"For Whom the Bell Tolls" (...Yes, the Metallica Song!!)

Originally published on October 26, 2007 (via MySpace)

You hear it.

The Bells.

And you think to yourself, "Oh! This could be one of two songs..."

Cuz it could be AC/DC's "Hell's Bells", and that could be cool.

But then it hits you...

duh DUHNT, duh DUHNT, DUUUUUUUUUUUHHHN...wee neh nee neh, weh nuh wee nuh nuh...

And you know EXACTLY what fucking song it is. The power. The menacing, descending riff. Oh glorious day!!

Everyone knows this song. Who the fuck doesn't like Old Skool Metallica? I understand people's distaste for "newer" Metallica, but you can't say shit about this one. A song from their early days, when their metal was fucking METAL!!! It's one of those songs you just have to headbang and shout along with. There's no denying it's an absolute fucking classic.

It was never really a single, but they did release a live video from the "Live Shit: Binge and Purge" concert video. It's great song writing, and doesn't really follow the conventional "pop" formula...but then again Metallica didn't really write like that back then. If you're not readily familiar with it, (then why are you reading my blog? get the fuck out!!) the lyrics concern a small military unit, probably a platoon or squad size ("Men of five still alive thru the raging glow...") who are possibly pinned down by advancing forces.

I feel it's about how soldiers have to deal with death. They know that they may not survive the night, but their pride and bravery get them thru. It's actually very inspiring. I understand that it's an "anti-war" song, but if you think about it, most good war songs are.

Take for example, "Disposable Heroes" from their album "Master of Puppets". Or even my personal FAVORITE SONG EVER, "One" from their metal masterpiece, "...And Justice For All". Both anti-war songs, but I have known many of my fellow Marines who took inspiration from Metallica's music. Even I did.

Now, the reason I thought of writing about this particular song, is that last weekend, Chris and I did a quickly thrown together jam with Caleb and Josh from Chaos. We had to pick a half hour's worth of songs to fill in their slot at Gallery. We picked mostly Black Sabbath and Metallica songs, and we had to throw this one into the setlist. Not only does everyone KNOW this song, but every metal musician should know how to PLAY this song. It's the easiest one (next to "Seek and Destroy", which we also rocked out) and it's instantly recognizable.

Plus, if you are a hard rock or heavy metal band, and you can do it well, it garners you almost guaranteed instant credibility. Who wouldn't enjoy a cover of a metal classic? Fuck Yeah!!

So if you're a rock musician, you MUST learn this song. It should be a goddamned Commandment or some shit. Seriously. I guarantee you, it will come in handy in a tight spot.

The Ballad of Fred Overmeyer

If you're anything like me, I bet you have a voicemail box that you hate and rarely use. Yeah. We've gotten to that point in our culture. It's funny, we still call it a telephone, but this generation doesn't even use it as a telephone. There was even a joke on Community (fuck I love that show, I'm so excited Yahoo! is bringing it back!!) where Britta was bitching about something and Troy says "Oh yeah, she was born in the 80's. She still uses a phone as a telephone."

But earlier today a friend of mine in the Great State of Texas posted something about voicemails and it got me thinking on this topic.

What's your outgoing message? If you acted like a freaking adult, I bet it would be some sputtered nonsense about leaving a name and number. Why are you giving me instructions? I know how to use goddamn voicemail. (This was pointed out by Jon in his post, BTDubs...) Or if you're even less interested, you probably have the Robot Lady read off your number (which fucking blows cuz it honestly takes forever and the bitch has a goddamn creepy voice and cadence). That, or opt to record your name. Which honestly, sometimes sounds creepier cuz most people sound weird when they say their own name. I always hated hearing my mother's. She has a weird way of saying her full name.

Speaking of mothers, My mother is the only one who usually leaves me voicemail messages. Nobody else. Seriously, if you're reading this, Mom, stop fucking leaving those. It takes an hour just to get to the part where I hear it and it's just you telling me you called. Yeah. I know you called, Ma. It's called Caller ID, it was developed by GTE, and it came out in the damn 90's. It's the 21st Century, mom. Get with it.

Also, I love you. (Hey, fuck off, and stop snickering. I love my mother, okay!?)

But here's what my outgoing message usually sounds like. "You've reached the voicemail box of..." and the part where you're supposed to hear my name, I record a quick 4-6 second message of me yelling for help and shouting about being kidnapped. I'm pretty fucked up. And that's not even the best story.

I don't remember where I got this idea from...probably a movie or TV show, but I had a message that would start off like "Hello? ... Oh hey, what's up!? ... ... Hang on a second, getting another call...it's my mother, hold on a sec..." And then it would switch to record. You'd hear them sitting there just waiting and hear shit going on in the background. I got my old friend Matt Epright with that prank once. He called back and told me I was a dick...and laughed. Cuz well, it's a pretty funny prank.

The show Archer, of course, takes that prank to complete other level. Epic Prank Voicemail!!

But check this out...

About ten years ago, when I came home to Florida, I had my phone switched to a Florida number. This was kind of a mistake. Because I wound up getting, like many of you might know, some previous person's former number. As those same people may understand, that can be kind of annoying but tolerable, but it can also be a fucking nightmare.

Now, the Overmeyer Situation was no nightmare... but it was kinda close sometimes. I got calls for Fred Overmeyer for years. At first I was mostly polite. Hey, they obviously don't know that the guy switched phones or whatever. This was in 2004, mind you. People didn't buy new phones every week. As much, anyway.

But anyways... I started out being polite. But the calls were sometimes quite frequent. Like sometimes 2 or 3 a day. And often at inconvenient times. I started answering calls that asked for Fred Overmeyer telling them that he was fucking dead. Or some shit. It was funny to me. Some people took offense...and aaaaahh...I didn't fucking care. I was getting annoyed.

So I immediately instituted a policy of screening all unknown numbers. Unless I was feeling froggy at an opportune moment. Cuz I like fucking with people live and in person. (Fuck it!! We're doing it live!!) But I eventually switched my voicemail message to say something along the lines of... Hello. If you're looking for Fred Overmeyer, I sorry to tell you that he's passed away. This is his cousin, Troy. If you'd like to attend services...blah blah blah..." And I left a fake phone number. I also did it using a really effeminate voice. I thought it was fun to play Troy.

There was one time I had a guy really going, live. I had a spare moment when I received a call for Fred, and I just went with it. I told the guy he died in a car accident. Dude asked me if it was the Crossfire, I said "No, no, the other one..." (All the while thinking 'aha! this guy has money!!') I can't remember how it ended, but I do remember him realizing it was a prank. Some people had a sense of humor about it and even had a laugh. Others not so much, but who cares, they take themselves way too seriously.

The best of the Voicemail Funeral Era, was a guy... and I can't remember his name... left a series of voice mails. He was extremely interested in coming to the funeral, and I wanna say called back something like 4 times. And he treated Troy like he was a real person, which was fucking surreal, I gotta say.

But that's not the most surreal it got. The epilogue is the Kicker.

One day, I'm driving down...I dunno... Tuttle...or MacIntosh Road in Sunny Sarasota with my girlfriend, and I receive a phone call. And I don't know what the fuck possessed me to answer it while driving (cuz I rarely do it) but I hit SEND, say "Hello" and I hear,

"Hey! Troy! ...It's ME, Fred!! I'm back from the dead!"

It was Fred Fucking Overmeyer, himself. No shit. I was dumbfounded, and I look over at Liz, and say to her, "Um...it's Fred Overmeyer. Yeah. No shit. I can't deal with this at the moment, do you think you could talk to him?" Liz already knew the score (was 'in the know', as they say), and thought it was funny, so she took the phone and talked to him. After the call, she gave me the scoop (the lowdown, the rundown, what's the haps wit da craps?).

Apparently, for years now, his wife would randomly receive these flower deliveries and messages of condolence about her husband. And he heard about the message. And also, apparently the name Troy came up. (Like, 'Who the fuck is Troy?') Fred had a sense of humor about it, and that made me happy. He was in real estate and had been giving out business cards for years with that number on it. There's no way he could possibly control that, ya know?

But it was cool. And now I guess we both have a funny little story about it.

This Ain't A Scene It's A Goddamn Shitshow

A dark day is upon us. A close friend of mine is quitting his band. They play originals and... well... used to have a pretty awesome following. But now he's concentrating his musical efforts into a Cover Band.

Yeah.

Now, this isn't necessarily a rant about shitty cover bands (but there are a lot of them) but more about the death of dreams.

Years ago, he and I wanted to form a band. That never happened. (That happens to me a lot really) But he's a talented guy. And unfortunately, the music scene in Sarasota & Bradenton fucking crumbled. Why, do you ask? Well, lots of reasons.

Bands don't want to do fun shit anymore. What the fuck happened to the Art of Putting On a Goddamn Show? Motley Crue, musically, were just like every other Sunset Strip band in the early 80's. Why did they get signed? Because they had the audience's attention. How did they do that? By putting on a fucking big stage show, and promoting the shit out of it. Plain and simple.

These days, here in sunny Southwest Florida, nobody fucking bothers. There are a lot of great bands with good music and zero stage presence. No real show. The last underground band from Bradenton that I saw that had something was Crash Fist Fight. Somebody once described them as Guns N' Roses on crack. It was pretty accurate. My old band Death Makes a Holiday used to do shows with them, because we were all friends and it's fun to play shows with your friends. We loved playing with them, but they were a tough act to follow.

Bands aren't putting together a package show. How many times have you gone out to see your friends play? And how many times did you have to sit thru 2 or 3 shitty fucking bands just to hear your friends? Or, even worse, come see your friends and leave because the other bands were fucking garbage? I know the answer for me is "too goddamn many".

Why are bands letting some fucking clueless bar manager or wannabe booking agent dictate who gets on the bill? Why are you letting shitty bands ruin the scene? If your band is good, you must know other good bands, right? Why the fuck aren't you putting a package deal together to a booking agent and promoting the shit out of it? Why the fuck are you letting the venues in this area run the scene when it's fucking obvious not a single one of them has a fucking clue?

Bands don't promote. Just make a Facebook Event Page and hope for the best. Right? Wrong.

Design the posters. Get them printed. Hang them up in the venue. Hang them up around the venue. Get to the venue early and hand out a few flyers. No shit.

Don't be so fucking pretentious that you won't throw in a few cover songs. Every band should have a list of 4-5 covers they can whip out any time. Maybe not every show, but it's like a surprise. I knew one band that they had everybody pick a cover song, and they'd all learn it, adapt it to their style. And it made shows fun and awesome. So stop thinking you're above that shit, because sometimes it'll win fans to your music by adapting someone else's song.

I dunno, maybe I'm just yapping at the mouth, but it kills me. It hurts my fucking heart that the Music Scene is losing talented people because nobody fucking cares anymore. Not even the bands that are active seem to care anymore. And it makes me not want to care anymore.

The scene died because we all let it. It's our own goddamn fault.

Free Lougies!!

Everyone hates bad drivers. Even Bad Drivers hate other bad drivers, this is a scientific fucking fact. But you know what I hate more than people who refuse to obey the Rules Of The Road? People who refuse to acknowledge the goddamn Rules of the fucking Parking Lot.

That's right. I can't stand bad parkers.

i'm not talking about people who "illegally" park in Handicap Spots, or the "Expectant Mother Parking" (bullshit) or "Law Enforcement Only" spots (also complete bullshit) I'm talking about your everyday douche nozzles who can't seem to squeeze their 2 ton automobile in between the generous lines clearly painted onto you average supermarket parking lot. Or even worse, deliberately take up more space to "protect" their precious whips from scratches and dings.

You fucking people are the scourge of the Earth and the entire world would be better if you just died in a car fire. (or, in less drastic measures, learned to follow the guidelines set forth in the Driver's Handbook, for Fuck's Sake) Yes, I know, you're in a hurry. So is pretty much everyone else (except the 95 year old fucks who get in my way when I'm late for work). That's not an excuse to act like you're somehow MORE special than everyone else and have no need to go along with the Social Contract. You're an inconsiderate asshole of Unicron proportions (that's an exaggeration...and a great Transformers reference!) and need get hit upside the head with the Common Sense Stick.

Fuck You.

But to be honest...I kinda like you fucking assclowns. Your self-centeredness gives me Conscience and Guilt-Free Reign to practice my favorite sport. Civic Vigilante Justice. (I'm not too keen on the name, but it's the best one that comes to mind off the top of my head. If you got a better one, please feel free to let me know. You too can be part of my Vigilante Justice League!)

Basically, whenever I see one of "you fucking people" ...I roll right up to your windshield and hock the biggest fucking lougie I can possibly muster right onto the driver's side. Hoping that you'll maybe take a hint and not be such an asshole next time. Now I know this most likely does nothing to curb your horrible behavior, but I know that it's gonna piss you off. Good. Cuz when I see this shit it pisses me off.

Just today, as I was going into my local Tobacco Depot to pick up my bi-monthly cigar supply, I could have parked right up by the Chinese Take-Out place next door. Except some goddamn Snowbird from...I dunno, Wisconsin or someplace (cheese eating fat fucks) decided that they didn't care if they accidentally took up two spaces. So I parked a little further away and proceeded to exact my Civic Justice. Twice even! The fuckbag was still parked there when I left the Depot with my tobacco treasures!

This isn't even the best story I've got. One time, at a Wachovia (I think they're Wells Fargo or 5/3rd or BMO Harris or some shit now) I came out to find some cock-monkey parked thiiiiiiis close to my Jeep Cherokee (I miss you, Hate-mobile...). So proceed to smash my door into his passenger side door. Several times. Extremely hard. Like, I'm pretty sure I damaged my door as well. But totally worth it. I'm positive I did hundreds of dollars worth of damage.

Hell, I pulled a similar stunt recently with the Moon Rover, and part of my outer door panel fell the fuck off. I'm pretty hard core sometimes, and I don't give a shit what my car looks like.

One particular time, some waste of semen decided that it was okay to park his "big ol' truck" in the fire lane outside of a Walmart. So, I did my usual Lougie Hocking...and my ex, Kassandra, proceeded to give me road head all the way home. She could be pretty awesome sometimes. And apparently Social Justice gets her wet in the pants.

Which reminds me of the time some dickballs pulled the "parking too close" bullshit at the Sarasota Health Department. We changed her son's dirty diaper and left it face down on the driver's windshield. I'm pretty sure that one takes the cake as the best moment of Vigilante Justice. It was quite a beautiful moment, really.

So this is a friendly reminder. Park like an asshole, and you just might regret it. Cuz you never know who has a bottle of stale urine in their backseat waiting to get poured in or on your car.

Think I'm kidding? Fucking try me.

Hollywood (Almost) Never Gets It Right

I originally wanted to write this last night, but I was tired and needed some sleep. But it's a good thing I waited, really, cuz I literally just got off the phone with my best friend, Chris, and this is a subject we can talk about for days on end.

The subject, of course, is Hollywood adaptations of our favorite books (or comics, or older films). Two of my current favorite TV shows are adaptations, HBO's Game of Thrones and Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Yes, SHIELD Show is more of a...free form adaptation with a whole lot of wiggle room, but I'm counting it, motherfucker, so fuck you.

They are both fucking excellent, and a testament to how well you can adapt literature to broadcast television. And just to keep things more streamlined, I'm most likely going to concentrate on TV and Web show adaptations rather than film, cuz we all know that most books are extremely difficult to transform to feature length movies. Also, it's gonna be pretty Stephen King heavy cuz fuck you, he's my favorite writer and it seems like there's a plethora of his stuff getting put on TV lately. (Do you even know what plethora means..?)

Last Sunday, viewers of FXX were treated to a strange show at 1:30am titled Winter Dragon. It was adapted as a "pilot" of sorts of the prologue chapter of Robert Jordan's The Eye of the World. That book is the first in the epic (both size and scope) fantasy series The Wheel of Time. This is something I've waited 17 goddamn years for. I've been a fan of this book series since my high school buddy put the first book in my hand telling me I fucking HAVE to read this. It's been a journey of gargantuan proportions, with many heartbreaking moments including the death of author Robert Jordan (born James O. Rigney) and the final trilogy having to be finished by fantasy author Brandon Sanderson (from notes compiled by Jordan himself prior to his impending death from cardiac amyloidosis... don't ask me, I had to look it up...)

17 years, people. 17 fucking years. My father waited over 20 for the last Dark Tower book (there's SK again!) so that's the fucking time period I'm dealing with here.

Problem is, Winter Dragon was...I don't wanna say lame, but to quote another favorite author Chuck Palahniuk, it's the first word that comes to mind. This series has the potential to be, again for lack of a better term, the next Game of Thrones. A cleaner version, but still supremely awesome. However, Red Eagle Entertainment (the rights holders) dropped the fucking ball. Big time. They've been fumbling with this property since around 2000, and they've mismanaged fucking everything from an unfinished comic book to an unfinished video game. Fucking sad.

They threw this pilot together on a shoestring budget (even tapping Billy fucking Zane to appear as Ishamael) and the whole thing would have made a fucking excellent 10 minute cold open a la Game of Thrones. This whole mess was just an excuse to retain the film rights from the Bandersnatch Group (Jordan's Estate) but for the life of me, I fucking can't understand why. You dropped the fucking ball for 15 years, let it go.

If you're interested in reading more about it you can find more info here...here...here...and at i09.

That being said, I'm looking forward to new adaptations of Stephen King Classics The Stand and IT. Fuck yeah. I'm dating myself here, but the ABC mini series of those two works made in the 1990's was pretty decent. Pennywise STILL scares the shit out of me (Tim Curry for the win!) and I get nervous around storm drains. Particularly when I visited Bangor, Maine.

But they're doing them again, and for damn good reason. The Mick Garris helmed teleplays are incredibly dated. The special effects are more like special ed. The cast was fucking epic as fuck. We're talking Seth Green, Jonathan Brandis, John Ritter, Richard Thomas, Tim goddamn Curry, just in IT alone. The Stand, released in 1994, featured Rob Lowe, Molly Ringwald, Ruby Dee, Gary Sinise, Jamie Sheridan, Matt Frewer, Miguel Ferrer, Bill Fagerbakke, Laura San Giacomo, Corin Nemec, Ray Walston...and a shitload more. And it wasn't bad for the mid 90's.

But if you haven't already heard, Matthew McConaughy will be playing the villainous role of Randall Flagg. Flagg is King's...flagship...bad guy. He's fucking epic as fuck, and I really hate that word (despite using it multiple times in this piece alone). Perfect. Fucking Casting. I can't fucking wait. And the only thing that I ask for is that McConaughy has a little button on his denim jacket that says "How's Your Pork?" ...King fans will understand.

There's been a few King adaptations recently. 2006's anthology series Nightmares & Dreamscapes, broadcast on TNT, was pretty spectacular. The very first installment based on the short story "Battleground" was killer. Starring William Hurt and directed by none other than Brian motherfucking Henson (son of St. Jim Henson and the current voice of Kermit the Frog...if I'm not mistaken) features ZERO fucking dialogue. It's a cinematic masterpiece. I've been told the film version of "Big Driver" is also excellent and I look forward to checking it out. Even if it is Lifetime Channel fodder. But I do love Maria Bello.

King's JFK thinkpiece, 11/22/63, is being produced by Netflix (the future of broadcast web entertainment, but that's another rant) will have James Franco in the lead role. I'm pretty jazzed about this; I fucking love Franco. It's an exciting time for King fans, to say the least.

But there's been a misstep or two. The big one is the shitstorm that is Under the Dome. Fucking Under the Dome, man...holy shit. I tried. I wanted to like it. Dean Norris from Breaking Bad (and Starship Troopers!) plays the villain. But it's like the goddamn Richard Bachman version of the story (King fans will understand). I spent the whole first season watching religiously every Monday night just to fucking make fun of it. But the show went so far into left field that even ragging on it wasn't fun anymore. Not to even mention the hackey fucking writing. They fucking ripped off Fight Club in one episode for Fuck's Sake!! ("Hit me as hard as you can!!") I quit three episodes into the pathetic second season.

Bad Fucking Television. Thanks CBS, why don't you give us another NCIS while you're at it.

I'm just saying, maybe sometimes it's better to just leave a piece of art or literature in the format that it' already exists in. Do we need a live action version of Akira? No. We don't. It already exists in the format that it should be in.

But hey. At least Harry Potter got it right. Fuck Yeah JK Rowling!!

Somebody Please Get This Salt & Pepper Rat's Nest Off My Head!!

Twelve odd years ago I used to be able to go out on a busy Sunday night to Downtown Oceanside, CA and wait 20 minutes or so for a 5 minute haircut. And it makes me so fucking pissed-off and sad sometimes that I don't live in that particular world anymore.

I have this really awful habit of putting off haircuts for months at a time. Often it's just that I don't have the time, but I also procrastinate because I'm poor as fuck. Back in...2006?...I started wearing my hair in this weird pseudo-samurai tail with the sides and back shaved clean (most of the time), and I did that mostly because if push came to shove I could just do it myself. I looked a little silly, really. So after being harassed by numerous women in my life who had seen pics of me with short hair, I went to a salon and got it cut. It looked great and I was happy with my hair for the first time in years. I even donated the clippings to Locks Of Love. None of these women have subsequently let me take them on a date.

But salon pricing is often out of my price range, and even though Miss Eva does a fucking incredible job, I just can't afford it, so I've been kinda trying to steer toward local barber shops. I like to frequent "Mom & Pop" places here in Bradenton. Keep it local, ya know? So I decided to walk on down to the barber shop down the road, CAPS Barber Shop.

I went in and wasn't even greeted at all. Bad sign. There's like this...waiting room thing and there's a water cooler and a Foosball table. And some dude's backpack chilling on the floor in front of the only open seats. Great. But I sit down with my copy of Emily Post's Etiquette and wait my turn. I sat there, trying to read, for probably over an hour. All the while these clowns are taking 20 odd minutes to cut some kid's fucking hair. Place starts filling up. And then I was skipped in favor of some doddering old man.

Alright. Fuck this.

I alight back to my house in a bit of a rage (no kidding, right?) and look up some local places. I decide on this place that's sort of in the 'hood, and get in the Moon Rover. Which of course pisses me off more because the last thing I want to do when I'm already goddamn angry is get behind the wheel of my Jeep. Fuck!

But on my way, I see this other place that's not far from Castle Discordia. Creative Images, at Manatee & 26th. Why didn't I remember this before, I thought to myself. So I pull in, kind of excited that I didn't have to go very far at all. There's even a great big banner saying WALK-INS WELCOME! Sweet. Well, not so damn sweet after all. Inside there's a very nice black lady patiently waiting on...I dunno. Cuz the proprietor (?) asks me what I need and I reply, "I'd like to get a haircut, please."

"I'm sorry, everyone's at the Regatta and there's no one to help you."

Wait, what the fuck? I stifle my exacerbating rage to scream things like "Well why the fuck are you even open then!? What the fuck is wrong with this fucking town!? Who the fuck do I have to blow to get the shit cut off my goddamn head!?" ...and other things of that nature. Instead, I sigh and make my way back out into fucking Saturday afternoon traffic.

Onward south, I keep driving, to Pam's Barber Shop on 5th St. The Internet told me they were open till 11:00pm, and after fighting slow-ass traffic on Cortez, I find that once again the Internet has lied to me (fucking thing does it all the time). 11:00am is when they close. Missed it by two fucking hours.

Next up, Fucktastic Sam's in Bayshore Gardens Plaza. After being cut off by some fucking douche-bag Soccer Mom in a giant SUV, fiddle-fucking with her phone (I of course screamed the words "Fucking Cunt" as I am wont to do in these situations) I go into the place to find what amounts to a small crowd waiting patiently for their turn.

Fuck no. Hell the Fuck no.

Now my bitter rage at how simple life used to be is edging toward Day Drinking & Bitter Depression. So I get back on the road and figure I'll try some other chain barber up towards Manatee Ave. As I'm cruising up 26th approaching Cortez (again!!) I suddenly remember seeing a place on the Google Map that was in the same plaza as Home Depot.

Okay, last chance. I pull in and the parking lot looks a little deserted. Little did I know that this was actually a really good sign. I walk into Lakeside Barber Shop, and even though there was yet another doddering old man who looks like he doesn't even need a damn haircut...I'm immediately seated. I tell the sweet Latina lady that I'm looking for a haircut that's a little more military-style than she's probably used to. (My Marine friends would understand the term Medium Reg, but no one else does.) I describe it, and approximately 10-15 minutes later, the bush on my head is gone and my hair looks sleek & stylish as fuck.

Cost me $12 and even gave her a $5 tip because it took her longer than normal. Between the quick and beautiful service, the old school barber shop conversation and the smooth jazz playing, I'm pretty sure they've earned a customer for life.

Fuck Yeah Lakeside Barber Shop!!

Get the Fuck Off the Fucking Road

You drive like an asshole. Yes... you do. Everyone does.

But let me rant about one of my biggest driving pet peeves. If you're anything like me (or like anyone else who commutes to a job, I suppose) then you probably hit a few Major Intersections on your drive too and from your place of employment. These are a fucking nightmare for me. I do everything reasonably possible to avoid shit like that. As a matter of fact, I take 26th St. south instead of 14th St. (US Highway 41) strictly because there are fewer large intersections.

Now, my drive TO the Shop isn't all that bad. Used to be better, but I go to work later than I used to... and I honestly can't justify leaving earlier just to beat traffic (mostly school buses). Also, I'm tired and lazy in the mornings. My commute home, on the other hand, is pretty awful sometimes. Occasionally I catch a sweet break and all the Non-Driving Assclowns are home sick or have to work late or something. And that's a pretty sweet gift, let me tell ya! But mostly is sucks dog balls and makes me tear what's left of my greying hair out. It's probably why I have grey hair to begin with...

Today's rant concerns one particular intersection, but could be used in similar intersections all over this great country of ours. Fucking Cortez & 26th. It's not the worst in Bradenton (that goes to 15th St. & Manatee Ave.) but it gets an honorable mention because it's so goddamn ubiquitous. Can't get around it. I've tried. Driving north on 26th St. in the afternoon is a pain in my (shriveled) dick. Cuz there's no turning lane (better known as a Suicide Lane) so every time some goober has to make a left, traffic in that lane has to come to a complete stop, often for several minutes.

Now, mostly I can get over that. See, I tend to keep in that left lane because I don't want to be the one sitting in the right lane when everyone wants to turn. Because I realize I'm not the only person on the road during Rush Hour and I don't want to be a dick. So I keep left until I really need to. But that's not quite what this rant is about...

This concerns the fucking morons who REALLY don't know how to plan their route. Or have any concern at all about where they are going or how to get there. I'm talking about the fuckheads who should have made a left at Cortez Rd. and then made a right into the CVS parking lot...but instead, they cross Cortez and proceed to try to make a left into the CVS parking lot. Problem is, traffic is backed up north of the intersection for 2 blocks. So now, because of their lack of planning and self-centeredness, traffic is continually backing up into the intersection.

Because they need their fucking pain pills and they don't understand or fucking care that there's a quarter mile of cars behind them, most of which contain people who just got off work and just want to get the fuck home so they don't strangle the next douche bag they see who refuses to learn how to fucking drive!!

I wish I could blame it solely on Snowbirds, but this shit happens year round. Jeezus Fuck Kryste, I hate the people who drive in this town (county, state)!!

This is why I'm becoming a goddamn Bike Commuter.

Go Fucking Sportsball!!

Yeah, that's right. It's Super Bowl fucking Sunday, and I'm gonna rant about Football. Because, of course I am. Got a fucking problem with it? ...didn't fucking think so, now SIT DOWN!!!

Now, I'm not gonna bitch about the actual Super Bowl, because...well...as a Militant Atheist, I hate holidays (that's not true, I hated holidays before reading Harris & Dawkins) mostly because of their Religious origins (also not true, I just hate the ultra-capitalistic bullshit that they've evolved into. Yeah. That's right. EVOLVED.) So what better reason to throw a great big party than around some big Sportsball Game. Whatever. Party your brains out.

I honestly just get weirded-out by incredibly violent and mean-spirited Sports Rivalries. Weirded-Out may be the wrong word... Fascinated isn't it, but it's the best word that comes to mind. Years ago, my father was at some NASCAR event (not that he follows it, but sometimes he'd go to Daytona just for some fun) and he was wearing his usual blue Boston Red Sox hat. The very same kind of hate I traditionally wore for many years. (I'll get to that...) Well some particularly prickly New York Yankees fan comes up to my dad, a man he has never met in his life, and yelled something along the lines of "HEY!! Red Sox fucking SUCK!!"

To quote my favorite show, the Goldbergs... Who does that!?

Sports fans do that.

And this is why I don't wear hats with sportsball teams on them anymore. Thanks, Sports Fans (Assholes), you've made me give up the last vestige of simple hometown pride. I honestly don't care about the Red Sox all that much (but when they broke the Curse of the Bambino, I celebrated...and I might have watched Fever Pitch a couple times) but it was a nice reminder of where I come from. But I gave it up, cuz I got tired of Yankees Assclowns always having something to fucking say. I even switched to a hat emblazoned with my New Hometown team, the Minor League Bradenton Marauders...which is a "B".

And I still got questions about fucking Boston.

Like, what the fuck, people? I know they've been going away from the official colors and shit, making all-black, or pink for the ladies, but for crying out loud, the "B" is a different shape and the RED Sox wouldn't use Black and Gold!! (Those are Pittsburg Colors...go Pirates...) So fuck it. I adopted the pork pie look instead. Fuck your stupid team.

I've gotten away from the point...

The rivalry between Kansas & Missouri goes back to before the Civil goddamn War. Bleeding Kansas, motherfucker. Look that shit up. Now. ...I'll wait...

Good, now then... That's some serious shit. But it's also really fucking stupid. Michigan & Ohio State, same deal. Except without the slavery thing. I think... I'll have to do some research. My point is, it's fucking stupid, and people will fucking fight over anything. Even College Football Teams they never fucking played for and never goddamn went to school with. What the fuck? Why is this okay?

And to be honest, I'm a little sketchy when it comes to Professional Sports Teams. These are grown men being paid MILLIONS OF DOLLARS to play a children's game. Millions. Of American Dollars. Have you ever actually thought about that for a minute? They complain about not being paid enough to pass a fucking ball around like a fucking dingus, meanwhile, I can barely make rent.

Some of you are in the same boat.

Silly isn't it? But I don't mean to rain on your Super Bowl Party. I know it's just the way things are and there's nothing I can do about it. Fuck The System, I guess. But most of you don't care and are barely paying attention anyway.

Get back to your party. And Go Sportsball.

(PS. I might be from Boston, but I think all the "deflated ball" memes are hilarious!!)

It's The Purple One That Says "Bad Mother Fucker" On It

When you see a soft drink that's Artificially Colored Purple...what flavor immediately comes to mind? I'll even give you a moment to think about that. ... ... Grape, right? Pretty simple. Ubiquitous even. I'm sure that 72% of you agree. The other 28% are Contrarian Trolls or you work for MiO Liquid Water Enhancers (a division of Kraft Foods...I like their cheese...).

You see, I'm trying to drink more H2O rather than soda. It's cheaper (mostly), there's less sugar (again, mostly), and it probably way more healthy (not that it's ever that much of a concern). But Modern Man simply cannot subsist on water exclusively (you need food, too). And to be honest, I'm not really digging the taste of the water at the Shop. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure the boss just fills old 5 gallon jugs with tap water from a hose. But who am I to complain? (Right?)

So instead of bitching about something stupid to people who allow me to collect a paycheck which keeps a roof over my head, I decided to try out that MiO stuff. A few friends have tried it and told me it was...aah...pretty okay. That's about the best I could get, anyway. But why not, right? I can make it strong like Coca-Cola™ or weak like Vitamin Water©. My choice.

Oh!! I get the product name now!! Wow, that's clever!!

Kidding.

Now, this isn't a rant on how shitty their product is. It's everything that I hoped it would be. And by that I mean...aah...pretty okay. I mean it's just Sugar Juice to make my cruddy tap water not taste quite so "tappy". My complaint is that their stupid fucking bullshit marketing and color system made me buy a flavor I never would have picked if I had been aware of what I was buying. Or...you know...if I had actually been paying attention.

While I was grocery shopping (this time I was actually buying MORE than just cat food) I cruised over to the "Powdered Drink" aisle and scoped out the MiO section. Okay, cool. There's even generic store brand alternatives for slightly cheaper. But I wanted to go Brand Name on this, at least to try it out. What can I say, advertising works.

Being that my favorite flavor of Gatorade© (the closest equivalent that I've experienced) happens to be FIERCE Grape™, I purposely and directly reach out and grab the "Purple" bottle. You know, color of Royalty and all that? Didn't even look at the flavor name, just instinctual knowledge.

Well, I brought it to work this morning, with the intention of immediately trying this new-fangled drink flavoring system. And sure as shit...it looked like FIERCE Grape Gatorade©. Well...more like the Gatorade Rain©, you know...the "watered down" crap they tried to push on us to compete with Vitamin Water™ (a Glaceau™ product)? Point being, it looked good.

So I took a sip.

It didn't hit me at first...but after a couple minutes, it dawned on me. This ain't no motherfuckin' Grape Drank.

Nope. I looked at the bottle, and low & behold...Berry Pomegranate. Berry...FUCKING... Pomegranate. I don't drink goddamn Pomegranate Juice. You know who does? Douche-bag Middle Class Snobs with "Refined" Taste. I'm a Working Class Avenger. I drink Grape Drank, motherfucker.

But to be honest, I wasn't all that angry. It didn't taste horrible; it just wasn't the flavor my mind and taste buds were expecting. Fuckers.

The irony (?) of this whole scenario is that I bought two (2) different flavors. The other flavor was colored blue, and I certainly checked what flavor it was cuz we all know that not every Blue Flavor is the same. This one was Blueberry Lemonade. And it was fucking excellent.

Don't Use The N-Word, Nigga...

***WARNING***

Depending on your own personal sensibilities and your own personal concept of Racism...aaahhh...this might get a little intense. So, ah...there's a possibility that you might wanna stop yourself right the fuck here...

So...tonight...last night...when-the-fuck-ever... I kinda sorta got kicked the fuck outta New World Brewery in Ybor City. It was my own fucking fault, and I take full, personal responsibility for it. My Own Personal Bad...if you will.

Listen. I had a fucking great fucking night. I got to travel to Tampa without having to goddamn drive (always a fucking plus) and I got to get...relatively hammered on reasonably priced Past Blue Ribbon (which is a feat unto itself, despite what you may think about drinking cheap, shitty beer). I got to see some good friends play a fantastic set, and I experienced some great independent musicians do...their thing...

Then...well...I made a pretty shitty mistake. I grabbed one more beer for "the road" and as my good friend was paying his tab, I casually said, "Oh, look at this Fancy Nigga, with his Fancy-ass Bank Account..."

And that, ladies & gents, is where I went wrong.

The bartender serving my friend looks at me and asks "What did you just say?" And I, as a fucking douch-y white motherfucker, tried to play it off saying "Look at this 'motherfucker' with his fancy-ass bank account..."

But no. He full-on calls me on my shit, and say "No...What. Did. You. Just. Say..?"

Busted. I used a...semi-racial epithet. And I owned up to it, cuz he's absolutely NOT WRONG to call me out. However, he...basically flips his shit. And me, as an actual NON-Racist, accept that I committed a social faux-pas, and excuse myself, apologizing profusely. It was the end of the night, and I just wanted to go home without causing a real incident.

Owning up to my stupid bullshit, let me give you some perspective. It was NOT an African-American (to use a stupid euphemism) gentleman giving me shit. It was a fucking White Dude. I'm sitting here at a STRAIGHT UP hipster bar, making a fucking idiotic, semi-racial comment about a friend's financial situation...and this guy just loses his mind.

Like I said, I removed myself with what I considered an empathetic and sincere apology. And I go to my other friends saying "Hey, we gotta get going soon, I think I just pissed off one of the staff." And I start chugging my PBR. Well my buddy (the guy with said Bank Account) comes out with this overly sensitive purveyor of alcohol somewhat in tow, still having a conniption fit over apparent racism, trying to halt the situation before it goes into a complete meltdown. And as my buddy is making HIS apologies pretty much on my behalf, I look the man in the eye and I assure him that I'm not the White Supremacist he may have pegged me as. It was a slip of the tongue (so to speak) and it was incredibly insensitive of me.

And he...well, doesn't look me in the eye, cuz I'm about 30-40 lbs larger than him, but he goes on about how I wouldn't say "that word" in front of an ACTUAL Black Guy...I wouldn't say it if "his wife" was sitting there, right?

And there it was. This man was involved in an interracial relationship. Okay. As an actual NON-Racist, I find interracial relationships absolutely beautiful. It's a testament to the love and beauty that we as human beings are truly capable of. But this guy has a fucking chip on his shoulder. And with obvious good reason. He and his wife have probably had to deal with some real shit. Some REAL racist bullshit. From people who represent the worst that our American society has to offer.

And my heart goes out. I was wrong. And I know this and I have absolutely zero fucking pride and can admit that I fucked up and I said something wildly inappropriate. And I apologized. Like...6 fucking times. And I just tried to make that abundantly fucking clear and only wanted a handshake in perfect human solidarity. But this guy? No. He was absolutely not having it. Wouldn't shake my hand; would not accept a heartfelt apology.

And that's his own personal Hell.

Because I know, that in MY life, I've been reprimanded for wearing a shirt that said "I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE" ...cuz the assholes I worked for are fucking racist cunts. And fuck them and their children's children.

Just like every fucking white asshole...some of my friends are black. No, I'm not kidding. And I've used the word "nigga" WITH the soft 'a' in their fucking presence and not felt any racial heat. (I'm not absolutely 100% sure that they didn't get at least a little offended, but it's on THEM to go ahead and say something to me) I'm not above being wrong.

Was it wrong of me to say it? Possibly yes. But seriously, bro...it's the goddamn 21st Century. We don't all hate Black People anymore. And to any of my ethnically African friends who get offended if I use that culturally ubiquitous term...my apologies. I never want to make you feel like less of an American or less than a human being. And if you feel like I'm wrong, then come correct me. I'm not gonna cop a fucking idiot white-boy attitude and I will adjust myself accordingly. Real Talk™.

Tired Of These Motherfucking Fleas In My Motherfucking Apartment

Long time readers/friends may know this about me, but for those that don't...I used to be severely Anti-Pet. Well, mostly anti-dog, but seriously...people's dogs tended to annoy me. I have a shattered kneecap and when dogs jump up on me I get pretty apprehensive about it.

Well about a year ago, I became a Proud Pet Owner. I have two beautiful tuxedo cats named Betty & Veronica. I didn't name them, so don't give me shit. I just kept the names because Fuck You, they're adorable. Veronica Mars (cuz I'm a Kristen Bell fan) and Betty White-Nose (cuz she has a little white nose and Betty White fucking rules). They've changed my life completely for the better and they've warmed my heart to people's pets and animals in general.

Problem was, they came with fucking fleas.

It's an embarrassing problem and I have so little experience with this that I had no idea what the fuck to do. It's so bad that Miss Veronica has a sore on the back of her neck that will barely heal cuz she's scratching it all the damn time. It's heart breaking and I feel like shit. I should be better than this.

I'm pretty sure I lost out on the girl of my fucking dreams because I've been too embarrassed to have her over. Well, that and I'm a broke fucking loser and I have emotional problems...but that's MY Personal Hell.

Enough is e-fucking-nough. I've got plans to see some friends play in Ybor City, so I bathed them with Flea Shampoo (it says dog & puppy and I hope it doesn't make them sick) and it seemed to be pretty effective. They're staying at a good friend's place over night and I packed all their shit up for the trip. They freaked out when they got there. I believe they're hiding under his bed, the little scaredy cats!

Tonight, it's Bombs Away!! Castle Discordia is pretty small so one bomb outta take care of it. Got tile floor and very little cloth furniture so no problems there. Mostly I'm just tired of everything being such a fucking hassle. But I gotta admit, it's worth it. I love them very very much. When I got fired from my last job, my only real concern was making sure I could take care of them. To the point that I bawled my fucking eyes out in public drunkenly making an ass of myself in McCabes Irish Pub (fucking assholes gave me tequila).

So I guess things should be alright. At least I hope so. And to top off the day, I ran over a stupid goddamn nail in my car port. That'll learn me to clean up the goddamn fucking wood pile. I'm such a fucking doofus.

No More Road Rage

A couple years ago, I wrote a blog (essay, article) about how much I hate Bike Assholes. You can find it here. But it really wasn't so much about Bike Assholes as much as Rich Assholes pushing people around. Well, the world has come kinda full circle, because I'm contemplating becoming one of those Bike Assholes.

I fucking hate driving, man.

I really fucking do. And it's not just the usual reasons of "Oh, there's too many fucking assholes on the road that don't know how to drive!" Which is, of course, abso-fucking-lutely true. Teenagers, Soccer Moms, Blue Haired Old Ladies, Canadians; it's a goddamn nightmare out on the road these days. And maybe it's just "Season" down here in Sunny Southwest Florida, but seriously. I really doesn't get that much better when the Snowbirds from "everywhere else" go back to wherever they goddamn came from. Especially the fucking Canadians, man.

I honestly chalk it up to growing up...I dunno...in a weird situation..? I learned how to operate an automobile here in Venice, FL. But I learned to "drive" in California. There's a world of difference trust me. (For example, in Cali, when the light turns green, drivers press DOWN on the accelerator.) But it wasn't just the driving experience, it was the fact that being stationed aboard Marine Corps Base Camp Pendelton, if you really want to do anything fun, you have to drive.

So going out to the bars in Carlsbad was about a 10-15 mile trip. San Diego is 30 miles, Los Angeles; 70. That's a lot of time in a car no matter how you swing it. Sure, we did 90 mph down the 5 Freeway, but it's still pretty far.

When I came home from The War, I stayed in Venice with my dad. There's fucking nothing to do in Venice. So my happy ass was hopping in the Hate-mobile and driving 20 miles to Sarasota, not just to be around my friends, but to have a job actually worth going to. And I did this for YEARS. Quite a few, really, and for far longer than I should have.

The thing about having to drive 20 miles (40 if I wanted to go to Bradenton) every goddamn time I wanted to do anything is that driving is Dead Time. It's time I spend not doing the things that I want or hanging out with the people I want to be around. And I don't know about anyone else but I'm also not terribly aware of my surroundings. Even though I traveled on US Highway 41, I hardly knew where anything was between my home and my usual destinations because I would Zone The Fuck Out. Chuck Palahniuk, in his novel Rant: the Oral History of Buster Casey, describes it as Limnal Time. The book is also about using that for time travel...and I don't wanna give it all away and you should go read that book right now.

Seriously, it'll take you six hours. I timed it once.

Point is, I've fucking grown tired of it. The Moon Rover (the 1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo that replaced the Cripple-Wagon, a 1980something GMC Conversion Van that replaced the Hate-Mobile, itself a 1998 Jeep Cherokee) is falling the fuck apart and I'm too fucking poor to really fix it. At least right now anyway. It's not dead yet, but the thing needs to be put on semi-retirement for awhile. It's a dangerous rattle-trap that I'm actually quite scared to operate after the sun goes down. The headlights are goofed up, the transmission is wonky, and it doesn't even have a driver's side window.

That was my own fault; I don't know if you know this but I have a few anger issues..?

Anyway, fuck that noise. I live 15 blocks from Downtown Bradenton. It's only a 30 minute walk to InCahoots (the OTHER bar I hang out at) and it's only 8 miles or so to the Shop I work at. I'm getting a fucking bike and that is fucking it.

Sandwich Artist

I had THE worst experience at a fucking Publix today.

If you aren't familiar with Publix Supermarkets, founded by George Jenkins in Lakeland, FL in...I dunno 1947 or some shit... They are ALL ABOUT Customer Service. Trust me I worked there for several years in my youth. (Fun Fact™: I was fired for swearing too much...huh, go fuckin' figure...)

But today was just a goddamn nightmare.

I recently started a new job, and I've been trying to get an idea of what was around for lunch. One of my co-workers, Austin, let me tag along with him to Publix (which was actually about 10 minutes away, but I wasn't driving so, fuck it) and I was suddenly hardcore jonesing for a delicious Publix Deli Sub. If you've never had one, get your ass to a fucking Publix and eat that shit. You will understand.

Now usually when I roll up to a Publix Deli, they have their shit wired tight. Fucking squared away and on lock. Tight as a drum, if you will. But today, I drop in at around 12:30 pm, and this Sub Station...well, it looks a little rough. I give them the benefit of the doubt cuz it's probably just after a lunch rush and I don't expect it to look Spic & Span. Alright, so this kid walks up and disinterestedly asks what I need. He's standing there, all 500 disgusting pounds of him. And I'm not usually one to Fat Shame, but seriously? Have you ever done a sit up? Walked more than 30 feet? Put the fucking fork down, you greasy slob...

I tell this Mouth Breather, I want a footlong Italian on Whole Wheat, Provolone, with peppers, onions and lettuce. Real simple shit. Well, they've got the meat pre-sliced and wrapped in paper. Good on 'em, very efficient. That's why I usually like their service. He throws the peppers on, but he's out of onions. And so is the other station.

"One minute," he say to me. Okay, I'm patient. Cuz believe it or not, I really DO try to NOT be an asshole in public. I really do. But this walking ball of grease is back there what seems like another 10 minutes, and he comes back out with an onion. AN Onion. As in, One Whole Unchopped Goddamn Onion. He takes one of the dullest knives in stock and proceeds to try to slice this yellow onion.

Fuck.

Okay, still being reluctantly patient. But I'm getting pretty aggravated at this point, but I'm trying to let it go (Let it Goooooooo!!). But then he asks what else I wanted. "Lettuce, please." So he takes these...lettuce scrapings...and tried to plop them on my delicious sandwich.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, guy. Don't put that on my sandwich. That's gross." Well, that's all he had left. And all that the other station had left. And there wasn't any back up.

"One minute," the douche-nozzle tries to say. And that was it. I've already wasted more than half my 30 minute lunch break waiting for this lazy, fat tool to slap together a fucking sandwich, I wasn't wasting more time.

How fucking hard is this? How hard is it to make sure that you are prepared for the business that you're here to fucking operate? I know how this shit works, because I've done it before and I use similar methods in other fucking jobs. Preparation!! Efficiency, motherfucker!! Jay-sus Fuck Christ, you are goddamn useless.

"No, not One Minute. I'm done, I'm out. Fuck it..." I say as I walk away trying to find one of those pre-made sandwiches (which are still pretty good, but lack the defining characteristics of a full submarine sandwich...hoagie, po' boy, grinder, what-have-you) eg. vegetables and condiments. I look around uncomfortably cuz I'm still in this bullshit sham of a "deli" and there's some fucking old geezer (I fucking hate old people...) attempting to stock the sandwiches. Great.

"Can I help you?"

"No, you can't help me. You people couldn't help yourselves out of a wet Publix Paper Bag..." I grumble as I grab...I forget what kind it was, probably Ham & Cheese or some shit...

"You're welcome!" the crusty, nursing home escapee tries to call out to me as I stalk away towards the registers. "Suck my fucking dick you mongoloid!" I holla back. I really shouldn't be allowed out in public, let alone Publix (it's a family establishment).

I get to the registers and my heart drops again. Lines out the wazoo. Fuck Fuck Fuck. So dump the sandwich into a front end cooler (cuz I'm not a complete asshole) and I barrel out the front door. Fuck this joint. It's seriously the worst goddamn Publix I've ever been to. And I've been to quite a few.

I make my way back to Austin's car, and I'm visibly pissed.

"What, no food?"

"Don't get me started..." I mumble and then proceed into a tirade to match anything by Moussolini bitching about train schedules.

Understand that Austin has known me only one whole week and has never seen Jaymz in his fucking element. We try Subway, no go. Bullshit. So we drive back to the Shop, and I have to disappoint my boss, Matt, cuz I was supposed to grab him some fried chicken (actually Austin was supposed to, but since I was going Deli, I got handed that task) but if they can't figure out a sandwich, I wasn't trusting them to do a Non-Heinous job with actual cooking involved. Plus...you know...embarrassing. Sorry bro.

I grab my keys and haul ass to the Bodega down the way and try my luck with some sketchy gas station cheeseburgers cuz I'm that fucking hungry. Awesome.

And now everyone knows my secret. I'm the fucking Angry Guy. And I was doing so well...