four and a half steps

I still need some work on the chorus, but I think my first song is almost down.
This is definitly some sort of a fucked up quarter-life crisis that I'm going through.
Kind of like how I took up smoking for a while.
Who learns the guitar now?
This is the time in my life when I'm supposed to relinquish fun shit I used to do.
Not take on new fun shit.
This will be the next song.
If I can convince Robert to teach me the tediously low tuning.

for a rainy day

Remember when I used to do this?
Take that!

What the fuck smells so strange in here?

True to Swarm

When my father was young like me they said, 'You'll catch more flies with honey.'
Unfortunately, somewhere along the line, people started to figure out that you can catch flies with shit, too.

It's About Time I Said So

My bathroom kinda smells like a janitor's closet.
But if I heard that you were stopping by, it would smell like Mr. Clean.

Twice in One Week

For those of you who fret that chivalry is dead.
Voila:
I cannot piece together a surprising margin of what occured last night.
But I did drink Boone's. Of this I'm sure.
There's video footage.

Me and Eunich

Take off your pants and your undergarments, everyone!
It's Friday.
For those of you who actually need to pay attention to days of the week.
Which is not the case for me, since I was fired from my most recently attained job.
Because I wasn't 'fitting in.'
Of course I wasn't fitting in; I have a penis*.
Seriously though, I believe that my days of retail are drawing to a close.
Which is just as well.
If this keeps happening I'll run out of plausible references anyway.

Alright.
So, girls have been writing me recently.
Random ones.
Under the guise of compliment they've been throwing themselves at me.
That's not true.
But they are making me sweaty under my arms.
I'm not accustomed to strange women just...contacting me.
That's more Peter Russell's department.
I'm trying my best to take it in stride and act as though this just happens to me all of the time.
Turning heads through your writing style.
Wordsworth isn't alive now, but if he were, I'm sure he'd tell me to just 'Go with it.'
And that guy always knew what he was talking about.

Da b'ys (plus filthy Turpin) are getting tired of hearing this, probably.
However! My first-ever song on the guitar machine is coming along.
Relinquish your panties now, ladies.
You won't be needing them anymore.
I figure I master 'Old Apartment,' learn an Alice In Chains or two, and then move to Dave Matthews immediately.
Then we'll see women contacting me at random.

italics count: 3.
*Though it's potentially telling, I feel I should point out that this sentence originally read:
'I don't have a penis.'

Crocodile Rock

It's not the heat, everyone.
It's the humility.
Or however that goes.

Folgers coffee tastes like piss. Don't drink it.

Did I tell you about the old guy who fell asleep next to me in Starbucks last month?
We were both sitting in front of the fireplace.
Sharing the end table, sifting through reading material, oggling the baristas.
Stuff like that.
When suddenly, geezer falls asleep right next to me.
And I wasn't sure if I should wake him.
Because maybe he had somewhere important that he had to be.
I quickly lost interest and just let him sleep in peace.
Do onto others, as they say.
I put a bunch of sugar in his coffee, though.
Fuck with his day a little bit.

Do you still remember how to do the Macarena?
Try it out.
Right now.
In your apartment, or bordello, or cubicle.
Wherever you are.
I miss dance crazes.
I think we need a new one.

I get a little testy when I'm in retail.
I ducked and rolled out of Second Cup the other day for my break.
I'm at the bottom of the escalator, and it's choked up with pimply little fuckers.
And I realize that they're discussing something.
With their hands.
They're signing to one another, and I just want to get some 'Totally Greek!'
I think to myself, 'Figure it out, deaf people,' and walk through the middle of them.
Interupting their conversation in the process, I suppose.
Intermission.
I also turned one day while making blender after blender of smoothies.
To see this sea of doe-eyed customers.
And with absolutely no hesitation, I think to myself, 'You're all dickheads.'
I can't even help it.
Intermission.
My luck's not all so bad, though.
I went on break yesterday, and that's when some random kid puked on the floor.
So, I dodged that one.

Alright, that's enough.
I wonder if this post will get me in trouble with the Folgers people...

"I swim around on my back and do cute little human things with my hands!"

Cappuccinos are a tremendous pain in the ass to make.
Don't order them.

I ended up at Janine Pretty's house last night.
I haven't laid eyes on Janine Pretty in what I would venture to be about eight years.
Jim was at her place.
Jim is the loud, somewhat stocky/fat guy with the shaved head that you sometimes see at parties.
And wedding receptions.
Shandera and Pete and I showed up to discover that Jim was the only other male.
I think he was excited to see us.
He was exhuberant and hilarious.
"I'm gonna be dancing tonight, b'ys.
(to the room) All of ye gotta dance with me tonight!
I've had seven beers already and I'm gonna get boxed. Boxed!"
"Those are wicked! Those are Freddy Kreuger socks!
Those are 'I'll get ya in my dreams' socks!"
"That's cool that you wears stuff to be different.
I do that, too. I wear a lot of Tapout stuff cause not a lot of fellas wear Tapout stuff."
"I wanna go on 'er b'ys! I'm gettin' on 'er!"
Jim had passes to get into Siren's for free.
For those of you who don't know, Siren's is a bar where some of the women who work there are periodically naked.
I very much wanted myself and Peter to go to a strip club with this man.
Alas, we lost him in the shuffle of cabs.

I usually try not to get too political in my daily ruminations.
But after reading this I searched Google for Rebecca Aldworth.
Because I intended to e-mail her and tell her that she is a tremendous cunt.
Hopefully she reads my blog.
Hopefully you read my blog.

"Which Oatcake is the Best?"

I know that the guy who said, 'The customer is always right,' is surely dead by now.
But I hope the fucker died of gangrene.
On his birthday.

Sarah Turpin is back in town, did I tell you?
Already my restless nights have increased in numeration.
We had to share my couch for an evening.
It was magical. She'll tell you about it.
Certain surfaces were never designed for two (count 'em, two) gangly people.

Tilling the Humans

Ever find yourself walking through da mall and you're suddenly terrified that you've just made eye contact with Terry Hiscock?
Me too.

Everybody, everybody knows that the most attractive female athletes are volleyball players.
That's why they put them on the beach.

What a year its been for the douche bag.
No one can stop talking about them.
And the disposable enema just can't get over it.

Summer is here!
Don we now our scant apparel.
So that all of the ladies know, if you're wearing a sundress and you're trying to tell me something, I'm not listening.
I'm concentrating on not looking at your breasts.
Don't tell me anything important in a sundress.
Don't discuss any sort of scheduling while in a sundress.

'Spittin' Image'

Sometimes, when I worry that I'm not actually my father's son-
which is no doubt a popular debate around town-
I just put on some Hank Williams and, while enraptured, set myself at ease.
If there's no Hank around, I just take off my t-shirt and look at my torso in the mirror for a minute.
Dad's the exact same weight as me.