Well, Erik had his first day of school today. We got him in a school that is doing in-person learning during the pandemic, so it's a little scary. But there are tons of policies in place where we feel pretty good about it. Erik wasn't the least bit nervous. His mom took him, and she said he pretty much just said bye and ran inside. After that I took him to pick out a new backpack and got him an ice cream for no reason.

Last night there was a small gathering of friends going on, so I rode my bike over there for a bit. I had a beer or two and said I would try to get back later after putting the kids to bed. My time away from the party could not have been more than about 2 or 3 hours, but people had gotten themselves into a completely different state in that short time. There was an unopened cake in a box, and one gal said, "I so want to just dip my hand in there and take a bite. F' it. I'm going to do it." She just waltzed over there and dug out a huge fist full that amounted to more than half of the cake and just bit and licked it off her hands as we all laughed our asses off. It was a lot like how Desmond ate his birthday cake at his first birthday party on Sunday.

How about you, Seven Readers? You got a bucket list weird thing you have always wanted to do at a party? Or just anything else you want to comment upon?

Two Random Weird-Ass Topics After a Month Off of Blogging? The Balls On This Guy!

1. Too Much Empathy Ruins Childhood Programming for Young Boy in Chicagoland Area

Some of you may know this, but I work with kids for a living. This may come as a surprise if you have read older blog posts from my crazier days, but you'll just have to take my word for it. I got thinking the other day how I have always had a pretty strong empathy even as a very young boy. I remember liking "The Munsters" because the mom was hotter than the "Adam's Family," they had a dragon living under their stairs, and Grandpa Munster had that bitchin' car, The Dragula. But what I just couldn't get past was how sad I felt for Herman Munster who so desperately wanted to live a normal life in the suburbs and interact with his neighbors, but he frightened the living daylights out of anyone he came into contact with. Had Herman just said "the hell with it" and holed himself up in his castle in the cul-de-sac, I may have been fine, but he just kept putting his best giant boot forward, experiencing that screaming in fear and rejection over-and-over. I just couldn't take it.

Then when I would try to watch "Tom and Jerry" it wasn't the violence specifically that bothered me - violence I'm okay with - it's that I felt so bad for Tom getting his ass beat, chopped up, and exploded time and time again by a little mouse that was just too smart for him. I yelled at my TV (not unlike I now yell at my Chicago sports teams as an adult) for Tom to just find a dumber and slower mouse or even eat out of the garbage cans in the alleys like Top Cat. Ol' Top Cat lived a pretty luxurious and awesome life when you think about it. Believe it or not, I was excited when they would air those rare episodes where Tom and Jerry got along and didn't fight. Those ones are likely unwatchable like when "The Three Stooges" didn't poke each other's eyes out, but I just wanted there to be peace in the valley on Saturday mornings.

2. Birdy Num-Num

When I first fed my son, Baby Erik, with a bottle, I was amazed. I was thinking, "He's drinking it! He loves it! I am helping this baby LIVE!" Then at 6 months (he's now 7 months) we started with solid foods, and that is even cooler to me. Mrs. Noisewater and I mix up crazy concoctions like spinach, banana, and cherries, and he knocks it down and cannot get enough of it. The little guy starts banging on his high chair tray demanding more. So the other day as I'm spooning it in, I say, "Do you want some num-nums?" Then I started saying "birdy num-num." Then I said it with an Asian Indian accent, and I'm trying to think why in the hell I'm saying that. Finally I remembered that it is from "The Party" starring Peter Sellers. It's not that great of a movie, but it does have that awesome phrase that has been so fun to say during solid food feedings with my boy. In "The Party," Peter Sellers plays an Asian Indian actor who gets invited to an exclusive Hollywood party on accident and screws everything up. At one point he sees the bird food labeled "Birdy num-nums" and starts saying it over-and-over. Then he says it into the intercom system for all the confused guests to hear. I watched the movie around 20 years ago, and that is just about the only scene I remember. And I barely remember it at all. It's something that may have never came to the surface of my brain to be lost forever had I not blurted it out while feeding Baby Erik the other day. Try saying it a few times, readers, and don't forget the accent. Ready? Birdy num-nums. Fun, right?

Come to the party! Bring your monkey!

Tamarins are wise wizard partygoers. 

I had an extremely F'd up dream last night.  I'm at this party, and it must have been some sort of BYOM (Bring Your Own Monkey) type of gathering because guests were arriving with all different types of monkeys.  I started to get uneasy and wondering if all those different species of monkeys should be around each other.  It's not that I wanted segregation of monkeys for some sort of political reason, I just feared that if you got Spider Monkeys, Tamarins, Saki, and Marmosets in the same room, you're just increasing the likelihood that some monkeys just wouldn't hit if off, and there would be a giant monkey brawl of epic proportions.  I think some of the folks sensed my trepidation and thought it would be funny to place different monkeys on my shoulders, head, and wherever else a monkey would fit all at once.  The monkeys were tweaking and shrieking a little, not really wanting to be on my shoulder all that much, but I didn't get bit (and getting bit seemed to be the over arching fear I had at the time).

On Ebay.  Sold only to Ape Men.

Things really started to get insane when a guy arrived with a six foot tall upright ape-man.  His face was more ape than man, but he had perfect posture and was dressed in human clothes.  Ape Man had jeans, sneakers, and a sleeveless jean jacket with heavy metal patches on the back (probably a cool Iron Maiden picture), and he had bulging, hairy biceps.  His owner (or buddy?) was saying how cool it was to work out with his monkey-man friend.  Suddenly, 80's metal fan Ape Man darts over to me with lightning speed and bites into my neck.  Blood spurts everywhere, and everyone busts out laughing like this is the funniest thing they ever saw.

Pop Quiz: What show was this guy on?

For whatever reason, it was my job to clean it up the bloody mess on the carpet - my own blood, as if it was all my fault.  And the blood was dark, almost black - the kind where you see that shade in a movie and you just know the guy is going to die.  But the guests weren't at all concerned about me, they just looked down on me while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet, casually offering advice on what chemicals might get it out during lulls in their conversations with one another, cocktails in hand.  What was really odd was that Ape Man just kept chillin' at the party, and no one seemed the least bit worried that he might bite them next.

What the hell does it all mean?

Foot in the Mouth Moment #3,011

I was at a holiday party recently in which the music was terrible.  This wouldn't usually bother me that much (okay, it always bothers me), but I know the host had good music but was not allowed to play his own music - his wife's music was dominating.  Then he was told to play music in the kitchen, and I'm thinking, "Yes!  My boy's music will be in the kitchen, so I'll just hang out in there.  That's where the booze is anyway."  Nope.  She came in there later and switched that to her music too.

Just when I was settling in with some decent scotch and starting to get a warm buzz on a cold evening, and just when I'm buzzed up enough not to care too much about the music, I suddenly hear this weird whimsical techno crappola stuff kick in that just couldn't be ignored.  An instant record-scratcher track where everyone stops and says, "Huh???"

That's when I blurted out the following:

What in the hell is this shit?  It sounds like what the Teletubbies play at one of their cocaine parties.  

Then ladyfriend came over by my side to whisper to me that the song was something that a guest at the party made with his DJ'ing, and he was three feet away from me when I loudly delivered that comment.  Oops.

In my defense, if you heard the song and my description, you would have congratulated me on instantaneously deducing exactly what it sounded like.

How about you, seven readers?  Put a foot in your mouth lately?

I was at a party the other night, and there was this insufferable attractive woman with no filter blurting out all kinds of perverted things about herself.  I know what you're thinking, how is this a problem?  Well, she was the type who has no charm or wit so she has discovered that telling us about her boyfriend's big wang is the only way she could hold anyone's attention.

I don't even know how she got onto this next topic, but I'm guessing there was zero segue like all the other things she spewed. She began to tell us about being able to shoot ping-pong balls out of her vagina.  Not because she is a stripper, just because she wants everyone to know what a sexual dynamo and social pariah she is.

Trapped on a cramped balcony with this ding bat for an hour with her attention-seeking behavior led me to blurt out something strange of my own.  "I could shoot those ping-pong balls out twice as far out of my anus."  This rattled her.

"No you couldn't!"  She exclaimed.   "I do Kegel exercises!"   

"So.  I take like three dumps a day.  I have power out of my butt hole like you wouldn't believe.  I would launch those suckers down that whole hallway."

"That can't even be done," she said.

"What's it worth for you to find out?  You go first."

I'm MC'ing my buddy Choo-Choo's karaoke birthday party at a bar around the corner, and I'm oddly excited about it.  People often ask me to do stuff like this, so I guess I'm just good at being a great big loudmouth.  The key to this one is just doing the nudey bar DJ voice all night long, "All right, give it up for Lace on the main stage!"  It works for all kinds of events, garage sales, church bingo . . .

To be honest, Choo-Choo is a quality human being and I'm glad I know him so anything I can do to help is not a problem.  Also, it is customary for the karaoke DJ to sing the first song when no one has signed up yet.  I'll sing whichever one I like the best out of the comments submitted by you all, my beloved 7 readers.

This video is what it's all about.  She passes out in the middle of her "performance."

Forever Awesome

I was over at HLP Uncle's place, and he does these them parties on Sundays based on the cuisine of the apposing city of which the Chicago Bears are playing.  For example, if the Bears are playing New England, you got your clam chowder, Boston baked beans, maybe some Sam Adams.  I suggested that we go a whole different direction and have a Forever Lazy party.  You will notice in the commercial below at around 38 seconds where they suggest you "party it up with friends" and the dudes are getting all amped up in their onesie jammies, hollering at the television as if they don't look like dorks or about to have a big man-cuddling festival.  They also have a part at 1:07 where they think it would not be idiotic to go to ballgame in the Lazies where you will be the "talk of the next tailgate."  Oh, they would talk about you . . .



I want to put this to the test and watch the game with some buddies in some fuzzy PJ's.  Another guest on Sunday asked how we would pee in those things.  I'm way ahead of them.  We simply have to make it a Forever Lazy/Stadium Pal Party.  That way we could just pee away without having to unzip our pajamas or miss any snaps.  And, they make Stadium Gal so that we can invite ladies too (as if any would want anything to do with this)!

Getting enough interest in this will probably prove difficult, so I guess my dream of attaching a catheter to my penis and zipping up a furry outfit for a day of NFL football and chips and dips will remain a dream.  A fuzzy pee pee dream . . . 
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It dawned on me midway through this update that I already did a post about Forever Lazy right over here.  Oh well.  This adds a new element, I think. 

Optimistic Prime

LSD and I went to an alumni party for the graduate school she is going to in California, and the rest of the new students they were welcoming were incoming undergraduates. I joked with her on the ride up that someone was going to think we were an undergraduate student's parents, and someone actually did ask us that. I don't think we look old enough to have an 18-year-old kid, but I was hungover and she was tired from a half-marathon. Still, that was a tactless question, and the guy with a lack of tact was my role at this function, damn it.

It was at someone's house, and they had lots of money. I'll never have a kitchen that big. Ever. There were some pretty awesome cookies with the school's mascot on them, so that was fun. Also, I started with two coke zeros, and then my mood really improved when I saw there were Heinekens in another cooler.

I met a mathematician, so I asked her if she heard the one about the constipated mathematician? You know, he worked it out with a pencil? Now, that's a disgusting joke that paints a really gross picture, but how often do I get a chance to use that joke?

We met a girl with the last name of Stream, so we'll say her name was Sandy Stream, and I told LSD on the ride home that she has a great pee-pee-porn name.

Maybe it's best for LSD's career that she get away from me for a little while . . .

On a serious note, we met a guy who seemed very sad for us that we're starting this long-distance relationship, but he seemed to like us and was optimistic, reminding us that two years when you're an adult goes by very fast. I'm trying to be optimistic too, like Optimistic Prime. I mean, I am a pretty awesome boyfriend for driving her to and from this event, and peppering conversations with uncomfortable comments. If I could turn into an 18-wheeler like Optimistic Prime, I'd drive all her stuff out there, turn into a robot for a bit, run around on the beach scaring the shit out of people, maybe even have an awesome tailgate party in the back.

Wait, what happened to the "serious note?" This will be a tough period, but she's the shit, I'm the shit, and together we're anything but shitty, so this just has to work. Thanks for reading, everyone.

Jorts' Lesser Known Cousins

I'm having my second National Redneck Appreciation Day (NRAD) celebration/moonshiner tonight, and putting together my outfit from the local thrift shop was great fun and informative.

I had my heart set on a pair of jean shorts (jorts), but that begot a denim dilemma: everything needed to be denim. Before I knew it, I had myself full-blown, full-body Canadian tuxedo.

So, I got a jean hat and a jean shirt. Then later, while cutting my jorts shorter to get them nice and frayed, I made a some jean loops, two of which can be used for guests who don't show up with outfits; now they can wear jean hats (jats), one of which I inadvertently cut a tail in the back like a coon skin cap, or a Davey Jocket. Yet another smaller loop I'm currently wearing as a jean bracelet (jracelet) or a jean watch (jwatch), if you prefer.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I also bought a jean wallet (jwallet), but it's really more like a jean coin purse (coin jurse).

They didn't have any jean shoes, but that's probably for the best because then they'd be called jews.



How about you, Seven Readers? Have you thrown any theme parties lately or been a guest at one?

Storytelling Podcast 1 of 4: Beatnik's Story

In this project, Beatnik, Crom, LC (a.k.a. Hetero Sexual Life Partner), and myself (your humble narrator, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, all are going to tell you a story with some connection to a song that you will hear in the background. All songs you will hear at the end of each podcast, and there will be other fun songs related to what they're talking about through out. The boys all sipped on some Coronas and enjoyed themselves in this endeavor, and we hope you like it too.

In Beatnik's tale, he has an interesting encounter at a house party that takes a dramatic turn, and through out the process of the group of guy's interjections while he tries to talk, the boys came up with a new Urban Dictionary term: "The Sump Pump." What is it you may ask? You'll just have to listen, and then listen to the next three installments where the guys sneak the new term into conversation and scream, no unlike "Pee-Wee's Playhouse," only grosser, perhaps what Paul Ruben himself is into, not Pee Wee.

Hope you enjoy, and remember, you can click the little play button below to listen or click the MP3 button to add it to your itunes for your car, train ride, or treadmill, whatever. Oh, and remember that if you're listening while keeping the browser on the blog page, you'll need to pause the music player along the right panel.

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Songs in the background:
"Story of My Life (Live)" by Social Distortion
"I Have Been in You" by Frank Zappa
"Why Does It Hurt When I Pee" by Frank Zappa
"White Wedding" by Bily Idol - Beatnik's song of choice for his tale . . .

Dr. Bill

I met a guy named Doctor Bill last night at a fundraiser, and he sucked. Actually, Bill wasn't his real name, but it was Doctor and then his first name- and that's how he introduces himself and others introduce him to others. Again, he sucks.

The doctor was introduced to me by a ladyfriend who's friend organized the fundraiser. This friend actually brought this nimrod from across the bar, and said, "Have you two met Dr. Bill?" Now, the ladyfriend and I are new in our relationship, where talking to each other is still very exciting, and getting stuck with this d-bag was not a place we wanted anything to do with. Let me just tell you, oh my seven readers, this butthole just talked and talked without taking a breath, and let me just tell you about what he looked like.

He was a man of around 5'6" in height, he had a big belly, a shirt and tie with his pants jacked up above his navel and his cell phone fastened to his belt (I hate that move). I think I asked him what he did for a living, and then he pretty much talked "at" us for the next half hour. He is a, and I'm going to change the name of this too, Meccaphysiologist, and he believes that we can control the universe, kind of like Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars. Because he finds that most anyone would agree that the universe was created by something we can't fully understand through science, and because things in the world like the atom are perfect - not accidental but designed a certain way, he thinks that nothing in the world is coincidence. He goes as far as to say that every time you hope someone will call you on the phone, and then they do, that you actually willed them to call. He then told two very boring stories about needing people to call him because he didn't have their number, so he'd say, "Jill, call me. Jill, call me" for around 5 minutes, and they called! Wow! Is that how he meets women? He does Jedi mind tricks on them? He was chatting some up later . . .

I asked him if he thought that maybe I had an impact on the Northwestern VS Michigan State game because right when I turned the game on, The Wildcats stopped doing anything right. This happens to me a lot, so I asked if maybe I'm a jinks. He could not confirm or deny that, but he did say that if I live my life thinking things like I'm a jinks, then it will be more likely to come true. That's kind of true, actually . . .

Ladyfriend does not have the patience, poker face, active listening skills, or general interest in weirdos that I possess, so he was distancing himself from her and zeroing in on me. Right when I thought he might invite me to a seminar or throw me into the back of an unmarked van, I said, "You know, Dr. Bill, I think I might mosey on over to the other end of the room and try out some of those meatballs I've been hearing about." Ladyfriend met me over by the meatballs, and we both fell out laughing. I still plan on paying back her friend for sticking us with that odd duck, but at least I got a blog post out of it.

How about you all, Seven Readers? Can you tell us about a time you got caught talking to someone God awful?

Updating All Seven Readers

Dr. Ken . . .

. . . just published a good interview with one of his favorite bands. You can read/listen to it here.

. . . just published the second interview in a two part series with UFC fighter, Matt "The Immortal" Brown, and you can read/listen to that here. I have gotten to know this guy pretty well, and I'm worried that if he loses tomorrow, he'll be booted out of the UFC, so cheer him on for me!

. . . is going out tonight with Gancey Girlfriend to our favorite Italian place. Where was I before BYOB? Why drop fifty bucks on alcohol on your bill when you can bring 10 to 20 bucks in wine with unlimited selection from any store you want? A bottle of wine bought at a restaurant is at least double the cost. What a racket!

. . . is having his second annual Redneck Party at his apartment next weekend. This year's moonshine is apple flavored with cinnamon sticks soaking at the bottom. Mmmmm. Makes you go blind.

. . . sometimes does abdominal routines on his On Demand cable, and his roommates come home and see him panting, sweating, and prancing around like Sissy-Boy Roy.

. . . is midway through "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." Hooray for Swedish authors/artists, but it's very sad that the guy died before he could enjoy all the success of this great series of novels.

. . . has to fix his hair and splash on some "pew" (that's what my grandpa called cologne) and pick up his lady. Have a happy fourth, everyone, if I don't talk to you!

Fun and Near Death Experiences at an Urban Picnic

Classyandfancy was nice enough to invite me to a work related picnic the other day. She actually only knew a few people there, since it was a company on the periphery of her’s, but we were all about going because there was mention of a corn holing (bean bags) tournament. If you don't know what bean bags or conrnholing are all about, read my Cornholing and Dilly Shops post. The picnic turned out to be essentially people drinking beer and eating brats on folding chairs, on pavement, behind a warehouse, which was a-okay by me!

We thought it not fair that classy and I play together, since the awesomeness could possibly make the universe implode, so we split off onto separate teams. She played with a girl she knew from college, who organized the event, and I played with some strange guy named Paul. Paul had never played bags before, but he had an innate corn holing ability like nothing I’ve ever seen. He was a strange cat, but MAN could he bag! He kept sinking them and I kept screaming, “Big Paul!” I hope I wasn’t annoying, especially since nobody knew me, but it became clear through my conversations with people that nobody knew who the hell Paul was either.

After people started leaving, our plan was to drink a bottle of quality tequila on the roof of the warehouse. I was trying to get people to invite Paul, my unbelievable bags partner, but some thought it strange that he wandered in off the street, and he was a little strange to begin with. So, Classy, her college friend, a guy named Vanna White (who earned that name due to his scorekeeping ability during corn holing) and myself grabbed the keg and the tequila and headed for the freight elevator. When the elevator reached the top floor the door wouldn’t open. No big deal, we decided to go back down to the first floor and open the door, but it wouldn’t open there either! We were probably farting around in that hot ass elevator for over a half hour. I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to die on this elevator with Classy and Vanna, but at least we have a keg.’

Long story short, with some help, we got the door open, enjoyed some fine tequila on the roof of a warehouse, and then I ate the shit out of a Mexican skillet at some diner.

Cornholing and Dilly Shops (Oh the Accidental Hits I Will Get For This Title)

I played in my bean bags league last night. ‘Bags is a game similar to horseshoes in which teams of two people throw beanbags at a board with a hole in it. A bag in the hole is 3 points and a bag resting on the board is 1 point. If you ask someone in Indiana what this game is called they will tell you, with a straight face, cornholing. In any event, I was riding high after winning 3 out of 4 games, propelling myself into sole possession of 2nd place, so I didn’t want to go home just yet. My mom told me she was reading about a new sex shop, The Pleasure Chest ™ on Lincoln Avenue in my neighborhood that was very controversial, in that the residents didn’t want it there. Many of these shops are in the “Boys Town” area, a heavily gay area of Chicago on Halsted Street, and those residents don’t seem to mind, but my area of Chicago has a lot of families, and evidently some conservative ones.

So, I popped in to have a look-see. What I found was a very classy, clean, little dilly shop. I call these types of places dilly shops. I made it up, so, of course, I think it’s very funny. Maybe classy isn’t the right term for a place that had like 12 of those leather shorts with a hole for the one-eyed monster to poke through, but again, they were nicely displayed on little mannequins that only went from above the knee to the navel. They also had a ball spreader. What the hell is that for? I know, to spread one’s balls, but for what purpose? Is it to isolate each ball? Anyway, the shop was the LEAST sleazy dilly shop I’ve ever been in.

You know me, or maybe you don’t, but I’m a curious man and a man of the people, so I chatted up the gal with numerous piercings at the counter. She told me that the shop moved out of the Halsted area because customers were complaining about the lack of parking. I guess when you have a need for certain items time is of the essence, and hunting for a spot might not be high on your list of things to do. What is on that list is not a list I care to see, but I’m glad they can now get their parking spot, get their items, and start checking things off theirs lists. She also told me about the complaints of the residents, but I assured her that I am one resident who has no problem with her dilly shop or anything her dilly shop stands for. While I did just stop in there for kicks, I am also a paying customer. Mom, if you’re reading this, my items were VERY basic and I am in no way a sexual deviant, I swear. Now, if I did buy one of those ball spreaders, and I’m not saying I did, you would have yourself to blame for telling me about the dilly shop.