Yes, it's been two whole months since my last update. For that, I do apologize since there are apparently people who enjoy reading my rambling.

With my recent birthday, it's dawned on me i've been a musician for fifteen years. Half my life, plus one. Granted, the term "musician" is used in only the most academic sense when it comes to me. Musicians generally get paid.

To date, I've made roughly sixty dollars, gotten one free shot of jagermeister, two free beers (both PBR, unfortunately) and two free lapdances. The one lapdance was especially memorable, due to the fact the stripper was a Troma fan and we talked about Toxic Avenger whilst she waved her hoo-hoo in my face. Good times.

But back to the point I was originally aiming for.

When I tell people i've been a musician for so long, they always say something to the effect of "You must have a lot of crazy stories!". Without fail, my mind goes blank when they ask me to tell one.

Good thing I have you all here for those times I do remember.

Like the time we played a show, and afterwards this black guy who looked scared to death walks up to me, shakes my hand and says "I really like you guys."

I ask him if he's okay, because he really does look like he's afraid of something.

"I, uh..I just wanna know something. Your, uh..I wanna shake your bass player's hand, but I gotta know if he's gonna kick my ass because i'm black"

I can see where the dude was coming from. Our bass player was a big guy, both in terms of height and build. He had long hair and wore a black trenchcoat everywhere. However, he was in reality one of the most mellow guys i've ever known.

Random thought

Do suicide prevention hotlines ever put people on hold?

Sometimes, I'm my own worst enemy.

A few Fridays back, I was at the bar doing my usual thing: karaoke and hanging with the guys, when this woman (a non-cougar, for those following at home) approaches me and asks if I want to dance.

Normally, I don't dance. But between the fact I was a little drunk, my friends were egging me on, and omg bewbs, I acquiesced.

We danced to some slow songs, and she kissed me on the cheek. I got her a drink and went back to her table to chat.

For a bright and shining moment, I am not some socially retarded malcontent and chronic fuck up. I'm smooth. I'm flattering and charming. I am Lothario in an Iggy Pop hat. Cyrano has nothing on me, save for a few inches of schnoz.

Did i mention that my romantic life is like a three stooges sketch? Case in point:

"I don't think I caught your name."

She giggles slightly. "My name is Candi. With an "I".

Uh oh.

"Hey..."

Don't say it.

"You know..."

Brain to mouth: abort! Repeat, abort!

"That sounds like a stripper's name!"

Abandon ship! All hands, abandon shi...Foot, what the hell are you doing?!

Foot: HAY GUISE WHUTS GOIN ON N DIS MOUTH???//

Candy left shortly after that.

Brainspew

I really can't stand listening to Yngwie play the blues. Yes, he's talented, but everything he does seems to lack emotion to me.

Hitting the right notes does not good music make.

It's like getting a lapdance from a bored stripper. Sure, she's moving right, but if her attention is elsewhere, I'm just not feeling it.

Cougar Attack 2: the Recourgaring

A few weeks ago, I was at the bar for Karaoke night as is my usual routine now. The Cougar was there again.

She seemed to remember me, because as I turned from the bar to head back to my table, she cut me off.

Maybe if I remain motionless, she won't see me.

"Hi there." she said, her breath reeking of vodka.

Shit.

"You still owe me a dance"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Ok, don't panic. Think of an escape route. I'm going to break right, and duck between the frat boy and the drunken flirty guy. If she gives chase, the frat boy is too inconsiderate a prick to move out of her way, which would force her into the flirty guy's aggro radius, thus busying her long enough for me to escape.

Yes, I used the concept of aggro radius in real life. Thank you, World of Warcraft.

I brace myself. I coil. I am ready to flee gracefully, like the gazelle. Ok, so hobble along like a penguin is more accurate. But whatever. I was just about to make my move when my path was blocked by another woman.


The same gnawgahyde, reptillian feature. The same scent of desperation, and methol cigarettes wafting up from the too short dress. Another cougar.

Dear god. They're hunting in packs now.

Remain calm. Plan B: Dash left, and into the men's room. They won't follow me there. Hopefully. Maybe.

I turn to make a break for it, and yet another cougar shows.

Dumbass. Didn't you learn anyting from Jurassic Park? The one in front distracts you while the other two attack the flanks. Stupid.

Lead Cougar - Cougar Prime, if you will- looks at me.

"These are my friends.", she says grinning.

About this time, my friend G shows up. I just sort of grabbed him, shoved him into the cluster of cougars, yelled "HE LIKES TO DANCE!" and ran.

I'm not proud of it, and I swear I heard G say something about vowing revenge upon my bloodline, but I saved myself from certain annihilation at the hands of oversexed, horny old women once again.

I think I owe G a round this week.

On rare occasions, I love my job

Supervisor: Hey, according to this report certain models of Dell computers will suffer hardware problems if you place your cell phone on them and get a text message.

Me: Sweet

*brief pause*

Supervisor: Wanna try it?

Me: Fuck yeah!