suavely deranged

Vegas, Britney, Cher and Chris Issak

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 10:09:23 -0700

I only drink in Vegas. And only absinthe. God (or whoever) bless and keep the good folks at the Palms for comping me absinthe and Red Bull (Atomic Bomb) concoctions whilst I frittered away a couple of hours playing the same $20 on a Survivor slot machine.

Nope, still ain't watched the show. Samoa? I'm pretty sure that's settled now. Although...with most of the male population of said exotic locale (that, there, is a college education talking, kids) playing in the NFL, perhaps I'm mistaken. It's happened before. It may even happen again.

So I'm watching Transporter 3 whilst typing this mess. Love me the Jason Statham. I do, however, think it'd be kinda cool if in 'reality' said action star was deathly afraid of getting behind the wheel.

You know, the way I am.

I'm deeply troubled by the sexual tension between Donny and Marie Osmond.

Also loving me the Californication and, oh hells yes I'll be, shall we say, liberating damn near every word out of good ol' Mulder's potty mouth. Plagiarizing's such an ugly word.

Speaking of which, I also enjoy that Flo-Rida song.

And is Rick Springfield fucking awesome on that show or what?

Whyfore doth I disqualify otherwise perfectly attractive womenfolks based solely upon their choice of ridiculous footwear?

And don't even get me started on the horrors of plaid.

After a free concert at the Rio (if you haven't stayed, please do; the suite was bigger than my apartment, very nice, as it was my first time even in the building), I was fortuitous enough to get my T-shirt signed by the lead singer of The Ataris (Song of the Day: San Dimas High School Football Rules!). During said transaction, I queried about an anecdote he'd relayed on stage. What? I'm learning to ask better questions and he'd told a story about a tour through Canada. I merely asked as to where it had occurred.

He couldn't remember, but said that if his iPhone were available, he could Google it. Lightbulb time. I brandished mine own shiny iPhone and attempted to convince the fellow to demonstrate for me how to better utilize the fucking thing. And all he wanted to do was finish signing merch, pick out a groupie or several and enjoy Las Vegas.

To no avail. I'd turned off my roaming feature. Sigh. We did, however, discuss the merits of fantasy football (it's on my bookmarks list) and he mentioned liking my infinity symbol tattoo. All in all, quite an enjoyable concert. And did I mention free?

Last night I went and saw Chris Isaak perform at the auditorium a mere 10 minutes walk from the Manor. He and I had some unfinished business from when I caught his San Francisco Days tour in 1993. And he delivered. THIS time, he played Blue Spanish Sky, and all was right with the world. I do wish his TV show were available on DVD, though. And that I had been ready with the previously mentioned iPhone when prime photography ops presented themselves, as I was in the 2nd row from the stage, on the right. No security. Not that kind of show.

The opening act, Lindsay something or other, was an excellent guitarist. Could sing a little, too. Lyrics needed work. I can't decide if her tight black dress was reclaiming her sexuality (girl was F.I.N.E. fine) or merely bowing to expectation. She kept having to pull it up during her set, as her breastesses were a little small. Which stopped me from yelling Show Us Your Tits Or Get Off The Stage, Hoochie! in front of the wine and cheese theater crowd. The wine and cheese theater crowd can get kind of unruly-like. Think angry mob. Pitchforks and torches.

And, yes, Mr. Isaak wore the mirrored suit. Damn, I Wish I'd gotten that guy to show me how to operate my iPhone.

And, no, I have NO idea who the chick was that decided to seat squat in the empty seat to my right (I go to shows alone, I find I get much better seats that way and am free to purchase more merch for my ownself, should I be so inclined). I know she wasn't with the guy in the next seat over because she left halfway through Silvertone's 2+ hour set (if you've never seen the band live, you're totally missing out), and he had the air of someone who had dropped coin on 2 tickets and then been dumped by the girl he'd planned to take but decided to use his ticket anyway. Good for him.

It was also good to have my boy Jay come and find me (I'm kinda hard to miss) at intermission. I didn't know he was going, as I haven't seen or spoken with him in weeks.

There's not much sadder than a Vegas buffet at closing time. watching all that food get thrown out. Especially when one is running low on functioning teeth.

It's about time George Lopez got his own talk show. And I'll likely give Wayne Brady's new Let's Make A Deal it's day in court as well.

I should likely be more troubled than I really am by the fact that every day I come home from work with my pants full of blood and pus and, oh, let's go with ick. Let's just say I'm still reacting adversely to my decision to experiment with over the counter steroids. The creatine seems to be working, however, thanks for asking.

The Jonas Brothers are now immortalized in wax. Because they, you know, changed the face of contemporary music and shit.

To be fair, their show doesn't totally suck dead dogs.

You can buy an iPhone from a vending machine at the MGM Grand. I can remember when those things used to sell gum and trinkets.

I want products from a peanut LADEN facility.

All hail and kneel before Mike Blowers.

I'm troubled by the Six Million Dollar Man reduced to pimping hearing aids. Surely THAT can't just be me.

And Mariah Carey covering Foreigner.

Why do flapper chicks do it for me? You know who'd make a good flapper chick? Shalom Harlow, that's who would make a good flapper chick.

I kinda want to bitch slap and, yes, karate chop that Slap/Chop hawker on the TV.

Thanks to a semi-cute social butterfly-type blonde with braces, Ashley, I realized that I was wrong during my awkward adolescence: I wasn't unattractive, I merely looked uptight. Uncomfortable. Like. Ish.

Her exhibitionist stripper-looking friend was at least a 9, though.

Heard Hole on the Muzak in a food court. Died a little bit inside.

I love the name Poppy Harlow.

I NEED to recruit me a solid Vegas wingman.

There should be tests that people have to pass in order to be allowed to continue to live.

The moving sidewalk is, again, not a ride.

The only person (other than me) that I fear is the one with ink on his face. His pain threshold is obviously off the charts.

Who is this Jordin Sparks person and what has she done with the Pussycat Dolls I paid to see open for Britney? Let the Music Play was a cool tune when Shannon did it in, what, 1980?

Kristinia DeBarge? I don't care if you're El's kid; until one of your songs outsells Rhythm of the Night or even Who's Johnny?, it's Kristian. Quit fronting.

Britney (wouldn't see her here, but in Las Vegas, you have to do things like that) should've played Freebird. Her version of Sweet Dreams is pretty cool, though.

10000+ people with cellphones and not ONE nearby to show me how to make my iPhone go. Sigh. Someday I'll learn how to zoom for photography.

Free Polanski. The victim wants it to be over, let it be over.

Janet, you're famous enough, you don't need to capitalize on Michael's death.

My radar is WAY off. I can't even tell rentals from civilians with any degree of certainty anymore. Although there was this one blonde in the casino on my last night.

I was asked if I'd played college football. By a black guy. Rugby by a second. And then, the ubiquitous basketball query by both.

How do I love Amber Valletta? Let me count the ways: like Prince said, I know 23.

Cher in the house that Celine Dion built. Got lucky, the nice lady assigning my seat has a son in Calgary and gave me 8th row floor for the 2nd tier $ I shelled.

I wish Cher had sung Heart of Stone and One By One. I didn't pay $120+ to hear her sing U2. Quite enjoyed the old Sonny and features of the production show, however.

And the random topless dancer was a nice touch.

It's sad how much joy ensued when I found applesauce and pineapple yogurt at a buffet.

Las Vegans. Who knew?

Is it weird to aspire to having the decor of the Manor look like a Fridays?

Stafon Johnson: Reason #147 why I don't work out.

Is Haleigh Cummings' babysitter attractive? Built? Posing in Playboy anytime soon? Then, why, prithee, wouldst I care?

Will be back soonish with a review of my recent trip to FINALLY see Kelly Clarkson perform live.

Day 26

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 01:54:00 -0600

So I won't be going to work for the Evil Empire, WalMart after all. On the plus side, it took the good folks thereabouts 2, count 'em, 2 whole days to arrive at their (likely correct) decision. No reason was given, just a brief e-mail that I finally happened across 4 days after it had been sent. But I've a sneaking suspicion that it was because I don't have any referents from my last place of employ. And no chance of acquiring any. Or, perhaps, because I haven't managed to find a viable way to incorporate the word 'synergy' into casual convo or my resume as of yet. Who can ever tell with such things?

And so my unemployment continues...

I had an interview Monday. For the company that I left on poor terms before the last company I left on poor terms. Surprisingly, one of the folks instrumental in my exit has apparently given me a positive referral for this new gig. I have no idea why. The interview went fairly well. Mostly because one of my boys, whom I've been friends with for 18 years and tried to hire me in a similar position early last year, has some juice with the company and recommended me.

And this is what I've become. The object of pity. At least it's for an entirely different reason than usual. Yay, me! Growing, I am.

I managed to fuck up my reporting for collecting unemployment. I misread the statement I received from my previous employers stating they'd placed my pension contributions into another account as meaning they'd closed out my account and deposited the funds into my regular banking institution. However...after 30 minutes on hold before claiming these moneys, I discovered they had, in fact, been placed into the same account as my pension contributions from my last gig. An account I have no idea how to access which now, apparently, contains seven grand. So... I have to refile tomorrow and explain my error. Good Times.

I really need to pay attention to numbers and shit. It's like the man said: you can have a great life if you know about money and women. You can have a good life if you know about money OR women. If you're having trouble grasping either...

Luckily I know about women. They want the same things we do, only in prettier colors. And, don't let anybody tell you different, they love sex. Fucking LOVE it. It's the multiple orgasm factor. What more is there to know?

And, yet again, I digress. Deal.

Took a call from an American company beginning to make ingress into Canada. Which the recruiter described as taking the place of Linens N Things. Which I interviewed with last year. And we know how things turned out for them. An omen?

A couple of other possibilities remain. And I'm sending out applications, so hopes remain high.

And, of course, when the money gets low, I have an exit strategy, but we won't talk about that quite yet.

Perhaps I'll choose the erased myself and let go/started over again in Mexico option. Perhaps not. Only time will tell.

And so my ennui continues...

And, of course, I need to look into reinvesting my paper pension plan moneys, as apparently some of my choices haven't performed very well. Story of my life. I also need to learn how to shoot video with my iPhone. Welcome to my pity party. One night only. Actually, only the last maybe hour. I read a series of essays about the Chris Benoit tragedy and discovered that Feeling Minnesota isn't anywhere near as clever as I'd fondly recalled.

However...a good blowjob does still feel like love every time. And tonight's WWE Raw from Calgary kinda sucked. That there is what I like to laughingly refer to as a segue. I'm glad I didn't give in to impulse and wander down to the Saddledome to see it live. Now, if it's been Smackdown, that'd be an entirely different story.

Which reminds me of another, as such things often do. In 2001, my then GF ish (damn she had a nice frame) and I went to Raw here and then rented a car and drove to Edmonton for Smackdown, where we saw Chris Benoit give Stone Cold Steve Austin I believe 12 (and may be wrong, I blame the concussions) consecutive German suplexes in an awesome display of technique. Especially since both men had, for lack of proper medical terminology (having missed that day of medical school), broken their necks in the ring at one point or another. Perhaps several.

On the way home, as we were driving back to Calgary that night, we stopped at a truck stop just outside the Edmonton International Airport. This was back in the days when I didn't wear my glasses unless I required them. So I halfwittedly bull in a china shopped my way into a section that had been roped off. A waitress told me of my error and Charlotte and I went to the area we were directed to, ate and left. It wasn't until we were in the car and On the Road (note to self: reread Kerouac) that Charlotte pointed out to me that I had pretty much tripped over Kurt Angle, Jerry Lynn (always a personal fave, EC F'N W was awesome back in its prime) and X-Pac and had assumed that myopic l'il ol' me had been aware of my gaffe. Yeah, not so much.

And that's my brush with fame. At least I didn't mark out and interrupt their meal by asking for autographs.

And then there was the time I walked by Luc Robitaille and Paul Coffey in Banker's Hall when they were with the Los Angeles Kings. Nope, didn't mark out then, either.

Why, yes, Virginia, I really AM Cool like that.

But could someone please tell me where the fuck all these ants have come from?

And I can't believe I forgot to mention in my last post how nifty The Final Destination looks. For that series of flicks, I kinda AM a total mark. Especially the first. Even though I've never been a big fan of the horror flicks.

Halloween 2. NCIS LA. On the negative tip, creativity, like Justice and god (or whoever) is dead. On the plus side, we're that much closer to a big screen revisioning of Magnum P.I.

But tomorrow, or, as the case may be, later today is another day. Here's hoping the geophysicist has a safe flight back from St. John's. And that my bank statement arrives in the day's mail, save me a trip to the bank. Sleep well geophysicist. Sleep well Charlotte, wherever you are. Sleep well Angle, Lynn and Waltman (who needs to be brought in to make the weak DX reunification a smidge less weak). Rest in peace, Chris Benoit. Rest uneasy, WalMart folk. Sleep well y'all.

Like Dashboard said, Sleep Well.

Suavely Deranged At the Movies

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 23:33:32 -0600

So, Twitter, huh? Yeah, that was me.

Much love to Denver Nuggets heavily inked SG J.R. Smith and San Diego Chargers CB Antonio Cromartie for running into the same sort of opposition for expressing their views online as I, my ownself. Although with much smaller repercussions. Love me the censorship, can't you tell? Adolf Hitler is alive and well and living wherever a thought, a word, a work of art or what have you is forbidden. Verboten, as it were.

I was thrilled to discover that Australian sensation The Veronicas are going to be opening up for Kelly Clarkson when her tour finally rolls into Calgary in November. Love me some The Veronicas. Saw them open for Natasha Bedingfield at the House of Blues in Vegas last year. Only because they were playing. Never thought they'd make it out here. Thrilled they are. Although after the divine Ms. Clarkson (skim the archives, as time and legal ramifications don't permit me to go into the effect her music has had on me over the years) has already cancelled one Canadian tour and pushed back this show from July to November...

Fingers, toes, and eyes are crossed on this one. Wires, too.

Contrary to word on the street, G.I. Joe doesn't need to be courtmartialed. It is what it is, mindless kickass excitement with shit getting blowed up hither, thither and yon for no apparent reason (which just adds to the appeal) brought to you by the good folks at Hasbro. I'm just surprised Michael Bay didn't direct it.

Marlon Wayans as an action star? Really? Damon, maybe. Hell, even Keenan Ivory, but Marlon? My suspension of disbelief only goes so far. Now, if it'd been Shawn, I'd have stormed the projection booth. Do they even still HAVE an actual projection booth? Sorry, being unemployed has caused my pretty little head to go in all sorts of directions of late. My dissolution of self, however, is progressing nicely, so there's that.

Stormshadow's still my favorite.

If I were gay, boy, Channing Tatum's poster would totally be up on my wall. Liked him in She's The Man, though.

Didn't Sienna Miller play Edie Sedgwick once? I'm not judging. Hot snatch on the hoof has to eat, too. And there's so many ways to prostitute oneself, most of which are even legal. Believe me, I've checked. Again, unemployed.

I totally need me some nanomites. Just to further my new career path as megalomaniacal supervillain. What? I went to college. Liberal Arts, so it ain't like I have a whole lot of potential gigs in my chosen field. Although I did get that A in Women's Studies oncet upon a time.

I totally leave my shiny new iPhone on in the theater because:

a) I'm kind of a prick. But not a complete one. I can't even do THAT right. Sigh.

2) I have no clue how to transition the fucking thing from sleep mode to off, being a simple country boy and all.

c) Since I've completely blanked on the first 3 digits of my number (991, by the way) and told everyone they were something else, I'm not overly concerned about folks calling me at inopportune times. Again, simple. Country. Read:hick.

On the plus side, the chick what has the number I've been giving out sounds kinda Fly. When life gives you lemons, make PIE. We likes pie.

A remake of Fame. Because folks just couldn't get enough of the original and are still talking about it lo these 20 some odd (for some of us more odd than for others) years since. On the positive tip, Irene Cara will have a career again, I'm quite looking forward to that. AND...wait for it...the long anticipated return of legwarmers. I'ma, being a total androgyne and all, get me some pink ones.

Yeah, not really feeling this Shutter Island business. Might read the book, though. And I like Leonardo di Caprio. Ever since Growing Pains.

I finally got around to watching Juno yesterday. Primarily because I loved Diablo Cody's Candy Girl, wherein she...no, fuck that. Read it yourself. It's worth it. Hell, I may even go see Jennifer's Body. Whoa, man, that's just crazy talk. Although...Megan Fox. Amanda Seyfried. Color me on the fence. I nearly impaled myself on one once. Playing Little League. Trying to pull in a home run. Yeah, not so much.

But I digress. I do that.

Apparently something happened in Pittsburgh recently and my boy Yan (who taught me the correct use of spacing after commas and parentheses) told me that I need to take a page from this fella's blog and make mine own as easy to follow and have a, you know, point. Yeah, so not me. But it's good to have friends, though, ain't it?

And again. Wherefore art I?

Oh yeah. Juno. Snappy dialogue and, ever since I thought I could do film school at home, I've always been all about the dialogue. Which is why I'm so looking forward to Inglorious Bastards (sp.?). Loves me the Tarantino.

Ellen Page. Good.

Michael Cera. Surely I can't be the only one that wants to take him by the back of the head and start smashing his fucking face into a wall until either one breaks into little pieces. After watching him drag this movie down and then watching him in Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist this evening, I so very much want him to end up on the wrong end of a back alley gangbang. Soonest. He's attained a place in that special little corner of Hell I like to call Will Ferrell Land. Cera's set the male gender back hundreds of years by being such a complete fucking pussy in his movies. It makes me throw up in my mouth a little (okay, a LOT) to think that somewhere out there in the ether is a generation of males who think that the way to a woman's heart is to be her bestest girlfriend. her BFF, as it were. Then she can't help but see how awesome you are, worshipping her from afar, while she's pulling train for every guy other than you; although sometimes, just sometimes, you (gasp!) score some hot hand holding action. On the plus side, these guys will all end up going to the other team, leaving more 18 to 21 year olds for my planned midlife crisis.

But I sugarcoat. I sometimes have issues when it comes to talking about my feelings. As those of y'all what've stumbled by before are more than aware. And yes, I used to be that kind of orbiter once (before you can say it, HA!) and, yeah, not so much. Orbiter guy doesn't end up with the female lead. If he's lucky, however, when he's holding her purse (nope, never fell that far from grace), he can take the fucking thing and run. Pay for e-books and therapy. Hookers and crack.

Fortunately, after I finish up here I'll be watching Chinatown. Nicholson. Just to remind me that there are still movies with Alpha male role models. I couldn't believe my good fortune at it being available when I went to the library yesterday. That's where I got Juno. Bonnie and Clyde. The Great Gatsby. Cleopatra. Fucking sue me, I'm unemployed. I've finally got time to catch up on my reading, writing and filmic studies. And I still have about 10K in the bank, so I'll be all right for a week or 2 more.

Although it was 31 Flavours of fun and Good Times to apply for unemployment and have to explain on the application that I got the axe because of poor Facebook judgment. It did, however, make me appreciate the pure, clean and good things in life.

Like Heroin. Weed is for selling or giving to chicks.

And, of course, wishing bad things for Michael Cera and Will Ferrell for their crimes against humanity. Which ties in nicely with my earlier comment about Adolf Hitler. See, Yan, sometimes I really do have a destination in mind for my train of blank.

Yeah, not so much. But my heart's in the right place. Tattooed on my arm, where it belongs.

I'm having a problem with the Would You Bang Jesus? opener. Yeah, the 13 guys rolling into the club together; strong entrance, good social proof. The hot whore draped all over him (sadly, I forgot this part the last time I used it; and that is why you fail); again, social proof. Women love them the social proof. And then he turns water into wine right in front of you at the bar. Chicks love magic tricks. And shiny things. It makes them go ooh and ah and shit.

Any advice and or input would be greatly appreciated. We're all in this together.

All right. I'm bored. And I suspect most of y'all left midway through my diatribe on Michael Cera (Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist actually wasn't too bad, mostly because of Kat Dennings), so I'm out. Like Michael Cera. Sorry couldn't resist one more.

Think about it, it'll come to you. Or not. Whatever.

Set Adrift On Memory Bliss Of...

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 20:13:15 -0600

Me. Duh. I'm a complete fucking narcissist, for those of y'all what have happened by for the first time, never to be heard from again.

Memory lane is an often painful address.

Time passes, but it usually kicks the shit out of you as it does.

So, it was while I was watching the 2nd season of Californication today (I still can't believe they killed off Lou Ashby; I know, I'm such a mark, fucking sue me) that I realized that now might be a good time to reassess the mistakes of the past.

Or maybe it was while I was busily doing what I've always done, only to have something different and unexpected transpire.

Or, perhaps, running into someone who knew me back during the dark days of K, when I was a complete fucking orbiter, and still greeted me. Yeah, let's leave it at that. No extra reading between the lines, that was enough. I my ownself would have ignored me. And I'm appreciative of all the work I've put in since then. Although I realize how very far I still have to travel on this journey of a thousand stumbles. Like that? Just came up with it. What can I say? I've been inspired of late. I renewed my library card after a year and a half of never having the time to read anything other than e-books and cereal boxes, and I'm hooked. Always did love me the things with the words.

Possibly running into someone I once had a history with but whom I'm fairly certain I don't want to know anymore, even though I should forgive her her thoughtless transgression, as her heart was in the right place. Head, right square up her ass. Been there, done that, doing it tomorrow. But I avoided her, although I felt saddened at all the weight she's gained since she ruined an otherwise quality breakfast outing for me. And I hold my pancakes sacred above all others.

Mayhap a text message and a drunken phone call from someone I hold dear, who is away on vacation. Yeah, I miss her, I'm not made of stone. Just my skull.

I'm getting better at getting out of my own head and way, but tonight...I'm glad I don't drink anymore. There's been a lot weighing on my pretty little head of late, wondering if I'll ever find me a suitable career. Or, you know, grow up and shit.

Fucking Crossroads. Although Britney totally set the screen ablaze in that one, didn't she? They fucking STOLE that Oscar from her.

It troubles me that all my role models are poor ones. And, you know, dead.

Now that I'm significantly on the wrong side of 30, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be part of the establishment. Thing is, that's never been me. Probably never will.

I love my iPhone. Now, If Only I could figure out how to work the fucking thing. Let's just say it's a major step up from my previous mode of communication: 2 tin cans and a piece of string.

If a District Manager for a major international corporation personally calls you at home to set up a face-to-face, that's a fairly good Indicator Of Interest, n'est pas? What about if a woman half your age with a BF tracks you down on Facebook (despite your apparently not as clever as you'd envisioned alias) and e-mails you daily with nary a mention of said obstacle?

When was the last time you were truly happy? That you felt complete?

Yeah. Me, either.

Today is the LAST Day of the Rest of Your Life

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 10:09:52 -0600

Since I'm going to be undertaking the arduous process of fabricating a resume and then firing off said documents hither, thither and yon (I really think that last phrase is going to make a comeback soon; you saw it here first) at some point today, I'm just filled with good tidings and cheer, so a few 'thoughts':

Whoever had the brilliant idea to pitch the Jonas Brothers (where the FUCK did these guys come from, anyway? I've a sneaking suspicion that either Rod Serling or Alfred Hitchcock was involved somehow) as the new Monkees for their show on the Disney Channel (yes, I've watched it, I go the extra mile for y'all...the blonde chick is kinda Fly) needs to be canonized as the patron saint of TV.

Now, before y'all go burning me at the stake for this one, please to remember what they taught you in Sunday school or would've if you'd Gone, you godless heathens: In order to become a Saint, one first has to be martyred. And them Christian folks had some mighty fine and creative ways of martyring other folks. I can likely think of a few that would be fitting my ownself.

And yes, I really does talk like that.

Now they have Law and Order U.K. For what? For why?

What they really need is like Law and Order Canada. I mean, just think of it, dog sleds, mounties, pretty colored moneys, Tim Hortons, folks running around saying aboot and eh for no particular reason. Gold. Gold, I tell you. Maybe I'll write a spec script, having all this free time on my hands and all (Song of the Day: Styx- Too Much Time on My Hands).

I've decided to part with my trusty 2 tin cans and a really long piece of string apparatus and venture out of my cave today to purchase me one of them cellphone dealios. Although hopes still remain high that I can find an actual working shoe phone. And Anne Hathaway as Agent 99, but that's another tale, best left for my upcoming tour of the brothels of Nevada.

Mostly I just want it for the camera. I go to a fair amount of concerts and other venues wherefore one often can't enter with a camera (should one, in fact, even THINK of taking one; again, another story), but a phone isn't a problem. Plus, it would've been useful (even my hindsight is nearsighted, by the way; note to self: lose the rose colored glasses) when the MILF was posing for me and showing me her thong at work.

As an added bonus, it's a workable indirect opener. Chicks all are glued to their cellphones, although not quite to the extent of the unfortunate narcissist in Seven, but I'm working on it. Hmmm, maybe I'll watch Seven today. Soooo, I've been asking for recommendations, operating under the notion that women love to have their opinion solicited. I'm all about the solicitation. No, wait, that doesn't sound right. At least not morally. Accurate, however, that's a different kettle of fish.

I'm curious. No, not Bi-. Get your minds out the gutter, people. This is a clean act. Bring the kids.

Requiem for a Lightweight

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 21:09:00 -0600

A good title is all. It can ofttimes overcome the glaring lack of content that should readily become apparent herein if you but continue.

Or not. Whatever and ever, amen.

The company that makes Crocs is on the verge of Chapter 11. Some days, the sun really does shine other than on TV. Why, yes, I AM a child of the 80's and I liked A-ha. Wanna make something of it?

And I totally love the phrase A-ha Moment. Who doesn't, really?

Facebook is the devil. Again, note to self: a) think; 2) type.

Yeah, like THAT will ever happen.

If one is going to attempt to seduce an employee who is more than a decade younger than you, lives unhappily with a guy, has 2 kids and doesn't drive; his game must be airtight.

Because logistics, Karma and, you know, everyfuckingthingelse are against you.

And it doesn't help when you lose social proof by getting fired before closing. Or don't have a, you know, plan or anything.

Again, like that will ever transpire. Simply not how I roll.

I'm still trying to fathom why she e-mailed me to tell me there would be no gratuitous no strings attached-type meaningless sex with her in my future. I'm fucking baffled (another fave phrase, expect to see more of it) by this occurrence. Don't the womenfolks simply cease, desist and refrain from all further contact with one whence one gets himself blown out of set?

I think it was either Shakespeare or Ice Cube that remarked that something might be rotten in Denmark.

What can I say? I was forced to ramp up the process before I'd amped up her attraction because I wouldn't be in contact with her 5 days a week anymore. Scarcity should only apply to the lack of quality catcher and middle infield options in fantasy baseball.

Oh yeah, despite all the go signs, it was no go.

It was a splash of water to my face to discover that one of my boys from the old days, who's maybe 2 years older than I, is a grandfather. Some days I really feel old. Which is whyfore I'm doing my level bestest to cultivate me an 18 year old pivot. Plenty of attractive friends and definitely part of the demographic I'm aiming for.

I have the last week of September booked at the Rio in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. The entire week. Which gives me 2 months to work on my sticking points. When I'm not, you know, looking for a job and all.

I went to see Public Enemies last Monday. Love me the Johnny Depp. Michael Mann is awesome. John Dillinger and others of his ilk intrigue me (and not just because of his anatomical good fortune and the fact it's preserved in a museum somewhere). Movie was disappointing. Afterwards, a vagrant rolls up on me and asks for some money for a homeless guy. I reply that I'd love to, but I just lost my gig. Try it for yourself. When life gives you lemons, fucking throw them at somebody and take an eye for an eye.

But I digress. I does that.

I'm going to see Britney Spears and the Pussycat Dolls at Mandalay Bay. I wouldn't see them here, but in Vegas, you do shit like that. I am, however, skipping the Miley Cyrus concert at UNLV. Although the possibility of bored single moms was hard to pass up. And I'm extremely troubled by the paparazzi photos of her floating around. Instead, I'll be at a hockey game and staying out of jail. Ah, maturity, it's about fucking time.

I'm definitely going back to ghostbar. And this time I'll take my camera. And maybe I can cease, desist and refrain from dreaming of Rain in the Desert and finally go there.

I was watching a biopic on Darby Crash the other night. When did Shane West become talented?

It's awfully difficult to eliminate the toxic people from your life when you're the root of your own problems, but still I soldier on.

Have a good weekend.

Kate Voegele Concert

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:31:00 -0600

And if y'all don't know whom this lovely chanteuse is, Rush out and buy her new CD, A Fine Mess. It's 9.99 at HMV. Although I have to admit that I like her debut, Don't Look Away, better. Yep, bought that one, too. On Amazon.com. .Ca kinda blows dog.

And yes, I bought the T-shirt. Although I wish it had the tour dates, as that's always been my preference. Loved the tour bus, too.

First, the bad news:

- I've been revisited by the ghosts of acne past. Apparently I'm not the armor plated motherfucker (Casualties of War was on TV the other night: Sean Penn is fucking AWESOME) I thought I was. Oh well, fake it 'til you make it. It did, however, seriously hamper my Mr. Happy Go Lucky-type vibe tonight..

- I was dismayed to arrive at 7:30 for what I thought was a 9 p.m. show, only to discover that the doors OPENED at 9 and the divine Ms. Voegele (the exception to my hard and fast rule about womenfolks whose first names begin with ''K'') wouldn't even take the stage until 11:05. All this after I'd shelled 5.25 for parking. When did they start charging to park downtown after 6 p.m., anyway? Cocksuckers. At least the club (which I'd never been to and likely never again will) was maybe 10 minutes drive from Stately Deranged Manor. Even though I somehow fucked up the easy to follow directions provided me by Yahoo Maps. Fortuitously, I was somehow able to find a nearby Starbucks in which to grab me a Venti Vanilla Soy Milk Latte. I know, what are the odds? Unfortunately, said establishment was in the process of closing.

And so was the All-You-Can-Eat Sushi (I have a nasty habit of getting banned from such establishments, being of the hollow leg persuasion and all) place across the street from wherefore I parked. At least I was able to hit the infamous M.T. Tucker's, site of many a Free Birthday Prime Rib Dinner in years past, for a chicken dinner complete with salad bar and bread service.

- Ms. Voegele only played for a little over an hour and didn't play either I Get it or Who You Are Without Me. Not What Might've Been, either.

On a completely unrelated note:

- Daygame is totally where it's at. The club is too loud, chicks are too easily distracted, and you can't fucking smoke in them anymore. Which is a completely different rant. Skim the archives for a recap.

- Heath Ledger. River Phoenix. Will Ferrell.

Which of these is not like the other (said in an annoying singsongy voice)?

And so not for the reason you might think. But if you've arrived at the same rather obvious conclusion that I have, we seriously need to talk.

- I tried really really hard to like True Blood. I wanted to like True Blood. I still like Anna Paquin. Even got to see her Naked in the second season premiere I caught last night. Still didn't like the show. Still Like Ms. Paquin, however.

- All of your problems can be solved by my penis.

And, without further ado, the Good:

- Kate Voegele is the hot, cool chick that you likely followed around (orbited, as it were) at some point in your life. Yeah, me too. And yet, I somehow get the sense that she's not really aware of how amazing she truly is. Yeah, I know, this is totally reading like a fan letter. Fucking sue me. And the fact that she doesn't seem to have acquired a jaded Rock Star-type vibe yet is also quite refreshing. She's totally the kind of chick you'd like to hang out with.

And she can totally fucking wail. I, and this is rare, appreciate her music even more after seeing her live. Small venue. Acoustic set. Unobstructed sight line. Well, okay, being 6'6'', I damn near always have an unobstructed view. I wasn't close enough to determine whether or not she, in fact, smells like feet (if you're not familiar with this One Tree Hill reference, I simply throw up my hands in despair; she seems quite like her character, Mia, on the show), but I kinda doubt it. I would, however, be more than willing to find out.

- I'm pretty sure I was the only one there that didn't bring his camera. Nope, don't own a cellphone, having a soul and all. I kinda wish I'd taken my camera. Although I felt badly for the folks what watched the entire show through the lens of their cameras.

- I've now seen as many concerts this year in the city wherefor I, you know, live as I have in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. This should likely trouble me. Doesn't.

- I'm quite grateful that Ms. Voegele graced our fair city with her presence and can't wait until she comes back in the fall. Nope, doesn't matter at all whom she's touring with, I'll be there.

- A very very target rich environment was had by all. Let's just say that there were many more women than men thereabouts. Sadly, I was unable to take advantage. See above. Oh well, I was there for the music. Big fan.

- Opening with One Way Or Another and closing with Only Foolin' Myself (a personal fave for horrible in-car karaoke, which I naturally performed in the car on my merry way home), before performing an encore of an excellent cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, Ms. Voegele's set was tight. She had and was fun, still seems to enjoy performing her songs, and seemed genuinely glad to be in Calgary for the first time. I had a great time, even though I stood near the back, looking like a bouncer, so as not to block anyone's view. Sadly, I'm like that. But don't tell anybody, because I know where most of you live.

And did I mention that she's kinda fine? Moves quite well, too. I'm proud to call her one of the many folks I'll never meet whom has sent me a My Space Friend Request and been accepted. Not so subtle hint. Facebook, too.

And I really enjoy the term Facebook Fling for some reason. Again, hint hint.

In conclusion, if y'all weren't there, fuck ya.

I joke. Mostly.

Last chance, check her out on My Space (where she was discovered) or Facebook. I'm off to add one of her songs to mine own My Space page. Be good and be safe.