. Check it out here.

A cheap, crappy post as far as this site goes, and that's why I'm giving you another one right now, just to make it to that 365 posts in as many days goal.

Have You Ever Wondered About Small Wonder?

1. Have you ever wondered why no one asked why Vicki talked like a robot? Did people just assume she was Autistic?


2. Have you ever wondered if that kid Jamie was/is gay? Apparently there have been rumors of his death, but he is still alive and looks like the picture below. Yikes.









3. Have you ever wondered how everyone resisted kicking Harriet, the annoying neighbor, right in the baby slit?


4. Have you ever wondered how that crap stayed on the air for three years?

White Meat and Beheadings

1. I was talking to a Black friend of mine (I only mention that he's black because it pertains to the story), and he was telling me some great stories, as he often does. One story today involved a guy he knew back in his old neighborhood who was as big as a house, but he talked like a girl, like Michael Jackson, or as this buddy of mine described him, "like he had ten pounds of sugar up his ass." But, if anyone said anything at all about him talking funny, he'd beat them into next week, or as my boy said, specifically, "he'd beat you down to the white meat." I was rolling at that line.

2. The other thing I want to discuss, and this is going to make it into next week's open mic performance, is King Henry VIII and all those beheadings. Can you imagine that? He would have the last word in every argument, and that would be pretty cool because women wouldn't dare push him too far, right? "Oooh, you sure you want to go there? You know, I'm going to have my boys get out the guillotine to chop some cloves of garlic. You know, just to make sure it's still nice and sharp." Something tells me that would get her to change her tune. But, I was wondering if he ever got Beheaders Remorse, like he'd be thinking, "oh yeah, her, she was really cool. I wonder what she's doing these days? I should look her up, uh, no, wait, I cut that bitch's head off years ago." Is any of that funny? I'll flush it out for some funny shit . . .

"These Puppies Are on the Loose!"

That's what a 2-year-old, chubby Asian Indian kid was wearing today, and it had arrows pointing to his arms. His parents had no idea what the phrase meant, but Dr. Ken got it, so he walked up to him flexing, which made the kid cry.

Probably better that I didn't know what it meant . . .

The First Anual Gancies

Today, I have decided to give out awards called Gancies*. Please don't feel hurt if you were not included because there is always next year.

The Gancey for the Charlie Hustle Blogger goes to . . .
: Steph over at Much Ado About Sumthin'!
She and I have been commenting on one another's sites for a long, long time, and she always impresses me with getting over 80 comments with each post, responding to all her comments, and she gets around to other people's sites. She didn't blog for around a year, suddenly posted, and immediately had around 60 comments. She tells good stories, and she has a good sense of humor.

The Gancey for the Gancey Guru goes to . . .
Zen Wizard over at Zen Wizard
He has also been a blog buddy for quite some time, and he always break down the minutia of dumb ass shit that I bring up in a way that astounds me, and he'll even come back for multiple comments if he digs a topic, expounding on what he wrote before and what others have brought up. There have been times when I've come back to see that he and Chud have gone back and forth with some amazingly funny discussions. He is one of the smartest guys I kind of know.

The Gancey Drinking Buddy award goes to . . .
Drunkin' Chud over at Chud's World
This guy posts very rarely these days, but he still comes by to comment even when his own blog is inactive. He just seems like that guy who seems like a beer-swilling goof ball, but he can actually pick you apart in an argument, political discussion, or a jukebox sabotage. We've been trying to have a drink together for around three or four years now, have exchanged some texts, and I even drunk dialed him once. Chudly, if you're out there, what in the hell did we talk about?

The Congrats Gancey award goes to . . .
Redacted, formerly known as The Belligerent Intellectual
This guy has been blogging longer than me, and I admire him because he seems to have shifted into a full time writer as a career. He is a really engaging writer - one of those guys with really long posts that you don't mind reading. I wish this guy would comment on his comments more and come by my site every once in a while, but whatever. Congrats, brother!

#1 Fan Gancey Award goes to . . .
JerseyJov over at A Bit Unaware
She has been coming by to comment consistently over the past year or so even when I was down to one or two comments a post, as I am now, it seems. She is really bright and a solid writer, especially since she is only in college. Her tales of drunken hookups are always a good time.

Don't Call It a Comeback Gancey Award goes to . . .
Jenni over at Unapologetic Nonsense, formerly known as Swank or Skank
First off, when I went over to get the address just now, she had "Alone" by Heart jamming on her shit, and I had to leave that on. She always seems to disappear for long stretches at a time, and I have a nack for popping by there and getting her out of retirement. She's funny and now she wants to take a stab at real writing, so be sure to get by there and keep her motivated!

Miss Congeniality Gancey goes to . . .
Shife over at Shife's World over at Confessions of a Dumb White Guy
This guy, from the Land of Potatoes, has been along with me for a long, long time, he's consistantly funny, and you just get the sense that he is helluva nice guy. Go by and check out his adorable baby boy and his Random Acts of Shifeness pieces that never disappoint.

Dirty Bird Gancey goes to . . .
Ms. Smack over at To Smack or Not To SmackSome of this gal's posts well-written, dirty, really descriptive tales of naughty stuff that are not safe for work. She also had her readers send in their boobs and posted pictures of them!

Best Blog I've Ever Read Gancy goes to . . .
Hilary the Guy over at Pistols at Dawn
This asshole was so damn funny and smart, he posted so regularly, and he was so consistnat that it just pissed me off. He recently disappeared without a trace . . .

Gancey Buddy goes to . . .
Giant Butters, formerly known as The Cherry Ride over at Giant Butters.This is a blogger who helped us form the now practically defunct Liars Club blog, and he actually became a good friend who I plan jumping half-naked into a freezing Lake Michigan with on this New Years Eve (it's a long story). He's a really entertaining writer and a great friend.

That's all I got for now. If I left you out, please don't be offended because I only did a few before I had to get ready to leave the house. It's just a matter of not having the time with this posting every day thing. Who's blog do you like, people? Let me know in the comments.
____________________________________________
*A gancey has no actual value, and is, in reality, just a virtual pat on the back. However, feel free to boast winning a 2009 Gancey on your blog if you were named.

Two Things That Happened in Tha Hood and One in My Hood

1. Today, while working in an all Black classroom, a bunch of kids were coughing, and I told everyone that whenever that happens, I instinctually look around the room for some hand sanitizer. Another teacher, also Black, said, "The day I get that paranoid, my fat butt is just staying home." I'm sure she would have said ass if there weren't a bunch of second and third graders writing numbers backwards in the room at the time. For the record, I am that paranoid; my skinny white butt hates being sick.


2. In the same school, a teacher was asking her students what problem the Three Bears had in the story of Goldiocks and the Seven Bears, and one delightful young man said, "Goldilocks busted in they* house and started taking all their stuff . . ." So true, and you know what I was thinking? How is there no lesson to be learned in that story? She gets away with taking whatever she wants in someone's home not her own, they bust her, but she just runs out of the house, getting away with it! Can someone tell me the point? Shouldn't the Bears make her their slave or something?


3. As I was running today, I was thinking about Ugg boots and how they look foxy on chicks. Then I was thinking how I also like big boobs. So, why has there been no Uggs and Juggs campaign? I just googled it: nothing.** I should contact the Uggs people and tell them I could shoot the calendar with my limited camera experience free of charge. I get the best ideas when I run . . .

As for comments today, how about telling me where you do your best thinking? I know mine is jogging for sure, some would say on the can, but how about you?

__________________________________________
*This grammatical error is actually how he said it, and it's one of my favorites.

**Evidently someone did think of it, as this looks to be some kind of theme party or something that I found on Myspace when I was looking for pictures. Damn it!

Stuff That Kind of Sucks in the Mind of a Gancer

1. I don't dig on sorting socks. I'll fold laundry with no problem. As a matter of fact, I really, really like folding a shirt just right on the kitchen counter with some good indie rock on the stereo, but socks; fuck 'em. I just dump them all in the drawer and reach for them in the morning. Folding them would actually save me time each morning due to the fact that I have twenty-one variations of white socks and due to my colorblindness, it takes me quite a while to tell black from navy. Either way, I'm frantically pairing them up in the morning.

2. To hell with eating processes that take too long. I'm not talking about the cooking part because there is a certain satisfaction in that. No, what I'm talking about are things like fondue where you have things soaking in hot oil, and while you're talking and drinking, you lose track of what you're doing and overcook everything. Even when you get it right, it's like one little bite at a time, and I'm very rarely full by the end of the whole ordeal. Also, who wants their clothes to smell like hot oil the rest of the night?

I got thinking about my dislike for lengthy eating procedures last night when Gancey Girlfriend and I went out for crab. Getting meat from those legs is the most arduous process in the history of eating stuff. Granted, the meat is damn good, but you have to prick your hands on the legs and root it out of there with a tiny fork . . . The staff can't do that for us?

However, Gancey Girlfriend likes this sort of thing, so she was in charge. I did some of the brute force breaks, but she did the shit I'm way too impatient for, like all that rooting, and separating the contents into bowls; one for the meat and one for the refuse. The beauty of it is that we were then able to just pour the butter sauce over the meat and eat it with a fork all at once like a bomb-ass stew. Had it not been for her, I would have been eating a tiny, shitty bite at a time, cutting open my hands and cursing to the point where I would either get thrown out or committed for cursing out dead crabs.

This night was also a demonstration on how Gancey Girlfriend and I so perfectly compliment one another . . .

How about you, readers? What's something that really isn't that big a deal, but you just hate doing it? And/Or, tell us about a way that you and a significant other past or present compliment each other.

Writing About Elbows to the Face

I fell behind a day blogging. Again.

So, first off, here's a link to an article I wrote about the latest episode of The Ultimate Fighter. Right now, it's on the Myspace page of Wes Sims, who is a contestant on the show and a friend of a friend, but I will soon be writing for a new mixed martial arts web page.

There are a lot of comments already, and there are more every day. A lot more than I get on this page these days. : (

Check it out here, y'all.

This way I'll still make it to 365 posts in as many days. Stay tuned!

I Needed a Topic Today . . .

. . . so I looked through old memos I have made to myself in my phone. Months-
and-months ago I entered in the following message: "Son and heir of a mongrel bitch." It took me a while to think of what the hell that meant, but when I entered that, while waiting for the doctor's office to call my name, I was reading a magazine article on the author's favorite swear, his being son of a bitch. Apparently, the phrase is thought to derive from a line in King Lear where some guy named Kent evidently doesn't think too highly of some guy named Oswald, saying to him the following:

A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.

So, I urge you to Gancy Up Yourself and say the mongrel line or perhaps another one from this passage to the next a-hole who ticks you off. I rather like "one whom I will beat into a clamorous whining" and "eater of crooked meats." It's very Gancey indeed to threaten insult mo'fo's with Shakespearean quotes.

Already Blew It

No post yesterday. I'm so sorry!

To make it up to you, here's a link to an article I did on the Top 10 Hair Metal Songs of All Time, AND I'm going to post later today so I still make it to 365 posts in as many days.

Godzilla Gorilla Pimp

A coworker of mine claims that she met an occupational therapist who works with a student in our fine city named . . . Well, named the title of this post. Yes. You're reading that right: Godzilla Gorilla Pimp.

I looked into the system, and as far as I can tell, there is a not a student with any variation of that name enrolled anywhere in our public schools, which is why I don't have reservations about protecting Godzilla's (Mr. Pimp's?) anonymity.


































GODZILLA GORILLA PIMP!



However, I did a google query, and it yielded two results with that exact word combination in the exact order.*

1. A Twitter update from someone read: "Godzilla Gorilla Pimp. Not even playin'." This tweet (I flipping hate that word) did not tell us for sure that it was even a name, and the person forgot the apostrophe in playin', so this doesn't tell us a whole lot and does not seem to be a reliable source.

2. A forum on a site called baby-gaga.com was discussing funny names, and someone said the following:
Quoting Christina714:“ I read about a mentally ill woman who named her child "godzilla gorilla pimp" but she was in a mental institution of some sort, atleast she had an exuse!”

Now, this, however being, again, hearsay in nature, does site an instance of someone being named that, but this person also thinks "at least" is one word and she spelled excuse wrong.** But, would there not be some institution stopping a woman giving birth in a mental institution from naming a kid whatever the heck her crazy ass wanted to? After all, when Dweezil Zappa was born, the hospital would not allow him to be named such a thing.***

If it is true, I hope that Godzilla Gorilla Pimp rises up from all the odds stacked against him, that extend far beyond his whacked-out name, which is enough, and he proves all the doubters wrong, becoming a CEO, local school board president, or dare I say, if the Queen of England has any kind of sense of humor, Sir Godzilla Gorilla Pimp . . .
__________________________________________________
*That equasion took me FOREVER because I'm a computer dumb-dumb, and I still could not get that next line, "however..." to stop being indented.
**I need to stop with this grammar police stuff before someone rips me to shreds.
***Here's the full story from wikipedia if you are interested:
"Dweezil's registered birth name was Ian Donald Calvin Euclid Zappa,[4] although this occurred only because the hospital at which he was born refused to register him under the name Dweezil. The name was a nickname coined by Frank for an oddly-curled pinky-toe of Gail's. He was always called "Dweezil" by his family and was unaware that this was not the name on his birth certificate. Upon this discovery at the age of five, he insisted on having his nickname become his legal name. Gail and Frank hired an attorney and soon the name Dweezil was official."

Dirty Talk

I have my second stand-up open mic gig in only a few hours, and I feel a little weird getting up in front of people and talking about gag reflexes, incest, veiney curved wieners, and dirty talk. Sure, on this blog, I've talked about things like queefs and that thing where your pee splits in two streams, but in front of people is a whole other matter.

I swear that I have no intention of being a shock jock like Andrew Dice Clay* or something. Hell, I don't even have aspirations of being famous at all. My sole intention is to conquer the stage fright so I feel justified telling actors what to say and how to say it front of people - can't do that without having the nuts to get up there myself. This particular routine just kind of snowballed, and yes, it's a little gross - but funny (I hope). The trick is, can I be as funny as I am in the bathroom mirror with the microwave timer set in the kitchen for 5 minutes as I can be in front of the crowd.

Wish me luck . . .
________________________________________
*Searching for "Dice" pictures was a little depressing in that four out of five were the good-looking version from the 1980's, and then every fifth one was the current bald and fat version, one of which seemed to be a candid of him eating not one but two slice of pizza and a regular coke. Ah, hell. Here it is:

The Lost Art of Buying a Disc

Today I arrived for my haircut appointment early, so I killed some time by going to one of Chicago's most famous record stores where way too many surly employees congregate around the counter eating organic crap and talking about Yo La Tengo records. To be honest, there was a surplus of workers, they were milling around not working, and one guy was eating some apple wedges, but they were really friendly. Perhaps in this economy, they figured they couldn't afford the crummy customer service. It is true, however, that back in the day one could ask for something commercial like U2, and the punks would actually laugh at you! Laughing!

In any event, I really needed the new Built To Spill and the new Muse records because I've been having trouble illegally downloading decent copies of both. Yes, I was actually forced to go to the record store, to pry myself off my computer chair, unearth my arm out of the bag of Bugles, and actually take my sorry ass into the record shop, and I'm so glad I did! Not only did they have both those discs, but I got two of the three James Gang records on vinyl that I wanted for $2.99 and $1.99 respectively!

Now, I've already done a blog about working at a record shop and how it was the best job I've ever had, but I really did get nostalgic for the good old days. I remember every Christmas we used to drink Baileys and coffee (alcohol and caffeine being my two favorite drugs and ingested simultaneously is even better) and we would exchange gifts, which were almost always box sets of albums. Not only did I long for the days when I worked in a record shop, but I really got off on the experience of buying a disc.

Seeing that your illegal download has finished compressing or whatever the fuck and hitting play just doesn't compare to the anticipation involved in unwrapping the album on the way to the car, popping it in the player, and driving home while leafing through the paperwork. That is all part of the experience, and technology is compromising so many of life's little pleasures. It won't be long before the joy of your trip to the edge of the driveway in your robe to fetch the paper, pulling off the plastic tube, smelling that newspaper smell, and hearing the ruffling as you fan it out while sipping on your coffee will all be things of the past. Pretty soon you'll just click your fricking yahoo news, or whatever, and call it a day - and call it news.*

ANYWAY, I asked the woman helping me at the well-known Chicago record shop if they were hiring to earn a little extra scratch, and yes, to relive some glory days, and she said, "We're not hiring right now, but I could give you an application?" I smiled and said to the kind and pleasant looking, Rubenesque gal on the opposite end of the counter, "That's exactly what we told people when they were looking for work when I was working at a record shop in the mid to late 1990's!" She smiled as if to say, "whatever," but not in a mean way.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.
_________________________________________________
*Does it kind of look like this woman is trying to stop this guy from reading so they could engage in a little mid-morning delight, and does this cat not look like what Rick Springfield looks like these days when his mug pops up on VH1 talking about his one major hit?

Daily Updates!

After taking a month off, it has dawned on me that I need to keep this blog going because it's what got me started writing, and writing every day is just good for me. So, for an entire year, starting now, I'm going to post daily. If Prince can write a song every day he is funky on this earth and Bob Pollard can write three songs on the crapper ("and three of them would be good"), the least I can do is find time in my day to whip up a quick blog entry.

Today's topic is the origin of the word schtupp. This wonderful word for the no-pants-bed-dance derives from a Yiddish word meaning to shove or push. Other spellings commonly seen are shtup and shtupp.

1974's Blazing Saddles gave us the sexy Western singing sensation with a German accent and a speech impediment: Lili Von Schtupp. Her name is far funnier now that I know it's a Yiddish word for coitus (I didn't know that the first 5 times I saw the film).

I urge you all to sneak this word into a conversation, even if it's in the original push or shove way:

"I can't seem to schtupp all these damn Chicago parking tickets into my glove box."

I've also heard it used to pay off someone:

"I schtupped the doorman a $50 to ignore other tennants' complaints about my Halloween party."

Come on back and let me know how you used this marvelous word . . .

Holy Crap! He's Posting!

I don't think I've ever gone a month without a post, and I damn near did just now, with only a day to spare. Wait, September only has 30 days, so yeah, we'll just say that was a month. Damn it!

Here's what's keeping me busy:

Work: Duh. Who cares. Everyone works and nobody wants to read about it.

Open Mic: I've been doing these stand-up open mic sets every other week, and I really thought I'd be awesome right out of the gate. As it turns out, it's really hard, and I have more respect than ever for people who do it just like I wish I could, namely Dave Chappelle. Well, my next set is going to be full of disgusting jokes. I didn't plan it that way, but before I knew it I had a routine that starts with, "Have you ever spit on your own penis?"

Freelance: I did an article on the Top 5 Zombie Films of All Time that I kind of rushed, as you can tell by the fact that I didn't even go for the full ten.

The Next Play: To be honest, I've barely written a damn thing for my next play, and the trick is just booking the fucker for August to force me to get it done, which worked last time.

What I'm Listening To: New and newish albums by Muse, The Mars Volta, and Built To Spill, and MGMT.

Jogging: I frigging love running, and I think it's the only time I feel normal, where I can focus. I get some great thinking done while I'm out there, but then when I'm done I've forgotten everything. Perhaps I need a little tape recorder when I'm out there. I thought about doing a blog that was a running monologue of all the crap that runs through my head during a jog, one that goes in and out of what I'm observing live and the tangents the mind goes through and status updates of all my aches and pains such as chafing thighs. Great reading there, right?

How about you, seven readers? Where does blogging rank in all the things you have to do, and what works for you to get you to post regularly?