I just found a piece of paper behind my desk that had the following things written on it:

Tape

Dooding (which I assume was supposed to be doodling)

County Music (which I imagine was supposed to say country music, but at least I didn't spell it cunty music)

Spinning Records

Singing

Paper Weights

There seems to be somewhat of a theme with these items, and then paper weight really threw me off. If anyone can tell me what in HELL these items have in common, and what may have been my motivation for making such a list, it would be greatly appreciated.

The Urban Sombrero

Caution: I'm really sorry if anyone is offended by this post, because I'll admit, it's a little racy. Mom, if you're reading this one, proceed with caution, and please forgive me.

Between being a dork in high school and college, and being in a long-term relationship, for many, many years, I was not too entrenched in the dating game for a long, long period of time. About three years ago up until the present time, I have found myself meeting a lot more women. I've settled down to where I'm only getting together with people I really like, but I had a bit of a selfish phase, which in my mind was well-deserved given the circumstances, where I was taking gals home of all shapes, sizes, and with varying degrees of sanity, intelligence, and overall respectability.

One of the most noteworthy things I noticed in my observations is that three commonalities kept popping up with these gals:

1. The belly button piercing.

2. The tattoo on the lower back, a.k.a. the "tramp stamp."*

3. The shaved, (ahem!). Excuse me.

When you're newly single, any one of these elements is really exiting, and all three is super-duper, but after a while it gets to be a little monotonous and contrived, like, "Okay, shirt off, there's the piercing. Spin her around to take the bra off, cause I'm drunk and it's easier that way, and sure enough, a tramp stamp." Then I'd see number three, and I'd lose my train of thought. I guess just about any time you're in the room with one of those, you really can't complain.

ANYWAY, I got talking to a friend of mine about the big three, and we decided we needed a funny term for that special lady who possesses all three distinctions, and I have my good friend and former roommate to thank for coming up with "The Urban Sombrero." It is actually a term used on Seinfeld for a type of hat, but we've really made the term all our own. You're free to use it . . .

So, next time you're at the bar, if a young lady bends over ever-so-slightly, and out pops a tramp stamp, think to yourself: 'I wonder if she just has that one element, does she have the respectable, or not so respectable, two out of three, or has she achieved the coveted status of "The Urban Sombrero?"'

* The Doctor does not believe any of his readers are tramps if they have a tramp stamp, since it's merely a term, and not a true sign of a tramp or any trampiness at all.

Lando Calrissian: Cloud City Entrepaneur or Everyday Cock-Blocker?

Empire Strikes Back came on HBO today. Let me get this out of the way, and then I'll get to the topic at hand. Remember When Han Solo was about to be frozen in carbonite, Chewbacca was freaking out about it, and Han has to calm "Chewy", his BFF, down, and he tells him to take care of the Princess? Now it's possible that I'm overly emotional from drinking three days in a row, which I admit does happen to me sometimes, but I was fighting back tears so as not to get busted blubbering by my roomies during that scene. That is equal parts nerd and pussy, wouldn't you say?

Anyway, Lando gets a lot of heat by Star Wars fans for turning over Han Solo, his long-time friend, to the Empire, which led to Han getting frozen in carbonite. However, Lando had little choice in the matter, and he does redeem himself in later scenes, and again and again in Return of the Jedi, the next installment in the Star Wars Saga. What Lando should get more flack about is his outright, unabashed, cock-blocking. The second Lando meets Princess Leia, he starts playing mack daddy on her. Never was there a conversation like, "Hey, this chick, is she with you?" No! He immediately says, "Hello, what do we have here?" I'll tell you what we have here, Lando: Blatant, intergalactic cock-blocking. Even after he sees Han holding hands, and it was clear they were an item, Lando still lays down his pimp-daddy vibe on her.

He's been called a scoundrel, he's been called a traitor, but here at The Gancer, the good doctor is going on record and saying that Lando is a blocker of cocks from his long, blue cape to his Colt 45.

Roomie Update

Some of you may know that I live with four other dudes, so I thought you all might get some insight into The Gancer by learning about who he lives with.

Master Bedroom (Upstairs): He works with computers. I'm not sure why this guy moved from the suburbs to the city, since he rarely leaves the apartment, or even his room for that matter, but he's a really nice guy. I will say, however, that he is slightly more outgoing than his black, very skiddish cat, who has never ventured downstairs.

Bedroom Adjacent to Mine (Upstairs): He's also in computers. This guy has been mentioned in a couple of previous blogs, and to be honest, I could easily update a blog daily that would be just about him. Last night I thought I was going to have a snow day at my job, so I drank a bottle of wine. Much to my dismay, I had to go into work with a whopper headache. Bedroom Adjacent to Mine drank half a handle of jack, woke up earlier than me, and he felt fine. I worry about him sometimes, and I wish he'd make some lifestyle changes, and lighten up on the explosive anger, but he's a loveable guy and a good friend.

Downstairs Bedroom: He went to any Ivy League school and now works for a publishing firm. Currently, he is really excited about a manuscript he's reading about murderous, hedonistic, sex-crazed wearwolves. I like him because he's a good guy, but I also like him because he has a quasi-girlfriend who's always cooking marvelous dishes, that we occaisionally get to part take in, like the badass shepheard's pie she made on Sunday.

Downstairs Double Door Bedroom: He recently moved here from California, and he now works downtown as a recruiter/head hunter. Great guy to hang out with, but I'm having to face the harsh reality that, despite the fact that he's younger than me, he's like the big brother I never had, kind of like Wayne on The Wonder Years, in that he's flipping better than me at everything from basketball to volleyball, both of which I'm painfully reminded of every week, since I play on teams with him, and his skills even exceed mine in the area of crossword puzzles. Come on?!!?

Well, you now a little about all five of us, since if you've read more than an entry or two, you know, perhaps a little more than you'd like to, about the misfortunes, mishaps, and misdemeanors that have shaped who The Gancer is today. An added bonus is I can post these descriptions on Craig's List to give prospective roomies some insight. Perhaps not . . .

The Iguana Story

When I was in Mexico a few years back, I met this guy named Brett from Indiana, who is one of the funniest guys, both intentionally and unintentionally, I've ever met. In fact, he provided me with a few of the expressions on my funniest expressions post, AND he gave me The Iguana Story, which I'm about to share with you, my beloved seven readers.

While he and I were sipping on our miami vice's, a mixture of strawberry dacquari and pina colada swirled together (you simply must try one of these), with his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a spider moving suddenly, and he wigged out. I asked him what was wrong, and with his southern drawl he responded, "I don't like fuckin' spiders. I hate when, like, you see somethin', and then it moves all of a sudden . . ." He then launched into the iguana story, to illustrate his point, and for that I am eternally grateful:

I had a pet iguana once, and when I was buying somethin' for it at the pet store, this dude working there was doin' like a demonstration, lettin' one of um' crawl all over him. Just as he's sayin' what docile creatures they are, or whatever, the thing bites into his neck, and blood spurts out everywhere. It was fuckin' messed up! I knew what I had to do: I had to get rid of my iguana, or suffer the same fate as the pet-store-dude. I read somewhere that if you just turn um' loose in cold temperatures, they die in a coupla' hours. So, I drove out miles away to an open field and turned the son bitch loose. About a month later I open up my gym bag to find an iguana in there, snarlin' and a' hissin' at me! I have never been so a'scared in my whole life. I quickly grabbed my book bag full of text books, and beat the motherfucker to death."

Well, that was The Iguana Story. It's been in the blog can for about a year now, and it seemed like a good time tell it. I swear to God, Brett was shaken up just telling the story. How did that thing find its way all the way back home and into his gym bag? I'm "a'scared" now too thinking about it! Well, seven readers, I hope that this Saturday evening finds you with your beers cold and your gym bags iguana-free.

Sincerely,

The Gancer

Football Enduced Depressions and the Drunk Dials That Accompany Them

The Bears losing the Super Bowl yesterday made me horribly depressed. I got a little cell phone happy too, as these statistics would indicate:

I called 3 ex-girlfriends and one ex-wife.

I then called my sister's husband and told him what a shit I think he is. His latest and greatest move was to bring his kids to his homewrecking girlfriend's house only a month or two into being separated, because that won't fuck with the kids' heads, right? I'm fuzzy on what exactly I said on his voicemail, but I remember saying, "I think you're a shit."

Now, if the Chicago Bears could have got as many first downs as I made dumb phone calls, we would be having a victory parade on Michigan Avenue tomorrow.

The guilt I had about this series of ill-advised calls inspired me to come up with the following brilliant idea: A cell phone that operates like those court ordered cars, so it won't work unless you blow an alcohol free breath into it.

What do you, my seven readers, think about this notion?

I had a dream the other night, I know, another dream, set in the used CD shop in which I worked during college and the ever-productive, ensuing years of 'finding myself.' You know how you always find yourself dreaming with certain locations as a setting, because you can picture them exactly down to the last tile, vent, etc? That's how this was, but it was really amazing because it was years ago that I worked there. In this dream, I could have accurately conjured up any one of the usual cast of characters that would come into the shop in my day, not limited to, but including: DJ Chaos, Beatles Mark, Ultimate Warrior Jacket Guy, and Shy Poke. I could write a decent blog about any one of those goof balls, but the guy in this dream was funny in his own right, and he could have very well been a regular, had he existed outside the relm of my unconscious.

He was a chubby, Mexican-American, middle-aged man who was standing at the counter, to the left of the cash register, calling up a series of women on his bulky cell phone, and leaving on their voice mails a monotone delivery of an atrocious love poem, which he read from a hand-written, crinkled-up, piece of notebook paper. After the third time he launched into it I had to run into the back room before he could catch me laughing, and that's something I would really do when I worked there. God, I fucking miss that job.

Yes, maybe it was the freedom of not worrying about what profession it is I should have been doing, and the fact that it was really flipping easy, but quite honestly, I loved being a used CD jockey, and I was damn good at it.

I loved coming in the morning, flipping on the lights, coffee machine, etc, and doing all the things that gave me the sense of accomplishment of having opened up the shop for the day.

I loved, on some days, having no coworkers.

I loved, on some days, having no, or little to no, customers.

I loved being able to tell people who sang what and on what album. I think some people are annoyed by those kind of questions, but I lived for them, and I still do.

I loved my boss. I liked the guy so much that I wanted to do the best I could for him. Even though he was 40-something when I was 20-something, he was as much a friend as he was a boss. Hell, he went to my wedding. Sure my marriage crashed and burned after 8 months, but that had nothing to do with him. The guy even got me a doob once when I really needed one, and that's something I certainly don't get from my current boss.

I actually loved putting out CD's into the racks. I know a lot about rock music, but for every band I know a lot about, there another twelve that I know only by the stacks of names that I came across when I put discs away. To this day, when I can't think of a band's name, I can think of where they were at The Shop and narrow it down, like from P to Z for instance.

I loved that job, and it's a sad realization when a dream reminds me that the best job I ever had, and may ever have, only paid 9 bucks an hour, and that in all likelihood CD shops will be a thing of the past before long. Well, at least the chubby Don Juan cell phone-mack daddy gave me a good chuckle. I was really laughing when I got up, and then my laugh settled into a grin thinking about the days and nights I spent buying and selling shitty discs like Four Non Blondes and Candlebox.

Fish Behavior and Couple's Showers

My roommate and I were watching a show about deep sea fish on the Discovery Channel, because we can't find the damn remote, and I was shocked to learn about the mating patterns of one particular fish. Apparently, the female is like five times the size of the male, and the male literally attaches himself to her for life, pumping her full of fish sperm, and tagging along for the ride until the day he dies.

Later on that day I was talking to a female friend of mine who has to go to a couple's shower. Those are great, right? Because every guy wants to go watch a woman open a bunch of stupid gifts, as if he gives a shit what kind of hand-mixer she gets.

Guys being dragged off to one of those things just made me think of that male fish, pumping his wife full of fish sperm, and tagging along with her to all kinds of God-awful events, until the day he dies . . .

Who in the Hell Wants to Read Another Weekend Wrap-Up?

Saturday
The 80's-themed, birthday party was a huge success. I never got around to asking the hot neighbor girls, see a couple of posts ago, to come to the party, partly because I spent all day cleaning and partly because I'm a big, sissy boy.

My Greatest American Hero costume, complete with official t-shirt and homemade cape, was badass! Something about wearing a cape made me dart out of the room each time I had to go somewhere, just to make the cape flutter in the breeze.


When I picked up my pre-party slice of pizza I asked Oscar, our local pizza guy, to come by when he got off work, and he did! The five tenants of our apartment all go in there a couple times a week, and there were a bunch of former tenants that went ape shit when they saw him, and he remembered what many of them used to order. Oscar had a ball. I really wanted the pizza guy to get laid, but even more I wanted the pizza guy to bring pizza, and neither one of those things happened. However, he did light up when I stopped in today, he thanked me for the invite, and most importantly, he shaved the change off of my meatball sub.

Sunday:
Hungover as I was, and as frigid as the Chicago morning was, I was not going to pass on a free ticket to Soldier Field for the NFC Championship game. Well, I know it was only a game, and some of you may not understand, but it was one of the most thrilling, heartwarming events of my life. This city loves its Bears, and they're only really good every 20 years or so, which makes for a lot of fans showing love for their team and their fellow fans.

For hours after the game every car that was driving by was honking their horns and hollering their Bears' praises out their windows. My buddy saw an old guy shoveling his driveway and said to him, "How are you doing this evening?" to which he replied, quite simply, "Bears."

The Gull-Darn Zombies Are Back!

I recently did a post in which I complained about people who talk about dreams they've had, and then, of course, proceeded to tell my readers about a dream. Now I'm going to tell you about, yet another, dream. Boy, it's like saying I hate when people whistle, and then whistling the theme from the Andy Griffith Show, loudly, right into your ear, from one inch away.

The other night I had one of those really long dreams, that's really a series of dreams with one common theme, this one being zombies. Those lovable, rotting, undead fellas are always popping up in my dreams, and I must admit, I have had a long, love affair with them ,and even did a post about it. I wonder what the zombies in my dreams signify? I'll have to ask one the next time I dream about one, just before he bites my neck and slurps up my entrails like fettuccine. I spent a good while running away from zombies in this particular dream, and clobbering the heads of others with various blunt objects. During zombie-free period I was stopping off at my girlfriend's house, which is when I knew I was dreaming, since I don't have one, but before I could get into her suburban (which is another sign it was a dream) house I was stopped by a girl I used to sort of date. She was sexy as hell when I knew her, but she seemed to go in and out of liking me, which of course made her really appealing. I know, I'm screwed up, but that's for another blog.

So, in the dream she was visiting her boyfriend, and we got talking about how neither of us were too into our respective partners. She said to me, "So, you're taking out some lucky, young lady," to which I responded, very suave-like I might add, "I hope I'm looking at the lucky, young lady I'm taking out this evening." What a pimp-daddy, right? We made plans to meet up later, and I remember thinking about whether I should take her out for dinner or just a drink, and which fine, Chicago establishment should I take her to? Next I remember thinking, "Shit, would if the zombies are out tonight! The gull-darn zombies are back!"

A possible interpretation for this dream:
I'm never able to commit to a relationship, and even when I'm ready to, external factors, like zombies, always get in the way.

Microwave Based Diets and the Quest for the Perfect Outgoing Message

One of my roommates took off for Las Vegas for whatever the porno awards are called. He's never been to the awards show or the city, and knowing his personality and indulgences, it could make him overload and tweak out like the robot on Lost in Space.

One of two things is eminent:
1. He will spend all his money on bad, bad things and be short on rent when he gets back.
2. He will disappear without a trace, or disappear only to pop up months later as the world's most successful pornographer.

He just started Seattle Sutton Healthy Eating, which in case you never heard of it, is a diet whereby you pick up weekly loads of 3 daily, healthy meals. Since he can't eat them in Vegas, and they will go bad by the time he comes back, he has given another roommate and myself permission to consume all of them at our own pace. They're not great, but they're free meals, so we're going ALL the way off on those bad boys.

In a completely unrelated matter, I started a new volleyball league with a team I've assembled with two roomies, one good friend, his girlfriend, two of her friends, and a friend of the other roomy. It's 8 people in all, and I had never met 3 of the girls. The team played well, and drank well, which is typically more important. However, my optimism for a fun season came to a screeching halt when the topic of the outgoing message on my phone came up. My roomy said that it sounds like I'm saying his name, like I'm talking directly to him for some reason. One of the new girls listened to the message and determined that I was actually saying, "uh." Then she starts going OFF about how she hates when guys leave her a message and say "uh," and how she would never call a guy back when they do that. Mind you, she's MAD. I tried to keep it light, so I was like, "Well, it's endearing and cute when Woody Allen and Hugh Grant stutter and stammer." To this she CONTINUES to go off about how stupid I sounded, like she's trying to antagonize me. You just met me, you nut!! I'm thinking, but not saying, of course, 'so have you ever won any awards for your outgoing message? Did Ed McMahon come to your house with an over-sized, novelty check and present you with an Outgoing Messagey Award.' Boy, The Messagies wouldn't be quite as fun or get as much press coverage as The Emmies . . .

I was mad as hell, so I got drunk and ate the shit out of a couple Seattle Sutton Dinners. Does she honestly think I give a shit what my outgoing message sounds like? As if I'm really going to change it because a bimbo hairdresser thinks I sound too indecisive.

So, I'm changing my outgoing message on my phone, and I noticed that I didn't say "uh" at all. It was, in fact, a "hi" that sounded like an "uh." "Uh's" and "hi's" aside, it was a damn, shitty, out-going message. I sound hung over and underwhelmed, and I don't think I would have recorded the thing at a bar, but I'll be damned if it doesn't sound like there are bar noises in the background. When I rerecorded the thing it took me like 20 takes, and I'm still not even close to being happy with it.

What about you, seven readers? Do you hate the sound of your own voice and rerecord your outgoing message a mess of times before settling on one? Hey, if you want to talk about stuff like Bush sending more ground troops to Iraq go elsewhere, because The Gancer deals exclusively with crappola topics like this.

Bookmark This Sumbitch

The first post of the group blog project The Liar's Club is live!

Myself and three of the other (self-proclaimed) finest bloggers in Chicago got together over cocktails, and we came up with some great ideas, so keep your eyes peeled for enlightening posts that may or may not have to do with Chicago. This first one is an introduction of sorts. Check it out!

here's the link. so click it now, mo-fo. you heard me. move your dirty mouse across the shiny celine dion mouse pad you got in vegas and click it!

Jennifer and Maryanne, You Have Been Cordially Invite To Attend . . .

In a few weeks, my roomies and I are having a big party here at the apartment. The occasion is a good friend of mine and myself both turn 30 this month, and we're having the party on the day of another close friend's birthday. With three birthday boys inviting friends, plus the other 4 roommates inviting people, and people's friends are inviting friends, we are expecting a big turn-out.

That being said, we really are open to inviting just about anyone at this point, since we're facing the fact that there will be over 100 people up in here. This led us to the conclusion that we need to take a crack at inviting the rarely spotted, but known to be pretty girls who live two buildings down. We're running out of time, and I wanted to get some input from my blog buddies, especially the female ones, on how to invite these gals without looking MAD creepy. Remember, none of us have ever spoken to any of them. Do I . . .

A) Knock on the door and cordially invite them?
B) Wait until the day before and say, "We're having a big party, and it may go late and get loud. If possible, could you just come by and tell us to shut up rather than call the cops." Then, of course, invite them, while looking like the invite was secondary to the warning.
C) Just hope I bump into them, and if I don't, just chalk it up as a loss.
D) Slide a flyer under the door as if I invited the whole block, which won't be the case, but I would design the flyer to look that way.
E) Go over there the night of the party when I'm blind drunk and DEMAND they come over for a drink.

* I always pondered, and I must admit I was a little jealous, about how Larry and Balki got together with two blond bombshell neighbors like Jennifer and Maryanne. You now see the reason for the goofy picture, since their success is fueling the fire of my mission . . .

* Wasn't Family Matters a spin-off of Perfect Strangers? I do believe the Black gal pictured was the sassy elevator operator who we later learned had the misfortune of living next-door to Steven Urkel.

"There's a Bathroom on the Right"

You know all of those misunderstood song lyrics like:

"There's a BATHROOM ON THE RIGHT" instead of "There's a bad moon on the rise"
(Bad Moon, Creedance Clearwater Revival)

or

"Excuse me while I kiss THIS GUY" instead of "Excuse me while I kiss the sky."
(Purple Haze, Jimmy Hendrix)

or

"I'm SHAVING OFF MY MUFF for you" instead of "I'm saving all my love for you"
(Saving All My Love for You, Whitney Houston)

Okay, nobody thinks they heard that last one wrong, but that's damn funny.

So, today while driving down Broadway Avenue in Chicago I heard Ironic by Alannis Morisette , and I remembered THE stupidest misunderstood lyric that your's truly concocted. I honestly, and you're not going to believe this, thought that instead of "a death row PARDON a minute too late," I thought she said "hard-on." I remember thinking, what does she mean by that? Maybe some poor sap is on death row and he's got a conjugal visit going, and he can't get any led in his pencil. Then the MINUTE his lady friend leaves he gets the stiffy of a LIFE TIME. I actually thought up that whole STUPID ASS scenario, rather than just think what else she could have said when, of course, pardon made perfect sense.

I'm sorry to say that my little death row scenario does not come any closer to the actual definition of irony than Alanis did in any of her versus or the chorus of the song Ironic, but I will say that it's a far more interesting tale, "don't you think. Oh yeah, I really do think . . ."

Okay, seven readers, tell me the dumbest thing you sang along to a song thinking it was right as rain.

I had REALLY low expectations for New Year's Eve last night. My group of friends couldn't agree on what to do, most settled for events all across the city, which left me and HLP (Heterosexual Life Partner) stuck going to a house party in which the guest list consisted of couple 1, couple 2, and me and HLP, essentially making us the third couple, which I'd say seals our HLP status. When we told everyone about the party we were going to, everyone was like, 'why in the hell are you going to that?' - to which we had no legitimate response.

We didn't get any more excited about this event when we learned that we also had to buy all the booze for the party, and after our purchase we found it impossible to find a cab. Just when we were considering waiting for a bus, a guy driving a limousine across the street asked if we wanted a ride. Fuck yeah we want an unexpected ride in a limo on New Year's Eve! Sure, it smelled of body odor, but it was a limousine nonetheless. The guy scared us a little when he was talking about how drinking and driving has been a bad combination for him in the past, since it has led to numerous incidents of hitting parked cars, which in turn led to his insurance company deeming him "uninsureable." Did I mention he sounded drunk as he was telling us this? When we told him where we going that evening, even the drunken limo guy we had never met before, but were falling in love with a little bit, said "Why would a couple of red blooded studs like yourselves go to that?"

Well, it's true that we wanted to at least put ourselves in a position to meet some available women desperately scanning the room at 11:50 for a guy to swap spit with, but I am very glad we went to a nice, intimate gathering with good friends. We had a great meal, we had some great conversation, followed by some REALLY drunken conversation, which was in turn followed by even drunker sing-alongs of Air Supply's Even the Nights Are Better, Wham's Careless Whisper, which I remember singing with the host the previous time I was at his abode, Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, and a dance off to Bell Biv Devoe's Poison. As midnight approached we all decided we should be in a public place when 2007 became the new thing to write on checks.

We all stumbled into the bar, and I noticed that my HLP had paired off with someone, leaving me the lone guy with no girl on his arm with midnight lurking right around the corner. What I DID have was a lengthy dialoge with a couple of loquacious, middle-aged queens. They gave me a chocolate bar, which I put in the back pocket of my jeans, which I slept in, and it splattered all over the inside of the pocket. I'd make a joke now about packing fudge, but that would just be insensitive.

Well, it really wasn't all that bad not having anyone to kiss at midnight. On the whole, I'd say Valentines day and Christmas, mostly Christmas, are more depressing holidays, since, for me, New Year's Eve is only depressing for about a half hour. I have my 30th birthday ready to rear its ugly head in less than a week, and I think that's going to be the real pisser, but one helluva party.

Happy New Year's, seven readers! Here's hoping you too spent your evening having a great time with great friends.

I saw in some publication, I forget which, a segment in which celebrities let their ipods play a few songs at random, and they comment upon each one. So, I'm going to steal this idea, because I don't have a worthwhile topic, which is partly due to not having any new life experiences, since I have been holed up in my apartment with some God awful, bubonic plague-style virus that 4 of the 5 roommates have suffered through. The fifth would have contracted it too, but he was out of town. There's nothing like barfing and hearing your roomie downstairs barfing right along with you in stereo. If only we had adjoining toilets in which to yack, and that way we could have held hands. If I didn't see that the first roommate to contract this beast lived through it, I really would have thought I was giving up the ghost.

ANYWAY, I'm ready to hit the skip button on my itunes and see what comes up. There are 5,956 songs, and if it played from A to Z it would take SIXTEEN days. So, anything can pop up, and I promise to report on each one, no matter how embarrasing . . .

1. Holy crap! This is embarrassing. I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight by Cutting Crew. This song came on a Totally 80's compilation that I bought when I worked at a used CD store. I also have the Awesome 80's. There are 40 songs on each, for a total of 80 songs, some of which are essential, must-haves, and many are piss-poor, like this one. Apparently these 'Brits' reached number one in the United States with this little slice of pop-Hell in 1986. They opened for bands like Huey Lewis and the News, The Bangles, and Starship. Yikes. Cutting Crew could only make an evening with any one of those shitty bands that much shittier. I TOLD you I would report on any craptastic song that surfaced during this process. Let's just move on, and forget about Cutting Crew for a moment.

2. Luna - Smashing Pumpkins. This is a cool song, but it kind of works on the album as a good winding down, record finisher, and doesn't stand on its own all that well. I tried to look on songlyrics.com, a great site by the way, but the lyrics are kind of ambiguous, and didn't give me much to go on. You know what I don't like 9 times of ten? Strings in my rock. It works in this song okay, since it's fairly understated, but when it's too high in the mix it just sounds pretentious and self-important. I can deal with some horns, like with Neutral Milk Hotel, but for the most part, keep those strings out of my rock, damnit! You know, after my third listen just now, this is a pretty damn good song. Let's see what track three has in store for us . . .

3. Chains of Love by Erasure! Is it really gay that I LOVE this song and A Little Respect by the same band? Both of them make me so damn happy. You know what's really scary? Songs that are a lot of fun, that make me want to dance, or gance in this case, make me want a cocktail. I've been classically conditioned to associate dancing and drinking. Good thing for me I have this stomach flu, or this song would make me have a few and gance the night away.

4. She's Not There - Toadsuck Symphony. This is a cool bluegrass version of the oldie originally recorded by The Zombies, which I believe was also covered by Santana. My friend and former roommate's mother was born in Toadsuck, Arkansas. I wonder if this band hails from Toadsuck? Toadsuck!?!? What an unfortunate name for a town! Do you think the founders of the city caught a buzz off of sucking on toads? In any event, these guys really jam at the end of this cut! There are a lot of bluegrass versions of songs that gain interest merely because of the campiness and novely factor, but these cats can play and sing really well, and they record some very original interpretations.

5. She Took a Long Cold Look at Me - Syd Barrett. Syd's my boy. I'd tell you all about how much I love his music, and how I'm fascinated by his tragic tale, but I already wrote all about it in a blog I wrote when he passed away earlier this year; You'll just have to go to the July section and scroll down, because the flipping link isn't working. I'm listening to She Took a Long Cold Look At Me on head phones right now, and I really dig how you can hear him turn pages while he plays and sings. I'm getting sad thinking about his insanity, public breakdowns, and the tole that the heartless music industry took on such an innocent genius, so let's move on.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this, and I encourage you blog your own experiences delving into the depths of your music collection, and no cheating! I shared some Cutting Crew, so you have to share something equally shitty should it pop up.

The Course of Events on the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

I woke up yesterday and immediately put on music. I do this most every day, but for some reason on this morning I needed to hear Ain't Nobody by Rufus and Chaka Khan, with a reasonable amount of volume. I think I got carried away, because I woke up one of my roommates, one of my INSANE roommates, and he proceeded to blast his OWN music super loud so that now he and I weren't just awake, but all 5 roomies, and perhaps the tenants below us were now awake. If they didn't wake up from the music, and bad music in my estimation, and not bad meaning good like Chaka, they were surely given a rude awakening by the ensuing ferocious door slamming. He has a hair trigger temper and seems to have a revenge philosophy similar to that of Sean Connery's character in The Untouchables ("They send one of yours' to the hospital, you send one of theirs to the morgue, etc"). If the door slamming and music blasting doesn't convince you that he has the philosophy, then you have to believe me when I say that when I went into the bathroom which we share to shower I saw that the shower was running, left on hot. I had reason to believe that he did this intentionally to run me out of hot water, so I was slamming my fists on the tile walls of the shower in a fit of rage, which is totally out of character for me. Dead-on in character for him, but not me.

So, after my cold shower that left me feeling like pneumonia's wet dream, I was off to take pictures of Santa!! I was ecstatic to see that I had a GREAT crew when I got there. I've worked on and off with photography company employees "C" and "W" for over a year, and both know what they are doing, are a lot of fun, and I consider them friends. W brings a lot of energy to his job, like me, he may be a roommate real soon (see last paragraph) and both of us were amazing and jingling the sleigh bells to get the babies looking at the camera, and then snapping the picture with expert timing. All in all it was a pretty fun gig, and I think we did really well. It's a stupid, weekend job, but as I've said in previous posts, I take pride in my work and like when everything goes to plan, and the customers are satisfied.

That evening I went out for a few cocktails with two of my buds. Together we made up 3 of the 4 Horsemen. The fourth had to close the restaurant he manages. I know it sounds nerdy, but we have always called ourselves the 4 Horsemen, because we hit it off so much when we go out, and it has a nice ring to it. It seems that it's tough to get all of us together, and even tougher to get all of us together AND single. Currently, the guy that didn't make it is engaged, one guy is headed that way, one of them is really excited about a girl he's been talking to, and one of them is me. Our favorite bar, The Liar's Club, had a small crowd on the day before Christmas Eve, since many Chicagoans had already packed up and went home to their families. This enabled us to get the table that is elevated five feet in the air, which we found to be a lot of fun, if you can endure the heightened smokiness. With our bird's eye view, oldness, and wise-cracking ability, we likened ourselves to Waldorf and Statler from The Muppet Show.

Our one friend was having a lot of doubt about the idea of marriage. He loves his girl, but he has had A LOT of marriages around him crumble. Through the course of our conversation, it became evident that all 3 of us want kids, but are unsure about wives. Anyway, we decided we will start a Four Horsemen Commune, where the 4 of us will live and help each other raise our children, which we will adopt, etc. It would almost be like a TV's Full House situation, only with one additional uncle, and less vomit-inducing corniness.

Okay, I'm off to see my non-commune family for Christmas. Hope you all have a super holiday!

Sincerely,

The Gancer

These Dreams Go On When I Close My Eyes (A Flipping, 80's, Heart Reference???!!!!)

Don't you hate when someone tells you about a dream he/she had? It's never as interesting to the listener as it is to the dreamer, right? They're always like, "I was at work, but it WASN'T work." Yeah . . . That's fucking creepy! Let me free up my schedule so you can regail with all the boring-ass dreams you've had all WEEK! It's not like they're recommending a movie, and you can go out and rent this dream and see it for yourself. More accurately, it just sucks up a little time of your life you've now had to devote to listening to some meat head talk about crap going on in his subconscious mind, which is stuff HE/SHE needs to figure out, not you.

So . . . I had this dream the other night in which I was working on a campaign for a Black Republican running for a political position of some kind. Let me tell you right now that I HATE most everything Republicans stand for, and I don't think I'll lose any of my seven readers by saying that, and if I do, so be it. Actually, don't go Republican reader! I can get past the fact that you like Republicans, so long as you like what's important: ME.

Anyway, I find myself saying to this politician hopeful, who looks EXACTLY like Lovie Smith, current head coach of the Chicago Bears, "You barely won last election, but this time you're going to win by a LAND SLIDE!" All the while in the dream I'm thinking, 'What in the blazes am I doing here? I don't support anything these people stand for,' yet at no point in the dream did I get up and leave.

IMPLICATIONS: I tend to coast and flounder through life bitching about things, but rarely take an active role in changing matters, especially when it comes to making changes in my OWN life.

Now that I've sufficiently wasted your time, I feel I should make a recommendation, so that you've gotten something for your time.

LISTEN TO: The Misfits - I've been loving Danzig era Misfits stuff so much lately that I wore a Misfits shirt to a Christmas party, just because I got in the mail and was excited to wear it.
WATCH: Best Week Ever on VH1 - It catches you up to speed on all the shows, movies, celebrity gossip, and funny internet stuff for the week.
DRINK: 7 and 7 - I'm having a resurgence in this cocktail.
EAT: Pequod's Pizza in Chicago - They recently classed it up a little with some remodeling, which lost them some favor in my book, but they do still serve up one helluva slice of 'za.