Airlines, Corn Syrup and Good Shoes

Even monkeys aren't stupid enough to burn their home up to make

cheap Ikea shit and grow burgers for beef on what used to be rainforest.

Maybe they would be if they had bigger brains. I hope not....

My advice of the day:

Go buy good shoes. You'll need them. Gas is going to be six bucks a gallon by the end of the year. So you'll be walking more. Or biking.
Or taking the bus, although you're not going to be taking it to anywhere in Northern Wisconsin. They don't go there anymore.

And that furnace in the basement? I suggest buying a space heater or three, because natural gas is going up too, almost as fast, and the folks who used to sell us liquefied natural gas are now selling us crude oil and burning it themselves. It may not be a big part of the gas market, but those empty LPG tankers and terminals sitting on our coasts are proof that the oil nations would rather burn it for themselves, just like the gas we have to bid on.


And by the way, at least half the gas cost increases are due to the BushCo. policies that made our dollar worth so much less. The idiots who voted for him should all go super glue their mouths shut and fingers together.

And you better get used to staying close to home. Aviation is going to go back to what it was when I was a kid. Expensive, and for the rich.
One of the major airlines just announced that they're charging 15 bucks just to check A BAG.
Not an extra bag. Just a suitcase. Imagine how fun the overhead bins will be when all the people who can barely afford to fly react to that.
Not that it will matter. The days of cheap flights are over.

Maybe we'll get trains again. Built by unemployed autoworkers. GM is laying off 24 percent of it's workforce by the end of the year, having lost 38 BILLION dollars this year.
When it gets bad enough, there will be a new New Deal. And maybe we can get something lasting built, instead of a lasting legacy of new robber barons and tax cuts for the rich.
We're driving around and living with an infrastructure that our current population is too stupid to fix by voting in better folks.


I see a return of a different lifestyle in the wind. One where taking a trip means a week on a big boat, and not one of those bloated floating buffets full of porky white people from Topeka drifting around the Caribbean eating corn syrup laced crap food and showing just how ugly cellulite is when you're twenty seven and have the body of a sixty year old glutton.

And how about that corn syrup in everything? Thanks, Herb Kohl and Tammy Baldwin, for supporting the farm bill and the ethanol madness of our stupid agricultural mining system.

Yup, that the right word. We're mining our topsoil. It takes thousands of years to create, and we're flushing it right down into the gulf of Mexico, creating a huge dead zone where all the crap we dump on our farms, lawns and streets causes huge algae blooms and kills everything that needs oxygen to breathe.
All to grow corn for soda, most of the processed food on the market, and to burn in our cars, because we just can't be bothered to live a life where we walk, plan ahead and take the bus, or figure out how to share.
Happy Friday everyone. I'm going to go stick onions and seeds in my garden, and pull weeds. At least I can tend to my little plot and tribe.

From the Wall Street Journal:

DETROIT -- General Motors Corp. said about 19,000 hourly workers have accepted buyout or early-retirement offers from the company and most will leave its payroll by July 1.
The move will cut the auto maker's U.S. hourly work force by about 24%, and it comes as GM is preparing a number of additional cost-cutting moves to be announced next week at its annual shareholder meeting. The 19,000 acceptances met the company's expectations, a person familiar with the numbers said.

$135 A Barrel oil, a chicken Tractor and my garden

This photo is of a chicken Tractor I made for my pal Skuby, a movable day time pen

for her chickens, so they can range around without being eaten by hawks or racoons or foxes or dogs. Great idea, stupid name.

I expect eggs for doing this job!

So, how about those record oil prices?

Better tune up that bike, plant that garden, think about getting some chickens and start looking at brown rice and beans as a lifestyle, folks.

Because today, Oil's at 135.00 a barrel. We could be looking at eight bucks a gallon in a year or two. Sooner if somebody cooks off few bombs in the right places, or BushCo decides to bomb Iran, something they're talking about, dreaming about and planning for.

And then there's this little bit from the Wall Street Journal, not a paper known for being run by dirty fucking hippie tree hugging fuzzy thinking SUV haters:

The world's premier energy monitor is preparing a sharp downward revision of its oil-supply forecast, a shift that reflects deepening pessimism over whether oil companies can keep abreast of booming demand.
The Paris-based International Energy Agency is in the middle of its first attempt to comprehensively assess the condition of the world's top 400 oil fields. Its findings won't be released until November, but the bottom line is already clear: Future crude supplies could be far tighter than previously thought.
A pessimistic supply outlook from the IEA could further rattle an oil market that already has seen crude prices rocket over $130 a barrel, double what they were a year ago. U.S. benchmark crude broke a record for the fourth day in a row, rising 3.3% Wednesday to close at $133.17 a barrel on the New York Mercantile Exchange.
For several years, the IEA has predicted that supplies of crude and other liquid fuels will arc gently upward to keep pace with rising demand, topping 116 million barrels a day by 2030, up from around 87 million barrels a day currently. Now, the agency is worried that aging oil fields and diminished investment mean that companies could struggle to surpass 100 million barrels a day over the next two decades.

Dirty Fingernails

It's been pointed out to me that it's been a month or more since I blogged.

That I should start up again.

So here's a poem I like by Emily Dickinson.

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog

And a totally unrealted photo of a monkey.

I haven't been blogging because I have been sinking my fingers into dirt, breaking ground with shovels and forks and planting my garden with 34 tomatoes, Swiss chard, onions, beets, marigolds, Castor beans, pole beans, grapes, lettuce, spinach, basil, cilantro, snow peas, calendula, sunflowers both giant and dwarf and dahlias and lilies and fennel and hops and garlic and cabbage. And a few things I don't recall right now.

I also haven't been blogging because I read too much. I've been watching things fall apart in our economy, our climate and our culture. I've been thinking about how global climate change denial is growing, how we ignore our government torturing and drugging and deporting and imprisoning people, how our unsustainable ways are burning up resources, and also thinking about what an ugly freak show our media and the folks who lap it up are making out of the presidential race.

And I am sick onto the point of insanity of the way the Bush administration seems to waltz right over the top of the thin ice we're on.

So rather than harp on the ugly, I took time to think about these things.

And then I decided my new lifestyle is going to be preaching and practicing gardening, biking and spitting in the face of it all by growing as much of my own food as my little back yard can make, and learning to use this monkey brain of mine to spit in the face of borrowed trouble and try and enjoy the wild ride ahead.

Now's all we have to work with. I keep forgetting that And now's enough.

Our Imagined Economy

http://tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com/2008/04/08/our_imagined_economy/
We say, "There’s something wrong with the economy," rather than, "I’m getting screwed by the oil companies, the banks, and my employer." Things get mystified and depersonalized. We say there’s a "recession," as if were some sort of bad weather, rather than pointing our fingers at the people who brought it down on us and who are, for the most part, profiting still. Maybe, instead of talking about "the economy" and "the recession" we should be talking about the ongoing looting and concerted attack on our standard of living --which will likely end only when there’s nothing left to squeeze out of us.
This isn’t just semantics. If there’s something wrong with "the economy," we call in the economists, we think about intervention by the Fed, and things on that level. But if someone is actually attacking us, we’re more likely to focus on how we can start working for change right now, with whatever tools are at hand.

Barbara Ehrenreich, at TMP cafe.

I've liked her writing for a long time, and she nails something vital with this post.
I enjoyed reading Nickel and Dimed, even though her writing about being a house cleaner and broke was very different than my experience of being one in Seattle at the same time, and a little melodramatic by comparison.
We're being steadily screwed by big media and big lobbies and big scumbags in congress.
But since it's going to rain for the next three days, I think I'll drink a beer and eat some eggrolls and not think about how frelled up things are.

How It Feels To Be Broken and In Shock

The first thing that you realize is that the world is spinning, and everything seems drained of color and looks like you're seeing it through a freaky wide angle lens. You don't know what the hell happened, but you remember racing your horse down the trail with your pal.
Then you start to notice things. You hear somebody screaming, and start to feel your body coming back on line, like a computer rebooting.
Then you realize that you're the one screaming, and the animal part of your body is really freaking.
You slowly start to feel the dull throb of broken bones, and you realize your back feels like it's got the worst kink in it, ever.
But when you try to get up, you realize that your right wrist is throbbing something terrible, pulsing like a fire hose being stomped on by godzilla at the same rate your heart is pumping.
Then you find yourself being lifted up by people you didn't realize were there, and you start to reel your brain back into your head from the place where it was floating three feet or so above.
And then you start realizing how much pain you're in.
You look over at your left arm, and think, whoa, that looks wrong, and say
"I think I broke both of my arms".
Right about that time the people helping you realize that there's no way to get a vehicle back to where you fell of that damn horse, and that you'll have to be taken across the lake in the boat.
As you are helped into the boat, you see that the bone in your left arm is snapped clean across, and that it's pushing the skin out to the side.
It's a clean break, not poking through the skin or splintered, and the shock you are in helps keep the reality notched down as you sit there in the boat supported by two people you know but can't remember being there afterwards.
As the boat pounds across the lake, you start to realize that your knee is throbbing like hell, and starting to swell up to about twice it's normal size.
Every whack of the boat on the waves sends a jolt up your spine, and as your arms move up and down, you start to feel an amazing amount of pain.
So much it seems surreal, like a new kind of sensation.
Once you're across the lake and down by the dock, somebody pulls up with the big Oldsmobile your dad loved to drive, and they help you into the back seat.
It's not as rough a ride as the boat, but that doesn't matter, because every mile up to the hospital makes you more aware of just how messed up you are.
At the first hospital, a tiny little place in the deep northwoods, they look at you and figure out that you need a real orhtopedic surgeon right way.
So they stick a big needle in your ass filled with demerol, and suddenly you're in half as much pain, but still hurting like you didn't think you could
Then they load you into the back of a station wagon, and all the way down the road for another 36 miles of rough backroads you cry and wimper and moan with each bump.
By the time you get to the second hospital, the surgeon's already there waiting, and he takes one look at you and orders up another shot of painkillers.
That second shot is pure, undiluted bliss. All the pain goes away, but unlike recreational opiate use, you don't feel stoned out, just an absence of pain and a surreal detatchment.
The doctor takes your left hand in his hands and pulls. The bone pops back into place, and your hands look almost right again to you. Not that it matters at that point. With that much dope in your system they could cut your head off and you would just smile as they did it.
You wake up the next day with an incrdibly sore ass from the needles full of painkiller, two broken wrists, a compressed pair of back fractures and a well bashed knee.
While you were out they drilled two holes all the way through your thumbs and stuck surgical steel pins through them, then anchored them into big plaster casts. For the next eight weeks, you try to figure out how to wipe your ass, drive your stick shift volkswagon bus and live without bending or twisting anything below your elbows but your fingers.
That's what it feels like to be in deep shock after falling off your damn horse.
And I'd still be riding them if I lived somewhere I could both keep and afford them.

Rajani, Future Supermodel

Babies and toddlers are fine to look upon, but a future supermodel like

Rajani makes me happy for the future of humanity.

Young and Stupid Thugs In My Hood

So, it's one thirty AM and I'm deep into one of those sleep cycles where you're about as far from awake as you can get, and I hear a thumping and a ringing doorbell.

I claw my way up to being nearly upright and realize that it's not a dream, and somebody's banging on the front door.

Not having a lot of faith in human kind, I got Kori to get up and follow me down to the front door, if just to have my back if it's somebody with bad intent. It was the cops!

There were two squads outside my front door and a yellow cab. And at the door was a cop with a big ass flashlight. His first question was "are there any kids in the house", then he told us that four kids had called a cab using our address, then waited in the dark beside the house for the cab driver.

When that cabbie pulled up, they jumped him, took his money and knocked him around some.

I saw little of it in the paper or on the news, besides a brief one paragraph story saying they caught the kids who did it.

It's fuckin' creepy to think there are little thugs lurking in my side yard at one Am waiting to rob people.

And to add to the creepifying factor making me wonder about my neighborhood, I found a crack pipe buried in my compost pile last weekend.

It had been there a while, but I suspect my neighbors in the house behind my shop have some rough folks visiting on a regular basis.

Add in last week's murder downtown and it seems Madison is becoming a little more scary than I thought it was.

I hate to do it, but I'm going to put in motion sensor lights on the side of the house and add a gate up by the front porch. And I'm going to keep a baseball bat next to the bed in case the mayhem starts walking into our house.

I think it's all part of the BushCo economy, where it's easier to rob a cab driver or rip shit off from your neighbors than to find a job. After all, respectable people have enough money to live in gated communities.

Peter and Kate

My former drummer Peter and my lovely roomate Kate.

I enjoy these handsome young folks. Peter's eyes are quite fetchingly large, and Kate's angular features are quite the joy to look upon.

It is indeed a wonderful thing to look upon.

I shoveled stinking compost all afternoon.

I like dirt.

That is all.

Where "the centre cannot hold" Came From

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

-William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

I've loved that poem for years. I've read or heard people say "Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold" fairly often, and wonder how many people realize it's from an old classic poem.

Time for a bike ride, to watch spring blossom out and see the last of the snowbanks melt away into salty, gritty, sand covered piles left to remind us of how many teeth winter still has in this age of climate wierdness.

And here's a photo of red clover in bloom that my pal Clint sent me from his shack outside Nashville to cheer me up in the slush of my discontent, and a second photo from my brother of two albino deer shot near my mother's house in Northern Wisconsin.

Nice to know as fucked up as things seem right now, some parts of nature just keep rolling along.

Nancy Spanks the Military for Tammy

From ThinkProgress.org:

Pelosi intervenes to get Rep. Baldwin’s domestic partner on military flight.
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was recently “forced to intervene with Defense Secretary Robert Gates” in order to get Rep. Tammy Baldwin’s (D-WI) “domestic partner on a military flight for a congressional fact-finding trip to Europe.” While House rules allow spouses to travel with members of Congress on such missions, “military officials were apparently unwilling to consider” Baldwin’s partner “a ’spouse’ within the meaning of the House guidelines.” Pelosi’s effort was successful, but the Politico reports that “[t]he Pentagon appears to be self-conscious about transporting gay domestic partners at a time when it continues to enforce a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy in its own ranks.” Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA), another openly gay lawmaker, suggested the military is perhaps “following orders” because “the [Bush] administration disapproves of same-sex marriage.”

I want a minty fresh new spine

Yes, I wore stupid hats even back in the 1970's.

This was my buckskin quarterhorse, my third favorite horse and favorite saddle. Sometime around 1975.

A long time ago, when Ronald Reagan was in office and I was a brash young creature of immortal sensibilities and bold momentum, I was riding a Very Fast Middle aged Race Horse. In a very stupid way, very fast, with a stupid large hangover.
This very large mammal and I parted ways, suddenly. I wound up with two broken arms and two compression fractures in my back and a mangled knee.
I forgot all about it for a few decades. Just some interesting scars from the pins in my wrists, a knee that creaked and popped and hurt if I hiked more than six or seven miles when backpacking.

But today I think I know why my old man moved around like a busted up bag of worn down and poorly patched bone breaks now.
My spine, on any given day, feels like somebody pulled out all the nice lubricated parts and poured salt filled sand into those two vertebrae.
But it compliments the way the knuckles in my fingers hurt when I try to play guitar, and there's something to be said for symmetry.
But man, it sure feels nasty the last few days. It could be that nine inches of snow we got. I hate shoveling.
I even hate winter, mostly because cold weather makes all 18 bones I've broken ache somthin' terrible.
Ce la vie, baby.

Angry Baby resisting Mind Meld, March 2008

Here, this baby's older brother attempts to control him with

a mind meld/control method.

By taking control of his younger brother, he can force him to eat the brussel sprouts and lima beans when they're both older, and also cause him to give up his lunch money and smokes without a struggle when, later in life, they wind up in reform school after going on a multi state car theft/bank robbery spree.

Family is such a wonderful thing. I should go visit mom in prison, if just to see her smiling face once more before she gets that lethal injection.

Handsome Fish Child, March 19, 2008

If I could have a bundle of joy baby, I'd hope they would be as lovely as this one pushed out by my pal J.

Just makes me all squirmy jealous to think of how cute he is!

Why Your Band Sucks

1: You have little or no connection with the audience. You don't talk to them, or if you do, you're not funny, compelling or even very good at making sentences.

What you don't seem to know is that you're not enigmatic enough to be like Bob Dylan, who, even in his suck ass old age-give me the money -I'm only phoning this concert in and I can't sing half as well as Tom Waits after throat surgery phase, can still manage to be compelling. You wanna be a rock star, learn how to at least act like one.

2: Clutter! Your band has too damn many people in it. Six or seven? Please, motherfucker, all you're doing is confusing a wall of bland mushy noise for a full tone.
Get rid of the string section. All they do is goo things up, filling the corners of every song with bland and toothless crap, You're just pumping the audio equivalent of corn syrup into the mix, and it's covering up what little you have to offer. If they can't get in, play something moving and then back the hell out, they're just musical wood ticks. Parasites along for the ride, pull them off and smash them so they don't suck on anybody else and move on.



4: That Harmonica! Dude, learn how to play it with some feeling. My dead beloved grandmother's corpse made more interesting noises out gassing than that thing around your neck.
And the only thing worse is sampling it, or getting somebody else to play it on the keyboards, or playing it on some other lame instrument like the melodica. It's a tool, not a fucking safety net to make you feel less naked. And besides, you're on stage singing your guts out about things you cared enough to turn into songs, so you should be naked, dangling on a rope of burning conviction and mad energy.



5: Plug a big old vibrating egg into that bass player's ass with the remote connected to your drummer's kick drum. Maybe then he'd do something more than take up space and push out passionless bottom end. He's never on the edge of anything interesting.
He is like some heavily sedated mental patient, drugged out on Thorazine. On second thought, maybe he's not like a heavily sedated mental patient. I think maybe he's been lobotomized, had his ability to feel anything strongly severed with an ice pick. Either way, he's committed to making your band a nice, safe place where Nothing Is Ever Interesting Or On The Edge.
God forbid somebody should actually be on fire, to want to rock out. It would harsh the mellow.
Music should be seriously high energy stuff, even when it's a dark acoustic number. It's about touching the cosmic throb and screaming out to the universe, hey, dambitt, I got something to say.


6: Kill the keyboard madness! For Christ sake, how many people do you need playing keys? And how goddamn many fingers have to be pounding away at any one time when there's already a small mob of bland middle aged wanna be rockers up there on stage?
Go listen to some Talking Heads. Those freaks did more with one hand and four or five notes than all those busy things I'm hearing from your midlife crisis masquerading as a band.


7: Turn that Drummer loose. You have one of the best drummers in the damn state, but when do you let things rip and let the drummer get some good rhythm freak on? The rhythm method you use is about as exciting as the one the Pope recommends, and your music is all bland missionary style crap and no doggie style goodness



8: Play your instruments less. A lot less. You got enough people up there to be a goddamn wedding party and the band, too, but you all play all the time, and nobody's playing half a chord, or a simple melodic line. You're all just up there sawing away, nobody listening to anybody else's mojo, and even if they had stumbled upon some chewy nut of musical goodness, that bunch of busy fingered squirrels wouldn't hear it.
Then again, if they did hear somebody doing something interesting, they'd more than likely plot to get rid of them. Gotta keep control, make sure nobody goes off script or does something loud and fun. Never mind.

9: Just say Fuck You to Yes men and women. Maybe if your leadership skills didn't suck, and you actually had an interest in being an real artist instead of a rock star, you could speak up, but no, you'll just go along to get along, and all that nicey nice crap your social club masquerading as a band tells you isn't going to make you any better as a singer or a performer. It's just passionless masturbation without somebody to push you, prod you and light it up. Might as well be in a fucking bridge club or book club, because as an artist, all you're doing is circling the toilet.

10: Knock off the prima donna crap. Don't go into the green room before hand and sit around like you're Eric Clapton snorting blow off your pole greaser's belly waiting for the chant of the crowd to pull you out. You have people out there, and talking to folks who come to see you play connects you to them.
And don't vanish while the other bands are playing, then sweep back in right before your show starts. It's rude and ego centric for somebody who plays out as little as you do. Maybe if you were on tour and were burned out, but the odds of you ever leaving your safe day job and being serious about this make that as likely as me losing 40 pounds tonight and waking up looking like Kate Hudson.
And for god's sake, don't assume that retreating to the green room means you're going to get an encore. It's really pathetic, even more so when your whole set had about as much energy as a road killed possum frozen in the ditch.

Not that my writing any of this matters. I didn't put your name in it, so you won't find it when you're googling yourself and your band of middle aged wannabes. But seriously dude, your band really does suck.

At The Donkey, Athens Ohio, 2005

Kori, drinking coffee and watching the parade of attractive young humans at The Donkey, in very cool downtown Athens, Ohio.

The Big Shitpile Avalance Begins

Today, Bear Stearns was bought up by JP Morgan. For about two bucks a share, a sale price of 236 million dollars.

Less than a year ago, their stock was selling at ten times that price.

And to get JP Morgan to buy it, the feds put up 30 BILLION of tax payers money. And to back that 30 billion dollard Fed loan, they're taking the worthless loans as colateral. So the executives at Bear Stearns will walk away rich, and the rest of the working stiffs get to bail out their criminal mistakes.

That's just one bank of many on the edge of colapse.

And we haven't even hit the hard times yet in the commercial real estate market. Those strip malls and big box developements overbuilt on the edge of every town are next up in the default line.

Fasten your seatbelts, kids. We're about to hit very bad times when this run hits. And as it weakens the dollar, it's going to make all those people selling us oil and gas not want our ever more worthless dollar, and they'll switch to the euro, or some other currency from nations that still have regulations and protections.

It's going to cause huge problems with our stupidly built auto centric suburban lifestyle when the increasingly worthless dollar can't buy gasoline and food.

Add in global climate change, food shortages and the madness of our blind stupidity and stubborn electorate, and things start to look pretty crazy.

Over half of this nation voted for the opportunist scum who got us here. Maybe being poor, homeless and hungry will finally turn some Rethuglican heads around. Or make them explode. But that's too much to hope for.

Live shots from The Crystal Corner Gig

Last night, we rocked out. Not much more could be asked for, I had a very pretty girl tell me "you rock", that made me smile, considering I am fifty damn years old.

Kori took these pictures. I was a wimp, I stuck around till about midnight, then the very loud but earnest and competent Goat Radio's guitar barrage blew my ears out, and the four or five Fat Squirrel ales got on top of me and I took my middle aged ass home. I made Kori drive. She hates that.

I'll catch the Motor Primitives next gig when they aren't playing so late

I was pretty happy with our set, we showed just enough chaos and competence to make things interesting and loose, and the energy rush that happens when you put it all up on a bouncy stage made me smile.

I know it's good when I find myself jumping up and down during a solo.

I really liked singing with Pam last night too, sqeaking out backing vocals on Pixie and Mere Lies. She sing purty!

So thanks, Tim, Pam and Robin, for flogging that musical beast, and to all of you who came out to see us and the Motor Primitives and Goat Radio.

Batboy Drummer Does Not Work For Satan

This is my drummer Robin, although many do not see him this way.

He is not the eggman.

Nor is he the walrus.

Coo coo caa chew, baby.

Come see us at the Crystal Corner on Saturday.

We, the Sigourney Weavers start at ten pm!

A Year without Bob

One year ago yesterday, I got fired from my old band. In that time I've gotten two bands going, both of them really fun. I've learned how to sing a lot better, how to be a kick ass rythym guitar player on the acoustic instead of just a good one, and I've come to embrace the filthy evil grunge beauty that is the Les Paul style guitar, playing leads with damn dirty distortion and grabbing onto the beauty of one amp and one electric guitar in a rock band.

I've figured out how to write and record songs in a short time, and how to record two or three acoustic instruments with one good mic and get some fine music on tape, and I've come to embrace the dark beauty of the banjo.

I've gone a whole year without feeling like I've had to push for what I want, a whole year without a fight with a bandmate, and come to a point where I often find myself jumping up and down while playing with the LOUD band with a gigantic grin, a grin so big it makes me feel like my head's going to split in half from ear to ear, just like Rachel Ray's gigantic mouth smile.

A whole year of people asking me to do things instead of seeing me as a threat or an out of control, over the top freak.

Then again, maybe that's why some of my bandmates like me?

Ce la vie, baby. Either way, things are clicking right along. And as convicted felon Martha Stewart says, "that's a good thing"

So thanks, Bob and The Getaway drivers! I had no idea that I had all that in me, and your sneaky backstabbing ejection of me has turned out to be exactly what I needed!

New Word of the Day: Geezering

In honor of the whiny ass titty baby pals I have who have to go to bed at the crack of nine, I am officially coining a new verb:

Geezering:

(geee-zur-ing)

To whine, complain, moan or otherwise make noises that resemble a whiny goat baby when discussing staying up late for an event/show/sexy time.

Most common in people over the age of 40, usually after the onset of haemroids or grey hair.

Often in conjuntion with constant whines about how things are "too loud".