Beer is for Closers

I'm giving up drinking until I make a commission by placing one of these asshole VP's with a job in advertising at my job. The people at my work say all the time that "pain is the greatest motivator known to mankind," and let me tell you, being in Chicago the night the Cubs clinch a playoff spot and NOT being able to drink is damn painful, and, with any luck, one heck of a motivator. My willpower once I start drinking is horrible, in that as long as people are willing and able, I'll keep sucking them back. However, my willpower has always been strong once I'm fully committed to something. Here are some fine examples which illustrate this very point.

1. Earlier this year, my doctor told me that that my "good cholesterol" was good, but my "bad cholesterol" was a touch bad. Nothing to worry about, but just a little high. I freaked. "What do I do, doc!" I replied in a frantic state. "Well," he said calmly, and a little annoyed with my frantic state "just cut back on fried foods a little." I haven't had a fried food since. Not a french fry, not a tater-tot, and nary an Arby's curly fry dipped in Horsey sauce.

2. Going back a little further. My mom told me that I had a bit of a thumb sucking problem as a kid, which came as no surprise for me to hear, as I'm a bit of an oral fixator. It was a habit she could not break me of until my dentist told me that if I continued suckling on my fattest of digits my teeth would stick out like "Bugs Bunny." My thumb-sucking days were over that very afternoon.

3. Going back even further, I was 16 in that last story, when my mom was trying to potty train me, I was not hearing it. When she'd ask if I was going to go in the potty that day, I'd say, "Not today." I've always been a bit of a procrastinator, and a brilliant one, in that I wasn't being defiant, just putting it off a little, just trying to buy myself a few more glorious days of shitting in my pants. One day when the whole family was getting ready to go to the public pool, my favorite place in the world to shit my pants, and my mom, in a stroke of genius, said, "You can't go, little Gancer, unless you go in the potty first." And I've been going in the potty ever since, unless the situation calls for other more creative endeavors, like writing my name in the snow or pooping off a high dive at that very, same public pool. Ironic? No, but a good poop story.

So, as you can see from these stories dating back to when I was potty trained, at age seven, once I set my mind to something I'm damned determined. I kind of wish I wasn't though, because going to bars when you're sober, with millions of drunken Cub fans, is damn irritating. Here are some things I discovered:

1. Bars are smoky. It's like I'm immune to it when I'm schnockered, but when I'm sober I'm so annoyed and disgusted. Believe me when I say I don't like being the guy annoyed with smoke. Even though I only smoke a pack a year, nine times out of ten I prefer smokers to non-smokers, but that's another post for another day.

2. People are obnoxious when they drink. The only worth-while drunken display I saw was a girl, who couldn't dance for shit, trip over her big boots, and fall on her face. A good laugh was had by all. She was crying, but I'm sure she wasn't hurt. The makeup undoubtedly broke the fall. See, that wouldn't be as funny to me if I were drunk, and I probably would have thought she was a damn, fine dancer, but sober Gancer was too observant for his own good and way too crabby.

3. It's hard to pick up girls when you're sober. I don't want to be the stone sober guy picking up on drunk girls, because that's kind of sleazy, so I just kind of stand around thinking of a good time to sneak out.

4. I notice how much my friends and I drink when I'm sober. I feel like their mom when I'm like, "jeez, another round already?" I know full well that if I were drinking too I'd be right along with them, and some nights, maybe worse, and that's the scary part.

5. The crazy thing is that for the first hour or so of barroom sobriety, it's all I can do not to jump over the bar and slam the first three bottles of anything I can grab at random, but then I reach a point where I want no part of what the demon rum makes people become. That rhymed! However, I had better have some success at work soon, because I know these Cubbies are going cause me a great deal of stress, and then when they blow it again, making it officially 100 years since they've won a World Series, I'll need to get properly Schlitzed, and you're all coming out with me, seven readers, to watch my glorious, drunken, tumble off the wagon.

Your turn: Isn't it some sucky-ass shit to be the lone sober person when you go out with your booze-hound friends? Discuss . . .

Raw Jello

I was riding home from work, with my iPod on random, and out of all 7,000 songs that could have popped up on this afternoon, No One is To Blame by Howard Jones Came on. I instantly wanted to eat raw, powdery, sweet, sugary, jello right out of the box.

Let me explain, since anyone who says something that recockulous had better well explain his or herself:

When I was in the 9 to 10 years of age division on my swim team, we'd eat raw sugar during meets, because someone, somewhere along the line must have told us that it gave you energy, which somehow made you swim faster. I was skeptical, since I was a skeptical kid (the Easter Bunny was bullshit to me by the time I was four), but I suspended my disbelief for any excuse to eat a box full of colored sugar. Hell, it would stick to your hands and make your fingers all red, then you'd wipe your face and hands with your towel. Fucking decadent.

Anyway, for whatever reason, my brain has a decades-long, lasting, Pavlovian response to Howard Jones, which makes me want to pour gelatin in powdered form down my throat, which may make me choke and cough a little, but sweet, sweet, sugar-burning, choking coughs. I can't say that I listened to HoJo at swim meets, ate raw jello while listening to his Brit-synth pop stylings, or at any time combined all three elements, but I'll be damned if I didn't want to, the second the song came on, want to pull my piece of shit Camry into the Wallgreens, walk up in that piece, find a box of jello, lick my dirty, little finger, and lick me up some strawberry, jello powder.

How's about you, seven readers? Anyone out there have a knee-jerk response to a song they'd like to share for the other six readers?

The Birf' of a Salesman

Not many of you know this, but I was in the education field for the last few years. Even less of you know this, but I resigned and started recruiting for advertising firms. One day it dawned on me that if I taught all my life, I would die penniless. Plus, I would never be compensated for how hard I worked. In sales type jobs, you do get paid for how hard you work, and while I've been working my tail off, I haven't made squat yet.

People always tell me I'd be good in sales, because I'm funny, personable, likable, and trust-worthy. These are all true, and they do translate well into sales. However, I have some draw-backs that aren't as obvious to everyone, but they are becoming very clear as I get further entrenched into the corporate world. I'm unorganized, scatter-brained, forgetful, and I have bad anxiety.

I'm getting better every day, but there were a few days where I didn't think I could hack it. Have you ever had a job where you felt like an idiot all day at work, and every second outside of work all you can think about is having to go back there?

For example:

Let's say you're a Bearded Lady, and you keep flaking out and shaving every morning.

Or let's say you're a Belly-Dancer, and you keep blowing on your partner's belly.

Or let's say you're a Cannibal, and you keep filling up on roasted chicken with butter sauce.

Or let's say you're a Skin-Head, you strongly dislike The Jews, but you just can't bring yourself to hate them.

On any given day, I feel like any one of those guys above. However, I'm starting to see myself being damn good at some stuff, especially cold calling, which I have to do a lot of until I have more regular clients. The thing about ad people though, is they're a cool bunch. I mean, they're really boss! Sometimes I'll bullshit with them for quite some time, and it seems like a lot of them drink a lot too, which is jolly-good for The Gancer. My plan is to hit a Chicago advertising happy-hour with a shit-ton of business cards, schmooze, and booze.

Just today I met a girl on the phone, and even though I've never seen her, I feel pretty confident saying that she was really, damn hot. I mean, for fuck's sake, she's an account planner in Los Angeles named Nik. Not Nicole, not Nikki, just Nik. We chatted for a while and she emailed me back with a bunch of her friends' names who I could, in-turn, talk out of working wherever they are. She just took a new job, but she's keeping me in mind, and she said, "I think I'm going to like you." That's what I'm talking about. Are any of my blog buddies from L.A., because I smell a business trip in my near future?

Well, here are your questions. Answer one or both of them:

1. Tell me a about a job at which you were useless as tits on a bull.
2. Anyone know anyone in advertising anywhere in the country who may want to make a job change? Email me at www.thegancer@yahoo.com

-The Gancer

Kick to the Nuts

There are four young, attractive pre-med girls living in the unit below mine, and for the last few months, I've been a little bit in love with the Asian one. A month or so back, her and the Chesty One went out with the my fireman roommate and myself. Evidently, Chesty One had a crush on Fireman, so it was like Asian and myself were wing-people. By the end of the night, Chesty was no longer into Fireman, but Asian and I really seemed to hit it off. Because I was just trying to play Goose to my roomy's Maverick, I wasn't even trying very hard, which is probably why I was so money. Wait, Goose and Maverick were in the same plane. I suppose I was the Maverick to his Ice Man. Wait, Maverick was always leaving his wing man, and getting reprimanded for it. Let's just say I was the Wolfman to his Hollywood.* Anyway, I felt like her and I were no doubt enjoying each other's company, but I in no way thought there was much interest in either direction. That is until I found myself thinking about her before I went to bed that night, immediately the next morning, and periodically for the months to come.

Having a thing for your neighbor is a tough spot to be in, because even though I'm almost positive there's some interest on her end, if I'm wrong and go for it, I run the risk of feeling like a nimrod every time I say hello to her while taking out the trash. For this reason, and because we have opposite schedules, I hadn't talked to her in a while, but tonight I texted her to tell her we were going to a bar near our apartment. She called back to tell me they were going to SoPo, and I must have really been digging on her to show my face in that yuppy, guys in striped-shirts, girls in tube-tops shit-hole. When I get in there she's all in my fries. Before long she's grinding upon me like there's a piece of flint on my package and she desperately needs to make a spark.

Then a bunch of dudes these girls know show up, and before long she's dancing with the Big Headed One. He's show-boating by shaking his butt (not well in my estimation), and her dumb-ass is eating it up. After watching her neglect my friend and myself for some time, my BFF and I excuse ourselves, and she doesn't even say, like, "You sure you have to go?" It's just a flippant "thanks for coming," and right back she goes to her fucking, Goodyear Blimp-headed, fuck-stick guy.

BFF and I then went back to his house for one last beer and the last 45 minutes of Swingers. Jeez-Louise that movie is still great! I was enjoying the flick, but then every couple of minutes I'd get pissed about the whole neighbor thing.

Well, I take solace in the fact that she was gladly singing along to an O.A.R. song. They're a poor man's Dave Mathews band, and I don't even like Dave Matthews, which puts them in the destitute range. Any girl with taste that poor couldn't hang with The Gancer long term.

But she is fucking, damn cute. I was replaying the events in my head, and having spurts of anger on my walk home too. You ever get that? You know, where you do crazy shit like smack a stop sign as hard as you can for no acceptable reason? Then I get home and see some dude and one of the neighbors, squatted down, kanoodling on the porch. My heart sank, but a closer look revealed the couple to be not Asian Neighbor, but Chesty Neighbor and Ben (a guy with a cranium size closer to the national average). I know his name because when these girls were still being cool to me tonight (they declared me their favorite neighbor around this time) Chesty asked me to evaluate Ben when he got to the bar. Well, with or without my endorsement, I think Uncle Ben is giving her the San Francisco treat as I type this poorly-written, drunken paragraph. Wait, Rice-A-Roni is the San Francisco treat. Oh well. Fuck it.

Hey, Seven Readers, have you ever had a person of the opposite sex on the horizon, and then suddenly it doesn't work out and you're left with a bleak-ass horizon? Well, my horizon is slightly bleaker, but if she likes O.A.R, chodes like the guy she was dancing with, and being prone to sudden-onset, being overwhelmingly unneighborly, then maybe I'm not missing out on too much.

P.S.: Scary Monster, and I suppose anyone else who read and were too scared/disgusted to comment, was privy to the original, drunker, angrier, more depressed version of this post, because this morning I took out some of the scarier lines and smoothed out the edges.

*If you haven't seen Top Gun a few dozen times like me, then you're going to be more than a little lost during this section.

Songs You Hear at the Bar That You Can't Help But Slur Your Way Through

I know I've posted a lot of popular music oriented pieces in this rag's brief existence, but I'm obsessed with rock music, and you'd rather read a nice, quick list than read my long-winded, depressing rants. So in a sense, we both win. So, here are some of the greatest barroom sing-alongs ever, in no particular order:

- Piano Man by Billy Joel: If you ask me, the line sang the loudest, aside from the chorus, for whatever reason, is ". . . and he's talking with Davy, who's still in the navy, and probably will be for life." What about Davy made the drunken, piano-playing narrator so sure that Davy was destined to be a "lifer" in the Navy? Was this sailor, who was inexplicably a regular at this piano bar, telling anyone who would listen how awesome it is to be a navy man, and how he can't see himself wearing anything but that white hat and the black, scarf thing?

- Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville: Everyone seems to chime in right when he says "Some people claim there's a woman to blame," not unlike everyone sings the word oasis in the chorus of another song that needs to be on this list: Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks. The thing is, while I don't feel I'm missing out on a whole hell of a lot by not owning any of his records, I don't dislike Jimmy. What I do dislike are the majority of his fans, who seem to see his concerts as an excuse to put on a Hawaiian shirt and drink frozen drinks out of the back of their minivans. It's likened to what Chicago White Sox fans hate about stereotypical Cub fans, not true Cub fans like your's truly, who go to games to stack up cups of Old Style, barely even paying attention to the game.

- The word oasis in my last paragraph immediately made me think how just about anyone from Ireland or England's faces light up to sing along with anything by the big-eyebrowed Gallagher brothers in Oasis. If you're ever in a room with more than a few Micks or Limies, just put Don't Look Back in Anger on the jukebox, sit back, and watch them grab each other's shoulders and sing to one another. It's quite a joyous ocasion to behold.

- Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi: It was kind of cool the first seven or eight times I heard this song in the bar, since I really hadn't heard it regularly since I brought in the cassette to be played loudly every Friday in my fifth-grade art class. I also took great pleasure in bringing in tapes that swore, like INXS, Beastie Boys (sort of), and of course, Guns and Roses. I think my teacher was so happy the week was finally over, as art was always on Fridays, to care that Axl was saying, "Turn around bitch I got a use for you. Besides, you ain't got nothin' better to do, and I'm bored." Anyway, I no longer get that joy when I hear Jon Bon. It used to make me long to eat paste again, and while I still kind of do, now when I hear a room full of nimrods sing it, I pray that if I get my hands on some paste, it's as toxic as it is delicious.

- Don't Stop Believing by Journey: This song used to be kind of cool, but then the Chicago White Sox, who I hate by nature, since I'm a lifelong Cub fan, used it for their theme song and effectively ruined it. It always gets people singing, but now 100 years of futility, anger, and jealousy build up to the point where I'd like to beat Steve Perry to death with the mop he so stupidly clung to in the Oh Sherry video.


To Be With You by Mr. Big: This is a song that every girl who was between the ages of 6 and 22 when it came out loves. Secretly, well not so secretly anymore I suppose, I fucking like this song. It makes sense to me that, despite the fact that this one-hit-wonder (although some heralded them as a somewhat of a supergroup?), hair metal band probably sucked, but this song remains well appreciated years later. What I don't get is why the protagonist of the song wants to be next to be with this chick. Was she getting filled out like an application by the whole band, yet he was still pining for her depraved, slutty, STD-ridden ass? Maybe he meant she was getting around, but he actually wanted to be with her. I actually once dated a girl who seemed to have slept with everyone I knew at one time or another, sometimes with my roommate at the time and another girl at once, yet I saw something I liked in her. In the end, it was really hard, ultimately too hard, to get passed the fact that she could pick all of my friends' penises out of a line-up, but for a while, I was the one who wanted to be with her.

- There are a number of rap songs, not limited to, but including Jump Around by House of Pain, Humpty Dance by Digital Underground, It Takes Two by DJ EZ Rock and Rob Base, and Regulators by Warren G (thanks GSR) that make drunks rap to one another. However, the two songs that bring more white people together to rap badly are Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice, a man who inexplicably managed to weasel his penis into a near hey-day Madonna, and Baby Got Back, by apparently knighted Sir Mix-a-Lot. As for the former, I don't think there has ever been a video , aside from anything by Michael Jackson, that spawned more drunken imitations of dance moves, and in Vanilla's case, really spastic, stupid-looking ones. Also, without fail, someone will do a steering wheel motion when he says, "rolling in my five point o." Now the latter, I must say, I'm very sick of. Granted I still like to watch a bunch of girls shake their butts in unison, but what I'm confused about is why women seem to like this this jam so much. Rarely are the women undulating on the dance floor in any way "thick soul sisters," so do they like the idea of a song that celebrates bigg-butted women, even if they themselves have narrow, over-Tae Boed and rollerbladed behinds?

There is also a trend with women and rap music whereby the dirtier, nastier, and more degrading the song is toward women, the more likely a gaggle of them are to sing it loudly and know ever word. I'm not going to type any words to Ain't No Fun by Snoop Dogg or Gimme' Dat Nut by Eazy E, because my mom sometimes glances at my site, but trust me when I say the phraseology is not something you would want to include in your wedding vows. So what does a love affair with slut anthems say about modern women? I like to think that they are trying to break down the double standards involved with female promiscuity by embracing a God-given right to be a freak. Either that or the songs are just damned catchy, and remind them of their slutty, carefree, college days.

Okay, I ended up on too many rants to really have a list worth any merit. That's where you come in, seven readers. What are some songs you notice get the whole bar singing?

P.S.: My crappy computer is out of space on its hard drive, so you'll have to make do without all the awesome pictures I found, including a picture that someone took of an Etch N' Sketch which an artist, and a quite gifted one in my estimation, deftly twisted the knobs around to make a fairly accurate, bust-shot of Eazy E.

P.P.S.: Never mind. I made room for the pictures. In my messed up universe, space for Eazy E Etch N' Sketch pics is way more of a premium than space for Microsoft Word or my resume.

Let's Get Physcial, Bitches.

One of the few things I hate more than cats is working out. Because of this, I get exercise through every type of sports league I can think of, and by riding my bike everywhere, even when it doesn't make any sense to do so. I'm just not a gym guy. Maybe it's the swollen-up, muscley, Neanderthal man grunting and groaning to assure that everyone becomes well aware that he is squatting hundreds of meaningless pounds. Maybe it's watching Johnny Hardass, perhaps the very same Neanderthal man, hit on the fake-breasted, but cute girl at the juice bar. Anyway, today I decided to do some gym-free push-ups and sit ups for two reasons:

1. I recently had an encounter with an old flame, and although the border police were stringent around her 38th Parallel/Mason-Dixon Line, we did end up mostly naked, back at her place. For whatever reason, she felt compelled to tell me that I should do some bench-pressing. That hurt a little bit, but after cycling through the pictures in her camera, I saw the type of guy she prefers in her recently dubbed ex-boyfriend: A totally ripped, cheesy-looking, Chip and Dales(tm) Dancer type. I wish I could say I didn't have this knowledge, but judging by his good-sized, yet unkempt penis area, he could have made a decent living at it. If you saw this dude, you'd know what I mean when I say that all he needs is the bow tie. In any event, I left her crappy, little apartment very ashamed of my lack of chest definition.

2. In a men's health magazine, I saw like seven push-up techniques, and I wanted to try them out, despite the fact that I could only seem to remember the one where you make a diamond out of your hands. Holy mackerel do those make my chest hurt, even now, with each and every keystroke. I also borrowed my neighbor’s ab-roller(tm). Those are a bitch, man! While I was rolling away, I Saw the Light by Todd Rundgren came on, and I remember thinking: "Those killer, bombastic drums bumping give quite an edge to an otherwise, fairly-tradional pop song. Hey, that's one heck of a guitar solo too. I wonder if that's big Todd himself? If memory serves, he raised Liv Tyler as his own daughter, even though it was Steven Tyler who knocked up her groupie mom." My mind went through various tangents like that one, until I realized I had been rolling for far, far too long. My tummy hurts, but not nearly as bad as my back.

Now, if you'll excuse me, me and my sore back and puny, but sore, chest, are going to anoint ourselves in a bathtub full of BenGay.

I Hate Cats . . .

. . . and they hate me. You don't believe me? Allow me to regale you with some tales of asshole cats in my recent asshole cat history:

1. I'm with a buddy in St. Louis, and he says he has to feed his mother's cats before we go out. When we get there, the two cats seemed friendly enough. However, as soon as they were fed, the sons of bitches start hissing at me, and I'm talking hair on their backs standing up, scare your pants off hissing. What a couple of selfish pricks, right?

2. I was dating a girl with a blue, really cool looking cat named, oddly enough, Mr. Blue. He was the biggest cat I ever saw, and I don't mean fat, I mean long. Legally, It is probably the closest she could have been to having a live panther in her house, and he had all the ferocity of a gull-darned panther, well towards me anyway. The little turd of a cat was always darting out from somewhere trying to attack me, so I'd get all on edge, and I swear the rat-bastard could sense it - and he'd come at me more. Maybe he also sensed that I wasn't into his owner anymore. I swear, you look into this cat's eyes, and it's like he knew things. I don't hate cats because they're dumb, because they're actually quite smart. I hate cats because they're assholes.

3. My roomy has a black, really skittish cat who, because of our landlord's anti-pet policy, has to be hidden up in his bedroom at all times like Anne Frank. However, lately he's been exploring more, and for some reason he loves to hang out under my bed. Maybe he sees no danger of being crushed by any hanky-panky, as this has been a very slow August for The Gancer. Could it be that he knows that black cats crossing one's paths creates bad luck, and because cats hate me, this little fuck-stick is milling around me to surround me with a doom cloud of crap luck? Well, it's working. In any event, it's weird when I sit down at my computer to, let's say, goof on Cherry for sharting himself, and I see a creepy black cat run over to the door for me to be let him out. Also, the other day I'm walking down the hall and he paws me in the leg. My Roomy is there, and he says that this is what he does when he wants My Roomy to pet him. I informed him that this cat never lets me pet him. To this he furrows his brow, thinks for a moment, and says, "Yeah, I don't know why he did that to you."

I will say, there is some precedent that may speak to why this particular cat may hate my guts. One night, when My Roomy wasn't around, me and Another Roomy were desperately trying to get him out of that bedroom, because the landlord was coming over to look at some light fixtures. Trying to pick him up was greeted with hisses, and he was wise to any attempts to shoo him in any direction to lock him into another room. I remember standing on the bed with a broom, trying to shoo him towards my other roomy, and thinking, "This animal was not meant to be domesticated."

It's true, folks. On the whole, dogs seem happy to see you, while a cat will barely look up from licking his balls as you walk through the door. You may think your cat loves you, but he is merely making the best of the situation. He'd rather be out in the alleys, sniffing out some cat-poon than sitting in your lap watching Hope Floats. Don't get me started on even crummier pets, like iguanas or komodo dragons. Yeah, there are no iguana pieces of ass out there your pet lizard would rather be riding. He much prefers the dorm room he calls home, with dip-shits listening to 311 and blowing bong-hits into his two by one foot cage. Incidently, tell me another blog where you'll see the phrase "iguana piece of ass?"

Hey, Seven Readers, first off, sorry this post was so darn long. Secondly, tell me an animal, whether a species or one in particular, that you'd like to punt with a nice, high leg kick like Reggie Roby, or tell me an animal that hated you.

26 Ladies

I recently got thinking about the best songs about girls with every letter of the alphabet. Blogging this topic became a bit of a labor of love, since there were two important, sometimes conflicting, considerations: How good the song is versus how cool the chick sounds. Ultimately I had to pick songs that struck the best balance between these two considerations, and I wanted to make a 26 track disc out of it. I would not mind input via your comments, and I'm not opposed to making changes if you make a good case. For some reason I think Zen Wizard is going to have some pearls of wisdom. In any event, here's the list:

A: Amie by Pure Prairie League. A nod to Angie by The Rolling Stones, but if he's dumping her she couldn't have been that great.

B: Burnadette by The Four Tops. He mentions that when he's with her he sees envy in other men's eyes, plus he just sounds ANGRY in love with her. This might be the best oldie of all time, and that's all there is to it. Chud, a loyal reader, pointed out that Brandy by Looking Glass should be on the list. It's a great song that always makes me happy. However because she'd be a good wife, yet he chooses "the sea" over her, it has to remain in the honorable mention category.

C: Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkle. What a slut, right? Shaking the poor guy's confidence. Daily, no less.

D: Diane, as in Jack and Diane by John Cougar Melloncamp. I would not mind having a hot-ass chick with whom to suck down a chili dog outside the Tasty Freeze.

E: Eleanore by The Turtles. Gee, I think she's swell. A nod, suggested by Chud, goes to Come On Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners for causing thoughts to "verge on dirty."

F: Foxy Lady by Jimi Hendrix

G: Gloria by Them and Girlfriend in a Coma by The Smiths are both good, but I have to go with Glad Girls by Guided By Voices because she ONLY wants to get me high. Girlfriend in a Coma just kind of lays there.

H: Hang on Sloopy by The McCoys is one hell of a song, but it should really be categorized under S, so I'm going to go with Chasing Heather Crazy by Guided By Voices. After all, she likes it when it grows.

I: Isabella by Jimi Hendrix. "I" was tough. Little help??

J: Jane Says by Jane's Addiction. This chick takes a swing, and she can hit. She sounds like my brand of crazy. A shout out goes to Jenny by Tommy Tutone, because you could get her number off a bathroom stall and break her off.

K: Killer Queen by Queen because not only is she well-versed in etiquette, but she's simultaneously dynamite with a laser beam and extraordinarily nice.

L: Lola by The Kinks is one helluva song, but I'm not sure what putting a tranny on my list would say about me. Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix was about his favourite groupie, which is nice, the song is good, but is her name really Little Wing? I'm going with Kadonkadonk, one of my reader's, suggestions, and changing my song to Layla by Derrik and the Dominoes. When you're in love with your best friend's wife, you tend to write passionate songs, and this one is no exception to that rule.

M: A lot of people might say Maybellene by Chuck Berry, Michelle by The Beatles, or My Michelle by G n' R, but I'm going with Monique the Freak by Ween. Deal with it.

N: Darling Nikki by Prince, because all her masturbating with a magazine got Tipper Gore's panties all in a bunch.

O: Ophelia by The Band. Pretty cool song, but mostly because there weren't many "O's."

P: Poison by Bell Biv Devoe. Never, EVER trust a big butt and a smile.

Q: Queen Wasp by The Misfits. Not the best song by these guys, but Q is tough, plus I'm happy to sneak the Misfits into this list.

R: Rosanna by Toto, because Roxanne by The Police is about a straight-up hooker. I likes them slutty, but not quite where they're getting paid for it.

S: Sexy Sadie by The Beatles is good, because this chick evidently came to turn on everyone, so how bad could she be? A nod also goes to Wake Up Little Suzie, because I think she put out. He said that they fell asleep, but you know he tapped that. I'm, evidently, one of those guys who would have said "oooh-la-la." I also considered Summer Babe by Pavement for her mixing of cocktails with a plastic-tipped cigar, but I just have to go with Sharleena by Zappa.

T: Tiny Dancer by Elton John, because it sparked that bus sing-along in Almost Famous.

U: Unbelievable by EMF. She sounded good, because unbelievable is a strong adjective, and I like the use of Andrew Dice Clay in the chorus.

V: Nods go to Veronica by Elvis Costello, Venus by Frankie Avalon, and Vera by Pink Floyd. However, I'm going with Valerie by Jerry Garcia, because he shot his dog because he growled at her. That's a special lady right there to make a guy make that rash of a decision. The song is quite good too.

W: Wonderwall by Oasis is a damn hit, but I have to go with West End Girls by Pet Shop Boys

X: Xena theme song??? That's horrible, I know, but I'm really drawing a blank here. Little help???

Y: I had gone with Yellow Leadbetter by Pearl Jam, even though I was pretty sure something that ridiculous could not be a woman's name. My buddy Neil, perhaps the biggest PJ fan in the free world, confirmed my suspicion that the song is not about a girl, so I had to take it off the list. However, he did come up with an alternative in Yolanda by Reality. Not a great song, but it helped me learn the vocab word bufanda, which is Spanish for scarf, when I was studying for a high school Spanish test in the mid-90's. You know, "Ohhhh-oooh-oooh, yeah, yeah. Oooooh-weeee, bufanda."

Z: Zoot Allures by Frank Zappa. I'm just going to assume that Zoot Allures is a girl's name, and I really can't be proven otherwise, since it's an instrumental.

* Some research was done through this website www.popculturemadness.com/Music/Girls-Names-Songs.html

Salt Shakers as Visual Aids, Bad, Yet Appropriate iPod Songs That Come Up on the Random Setting, and the Longest Title Since That Fionna Apple Record

Don't you hate when some jag-bag is telling you a story, usually about a car accident, and he goes into a long description with visual aids to give you a better mental picture of the events? He's always all like, "So, this salt shaker is me, right? And this sugar and sweetener container is the other guy's car. And . . ." I'm always a patient, polite listener, but I really want to say, "Just stop right there, you uninteresting slob. Your story will not magically become interesting when I've achieved the PERFECT visual of the intersection due to your God damn diorama presentation."

In a completely unrelated matter, on my bike ride home from work today I heard Semicharmed Kind of Life by Third Eye Blind, and while that song is horribly nerdy, it made me really happy today. Even though I was sure no one could tell what song I was listening to, I got a little embarrassed that I was listening to it, and what's worse, enjoying it so much. I will say though, it's the perfect make-you-happy-whilst-you-bike-by-the-lake song, because in the video all the guys in the band were merrily riding in some sort of gay-ass, moped procession. So, given the situation, the song was perfect to listen to, while I would not be caught dead listening to it on any other occasion I can think of.

This is even more the case with another song I heard on today's bike ride: Riding the Storm Out by REO Speedwagon. There was a massive storm hitting the Chicago area, so I was trying to bike home fast before I got caught in the thick of it. As it turns out, the only real good time to listen to Riding the Storm Out is when you're, well, riding a storm out.

Wanted: A Funny Imbruglia With Good Taste in Music

I was trying to explain to someone that I don't really have a "type" when it comes to women, nor do I believe that there is a "soul mate" out there somewhere for me, but sometimes I swear that I can picture the gal for me. For some reason, I always see a gal in my head who has dark hair, big, blue or green eyes, and she's almost always wearing tight-fitting t-shirts and wife-beats. She kind of looks like Natalie Imbruglia, but, of course, her taste in music doesn't suck. She doesn't have to be quite a music snob, like me, but she at least has to be open to new music and passionate about it.

She's funny too. And I don't mean she's the funny one according to her group of female friends; I mean guys think she's funny too. This is a tall order, and I'll tell you why. I'm estimating the percentage of funny women to be around 13%. Of those funny women, I'm going to say that .07% of them attractive. This is because pretty people, boys and girls alike, so rarely cultivate much of a personality, since they get by so easily on their looks. I guess what I'm looking for is that late bloomer chick, who became funny and intelligent through her ugly duckling phase, and then rose out of her ugly-ass ashes, like a phoenix. Like a hot, funny phoenix.

She's exciting and fun to be around. She's unpredictable and maybe even a little crazy. Not bat shit crazy, just a dash, enough to keep me on my toes, but not to the degree where she's slicing off my penis in my sleep like Lorena or burning my house down like Lisa "Left Eye."*

She's easy-going and low mainainence, but not quite a push-over. Nothing turns me off more than when someone gets all pissy and brings everyone down. I hate when people put themselves above everyone else, and make a situation uncomfortable.

She really likes sex, on the brink of nymphomania, but just with me. Well, maybe with some of her female friends on occaision, but she's not into that sort of thing to the point where she leaves me for one of them, then later trades in her cute, Imbrulgia-hair for a not-so-cute, Martina Navratilova femullet.

She drinks socially. Sometimes it gets a little out of hand, but she's rarely a mean-spirited or embarrassing drunk.

She's a genuinely nice person, but she also has edge to her. She can make a very innapropriate joke as well as laugh at one. If you've been reading for more than a post or two, you know that this one is REALLY important.

What do think, seven readers? Is all of this too much to ask? Should I cut and paste it onto Craig's List? What's that illusive quality you search for in the opposite sex?

*That reminds me of a joke: What's the difference between Bob Barker and Lorena Bobbit?
Answere: Bob is SLick PRicer

Jersey

Yesterday I went over to a friend's house for a BBQ and a farewell to newlywed friends of mine who are off to Florida for good on Tuesday. Upon my arrival, I was filled in about the car accident that had just happened. Apparently, a drunk dude smacked into another guy's car at a stop sign, and the cops were there talking to both parties. After the cops left, the guy who got hit came over to get our information in case he needed witnesses. It was a nice, quick visit. THEN, the drunk dude came over with his dog, who had been in the car for the TWO HOURS they were talking to the cops, and sadly, the visit from him and Jersey, his dog, was not at all a short visit.

Drunk dude was pleading his case to us, but we just wanted him to leave. He then asked me if I could move his car out of the middle of the street and into a parking space, which I was glad to do. He f'd up his car pretty good because something was grinding really loud like a sonuva-B. After parking it, I handed him the keys and said, "Car sounds great. Good luck." That should have been his cue to leave. Oh no . . . He then made a phone call, and asked me to hold onto his dog. What? I just parked your beat up car, and now you want me to hold onto your stupid dog!?

So, I'm holding onto this random, drunk guy's dog, and I'm growing rather fond of her. Her name was Jersey, and she looked like a golden retriever but with shorter hair and a white patch of fur on her chest. She was really well behaved, but we determined that she was hungry because she had been away from home for a long time, and she was doing a great deal of whimpering. We gave her some water, but she wanted nothing to do with pickles. She did, however, eat the shit out of the pieces of bread we threw to her, which she caught in her mouth and wolfed down.

When drunk guy finally came back after leaving us with his dog for literally hours, he updated us about his situation, as if we gave a shit, but what killed me is he SAT DOWN. I saw him start to sit, and it was like in slow motion . . . You know when you're trying to end a conversation with someone, and everything you say are parting words? That's what I tried to do, but this cat was in it for the long haul on perhaps the last day I would ever see one of my best friends. Yes, Drunky, it's YOU I want to talk to. Perhaps the best thing about this guy was that he had on a green t-shirt with a drawing of bowling pins getting knocked down that said, "That's How I Role!" How is it that you role exactly? Getting drunk? Crashing into another guy's car? Overstaying your welcome? Making your DOG overstay her welcome? Actually, Jersey could have stayed all night. We were sad to see her go, but not as sad as we were to see our newlywed friends go. Our friend gave myself and my other good friend a long embrace, and when we pulled away, we noticed he was crying. Very sad to see him go, but he will always have a place in my heart because that's how I role.

Beefcakes, Wiggers, and Wankers (In That Order)

I was all ready to do a blog about the pro-wrestler Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake, since I recently used his name in the "name game," you know, when you name celebrities and "drink while you think." The name is a great one to use, because names with the same first letter for the first and last name reverse the order. Although, that one is a triple, so maybe the direction straightens back out, but anyway, more importantly, just uttering the name for the first time in ten years had me giggling all night. I did some research for the blog, and while I'm sure it would have been decent, I really just wanted to type the name Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake. And now I have, and I'll type it one last time for good measure. Brutus. "The Barber," Gosh-damn Beefcake.

Now for the actual topic: My summer job as a photographer of tourists has brought me in contact with a lot of interesting coworkers, but they all share one quality: They're all a hell of a lot younger than me. It kind of sucks being the old guy, and I was reminded of this the other day when one gal said that I am so "90's." I had never heard that before, but I guess it's the same as when I see a guy with a mullet and jean shorts and I say he's "so 80's." To this younger generation, the 90's were a time when they were little kids, like the 80's were for me, so they didn't really experience the times, in terms of fashion, pop culture, etc. You know what is REALLY mind-boggling to me? These kids weren't even alive when the Bears won the Super Bowl in 1986. They don't know shit about "The Fridge," "Mongo," "Butt-head," "The Junkyard Dogs," "The Black and Blues Brothers," or any of that stuff. When they were little kids No Doubt and Sublime were all over the radio. That's nostalgic for them. Weird . . .

So the other night I found myself partying with these 20-year-old art students, full of Keystone, which was what I drank at their age, and while admittedly drunk, I typed the following memo into my phone for future blogging purposes: "Wall-to-wall wiggers. Black people have always had a strong hand in popular culture, which has been a good thing. However, it has turned white, suburban America into a nation of wiggers." Okay, I know, that's not at all a PC term, in that it implies it's alright for me to use the n-word, which it's not. I just don't know another word for it, and it sounds good with wall-to-wall, just like Beefcake jives so well with Brutus "The Barber."

It wasn't just their wiggerness, but their not-yet-cultivated, embarrassing personalities that bothered me. As Richard, my Irish coworker, who is the same age as them, said: "They're a bunch of wankers." I saw one wanker wearing the same exact sunglasses (at an indoor party), Rolling Stones shirt (fucker probably only owned the greatest hits,) and do-rag at two straight parties. Yeah. I went twice, which I'm not proud of. Anyway, his name was "Smitty." NOBODY should be called "Smitty" until they are the old guy at the office. I got news for Smitty, he will be the old guy in office some day, but long before that he will be the wanker of the office. This guy was so darn serious about throwing ping-pong balls into plastic cups, you'd think it was the Olympics or something. No Smitty, not the Olympics, just the Wankerlympics.

I have to say though, I've been really crabby and unhappy with my life lately. Part of my hatred for these kids really stems from jealousy, and I'm not talking about being jealous of their ping-pong ball throwing. What bugs me about these kids is that they're so young and studying to do something creative with their lives, which is what I always knew I wanted to do, yet I settled to study more "practical" things. Well, now I'm "practically" broke and my only creative outlets are this rag that I write and my shitty guitar playing. One wanker I was talking to is studying to be a writer, and my first instinct was to doubt that this schmuck has to offer the world, since he too was a white kid with a do-rag and camouflage pants AND shirt. Who knows? Maybe he'll be the next Hemingway, maybe he'll fall flat on his wanker-face, but at least he's going for it. Meanwhile, this wanker is lamenting and drowning in his own hatorade. I just learned that term. Jeez, I AM "so 90's."

Varts

I need to discuss a very sensitive topic today. It is a phenomenon that has baffled scientists for years, but made many of these scientists giggle uncontrollably. I'm talking, of course, about queefing. Here's a definition I got off of wikipedia:

Queef (flatus vaginalis in Latin) is an emission or expulsion of air from the vagina, often during or after sexual intercourse or (less often) other sexual acts, stretching or exercise. The sound is somewhat comparable to flatulence from the anus but does not involve waste gases and thus often has no specific odor associated.

WAIT, stretching and other exercise? Ladies, does that really happen??! How embarrassing! So, a really tough yoga stretch can induce a whopper queef? That would really mess up everyone's concentration. Speaking of which, it can really mess up one's concentration when one is doing the old "in-out-in-out." It's a terrible time to laugh, because it seems like it always happens when I'm doing something right, perhaps due to the amount of pressure, I'm not sure, but it's always all I can do to hold it together without laughing. I mean, when I got a real good stroke down I don't want to kill the mood by laughing, but come on, farts out of a vagina is a damn, funny concept.

I must admit, I have a little queef envy. I mean, yeah, I can pee standing up effectively with my sex organ, but I can't fart out of it. How sad. Hey, readers, please address at least one of these items:

1. Whether it's physiologically possible or not, what should we call a fart out of a penis?
2. British and Australian readers, I just read on Wikipedia that you all call queefs "fanny farts." Fact? Also, I've heard them referred to as "varts." That's what I'll be calling them henceforth, as the title would indicate.
3. This is more of a warning than a topic, but don't ever blow into a woman's vagina to induce a queef, as awesome as that idea may sound. Evidently it can be life threatening for a woman and her baby if she's pregnant.
4. Tell me a funny vart story.
5. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be shooting air up my dick-hole with a turkey baster. Sure it's risky, but this is science, damn it.

Sincererly,

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater

Cotton-Pickin' Weddings!!!!!!

There was a period of my life where it seemed as if I was going to a wedding every other weekend, and then I had a long, GREAT stretch of time where I went to zero weddings (except Bubba's). Unfortunately, during the month of July I have to attend three, one of which I went to last night with the quasi-girlfriend. Here are the highlights.

- The DJ/Music SUCKED! During dinner he played jazz, which would have been perfect, had it been Miles or Ella, but it was flipping elevator-music/waiting room jazz. I felt like I was waiting to get a tooth drilled, rather than waiting for a shitty steak. At one point in the night, a point in which I was rather drunk, he played Eyes Wide Open by Creed. Yes, terrible, awful, bible-thumping Creed. I just had to sing it in an exaggerated, over-enunciating way, a-la Scott Stap, which was good for some laughs. The only time the DJ redeemed himself is when he played The Gancer's requests: Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice and Poison by Belle Biv Devoe.

- I got horribly depressed. Okay, I guess that's not a highlight, but it was noteworthy to be sure. I was married once, and while the marriage sucked and ended in ruin, the wedding was beautiful and a great time. Also, I couldn't help but think that it was my only wedding, and if I do it again a big "to do" will just seem stupid. Could I really ask a bunch of those people to come back to a big wedding any time soon, when my last marriage only lasted 8 months? "Hey, come on back to Chicago and get me another gift! I'm sure I'll make it a year this time around!" The whole experience, and all the other marriages around me that seem to end in one or both party being completely shitty to the other, has led to my extremely cynical outlook on marriage, which makes it hard as hell to be happy and/or optimistic at weddings. Don't get me wrong, I don't bring people around me down, and I want to be happy for the brides and grooms I see and suspend my disbelief, but I just can't get myself there.

- The crowd kind of sucked. It seemed as if there were lots of boring, early-twenties people, kids, old people, etc, but very few people of any kind who liked to get piss drunk, which is a guest's civic duty at a wedding. It's impolite not to. What have these people's mothers taught them? The dance floor was only full during the early, dorky, make the old folks happy, Twist and swing portion of the evening. During the late-night, someone better have a tie wrapped around his head part of the night, the only time I saw anyone get crazy was when they played Cotton Eye Joe, and some people were doing some kind of stupid-ass, Hee Haw, foot-slapping dance. It was painfully embarrassing.

- One thing that really blew was when the bar opened back up after that always brutal stretch of closed-bar time during dinner, when you've run out of the shit wine they drop on your table hours ago. Just as the bar tenders got back to their station, the slide show began. The really, long slide show, which was three parts (Bride, Groom, and Bride and Groom Together). The happy couple were sitting in chairs, holding hands, RIGHT by the bar, so anyone who stopped watching the show to get a cocktail, would look like an inconsiderate, stinking drunk, which I am, but I didn't want to tip everyone off to that fact, especially in front of the quasi-girlfriend's coworkers. Instead, I waited to see if anyone else was bold enough, but sadly, no one was.

Anyone been to any weddings lately? What was the suckiest thing about it?

Yet Another Craptastic Update Post

- Today, on my bike ride home from my guitar lesson, with my guiltar strapped to my back, I got a head nod and a smile from a random guy with a guitar. Even though random guitar guy can no doubt play circles around me, I felt like a member of a secret society.

- I'm reading 2001: A Space Odyssey, which is a mind-blowing book, but it's like the fifth time I've read it. There's lots of books out there I need to read, but my lazy ass just keeps rereading the handful of books that I own.

Cherry crapped himself the other day.

- Last night I went out boozing with some kids from Ireland who I met at my summer job at Navy Pier. These kids come out every summer, they always have like 10 people living in a two bedroom apartment, and they're great fun. There are a lot of things I learned from those fellas, but what I will for sure take away from the debacle is this: Henceforth, The Gancer will only refer to guys as "lads" and girls will be "birds."