Wednesday, August 23, 2006

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
One of the four beasts saying
Come and See
And I saw
And behold a white horse

There's a man goin' 'round takin' names.

An' he decides who to free and who to blame.

Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll be a golden ladder reaching down.

When the man comes around.

The hairs on your arm will stand up.

At the terror in each sip and in each sup.

For you partake of that last offered cup,

Or disappear into the potter's ground.

When the man comes around.

Johnny Cash, ladies and gentlemen.

Johnny Cash.

A few days ago, I promised to tell you about my Sunday with Tony. Sorry. TRex.

We got in the car.

We drove and got some breakfast.

Thusly fortified, we headed into the mountains, with my faithful Puck in the back seat.

He is a 14 1/2 year old Labrador retriever.

I love him more than just about anything on this earth.

(Well, maybe her...

Pictures don't do her justice.

Everyone who has met her acknowledges that she is The Cutest Cat On Earth.)

Anyway, I can say, without reservation, that nobody has ever loved me as unconditionally as Puck has.

That, dear readers, is a beautiful thing.

But back to the story.

We drove up into the mountains outside of Bozeman, to a place called the Hyalite reservoir.

It is the most popular place in Bozeman for people to go recreate and commune with nature.

It is also a really popular ride for the Lance Armstrong wannabes. You know the type. Loud as a motorbike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight.

Why, can some one please for the love of Charles Bukowski tell me why, these fucks INSIST on wearing skintight biker shorts and the douchebag jersey?


Bells tried.

He said maybe it is because of chafing and wicking, both legit concerns.

I run, OK?

Every damn day.

And I sweat more than just about anybody I know, except maybe UJ, which is another story. So I understand the power of wicking material.

I also, as a runner, have experienced chafing. Chafing nipples, chafing groin. painful stuff.


I wear wicking clothes that aren't skintight.

And it works fine.

Said clothes also eliminate chafing.

Why does a fat fucking 46 year old dude think he needs a ten pound bike helmet, a $ 150 Discovery Team jersey and the Lance Bass Biking Shorts.

There is really no excuse for the shorts (females excepted).

Can't you put on normal shorts over those fucking things, even if you think they serve some kind of purpose?

Can't you?

For my fucking sake?


You look like a mushroom on a toothpick.

Except the mushroom is gay and the toothpick is fat.


(You fat-gay-toothpick-mushroom-assault-on-my-senses. I am not letting this go. We'll come back to this later. I promise. You fat fucking doucheshorts toothpick.)

But back to the story.

I took Tony to the easy hike in the Hyalite---- palisades Falls.

Demi and Ashton (I love you, you crazy kids) got engaged there. It is a beautiful spot.

The three of us started to walk up.

Understand, this is the fat wheelchair "hike."

It's paved.

We started to walk, and Puck was very slow.

Very slow.

The "hike" is like .6 miles.

About a third of the way in, I realize that Puck can't do it.

I sent Tony ahead with the camera.

Here are Tony's pictures. (Sorry, T-rex. My anonymity-preserving nicknames kinda go out the window when you agree to pose for a picture on an abandoned toilet in the mountains with your pants around your ankles.

Shit Mitten, ladies and gentlemen.

Shit Mitten...)

In the meantime, I was walking Puck back down to the car.




Very slowly.

Every group of people we passed stopped and commented, with raised eyebrows, "Wow. Hey, Old Timer!"

And then they would look at me and ask how old he was.

I would tell them, choking back tears.

Thank Bukowski for sunglasses.

By the end of the walk back, tears were streaming down my face.

I took Puck to the stream near the car.

He gingerly stepped in, drank, and then looked up at me like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

With those filmy, half-blind eyes, he was telling me, "Thanks, Dude. Thanks for taking me here today. This is the greatest thing EVER. Since you served me breakfast, anyway. That, by the way, was the BEST. Speaking of which, when is dinner? Are you gonna eat that?"

"Eat what? My sunglasses?"

"Yeah, whatever. Are you gonna eat that?"

When he couldn't limp around any more, I picked him up and set him in the car.

It just about killed me.

I know he is old.

I take him with me wherever I go now.

With the same impunity that senior citizens call upon when they back out of their driveways without looking, thinking, "Fuck it. I'm 76. These whippersnappers will stop. And I will go on my merry way to Perkins."

Again, I digress.

So, I recover from this emotional event, and Tony (T-Rex) comes running (!) down the trail, and hops in my car.

We drove down past the mushroom-toothpick-fatties to my house and grabbed the musical instruments.

Sentimentality aside, Shit Mitten had a gig, and we take that shit seriously.

An electric gig, no less.

So we drove over to Bells' house.

You wanna talk cute?

There isn't much cuter than this little hombre.


With me for his uncle?

Kid's gonna slay 'em.

(By the way, Aden is 20 months old. I shit you not, he can keep a beat on drums. Kid's got talent. I can't wait to take him snowboarding.)

I know this is a long story, but I am in the middle of a divorce, which I intend to use as an excuse for my behavior for the next 2-17 years. So, bear with me. I am in the middle of a divorce.

So, we are driving through Belgrade, on our way to Bells' house, when...



I laid on the brakes and squealed into the cop shop, handing Tony the camera, demanding he take pictures.

Despite his discomfort with breaking about 16 laws amidst a shitload of off-duty cops, he complied.

After all, I have an obligation to my readers.


There is nothing I can say to appropriately introduce this, so here you go...

These fucking tools were whaling on each other.

And there were a bunch of other douchebags flouncing around in puffy Henry The 8th pantaloons and feathered caps, snacking on fucking turkey legs, speaking in iambic pentameter.

It was beautiful.

I loved it.

After that, Shit Mitten played the gig.

I sang a lot.

Shittily. (Is that a word? As much as I loathe adverbs that one is a gem.)

But sorta good at the same time.

I think Bells actually really liked it, and he is my main audience.

We played some Neil Young (Rockin in the Free World, Old Man), Janes Addiction (Jane Says), Foo Fighters (Times Like These), Stones (Dead Flowers, Country Honk), Beatles (Hide Your Love Away, Two of Us), Nirvana (About A Girl), Pearl Jam (Not For You, Last Kiss) and a bunch of other stuff.

It was good. You'll have to trust me.

Also, on the way home, we almost got killed.

I'll tell that story tomorrow, since I have already taxed the limits of your internet loafing attention span.

Mocha Choc-a-latta Ya Ya


You may recall a couple weeks ago, I told you about Adam, my friend Nort's new baby.

Adam got a heart transplant, and things look (cautiously) alright so far.

Click here for the link to read the local NBC story on Adam. Click the "watch video" to see the actual story.


I am sorely fucking remiss, what with this being a Wednesday and all, in failing to mention to you cocksuckers just how fucking good Deadwood was AGAIN this week.

It is approaching a Sopranos circa Tony's mom or Ralphie's Head Level of Excellence right now.


The Sopranos? 8 episodes remain.

Deadwood? Same damn thing happened.

I haven't been this verklempt since the last episode of Cheers.

We will not mention the last episode of Seinfeld. It didn't happen. As far as I am concerned, Kramerica Industries is still a going concern, Costanza is still the Assistant to the Traveling Secretary, and we still celebrate Festivus with Frank Costanza and his unadorned pole. (I find tinsel... distracting).

I digress. Back to Deadwood... Swearengen walking in, looking at Trixie after she shot, but failed to kill Hearst, after he had contracted one of the Pinkertons to kill Mr. Ellsworth, standing at the door and saying, "Loopy Fucking Cunt," and then walking out?

(That's a lot of fucking commas in that last sentence, but it is grammatically unassailable. Correct me if I am wrong, English majors. I love learning.)

Fucking poetry, cocksuckers.

Fucking poetry.

And EB?

What a great supporting character. So slimy and unctuous that I want to dip him in a vat of bleach.

The wheezing Doc?

The moral center of the show.



Merrick, f/k/a Rooney from Ferris Bueller?

We'll set aside the fact that he was convicted of possession of child porn and just recognize that he was perfectly cast for his role, and nails every scene.

Mrs. Garrett, twice widowed, addicted to laudanum and the wealthiest individual in camp?

We've already covered her, but suffice it to say, I am on my way to Deadwood to console her as we speak.

The retarded counterparts of Richardson and the gimp at the Gem?

Fantastic comic relief.

Calamity Jame Cannary and her newfound lesbian relationship with the liberated ex-madam of Tolliver?

Gold. Always gold.

Dority, Swearingen's eye-removing heavy?

On point. Every time.

The ever-pissed Bullock?

If only I could grow a decent 'stache, I'd walk around with my jaw clenched, uber-pissed and beat people within an inch of their lives. Just fuckin' because. (That dinner scene that he could barely sit through was classic.)

But it all comes back to Al Fuckin' Swearingen.

Talking to the severed Indian head. Delivering a soliloquy whilst getting a blowjob. Deleriously sweating whilst passing a kidney stone. Leaping from the second story to save the fair Mrs. Garrett. Inspiring fear. Cutting throats. Conversing with Wu. (Pure gold, Jerry. Gold like Ovaltine.) Serving peaches at his town meetings. He is the embodiment of the term, "Machiavellian." Always scheming. We should hate him, because he is absolutely, thoroughly despicable in every sense of the word, but we love him... much like Vincent Vega in Pulp Fiction.

Anyway, if you haven't seen it, get the to the fucking video store, cocksucker, and rent it. Every season is available up til this one.

It's fantastic.

And you will hear "fuck" and "cocksucker" more times than you will on this blog.

Which reminds me...

When India was in college, she lived with 6 other girls in this house in Winona, Minnesota.

One of the other girls had a first date with a boy she really liked.

It happened to be his birthday.

She baked him a cake and used little pieces of rope licorice to spell out, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY."

She was really sweet on this guy.

While she was on the date, that cake sat in the frig.

India and her roommate Kari had a couple of drinks and checked out that cake.

The rearranged the licorice to read, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY COCKSUCKER."

Their roommate came home with her date (while India and Kari were sitting in the kitchen) and excitedly grabbed the cake out of the frig and proudly showed it to her date.

His face was that unique mix of perplexed, pissed, horrified and amused.

Meanwhile, Kari and India were laughing their balls off. (That's why they don't have any... anymore.)

The unsuspecting roommate was the last to catch on.

Anyway, that is one of the most beautiful stories I have ever heard.

By the way, the 4th(?) season of the Wire starts on HBO September 4th. So far, I think that show is actually better than Sopranos, Six Feet Under and Deadwood.

Check it.

I don't really watch any television below channel 300 anymore.

The Daily Show and the Colbert Report (silent "r") will occasionally suck me down into the 50's, but that is it.