Stop! Twerking Thief!

If you go back a post or two, you'll see that a crack head went poo in a bucket in my backyard and tried to kick my landlord's door in.  And there is video of it.  A really gross video with zero wiping involved.

Mrs. Noisewater and I were just visiting her brother in Brooklyn, and it turns out he too had criminals caught on tape outside his building trying to steal and performing bodily functions - that is if tweaking is in fact a bodily function.



Apparently this duo sat outside the building robbing packages that arrived, and all the while the female thief shook her rump.  And you'll notice she is a tireless twerker.  As one resident noted:

"I'm not exaggerating when I say she did this for an hour...For an entire hour. Rest breaks were had, but she got right back up and dropped it like it was hot, often times on the lap of the man."

Now that's a good team member right there.  Thievery can be quite an ordeal, especially when you're waiting long stretches for the UPS guy.  That's when a quality crime buddy steps up and gives you a lap dance to help pass the time and keep your spirits up.  Hats off to her.

Of course, neither one of us is telling our parents because we don't want them thinking there are insane people everywhere pooing, robbing, and twerking everything they can get their hands and butts on.  But moms and dads, if you're reading, the hoodlums in both scenarios have all been caught.  And I hope the judge orders that their surveillance videos be aired on the hour in the mess hall.  

Top 10 Nudey Scenes of All Time Is Complete!

At long last, Crom and myself are ready to present to you the Top 10 Nudey Scenes of All Time list.

First off, Crom and myself each brought to the table our own lists.  We each discussed what we liked about the scenes and our memories of them.

10. Dr. Ken: Hale Barry in “Monsters Ball”

      Crom: Accidental Call Girl in “Demolition Man.”

9. Dr. Ken: Jane Fonda in “Barbarella”

    Crom: Cindy Morgan in “Caddyshack.”

8. Dr. Ken: Joyce Hyser in “Just One of the Guys”

    Crom: Brooke Shields in “Blue Lagoon”

7. Dr. Ken: Shower Woman and Rodney Dangerfield in "Back To School"

    Crom: 3 Boob Woman in “Total Recall”

6. Dr. Ken: Rosie Perez in “White Men Can’t Jump.”  

    Crom: Linda Kolazowski in “Crocodile Dundee"

5. Dr. Ken: Phoebe Cates in "Fast Times."  

    Crom: Duck Boobs in “Howard the Duck.”

4. Dr. Ken: 'We Have Bush!' from "Revenge of the Nerds"

    Crom: A bunch of ladies in “Porky’s” 

3. Dr. Ken: Rosario Dawson in  “Alexander” 

    Crom: Cartoon Boobies in "Heavy Metal"

2. Dr. Ken: "The Godfather" Michael's first time with Sicily wife.

    Crom: Topless Random Woman in “Airplane.”

1. Dr. Ken: Heather Graham as Roller Girl in "Boogie Nights"

    Crom: Phoebe Cates in "Fast Times At Ridgemont High."

You can watch and listen to us discuss each of our personal top tens here and here.  

We then compiled our master list by discussing which we collectively thought were the best.  There were also some late arrivals that weren't in either of our lists.  

And now, behold, the Best Nudey Scenes of All Time!  Hats off to Crom for putting the graphics and pictures together right on cue.  

Or if you don't have the patience for pretty awesome podcasts, here's final list:

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

10. "The Godfather" Michael's first time with Sicily wife.

9. Cindy Morgan in “Caddyshack.”

8. Cartoon Boobies in "Heavy Metal"

7. Jane Fonda in “Barbarella”

6. A bunch of ladies in “Porky’s” 

5. Topless Random Woman in “Airplane.”

4. Mud Wrestlers and John Candy in "Stripes."

3. We Have Bush!' from "Revenge of the Nerds"

2. Phoebe Cates in "Fast Times."

1. Heather Graham as Roller Girl in "Boogie Nights"

Below is a video of a crack head going poo in a bucket in my backyard and trying to break into my landlord's house.

(Notice the lack of wiping? Maybe all he was going to take if he broke in was some toilet paper . . .)

Mrs. Noisewater found the video on some guy's blog (not mine).  My landlord is a part time cop and has cameras everywhere, so he posted this video up on a crime watch site.  It quickly went viral.  Suddenly the Chicago Police Department wanted to find this guy.  Turns out he lives in Elgin, Illinois, and although CPD couldn't locate him, my landlord made a few calls and he was brought in.  Turns out that because of his now famous "shitty" break in attempt video, he was identified by someone else a few blocks down who chased him out of his apartment that poopy-pants broke into weeks earlier.  Evidently this guy comes out to the city for concerts, gets horribly drunk and full of crack, and starts breaking into apartments.

You want to know what's really weird?  We had a big BBQ in the very courtyard pictured in that video.  I remember that white bucket next to me while I was manning the grill.  When I left for work this morning, I noticed the bucket was gone.  No sense in washing that one out once someone has taken a crack-dump in it, right?

Because I'm such a clever pain in the ass, I wrote a little joke in the memo section.  My landlord is a good dude, so I think he will appreciate it.  It read:

#oneguyonebucket.com

I like Pretty Woman.  I'm ready to admit it.  If you have been with me for a long, long time then you know that I also like "Flashdance."  I guess that both are 80's, or 80's'ish, films about working class gals getting with rich, good-looking dudes.  They are both far-fetched for sure.  One is a smoking-hot steel worker who is looking for her shot as a dancer.  The other is a street-walking hooker who lands a business mogul for a few weeks.

These are both stupid movies.

But I can't turn them off.

The women are both unbelievably hot and both have long curly hair.  I like that.  And both movies kind of suck in terms of dialogue, plot, and most everything that makes a movie good.

Yet, somehow both movies are good.

So, do you like either of these movies or both, Seven Readers?

Okay, boys and girls.  I got a few topics in the memo thingy on my phone to talk to you all about.  Should be funny.  Here goes.

1. I used to get my haircuts at a place in Roscoe Village in Chicago that had a punk rock vibe, and I think you had to have at least a half dozen tattoos to work there.  When the gal working on me asked what I was doing I told her that I was helping a friend with dry wall in his condo.  She got excited about this and asked if I could help her out at her place.  Evidently her baby-daddy got pissed at her and punched a hole in the wall.  She seemed a little crazy, and by the sound of it, baby daddy was equally crazy and twice as violent.  Going over to her place sounded like sure fire way for Doctor Ken to a hole punched in his head, so I made an excuse to decline the offer.  I actually damn near leapt out of the chair with my hair half cut.

Dry Wall Punch: Makes You Feel Better.

2. I met up with my buddy's uncle last night.  I call him my uncle too.  He was nine or ten Schlitz deep as he was telling me that his work is trying to eliminate his position and trying to find a way to let him go.  Which might not be hard because apparently he called his boss an idiot.  Actually, it was his boss's boss, which sounds worse to me.  They sent him to the human resources guy who had his hair parted and draping high off of his head, spritzed down with aqua net, and when he talked his hair bounced around merily.  The HR guy said that it seemed as if Not-Uncle had a hard time looking him in the eye, and he inquired if maybe he had a hard time looking other coworkers in the eye, and he had to fight telling him that it was due to Not-Uncle being unable to take his eye off of HR guy's horrible parted hair bouncing around.  Had he knocked back one or two of those Schlitz at work, I'm quite sure he would have told him as much.  Not-Uncle is one of the funniest humans on planet earth.

Spray that part down and just watch it bounce!

3. I was at the doctor today because work has been stressful and making me break out with cole sores lately.  I guess it's herpes but not dick-herpes, thankfully.  But I don't want to give Mrs. Noisewater the gift that keeps on giving down in her nether regions the next time I decide to pay a visit to her . . .  Anyway, figured it's a good idea to get some good medication.  So the doctor is describing how people get it, and she says "You know, you might get it as a kid when an uncle kisses you and . . ."  I laughed my ass off and said, "What in the hell?!"  What crazy disease infested uncle is kissing his nephews on the lips?  I think she might want to rethink the vignettes she uses to illustrate these types of ailments.

"Come here and give your Uncle Rico a kiss."

4. Then when I'm walking home from the doctor, still mulling over the doctor's pervert uncle stories, I see a guy fighting with his girlfriend with his hands on his head and looking like he would rather be anywhere but on that corner right then.  More like she was fighting and he was just staring helplessly off in space.  A block later I saw another couple in the same scenario.  So I started singing "Run To the Hills" by Iron Maiden, as if to say run for the hills, young man!  I think this is a good idea to help out my fellow man.  Try this out some time, readers.

Enjoy your day and thanks for reading.

Mergasm

I had a boner dream the other night.  It wasn't a full on wet dream because I'm too old for those.  I would wager those rear their messy heads somewhere between once every four or five years these days.  A boner dream falls short of those.  It's one where you're on the verge of eruption when you wake up.  Hell, those only seem to cum (come) around once a year or so now that I think about it.

My morning was 10% as sexy as this.

Now, I don't really have a problem with a stiff wake up call on a Thursday morning, but what I do take issue with is that what was happening in the dream was simply me having a wank in my apartment.  Is that the best my brain's run down dream factory could come up with?  Dreams can do anything they want - they can fly me to Jupiter - but what am I doing?  Pulling myself off with my pants around my ankles in my dusty Chicago apartment.  The foreman at my dream factory needs to be fired.

A dream factory within a perfect mind could have had me at a fashion show where the supermodels would walk down the catwalk, backstage to me on a bearskin rug where I'm naked and smoking a pipe, she does the nasty with Doctor Ken, puts on a new outfit and parades back to the catwalk, just in time for a new one come to come backstage, and so forth.  And that's just off the top of my head!

"Take a quick bow and hurry back to the bearskin rug."

As a matter of fact, my boner dream could have taken me to a mythical land of insatiable creatures.  Dr. Ken could have been lying happily in a forest with ferries fluttering around his face, landing gently on his face, when a mermaid comes by.  Or a unicorn.  Hell, make it a winged mermaid princes with a big glowing horn jutting out of her head like a unicorn.  Somehow she rocks that horn; She owns it and makes it sexy.  She saunters over to me horny as hell, tells all the little ferries to piss off, mounts me, grinds away, and her wings are flapping in ecstasy.  Soon she is getting worked up enough to make her horn glow bright red and offers to do crazy horn penetration with me, but I politely tell her I'm not quite ready to take that plunge with her.  But maybe when I get to know her better.

This was the afternoon the woman of my dreams was conceived.

After hours and hours she finally has a powerful mergasm (which everyone knows is a mermaid orgasm) which blasts fairy dust in a 100 yard radius, knocking back the trees within the first few feet of her and making anything in its vicinity hornier than hell.  Which happens to be a centaur named Bill who trots over and pulls "the cable guy" in a porno movie on me, asking if he can join the party.  Mer-Pegasus-Unicorn lady is totally into it, but I'm not a three way dude.  Even if I were, two guys and a girl is not for me, so me and a centaur is totally out of the question - and to be honest a little intimidating.  So I excuse myself and step away to sulk under a tree, pouting about my slutty mythical beast woman who has left me for a giant horse-man.

How can I be expected to compete with this guy?

When they finish up, I thought I had gotten far enough away to get out of the range of her mergasm blast, but Bill made her fire out fairy dust twice as far.  That damn dust works its magic on me, and even though I hate myself by this point, I can't help masturbating.  And there I am tugging away with the stupid little fairies buzzing around laughing at me, and I'm whipping rocks at them, crying, and yelling at them to go away.  And that's where my boner dream would pick up, skipping all that awesome stuff you read about a minute ago . . .

Betting On Cow Poop. Because Why Not? That's Why.

I was out with a buddy the other night who says that at the small college he attended in California they apparently bet on cow poop.  My understanding is they send a cow out onto a field, and people bet money on which square foot of land the cow will choose to shit on.  So, it's kind of like craps.  No, it's more like roulette in format, but it does involve crap.

But hold on.  I got lots of questions.

     1. Could you bet on two to four squares that the cow could crap on at once, seeing as cow pies can be quite big.

     2. Do you think all the people hollering at the cow could make her clam up and tighten up her sphincter, thus messing up the game?

     3. Would if the cow releases all of its payload before it is sent out into the betting field?

     4. What is this game called?

     5. Do you think they put a little visor on the cow like a roulette dealer?  Because that would be adorable.

Unfortunately I haven't had any of these questions answered due to my buddy's only vague recollections of this practice and there seemingly being nothing about it on the internet.  Please let me know in the comments section if you know anything about this.

Also, below is the second installment of the best naked scenes in movie history podcast list that myself and Crom compiled.  We really upped the video production for this one, since we learned more what the hell we're doing.

So, poop and boobs today.  In that order.

Best Nude Scenes Ever #10 through 7

In this first installment, Crom and myself discuss our personal top ten lists, numbers 10 through 7.  Stay tuned to when we finish out lists and come up with a master nudie list.  This is important stuff, people . . .

A couple quick things . . .

1. There was a time where I really did think I would be a published writer of some kind.  As I get older, the creative juices don't flow like they used to.  I wish I could bottle up whatever manic crazy energy I had back then and use it for a couple hours a day.  Just a couple.  Not all day long because I might have been out of my mind back then.  

2. Want to know what I'm doing these days?  Still podcasts that hardly anyone listens to.  And the topic of the latest one?  The best nude scenes in film history.  Yeah, still stuff like that.  But who cares.  As long as I stay busy.  Tonight my good friend, Crom, is coming by to edit the podcast and fix up some snags we have hit along the way.  Look for an installment to come out really soon.  

3. Oh, here's a funny story.  I'm lying down on my stomach the other day (editing the boobie podcast), and Mrs. Noisewater says, "Ooh, I think that's a spider vein on your leg.  Does anyone in your family get those?"  I sullenly reported that my dad gets them, along with varicose veins, and hemorrhoids.  To cheer myself up I said, "But can we call them spidey veins?  It's cuter."  That got a laugh.  That's all I need are laughs from friends, loved ones, and you fine folks . . .

On Ice Buckets

Like most of us, I'm really tired of people dumping ice on themselves to raise money for ALS research. Curing diseases is a good thing.  Yes.  But when your Facebok feed is full of people dumping ice water on themselves, it just gets a little old after a while.  Also, I had been in saying that this trend praying on people's addiction to filming selfies and obsessing over social media.  It is kind of genius, actually.  But I had made up my mind that if I got "challenged," I would just give the money and not make it all about myself with me on my porch being an idiot with some cold water.  Also, I'm really cynical, and I can't help but think that with all the insane amounts of money being raised, someone is going to get greedy and pocket some of it.  I have seen too many famous charity events that turned out to be later the victims of someone having sticky fingers.  So, I decided I'm out if anyone asks me to do this crap.

Then I got asked by a good friend who I play volleyball with all the time.  He is a terrific dude.  I remember when ladies would ask if I had any single friends, he was just about the only guy I could say was a friend who is single and a decent human being.  That being said, he does have a fatal flaw: he is always late.  Having 24 hours to complete the challenge, he waited until the last hour possible.  He didn't bother to check the framing of the shot, so his head is cut out of it.  Also, It was dark outside, and I guess he didn't have the means to light up his back porch enough, so he dumps the water on himself just outside his screen door, getting water all over the carpet.  It cracked me up, and it made me love the guy even more.

I think it would have been easy to say no to a lot of friends, but with him I was put in a bind.  However, Mrs. Noisewater's parents were coming in town, and I had to hang out with them through out the whole next day while Mrs. Noisewater was at work.  They're great people, and I really couldn't see myself saying, okay, you guys hang tight for a moment while I buy some ice to dump some cold water all over myself because someone dared me to do it.  Or even worse, "Why don't you guys help me film myself dumping water on myself while you visit your daughter and her idiot boyfriend in Chicago."  Believe it or not, I worked out all the details and found a way to get it all done on my own, under the deadline, but ultimately I just decided to give the money away and skip the ice bucket challenge.

How about you, readers?  Answer one or a few of these questions:
Have you been challenged, and have you completed it?  Or have you even heard of this thing?  Do you think social media fundraising challenges will be a trend, given the success of this movement, and what do you think about that?  

Doctor Kenny-o Euro Gigalo

Mrs Noisewater and I are headed to Dublin, Oslo, Bergen, and Stockholm in that order. I'm typing this blog post on my phone and just learned that the auto correct for Noisewater is nauseated. That is merely a sidebar.

I likely won't be updating until I return on the 11th. Who knows, I may be ambitious and keep my travel log on the ol' blog, but if you have been following me at all, then you know that I will do more boozing than writing.

In case this is the last you hear from me until my return, go ahead and leave a comment on another recent post and I will comment on them all when I get back.

Okay, blog buddies. Talk to you soon!

Top Secret Coaches For the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights

The fantasy football league that I'm in is 10% so that I can get excited about meaningless plays by random players in insignificant games and 90% to stay in touch with high school friends who all have kids and live in the suburbs.  I rarely hear from some of them, if at all, outside of the emails and message board from the league.  So that's why I do it.

Sometimes people get mad when I won't join their leagues, and I have to explain to them that I hate running the one team, so why on earth would I want to run another?  If this were a bunch of guys from the office and not my good buddies from high school, I would have bowed out a long time ago.

But today I had a stroke of genius: I will make my nephews run my team this season!  This makes perfect sense because . . .

A) During football season it's all I hear these two guys talk about, so they obviously enjoy it more than me.

B) It's a good way to text my nephews and stay in touch with them because sometimes two months or more will go by without me hearing from them.  If we win the whole thing, I'll split the money with them.  And win or lose I'll take them out to some cool arcade place out by where they live that they have been asking me to take them to.  

C) I'm 100% sure they will do a better job at it than me.

(It's finally the year for the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights!)

I told the two of them that they have to switch off weeks managing the team, so when Monday comes around the new manager steps in, and the previous manager can't say anything about any moves being made while he is out - he just has to wait to the following week to see what kind of team he has left after trades and add/drops have been made.  I decided this would be better than a simultaneous managing deal because that would undoubtably lead to the two of them calling each other idiots, getting each other in headlocks, and holding each other down and farting on one another.  And if I'm causing more headaches for my sister who is already working full time as a lawyer, raising three boys, and dealing with a shit-heal ex-husband, then the whole project will be a disaster in my eyes.

Another rule is they can't read the message boards with my friends in the league saying disgusting things.  Okay, so they will end up reading once I've told them not to because they will know some profane stuff will be on there, but they can't under any circumstances tell their mother about any of the jokes they've read.

Keeping it a secret is another trick all together.  There is only one person I can think of who might still check in on this blog on occasion who might come in contact with people in the league, so James Douglas Morrison (JDM), if you're reading this, please keep my Boy Genius plot top secret.

I contacted the two boys this afternoon via text, and the 16-year-old said yes right away.  The seventh grader sent a text back saying, "Sure.  Sounds fun."  Then another text moments later saying "Wait, who is this?"  It's all the more encouraging that he likes this fantasy crap so much that he agreed to do it without even knowing who it is!

This is going to be a fantastic season.  While I'm drinking a cold one on a Sunday game day, I'll be able to text the boys about our players that are kicking butt - and never sending negative stuff because as the prudent team owner, I know that would be bad for my coaches' morale.

Also, for no good tricking reason, here's a picture of Alien playing Predator in a friendly game of pool.

(Pretty sure Alien is drunk because he is drooling.  And the drool is probably acid.  Which will burn its way into the apartment below the bar.)

B-4 and After the Lesbian Proposition

I went to a Cubs game the other night with my buddy, Dangerous, and he and I went to a great little cozy bar called the Burwood Tap for a few night caps.  It was Bingo night, which sounds stupid and an activity meant for folks 40 years our senior, but in reality it was great fun.  For some reason Dangerous knew all the corny jokes to yell out.  For instance, if B-4 is called, you just have to say "and after!" And when it's time for B-9, you gotta say "or malignant!"  So stupid, but funny as hell when you're as drunk as we were.

Me thinks their sign needs a comma, but I love them nonetheless. 

But here's where things get interesting.

After Bingo, an attractive woman I hadn't said one word to walks right up to me, hands me a piece of paper with her name and her number written on it and says "I can't talk to you right now because I'm kind of on a date, but call me."  Then she walks away back to her table, and her date comes out of the bathroom.  And her date is another woman.  I watched the two of them leave shortly after that, and through the window I saw them across the street both stretching their hamstrings.  What sort of insane lesbian sex acts did they have in store for the night that required stretching out their leg muscles?  And did one of them want me to be a part of said acts?

"That's it!  Breathe on my back!  And don't ever talk to a Bingo dork again!"

I'm in a committed relationship with the greatest gal I've ever known, so I discarded her number.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  I tried to get it out of my pocket as proof to some guys at the bar that it actually happened (or prove to myself that I hadn't imagined it), but I had already lost it.  I'm the least organized person I know.

When I woke up the next day with a clear head, I had decided that it couldn't be that she was totally taken with my rugged good looks and my command of the Bingo stamper.  What was going on was one of these three scenarios:

A) She was on a date with a woman who exposed all women to be what she was growing tired of, and she decided right then and there that she needed to mix things up with a fella.  And I was nothing special but the nearest halfway decent looking man with a functional wang.

B) Her date was her girlfriend and she wanted to start a fight with her by coming on to someone that would piss her off the most: a man.  Had I taken that bait, I would be in store for an epic cat fight with me in the middle and being crushed to death between their super-strong stretched out thighs.

C) She wanted me to be part of a an epic three-way sex romp that would go all night and I would have to ice my genitals all the next day.

I have actually ruled out choice C.

Then Dangerous is taking pictures of some people he happened to know in the bar, and he says "hold on, that great big tall girl was right in the way of that shot."  And the girl got all sad about it.  Then he spent the better part of an hour consoling tall girl and trying to convince her that she is pretty.  She went on-and-on about how she has a low self concept.  I had no idea what they were talking about, so I walked over there and said "Wow, you're tall!  Do you play volleyball?  Stand up for a second and put your arms up.  You would be terrific at the middle-block position!"  I think that set Dangerous back an extra twenty minutes on his quest to make her less self conscious about her height.

We're going to need a bigger lens to make this shot work.  That or shorter trees.

So that's it.  Anyone have any thoughts about the lesbian proposition or the poor tall gal with low self-esteem?  

Remembering Tiamat

I was tired at work the other day and said to myself "Man, I am draggin' like Tiamat." Tiamat is the only dragon I could think of at the time, although Smaug is one more people would know given the popularity of "Lord of the Rings."  Still, I like to let my inner nerd shine by referencing the Dungeons & Dragons mythical beast and one of the stars of the 1980's Saturday morning cartoon series.

Also, Tiamat represents a dark day in my past when I was around 8-years-old and snuck down to the Christmas tree before my parents woke up to find that I had the toy Tiamat, the five-headed dragon!  I yelled "Tiamat!" and my sister, my partner in crime that morning, told me to keep my voice down.  All that hard work my parents went through assembling those toys and laying them out, and they didn't get to see my genuine reaction.  When we got back out of bed to open gifts as a family, I had to fake the surprise of seeing Ms. Tiamat under the tree and scream her name a second time and fain the same level of enthusiasm.  All five heads appeared to be shaking their heads in their disapproval of my treachery and disappointment in my lackluster acting performance to conceal it.

I damn near just ordered this shirt. 

I played fricking Dungeons & Dragons as a kid.  I'll admit it.  It's cool to like knights and dragons again, I suppose, with the popularity of Game of Thrones now, but all you have to do there is flip on the television and talk about it at work on Monday.  D & D was a big commitment.  But I didn't mind rolling dice, reading all the rules, getting out the graph paper, and creating a character with all his/her attributes.  I'll admit it.  And I still remember all five heads that Tiamat had, the color of dragons, their breath weapons, and the order of how strong they were from strongest to weakest.  Observe:

1. Red: Fire.
2. Blue: Lightning.
3. Green: Poison Gas.
4. Black: Acid.
5. White: Ice Blast.

Shit.  I think I mixed up a few.  My nerd powers are waning over the years.

I always wonder what the stomachs were like for those green and black dragons to be able to belch up acid and poison gas.  What must their farts smell like?  Actually, in the case of Tiamat, all five heads shared the same body, as well as the same dragon butthole.  Do you think she could turn around and blast out all five breath weapons at once out of her butt?  How many hit points of damage would that do?

(Notice he tucks in his legs to avoid injury?  This isn't his first rocket blast fart joy ride.)

And this free association random-ass blog post has led us to . . . dragon farts.  Why not?

The other night I was at the bar and got talking to one of those guys with a curly-cue mustache.  The Rollie Fingers mustache, if you will.

"Top 10?  More like Top 1."

I asked him how long it takes him to do that in the morning, and it sounds like quite an ordeal, styling it and spraying it down and all.  And if he doesn't do anything, then it looks like a Fu Manchu.

"I may not have the curls, but can you guess where this pinky thingy goes?"

He went on to tell me that he won 2nd place in his category in a facial hair contest.  My first question was what the name of that category was (because it really should be the Rollie Fingers Category).  He said it was "Freestyle Mustache."  Oh.  I then asked how many were in his category, and he said there were only three.  I let him know that he also placed 2nd-to-last.  I was buzzed a little and speaking freely . . .

But also I just hate hipsters with stupid facial hair, piercings, and just dumb stuff like that in general.  You're not a turn of the century boxer.  You work for Whole Food, or whatever, and when you're late for work and don't have time to style your 'stache, your coworkers call you Fu Manchu Fuck Face.  And when you're primped up beautifully, they call you Old Boxing Photograph Fuck Face.

Fight?  I thought we agreed to a Mustache Contest?

Not all styles are coming back en vogue or are somehow ironically cool.  When does it stop?  Do you want to throw on a powdered wig and be all 1700's?  Probably if a true hipster saw people wearing the wigs, he would get really pissed and go back to a look from 50,000 years ago and just throw on a loin cloth and go to the bar and sip his Pabst Blue Ribbon.

So I guess the conversation with the weirdo from the bar was still in my head because yesterday I'm driving in the car, I'm a little lost and crabby, a hipster with a terrible old-timey mustache is crossing the street and I find myself yelling "Fuck that guy!"  He wasn't doing anything wrong - just crossing the street like everyone else.  I just couldn't take it any more.  I actually caught myself off guard with my sudden outburst.

Am I out of line here, or has the hipster thing worn thin with anyone else?

This has got to be the longest time I have gone without updating my blog, and I apologize.  Here are some updates . . .

Mrs. Noisewater and I finally moved out of our tiny apartment where our bedroom window faced the alley of decadence and a Chicago life of excess.  Just about every night we would hear a couple getting ready to get it on, some people doing cocaine, a fight breaking out, but usually just people being loud and drunk.  I really knew it was time to go when I saw the aftermath of what I could only assume was a hobo orgy.  This is an actual picture that I took:

Aren't you glad the bums are being safe?

So now I'm back in Lakeview, my favorite neighborhood where I lived for around 7 years before the party-alley-place.  But back then I had 4 roommates.  Now I just have one, and she's the best roommate ever.  Does it bother me that Mrs. Noisewater is more handy than me and is painting, hanging up shelves, and using power tools that I don't know how to operate?  A little.  But I'm in charge of . . . the record player.  And that's important stuff.

Our landlord is a Chicago cop part time, and despite the fact that he looks precisely like Vic Mackey from "The Shield," he is actually a really nice guy.  He doesn't want us grilling on the balcony because he doesn't want us burning the place down, so he lets us use the grill and smoker in the courtyard and even buys and replaces the propane tank for us.  Now that's a hell of a deal.

"Don't beat a confession out of me!  That was me playing Captain and Tennille on my record player last night.  And singing along."

Our downstairs neighbor is an elderly four and a half foot tall Japanese woman who has been living in the building for forty years, and when she moved in her rent was sixty bucks a month.  Very sweet woman, but a bit of a hoarder.  She has filled up the basement with years and years of useless crap.  She was telling me one day when I was doing laundry down there that sometimes she buys two of something because she forgets she already had one.  Probably because it was buried under other stuff.  Landlord Vic Mackey has given her until the 15th of this month to have all that stuff moved out of there.  She will often offer us something, and usually we say no.  But sometimes we will take something just to make her feel that some of those objects have a home.  I fill a thermos of hers up with Gatorade all the time and tried to tell her I was using it, but her English isn't very good.  I have been thinking about taking some things that she offers and just throwing it out for her - a few dumpsters away so that she doesn't see that I tossed it.  That way she's happy and I'm helping her clear the joint out, right?

Hope you're enjoying your summer as much as I am, readers!  

Zeptual Healing

I got bad news from my best buddy (Heterosexual Life Partner) the other day that his Uncle Bill is in critical condition after a serious accident.  He was loading his truck for work and either fell or had a seizure, and the end result was a stroke that has left him incapacitated.  He can now only move his left arm and toes.  If his condition doesn't improve by next week his kids will have to decide whether or not to pull him off life support.  His youngest just graduated high school.

The first time I met Uncle Bill we were at a gathering in a backyard with "Dazed and Confused" projected onto the garage.  Bill, myself, and some others were talking through the whole thing, which I think bothered some folks, but the fact is I've seen it twenty times and Bill lived it.  I have always loved rock music from the 1970's, and Bill is that guy who saw every awesome band from that era.  So, when you put the two of us together, you're going to have long discussions about rock music that go about like this:

     Dr. Ken: "Did you see Pink Floyd?"

     Bill: "Yup.  On the 'Dark Side' and the 'Animals' Tour."

     Dr. Ken: "No way!  How about (insert legendary rock band here)?"

     Bill: "Sure did.  Saw them on the (insert seminal work of given artist here) tour.

Another time I saw him he was fresh off a divorce and dancing his face off at The Liars Club, the best bar on planet earth.  The dude is always smiling and just always fun to be around.  When my buddy told me the news about him, I was devastated.  I asked if there is anything I can do, and knowing that I'm not a religious man and I don't know shit about praying, my buddy told me to play some Zeppelin for him.  So that's what I'm doing now.  

Hear those opening chords on "Ten Years Gone," go towards (or is it away from?) the light, and pull yourself out of this, Uncle Bill.  Your family needs you, and we all want to see you smiling and dancing again.

So I had this dream last night that my girlfriend and I were desperately trying to screw in this giant grotto style public pool type place, but we kept getting interrupted.  It was as if it had to get done or something bad was going to happen.  And at one point I looked down to see that I had way too much chest hair.  Truth be told, I'm a bit of a hairless mammal, so it was a little scary for me.

In other news, when I went to pick up my contacts today, I dropped into the record store across the street that I usually go to when I see the eye doctor.  They specialize in dance/house type music so their rock collection is very limited.  They play their shitty house music the whole time, and when I was done selecting my $13.10 worth of records, I found myself waiting at the register with no one to ring me up for a couple minutes.  So I peeked into the back room to find three employees hanging out and not working, and I had to interrupt them and ask if someone could actually do two minutes of work and ring up my purchase.

Yup.  That's what your typical record shop in Chicago is like.  They're snobs, they are way over staffed with guys doing nothing, and they suck.  When I did that job, I loved every single shift.  It was the best job in the world - listening to music all day and talking about it all day.  Real jobs are hard, and that's what they need to realize.  The record shop gig is fun and really, really easy, but you do have to staff one of the three guys to be not in the back room so that they can spot when a customer is trying to spend money in the shop.  That's one of the only rules.

Okay.  I gotta go spin my $13.10 of music that was well spent, even if the proprietors didn't make it easy for me to spend it.

My lady and I were at brunch the other day, and I looked up at her to see that her eyes were watering and she looked like she might be having a stroke.  She said the hot sauce was way, way too hot.  She started coughing and sweating, and I was getting a little worried.  I tried just a dab of the stuff, and yes, it was the hottest damn stuff ever.

The hot sauce came in a little metal dish, like the ones you get ketchup in.  It came with no explanation of what it was and how hot it was.  There was only one explanation: It must have been the infamous ghost pepper.

(I guess we should have suspected something when we saw this guy go back into the kitchen)

The waiter, in between apologies and delivering milk to her, said that it was, in fact, ghost pepper hot sauce.  Apparently some customers complained that the hot sauce was hot enough.  So the solution was to get the hottest stuff in the free world and hand it off to customers with no warning?  Seems like they could have dialed up the hotness slightly to make some people happy instead of waging secretive chemical warfare upon all the rest of their patrons.

What do you think?

Jackson, Home of Two Oblivious Racists

Mrs. Noisewater just got back from a business trip in Jackson, Mississippi and encountered two of the most oblivious racist comments of all time.  She is half Asian, by the way, and apparently they don't often encounter races other than African American and Caucasian.  So you get these sorts of things . . .

#1

While at a restaurant, a man she didn't even know walked up to her table to ask her what other language besides English that she spoke.  When she replied that English was the only language she was fluent in, the man was shocked.  What a crazy assumption.  I would have responded "Klingon," and then spouted off some angry grunts.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/sJhPa4lMLDo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(I was searching for Klingon youtubes, and while there were plenty that made a lot more sense, I had to go with this one because of the pretty girl.  It takes all the way until 3:25 to get to the Klingon part, but good god. she is hot.  Anyway . . .)

#2

Then Mrs. Noisewater is at a meeting in Jackson, and on the way out she drops a pen.  When she bends down to get it a guy actually said, "Oh, I thought you were bowing."  I laughed my damn ass off when she told me that one.

<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yAHKqtsGZLU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(Now, are these fellas bowing or looking for their pens?)

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?

I work with this woman who I'm not too crazy about, and the more she goes on and on at meetings, the more crazy I start going.  In about three consecutive meetings she has said "strag-e-dies" instead of strategies.  I was screaming inside my head, mad as hell that someone could get over 40-years-old in a professional setting still saying a word that horribly incorrect.  Then "Tragedy" by Bee Gees popped in my head for reasons I at first didn't know, but then I laughed having realized that I was singing "Stragedy!"

Songs pop in my head all the time and crack me up.  There are people I see every day who have no idea that they have their very own theme song playing in my head when they walk in the room.  And it's a good trick that I recommend to keep you from getting too serious and angry at work.  Just assign that awful person a funny song and get through that meeting, humming and laughing to yourself like a crazy person.

Set Your Blasters To . . . Fun!

I was in a cab on my way to meet some friends at a bar and chatting with my cab driver.  He was lamenting about there being no laser tag in Chicago.  Yes, a grown-ass man who is dying for some laser tag.  They have them in the suburbs because there are more kids out there, but I was telling him that if they had one in Chicago proper, it would need two things.

The sport of laser tag is perfectly integrated.  

1. Booze.  The thing about Chicagoans is that most any activity when coupled with alcohol suddenly becomes doable.  They have a place not far from me where you can learn how to paint, and it's always packed.  You know why?  Because you can bring your own wine, set it next to your easel, and paint happy, drunk trees.

2. It would need a fun gimmick of some kind, and I'm thinking "Star Wars."  Who wouldn't want to play Rebels against The Empire and dress as a bunch of storm troopers and Vader against Han, Luke, and Leia?  And Chewbacca!  Who among you would not put on a hairy wookie outfit, strap on a crossbow, and run around the halls of the Death Star, howling and shooting storm troopers in the face and balls?  And the bar in there could be the Mos Eisley Spaceport Bar!  A guy could drink blue stuff and cut off arms all night long in a place like that.

I swear to God, Greedo.  I will shoot you right in the green penis.

 The cab driver said that was a great idea and asked if I was in marketing.  "No."  I replied.  "I'm just a drunk who knows how to have a good time."