So, I'm watching this thing about "Star Trek" on TV, and Nichelle Nichols who played Uhura, the Black officer on the original series, was saying how just when she was getting ready to leave the show to return to a career in musical theater, she met Martin Luther King who told her that "Star Trek" was the only show he allowed his kids to stay up to watch. He was shocked when she told him she was going to leave the show, and he urged her to stay, saying that she can't do that because "for the first time we are seen as we should be seen. You don't have a black role. You have an equal role."

Martin Luther King not only died in the name of civil rights, he kept Uhura on "Star Trek," and for that I'm thankful because she was fine as hell.

"Everybody underestimates the kick to the groin."

I'm a big fan of Dutch mixed martial arts fighter, Bas "El Guapo" Rutten, not only because he's a legend in the ring but because he's funny and as hyper as Dr. Ken. If you haven't seen these barroom self-defense videos online, check them out. It's like he's just making this stuff up as he goes along. Ram a receipt holder stick thingy up a guy's rectum? Why not. Knock a guy out and poor hot sauce in his butt? Sure!

Anyone ever fight dirty or see someone do something to make El Guapo proud?

Mustache Envy

Last night I was at the bar with a buddy I've been hanging out with so much that I think he needs a blog nickname . . . We'll call him Oats.

So, Oats and I are drinking entirely too many light beers at the bar on a slow rainy night when suddenely about 12 dudes with mustaches come onto the scene and make the place instantly fun. The music was all 1980's stuff too because the DJ is a friend of mine and knows what's up, so seeing all these mustached dudes getting their groove on to the likes of Huey Lewis was amazing. I don't think I was the only one jealous of how much fun these guys were having based on the way everyone was transfixed on them, but I think I was one of the only ones stricken with a severe case of mustache envy.


You see, I can't grow very good facial hair. It's all splotchy and the space just below my nose inexplicably can grow zero hairs, like someone gave me electrolysis that I didn't know about. Perhaps the facial hair I was most envious of belonged to a fella who looked exactly like Keith Hernandez. I said to one of "Keith's" buddies, "Did you know your friend over there looks exactly like Keith Hernandez?" And he goes, "Keith Hernandez!" just like Newman on "Seinfeld," right on cue. This only deepened the envy. I wanted to be friends with these guys in the worst way.

Sorry about that last awful post. I was still a little buzzed up and pissed when I wrote it in the middle of the night. I'm not sure why I put a link to a Kyuss song at the top of it because that really didn't have anything to do with anything.

I had one of those depressing hangovers from all that cheap white wine. So now I'm having a glass of red wine at midnight (a great hangover cure) and just watched a sad and sort of crappy movie called "Weakness" in which a high school teacher's mom dies, his girlfriend bangs the guy fixing his dead mom's roof*, he cares for his autistic little brother, then he starts nailing a former student, loses his job . . . Okay, so now you don't have to watch it. I only rented it because I like the actor, Bobby Cannavale.

It turns out I'm still angered by cheating. When this big Latin stud was laying pipe in this fictional guy's wife, I was just getting pissed as all hell. Next to anything bad ever happening to any of my nephews, which I'll give you a hint - that was the subject of the last post - cheating enrages me the most. Now this movie has me all scared that LSD is fooling around with some idiot from her high school reunion right now. I know she wouldn't do something like that, but nights like this can do weird things to an already weird guy's brain.

I don't know if I ever told any of you this, but I was married once. I'm also unsure if I ever told you that she and I had differing views on marriage: I thought it was a committed relationship when you go through the whole production of a wedding, and she thought she could screw a Chicago cop like 8 months into the thing. I now know that it was the best thing that ever happened to me, but at the time I was a wreck, losing weight, couldn't sleep - that whole bit. The last one breaking up with me also turned out to be a good thing. They were both the wrong type of chick for me. Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP) was talking to LSD and told her, "Wait, you're not a bitch." My good friend, Big Business, told me after the break up with this last one, "Dr. Ken, you need to get away from this brand of woman." Man, was he right, and I finally found the right brand. LSD is funny as hell, beautiful, kind, and loves the shit out of the good doctor. No more adversarial relationships. That shit gives me stomach aches. Shortens my lifespan.

Well, I don't really have a point to this post. It was just sort of a free writing exercise. Hope you are all well. Good night.

--------------------------------------------------------

*The worst part about that is not only did he shag his wife, but he f'd him again by not doing a good job fixing the roof - it still leaked.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_io1dSc2nvA&feature=related

So, I got this call during my Thanksgiving, and it was one of those calls where this asshole that I'm mad at is lucky I didn't have means of getting a hold of him because I was likely to kill him. Everyone who saw me thought I was nuts. I hate that feeling where you want to do something but can't.

Anyway, I don't want to get into specifics, but I drank it off for the most part, but I'm still pissed. Ugh! What a butthole, this guy!!!!!!

Thanksgiving Cleaning

Tomorrow I'm having a Thanksgiving feast here at the frat house apartment that I've been living in way too long. When you have a place like this, a lot of crap accumulates that no one is sure who's it is, and often times it's someones who lived here like 9 tenants ago. Today I was cleaning around the TV stand, and I threw out the following:

1. A boom box that still had an ex-roomy's "Quit Smoking Now" tape in it.

2. I nearly threw out a VCR, but I decided that someone could show up with the 1986 Super Bowl on VHS- and then who would be the wiser?

3. I also kept a VHS of "Boogie Nights," which I already have on DVD, but when it's your favorite movie, it just feels sacrilegious and a slap in the face to Jack Horner to throw it in the trash.

4. A bootleg DVD of "War of the Worlds" with Tom Cruise. A crystal clear version of that thing isn't even worth watching, so how in the hell did that thing make it 5 years lying there?

5. A "Holiday Classics" cassette tape, like you get at a gas station, still in the wrapper!

6. The paperwork insert to a Cardigans disc. While I'm pretty sure which ex roommate's this is, I don't think he'll miss it.

7. I don't have a witty ending to this list. I'm tired. I need to get some sleep. Lots of wine to drink and football to watch tomorrow.

Anyone Remember This One?

"Three Men and One Big 'Ol Slut"

In the film "Three Men and a Baby," the Ted Danson character knocked up the mom of the baby who he and his grown-ass-man roommates would later raise as their own. Then in the really shitty sequel to an already not great movie, "Three Men and a Little Lady," the Tom Selleck character falls in love with the mom and no doubt gives her one of his famous mustache rides.

This leaves only Steve Guttenberg with no carnal knowledge of this chick. Now, if they made a third film where "The Gutes," as I call him, finally gets to tap that, it should be called:

"Three Men and a Big Ol' Slut"

"Three Roommates and a Gaping Vagina"

Or

"The Jewish One Finally Tapped That."

Any write-ins, Seven Readers?

The Best Thing to Say at Your Local Dilly Shop

"Can you point me in the direction of your biggest, blackest, veiniest dildo?"

Zack Attack

I blew dry my hair with a powerful Hilton Hotel blow dryer, not paying much attention to what I was doing due to still being half-drunk from all the box wine I drank at a wedding the night before, and now my hair looks very weird.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but I just told LSD that I look like God damn Zack Morris. Any minute now I'm going to break the fourth wall and start talking to the camera or perhaps into an over-sized prototype mobile phone.

Observe:

Dr. Kenneth Noise water

VS

Dr. Mark Paul Gosselaar

If You're From Chicago, You Might Be Familiar With "The Belmont Transfer."

2.	Belmont Transfer	35 up, 6 down
	1. When a man moves from the front door of a lady having her period (red) to said lady's backdoor porch area (brown) and back again (purple). Based on Chicago's sexy and efficient train system. Similarly named moves are found in Boston and New York. 2. A long-form improv style characterized by moving quickly from one story arc to another and back again. See Chicago improv group "The Belmont Transfer." "Hey, you comin' to see the Belmont Transfer tonight perform at the Playground?" "Sorry bro, I'll be movin' from brown to red with Lacy all night long. It's our anniversary." buy belmont transfer mugs & shirts chicago improv brown red purple move long-form by Beezus Jeezus Apr 10, 2009 share this add a video
3.	Belmont Transfer	9 up, 5 down
	Slang term referring to the switch from vaginal to anal sex, assuming the female participant is 'on the rag.' The Belmont train station in Chicago, IL is where the Red Line meets the Brown Line. I earned my red wings with her, then she insisted we go anal, so I made the Belmont Transfer.

Bait Car

Did you know there is a show called "Bait Car" on TrueTV in which a car is left unlocked and running in various ghettos, and they see who will try to steal it? Then the cops in the van freeze the car up remotely so it can't run anymore and the robber is locked from the inside.

I just hope that they pull those cars up to trailer parks too so that people see that poor white people will steal too.

Check out this guy. He doesn't know that there was a camera in the car busting him crying, so he comes out of the car with his hardcore gangster vibe.

Rehearsals

As you may know, I post some short stories on the blog from time to time, and I think this is my best. I'd like to know what you think, Seven Readers.

Rehearsals

The only thing that got me out of my California King this morning was the excitement of driving into the West Side to buy heroin. I’ve been out of the smack game for quite some time now, but I’m sure the protocol is roughly the same – just find a guy in a long white t-shirt standing around with no other conceivable purpose. I do a number of drugs, and they all serve their own purpose. Heroin seemed to have that life-ruining purpose years ago, but now I need it in a stop-caring-about-stuff capacity because it’s the first day to record the new inevitably shitty record for my band’s all important nobody cares about us anymore period. Some say that it’s not a good idea to start dabbling again with a drug with such chemically addictive capabilities, but I’m not the guy I was five years ago – I can control my shit, so I should be fine, and like I said, it’s the only way I’ll be able to just play and not care that I’m nothing more than the guitar player for another one of Alistair’s “artistic visions.”

When we started Lehmi County Airport, it was the most exciting time of my life – all of our lives. I can honestly say that the moment we knew we could make great songs together, even though we were living together in a dump in Logan Square, those were better times than when we got “the money.” When I met Alistair Radcliff, he was playing and singing a Syd Barrett song in a Potbelly, up in the scaffolding, or whatever, and it was like when you fall for a chick. He was captivating all those nimrods in the joint, waiting for their God damned sour dough, and I actually said out loud, “This motherfucker is going to make me rich.”

The drummer, Lester Clayton, was a black guy I had met a week or two earlier when he came by to install my cable. I had a beat up drum kit in the apartment, and when he was done, he asked if he could play for a second. I said, “Yeah, go nuts,” and he did. Holy crap. I got out my guitar, and we fucked around for hours, rolling doobs, playing, and things just clicked. I think he blew off the rest of his calls for the day, which was probably for the best because when that guy gets going on the pot, he’s incapacitated except for his playing, in which case he’s an animal, really pushing the guys he plays with to new heights.

Just thinking about those days makes me pumped to play, but not with these guys. For the last few years, after the success of “. . . And Sometimes Why,” it has really become like work. And the saddest part is that I don’t even see these guys in between tours and recording. Before “Sometimes,” we would get shit-assed drunk together every few nights, but now these guys have families. That’s really the problem, I think; Allistair has this whole new worldview and writes songs about his fucking kids. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s important, but nobody wants to hear songs about it. Tell me a good song about someone’s damn kid, besides “Isn’t She Lovely.” And Les isn’t much fun either these days. Yeah, he’s still banging lots of chicks, something I don’t think he’ll ever stop doing, but I just hate that he doesn’t care what we’re doing musically. An artist like that guy should give a shit, and I think he did at one time, but now he just goes along with whatever the fuck Allistair wants to do.

I’ve been trying to find other musical outlets ever since my role diminished in this band, and I’m pretty pleased with how the first album for my side project metal band, Bruticus, came out. Those guys are fun to play with, but lately it has dawned on me that I shouldn’t have to find other people to play with – I play with the perfect guys, and we’re in a pretty successful band, only I want them how they were before they got so fucking gay. And even more than missing the days when I loved the music we made, I miss hanging out with those guys. Allistair always invites me to his kids’ fricking Christenings or circumcisions, or whatever it is they’re doing, but I’m always too damned hung over to make an appearance, and even if I did, seeing the domesticated, watered-down version of such a talent would just depress the shit out of me.

So, yeah, it’s a perfect day for some good old heroin. Just enough to make me not care and to make the guitar sound better, and not so much where I’m just drooling all over it. Just enough where I don’t care that Allistair, a guy I loved like a brother and respected as far as musicians go more than just about anyone, is now kind of, and I hate to say this, a dork. And just enough where it doesn’t bother me that Les, a guy who at one time was more passionate than any of us about the band, now allows himself to be a tool and goes along with everything Al wants. Fuck it. Maybe so much God damned heroin to the point where I pass out and have an excuse not to record another awful record with those guys ever again.

Okay, I'm still a little drunk, and it's not easy to see clearly that which I'm typing, but I wanted to get some thoughts down on this stupid rag of a blog.

I was posting random crap on Facebook about Randy Rhoads because it's National Metal Day and I love dead rock stars, especially when they're virtuoso types who were so bored from not doing drugs that they got into a single engine plane with their bus driver's plane who they didn't know was a dumbass coke addict and crashed the plane into their tour bus.

Anyway, all the searching around youtubes eventually got me stumbling upon a bunch of Built To Spill clips, probably my favorite band, and that's something I often lose sight of. They're from Boise, Idaho, but holy crap just listen.

When I was horribly depressed around the time I started this blog, I had a "Depressing as Hell" list, and there were a good number of BTS songs on there, and in fact, I think "Else" is still on the blog music player.

But, there is no song that makes me instantly want to cry more than "Carry the Zero." Jesus H. Christ, it's just so sad. There were nights where I just knew I needed to cry and I'd play this one to get it out there. Weird, right?

Okay, the computer is running out of power, so it's time to go to sleep. Treat yourself to something awesomely depressing and beautiful.

"Rick Reuschel, Sit on My Face"

The title of this post is a shirt that my mom said she saw a woman wearing to a Wrigley Field when the hulking giant, Reuschel, was hurling fastballs for Chicago Cubs.

I did a search for "Rick Reuschel, sit on my face," and I'm afraid it yielded no results. I was half-hoping I'd stumble upon the woman's story who donned that shirt because you have to admit it's interesting. I mean, I can see her offering to sit on his face, but to want a big hairy sweaty athlete sitting on your own face . . .

And you got to remember, this was in the 70's or 80's, so her taking the time to print a shirt exhibiting such an uncouth message would have been highly unusual. Hell, I'd like to meet the woman today who had the cojones to put on such a thing.

Was this a woman who was into the arseholes of professional athletes or did she just find it funny?

Did she lose a bet of some kind?

If she had a significant other at the game with her, what did he think about all of this?

These are questions I need answered, Seven Readers. You have any thoughts to ease my mind, as this mystery and Reuschel's big, hairy anus has been haunting me for decades.

Trench

My good buddy, Big Business, referred to a woman's (ahem!) as a "trench." For some reason I thought that was the funniest thing ever because it's just about the least appealing word ever.

So the other day I'm mad at some woman, and in my head I'm cursing her out, and I called her a trench. Yes! A trench!

What I like about this new term is that it hasn't broken on the scene yet, so I think you can still use it on network television all day.

Example:

Doctor: I'm afraid her condition has worsened. We're going to have to operate on her trench.

What do you think, Seven Readers?

More Lessons from The Hood: Wet and Soul Train

As some of you may know, Tuesday is when I work in Chicago's West Side, and I always come away with a funny story or a bit of knowledge; Today I got both.

1. A student asked me if I was dry. I had no idea what he meant by this, and other students informed me that to be dry meant to "not be getting any from any females." So, if your skin is dry, that means you're ashy, and if you couldn't get laid in a morgue, you are dry as hell. Make sense? I didn't tell them that I only get "wet" once a month when I see my out-of-town girlfriend. It didn't seem like something those boys needed to know.

2. Mr. Green, the principal at the school for bad kids, said that one teacher was sending so many kids out of his class and down to the office that it was like the "Soul Train" line of dancers down the hallway. I asked him if he felt like Don Cornelius up in there. Actually, Don Cornelius is a product of Chicago Public Schools. No lie.



3. One girl told me that she doesn't like the drama created from hanging out with girls. So, she said "That's why I like to be hangin' out with niggas." By that she meant males. Something was just funny about her saying that to just about the whitest guy in America.

Me and Del Were Playing "Little Runaway."

Every time I walk to and from the gym, I pass the runaway hotline place, and I can see all the women manning the phones but mostly surfing the net, filing their nails, and bullshitting with one another. After all, who really calls that place? Are the types of kids who run away likely to know such a hotline exists, and if so, are they really going to want to call someone who is there to to talk people into going back home to their shitheel parents?

What's strange is that there is always at least one hot chick in there. If I were a single guy, I might be inclined to go in there with a backpack or maybe a napsack slung over a pole over my shoulder, act all frantic and ready to run away. They might look at me a little funny, seeing as I'm 34-years-old, but I bet they're so hard up for calls that they'd take me seriously. Then they would get all emotional, and there would be a big sex festival for all passerby's to see. It would be awesome . . .

I think I ran away a couple times as a kid, for no reason, really, because I had a great family - still do. I would just go off into the forest behind my house with a bag of chips in case I got hungry. I'd only be there a couple of hours and just go home. Probably when I ran out of chips. But I had a neighbor who once spent the night in a fort that we built out there because he got in a "fight" with his dad. He was kind of like the John Bender from "Breakfast Club" of our block. In fact, I think he still holds the number of detentions record at the local junior high. I wonder what he's doing these days? I should look him up on Facebook. He had a nerdy little sister who sent my other buddy on the block a very naughty letter when they were adults saying all the dirty things she wanted to do to him when they were kids, but I think he was already married when she sent it.



Where was I going with this . . .

Ah, yes. Running away. Don't run away, kids. If you do, give the hotline a call, and if I'm not there sexing all of them, I'm sure they'll give you the sage-like advice you'll need to go back to those shitheel parents of yours.

PS: The second picture has nothing to do with anything, you may notice. I did a search for "forest forts," and that's what came up. That looks like a very romantic way to spend an evening with a special lady friend, or a terrific way to burn your house down. Either way . . .

I Want To Freeze Time . . .

. . . so that I can catch up on things, but if I did that, would I age during the frozen time? Would I end up abusing it to the point where I would age 20 years during a span of time that would only be 5 years to everyone else?

There's just never enough time to get everything done. But when I was high school, all I wanted to do was fast forward until it was over with, and I didn't care about getting anything done.

Well, if I got freezing power, I swear I wouldn't use it to do silly stuff like change two people's hats around, like a punk kid's baseball cap from one guy and swap it with an old Black lady's big church hat. Okay, I can't promise I wouldn't do stuff like that. I'd make a lousy super hero. If I were Freeze Time Guy, and I was in The Justice League, they'd always be looking for me to help thwart the plans of Dr. Doom, or whoever, and I'd be out a-hat-swapping.

Point being, Dr. Kenneth has too much crap going on this week and needs a little R & R if he can't get the superpowers. Yet.

Caption Contest: Day After Halloween Special

I couldn't think of anything to post today, and then I saw this terrific picture that is just begging and pleading for captions. The only problem is that these are real kids that I found on Facebook, and I'm using the pic without permission.

So, don't go looking for these kids and do anything nutty . . . because that will disqualify you from the caption contest.