I had to put my cat to sleep last week. It really wasn't easy, but they had found cancer. The vet said the best they could do was put her on chemo and get, at most, another six months.

She was not a young cat by any means. She was twelve years old and was well loved (and utterly spoiled) her entire life.

We got her from my sister to replace my mother's cat who had passed the previous year. When she arrived, her name was Butterscotch. My mother and I share a similar belief when it comes to naming your pets: don't name them somethng you wouldn't name your children. As she was supposed to be my mother's cat, she got the honor of renaming. She chose Maggie Mae, after the Rod Stewart song.

We intended her to be my mother's cat, but she apparently had other ideas. She was the family pet. Even my dad liked her, and he hated cats.

She was affectionate towards all members of the family, but she made no illusions: I was number one in her book. If she were in somebody else's lap, and I walked in, she would jump down and into mine. When i would come home from work, i would see her in the window, only to be greeted by her at the door. She would be sitting there with that aloof yet affectionate look on her face that only a cat can do. As if to say "Welcome home. Now pet me."

When I would be at my desk getting my nightly MMO fix, she would be laying on the floor beside my chair. When I would be in my room painting minis, she would be laying on the corner of my bed. She always made it a point to be within arm's reach. I'd reach over and just idly scratch behind her ears or under her chin, and she would feign indignance at me for having the temerity to DARE interrupt her nap, only to start purring loudly (seriously, you could hear her purr in the next room sometimes) and move her head around to get my scratching exactly where SHE wanted it. It would continue like this for a few minutes, then I would go back to whatever it is I was doing, and she would lay back down to doze.

She would never play with any toys i bought her, but would entertain herself for hours with any kind of box left unattended for more than thirty seconds. And catnip. Dear god, she loved catnip. I'd be at my desk and she would be underfoot, staring expectantly at the vial of catnip I kept there. I'd give her a toot, and she'd roll around in it happily. Then when finished, she'd do what most stoners do: snacks and a nap. I'd find her sprawled out on the floor somewhere, snoring away contently.

She would always be there when i needed her. She provided solace for me when my father passed away, was a friendly ear when I was at my worst depressive moods, and was generally a more loyal friend and companion than half the people I've known in my life.

Rest in peace, Maggie Mae. You're greatly missed.

Conversation of the damned, Mass Effect edition.

Oh, commander sheppard!

its so big!

I..

I think i'm...

i'm gonna...

I'm...

ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL

Top Five Unappreciated Horror Movie Franchises

In no particular order:

1. Maniac Cop
2. Critters
3. Puppet Master
4. Basket Case
5. Phantasm

Horable Mentions: Warlock, Scanners, It's Alive.

Discuss

Hats. For bats.

I've come to realize i'm not really an IT worker anymore. I'm more of an exorcist or a medicine man. Because most of the machines within the library system are hitting the ten year mark, and it takes nothing short of miracles and voodoo to keep them running.

You can hear it in their voices when they call the IT office, that request for help hinted with overtones of desperation and a sort of fearful reverence. As if the fear of asking our assistance for something too mundane would see them smote by the IT gods for their temerity. The more humble among the supplicants insist it "isn't anything too important" and we "Put it on the bottom of the list"

Tangent: The List. The users all seem to think that somewhere, in the darkest depths of Mordor the IT Office, beyond the twisted warrens created by the husks of dead client machines, there lay some kind of obsidian monolith, upon which the IT department scribes its goals for the time being.

The truth is, "the list" is little more than haphazardly placed post-its stuck to any surface able to hold place, from walls to monitors to empty Mountain Dew cans.

End tangent.

And when an IT person walks into another building or office, it's like that scene in The Exorcist where Father Merrin arrives. Enter; the IT person, much to the relief of the distraught co-worker who thanks us for taking the time to come. In reply, we ask where the troublesome machine is. I think I should start wearing a fedora to work for improved dramatic effect.

And when all is done, they tend to leave offerings of cookies and Mountain Dew in our office. They know what appeases our gods.

Thank you jobu. Pass the yams.

Tuesday's Grey, and Wednesday Too.

With the annual celebration of Pax Scorpiana nearing, I have a simple decree: Fuck wednesdays.

I really do hate them. They come so late in the week, that any post-weekend optimism you may have had has already long since been bludgeoned out of you, yet they are so near the beginning of the week that glorious Friday Afternoon seems so very far away.

People call Wednesdays "Hump Day". The title is rather misleading. There no humping involved. Instead, there is a metaphorical hump - a mid point of the week - where you're halfway through, and everything is going to be cake from here out, and you'll be farting unicorns and double rainbows for the next two days.

The Hump Day is a lie.

Wednesday is like the rebound girlfriend who is generally indifferent to your troubles, but it's better than being alone. Wednesday is a cock tease, the stripper who doesn't make eye contact during a lap dance. Wednesday is the radio DJ who's inane rambling cuts into the first couple seconds of your favorite song, only to butt in and interrupt during the last few as well.

Fuck you, Wednesday.

Breaking radio silence to bring you this important announcement:

Fuck Michigan.

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!

This one's for Vinz Klorthos.

Last weekend, I went to the bar to pick up a friend who had one too many to drink. I really don't mind, as i'd rather be sure they get home safe than they risk it. But that's beside the point.

At this bar, there was a band setting up. Being a sometimes musician, I gave their gear a once over: decent drums, guitar, bass, a line six amp (Ewww..). Overall, not bad. There was a guy on stage with his back towards the crowd, but he had something strapped to him. I assumed it was another guitarist. Until he turned around. It was a keytar.

Now, there's a certain stigma associated with the keytar. It's often viewed as a slightly cheesy throwback to the eighties, and with good reason i suppose. However, the fault lay not in the instrument, but the wielder.

There are generally two types of people who use keytars. What it comes down to is how the person approaches the keytar.

One of them fully embrace and propagate that stigma. To them, they keytar is a cute, ironic little gimmick. These people are more often than not scene kids who arent' even old enough to remember -or to have even been alive during- the keytar's heyday. These people are less than men. They are unable to please their lovers, so they often stealth their way into petting zoos with a jar of Vaseline and a handful of peanut butter.

The other type of keytarist views the stigma as somethign to be overcome, something to be conquered. They realize the deck is stacked against them, and yet they bravely take the stage, prepared to give it their all. To them, they keytar is like a crysknife: once it is drawn, blood must be shed. These men, upon the shedding of their mortal coil, will be carried to Valhalla by the Valkyrie to the soothing sounds of Herbie Handcock and Jan Hammer.

My Brushes with Celebrity

Over the weekend, I was in the grocery store - the produce aisle to be precise - when this guy comes up to me.

"Hey man, aren't you the singer from Shotgun Sodomy?"

Yes. Yes I am.

We go through the usual question/answer routine: Yes, we broke up. No, i'm not doing anything right now. yes, i'm looking, etc...

The guy then turns to his girlfriend and tells her we were his first live show when he was seventeen, we're brutal, etc...

All the while, i was there tapping tomatoes for ripeness.

Looking back on it, I can't help but laugh.


However, this was not the strangest place I've ever run into a fan. There are two others - one was simply akward, the other just weird - that really stick out in my mind.

This summer, I was at the drive in with a bunch of friends. The drive inn we go to shows double features, so there's an intermission. During the first feature, i'd sucked down a large soda, and as a result I really had to piss.

As usual, there was a line at the men's room. No big deal. But while i'm waiting in line, these two kids walk up to me, looking like they're scared. They were seriously shaking in their boots. The leader of the two clears his throat and says "Are...are you the uh, singer from Shotgun Sodomy?"

Yes. Yes I am. I put on a friendly face, because I really do get a kick out of meeting fans outside of a show/club/bar setting. I try to be approachable, because I'm no rock star. I'm just some asshole who's been playing in the local scene longer than anybody of sound mind ever should.

The kid asks me for some advice, so I give him some; don't play a battles of the bands, you don't need promoters, Your word is the only thing you have...a few other things too, but those were the big ones.

The line starts moving, and we get closer to the porcelain beauty of the thrones. We start talking about influences and music in general. (Taco can attest that once i start talking about my influences, I'll go on forever.)

Closer now. The urinals are in sight. Glory be!

Finally, my turn comes up. I bolt to the urinal and unleash the fury...and the kid keeps talking to me.

He's telling me about his band and how he does vocals and guitar and he's waiting for his friend to move back to play bass and a guy from his class playing drums and how they mess around in the garage playing Lamb of God covers and how his dad taught him to play guitar

Flag on the field. Breach of urinal etiquette. Five yard penalty. There I am, junk in hand trying to do the business, and this kid is telling me his life story. I'm standing there, praying things wrap up soon so I can be on my way out the door and lose the guy.

Long story short, I finished up and bolted out the door, ducking between a pair of SUVs. I am the drive-in ninja.

Again, this was not the oddest place i've run into a fan. The oddest place was in a twenty-four hour porno shop.

There's a little setup for this one, so bear with me: A friend and I were going a club to see another friend's band play. On the way to this club, there's a 24 hour porn shop. We've gone to this club several times over the years, and we always joked about stopping in the porno shop on the way back. So, this night we actually did.

It should be noted that my friend was wearing his Shotgun Sodomy t shirt.

I had no money, so I was just sort of idly walking through and giggling at the movie titles (Sold my Hole for Rock N' Roll still makes me laugh) when my friend calls me over. I go to the counter, where the cashier is staring at me.

He points to the shirt. "Is that your band?"

I nod. "yeah"

"Dude! You guys are fucking awesome!"

I blush. "Thanks!"

"Seriously! I saw you guys at Annabell's with Drogheda! I'm a big fan!"

I blush more. "Thanks."

"Can I have your autograph?"

"Uh..sure."

He hands me a piece of paper (with the porno shop's logo as a letterhead), and I stare at it for a moment. I've never had to sign an autograph before. What the fuck do I write? I was confounded, so I wrote something generic. "Thanks for listening" or somesuch, then signed it and handed it back.

Awkwardness over, right? Nay, sir.

"Can you do one for my wife, too? She loves you guys!"

Blink. "Ok"

So I sign it the same way as I did the other and hand it over.

Man, that was kind of awkward.

Awkward?

This! Is! PORN SHOP!

"Now, can you sign one for my wife's friend?"

Stare.

"Uh...sure." Another letterheaded paper, signed the same and handed over.

Then I'm standing there, staring at the clerk, waiting for him to ask me to sign another. Instead, he smiles and give me a heart felt "Thank you!". We shake hands, and he turns to help the person who was (so very patiently) waiting in line behind us.

I take that as my cue to get gone, so we get out back into my car and laugh about it the whole ride home.

Race is a non issue, but...

Somewhere, there's a family of racists crying into their morning cheerios.

It kind of makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Pester me enough, and I post. :)

I assure you, i'm still alive. Just very, very busy.

Helping a friend prepare for a wedding next week, in which i'm a groomsman. I'm going to be wearing a tux, which i'm really not crazy about as i find them uncomfortable as hell. I'm fairly certain the only reason they went with tuxes was because of all the shit we (the groomsmen) have given the groom over the years. :)

My birthday is next week. I've grown to face the day with a kind of grudging acceptance. It's a step up from the way I used to outright dread it, so yay!

The band situation is kind of blah. I've got people interested in getting together, but they seem incapable or unwilling to return phone calls/email. If I didn't love it so much, i'd probably throw my hands in the air and give up at this point.

Speaking of bands, the Shotgun show was last week two weeks ago. The crowd was decent, but a little smallr than i'd have liked, but it was a 21 and over show, so it really wasn't unexpected.

It was a little sobering afterwards, since our drummer - a longtime friend of mine - is moving out of state, but spirits were high through the duration of the show.

Here, have some pictures.

Late night, mildly drunken tomfoolery.

God of Thunder: Best song written by Kiss?

Discuss.

Hey guys?

My eldest nephew, who is all of thirteen, has told me that he and a friend are starting a band. They said they want to play something "loud and rocking" at their school's talent show next year. He has confided in me that he hopes "to freak some people out".

This sensation down in my stomach..is this what pride feels like?

Rants in the Pants

In this month's issue of Rolling Stone, they made their list of "100 Greatest Guitar Songs of All Time". Of course, with their list, Rolling Stone once again proves they know sweet fuck all about music.

How in the blue hell could Born to Run (or anything by Springstein, for that matter) place better than Freebird, Maggotbrain, Crazy Train, Little Wing, or Born Under a Bad Sign, on a list of guitar songs?

Also, the song Black Sabbath (which Springstein also placed higer than) was the only Sabbath on the entire list. No Paranoid? No Iron Man?

Smoke on the Water wasn't on the list at all, which irritates me in ways I can't even put to words right now.

At least Rolling Stone had a brief moment of clarity, and put some Link Wray on the list.

Horny Old Woman Night; or How to Survive a Cougar Attack.

The past couple of months. i've been spending my Friday nights doing karaoke at a local place. Yes, there is a difference between screaming in a death metal band, and belting out some Danzig (which people tell me i do well), but anything to keep my voice from falling into disrepair.

This one night, there was a woman there. An older woman. Ordinarily, that would be like kryptonite, as i have a thing for older women. Just something about them that just...just...damn, but I digress. In this case the term "woman" is used in a strictly academic sense. She was human, and female. If you've spent any amount of time in bars, chances are you've seen one of them. The kind of woman who looks like a gnarled and worn leather handbag, wrapped around a human skeleton and shoved it into a mini skirt. A very mini skirt.

As the night goes on, my friends and I are having a grand old time. I get done with a song, and head towards the bar, as it was my turn to put down for a pitcher. Out of nowhere, comes the Leather Woman. Honest to god, she ambushed my ass.

She looked me in the eyes, her raspy breath reeking of menthols and bourbon, she asks me: "Where's your girlfriend?"

"I don't have one."

"Are you sure?"

Hmm, I must ponder this. "Yes."

"Are you really sure?"

At this point, i'm starting to feel uncomfortable. There was something in her eyes. I started to feel like she was sizing me up and getting ready to pounce. However, gentleman I am, i answer: "Yes."

"Do you want to dance?"

"I..." Enter the fight or flight response. Panic. "I..have to piss."

That answer seemed to have stunned her, for she paused, and I took full advantage of the situation. I ran. I ran so far away.

A few days later, I was regaling some friends with the story. As I started to talk the crazy look in her eyes, one of said friends pointed out. "Dude, she probably just wanted to rock your world."

Perhaps. But you know what? Those eyes were fucking predatory, man. And I'm the slow guy with the gimpy ankle. If anyone is getting culled from the herd, it's probably going to be me. So, the survival instinct kicked in, and I fled from her presence the way a gazelle would flee from a hunting lioness. Just without the speed and grace. More of with a lurching, slightly drunk stagger.

Regardless, I live to frolic upon the savannah once again.