Life is for Living
Where have I been? I haven’t posted here in almost a month and that makes Baby Jesus cry. At least, that’s what he told me when we were smoking peyote the other night. Ok, that wasn’t Jesus or a baby. It was this guy who sells me peyote. I think his name is Frank or Pierre or Johnny Red Bull or something like that.
Anyhoo, I need to get back into the swing of things – and by swing I don’t mean one of those sex contraptions they have in Thailand or Saigon or Beaumont, you weirdos. God, what am I going to do with you freaks if every time I mention “swing” or “porn” or “baby goats” or “church,” you get all pervy on me? Sheesh.
In lieu of my standard, “Hey, look at how awesome I am because I totally got a serious bid on my house and, if all goes well, I could be homeless by August!” I think I’ll pimp all you nerds for suggestions.
For those that don’t know, I have this rock and roll outfit (a band, not guyliner and a scarf, though I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, hipster?) I play with and we are working on our third record. It will be released either end of this year or first of 2010 – no, we aren’t naming it Space Odyssey; that’s so nine years ago – and being typical musicians, we are broke and begging for money.
Here’s the deal. We’ve decided to do a kind of telethon/raffle/auction/sell your mom into slavery type deal to raise money for recording, but without the annoyingly dulcet tones of public radio harping on you to send in $20 to receive get one of the dusty autographed copy’s of Carl Kasell‘s autobiography he has sitting in like 50 boxes in his basement (just kidding, Carl – I love you!). In our little whatchamacrazy, we’re going to give you some primo shit that may or may not include peyote.
What I need is some help from you guys deciding on what to do for folks who are willing to pony up some dough – the weirder the better. For example, $250 gets you drunk on Lone Star at the Big Top with us and then we head to midtown to make fun of douchebags. Maybe for $100, we take a picture with you in front of the abandoned lot where Astroworld used to be and buy you lunch at Chili’s – if you’re lucky – then leave you on 610 with a cardboard sign that says “drive me home for sexy good time.”
The possibilities are endless.
You guys are the creative, nerdy types who live to come up with crazy shit like this, right? So, get crackin’! Come up with some crazy ways we can make like $5000 for our record. If you come up with a good one, we will thank you in our own “special” way if you know what I mean and I hope you do because I don’t have a clue what that means and I’ll need you to explain it to me.
Oh, and thanks for your help. You’re sweet and kinda cute. In fact, how YOU doin’?
I had me some swine fluz, but I got over it. All it left me with is a stupid cough and the need for a shave. I’ll be back to normal blogging duties soon.
So, I’m turning 40 this week (on Thursday). Four decades on the planet earth is weird, but fine. As Paul Rudd said in 40 Year-Old Virgin, “Forty is the new twenty.” Um, ok.
Anyway, I’ve noticed a trend of people having a birthday “week” where they celebrate for an entire week with dinners, lunches, parties, etc. I’m clearing a decade and I can’t even see a need for me to celebrate for a whole week.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got my own way of celebrating that involves sandwiches, Cinemax and something I like to call “sitting,” but I just wonder why the need for many parties. It’s like when people get married and have a bridal shower, a couples shower, a bachelor/bachelorette party, another shower, an orgy, a bar mitzvah, a blessing from the Pope and the sacrificing of human baby flesh on top of the wedding, the reception and the honeymoon. That seems like overkill.
In lieu of an entire week of birthday partying, I will be having a party on Saturday and the rest of the week will be filled with, what else, me talking. Hey, if you don’t have to take me to dinner all week, the least you can do is read my blog, right?
On my calendar for this, my final week in my 30’s:
1. Put my house on the market.
This has been coming but the sign will go up end of the week. It’s freaking me out, but it’s good.
2. Blog posts representing my 30’s.
Rather than try to recap the hilarity that is my whole life, I’ll just run through the decade that was my 30’s. Believe me, it’s strange enough to count as more than 10 years. I’ll have some of my standard posts – Light Rock Monday, Tubesday, etc – dedicated to that and some additional stuff just for fun – ok, my fun, but whatever.
I’ll be eating a lot of cake this week because, well, I love it.
Yes, I’ll be working. Blah, blah, blah.
5. Learning the ancient art of calligraphy.
Mainly, so I can learn to write “ye olde douchebag” in fancy drawin’ language. I will then scrawl it on each and every Hummer in the parking lot at Pearl Bar until such time as I am killed by some drunk, bald guy wearing Ed Hardy saying, “What do you think you’re doing to my ride, bro?” or I am lauded as the greatest person ever to live.
Ok, I probably won’t do that, but I need some goals for the next decade too.
That covers it. Keep reading because, you know, it’s literally the least you can do.
For the first time this year, I got on my bike. I wanted to test out the new hike/bike trail that is nearly complete just a few blocks from my house.
Since my bike has been in storage since last year, I figured the tires would need air, which they did. Finding air for bike tires has been an adventure ever since I was a kid. Some gas stations have it and others don’t. The same is true today. But, what’s different is that the stations that do have air often charge you for it.
Seriously, $0.75 for air? AIR?
And the thing is set on a timer that is guaranteed to go off just before you get done with the airing up of tire, particularly if you need it for all four tires on your truck.
I did have a good ride and the new, nearly finished trail is awesome. A few stats from my ride:
Miles traveled: appx 4
Songs heard on iPod: around 20
Repairs required en route: 1
Times nearly hit by car: 2
Amount of mud accumulated on tires: appx 5 lbs
Damage: cut on hand
I did it. I got lazy. I wanted a snack and the Kroger is just 3 blocks from my house. I had been avoiding it except for household goods – paper towels, detergent, etc – and even going to Target for those whenever possible.
Last night, I decided it was a Kroger night because I didn’t feel like going to Randall’s or anywhere else and my visit helped remind me why I don’t care for the ghetto version of Kroger that is near me.
The stink of garbage outside the store.
I’ve been going to this Kroger for a long time. In fact, I used to go to this store as a kid with my grandparents. But, since it became a “Super” Kroger or whatever they call it when the old, quaint store is swallowed by the Godzilla of grocery stores, the garbage outside the front door of the place has stunk like Mothra’s asshole.
The woman at the courtesy booth who didn’t speak to me.
I still had some rolled coins left over from my yard sale, so I took in a couple rolls to cash out. I didn’t want to be the dumb ass who tried to check out with a roll of dimes, so I went to the courtesy booth. The woman behind the counter just stared at me when I asked her if I could get bills for the rolls of coins before walking into the back office for a couple minutes. These were still wrapped from the bank. She came back out and, without speaking, called the manager via the intercom and began to help another customer without saying a word. When I asked, she said that they sometimes have to count the coins. The manager showed up and approved the transaction. She looked at the two rolls of dimes and one roll of quarters and asked, “Twenty dollars, right?” Jeez, I dunno, Rockefeller, you’re the cashier.
The choice selection of baked goods.
I don’t go into a grocery store expecting it to be like a German bakery, but it would be nice if the selection of rolls and bread reached more than three bags of day-old yeast rolls and a pyramid of knock off Wonder bread on sale three for a dollar. And why exactly do your croissants need 50 ingredients? I’m fairly certain you can make them with less.
The DVD player showing High School Musical 3 while I stood in line.
I do everything within my power to avoid anything relating to Zac Efron. It’s just a policy I have. I also don’t want to know anything about, hear anything from or see anything related to high school musicals of any kind, particularly those with spoiled little acne-free Disney kids. Playing High School Musical 3 on a DVD player so I am basically forced to watch it while waiting in line to pay for my groceries is both cruel and unusual.
The stinky helper behind me in line.
While standing in the checkout line, a strange gentleman began asking me questions randomly. “Is that one broken?” “If the woman would just help her, she’d get done faster, right?” “They need about four more of these, don’t they?” I tried to nod politely, but the pungent aroma of his horrible breath nearly knocked me out. He even walked over to one of the machines to help someone out when she didn’t need help. Patience, stinky grasshopper.
The toothless lady at the self-checkout lane with the hundred.
In case you wondered who stinky breath was helping, naturally it was a toothless woman wearing camouflage and trying to pay at the self checkout lane with a hundred dollar bill. This prompted an exchange between she and stinky that made no sense. I’m fairly certain they were speaking a language only the mole people who live in the abandoned subway tunnels in New York understand. I don’t even want to speculate as to why she had a hundred dollar bill yet was unable to match the color of her socks.
The guy who nearly hit me in the parking lot.
Once I made it out of there, I got in my truck and proceeded to back out at roughly the same time as a guy in a black Mercedes about two spaces behind me. I was ahead of him slightly but seeing me must’ve triggered the gene that makes him want to prove he’s still a man, so he slams it into reverse and tries to get out before me. This was silly because my truck was already out into the aisle. He was CLEARLY pissed that I didn’t respect his bizarre attempt to out-testosterone me and raced up near my bumper. I leapt out of my truck and smashed his windshield with a bottle of Dasani water shouting, “I will crush your will to live!” That last part probably happened in my head, but still.
I think I’m going to stick with Randall’s and Target. Sure, Randall’s plays elevator music and Target is nearly always filled with screaming children, but it seems preferable to my sad ghetto Kroger.
Photo by Kymberlie R. McGuire.