He needs a quiet roomWith a lock to keep him inIt's just a quiet roomAnd he's there

I wasn't quite done writing down below.



But my last couple posts have been heavy.



Really heavy.



Heavier than Spinal Tap's "Big Bottom," which was three bass players and a drummer.



It doesn't get any heavier than that.


(^^^^that is my niece, Lucy. she is probably my favorite person. she called me tonight and screamed into the phone, "I LOVE YOU UNCLE JOEY!!!")





Have you ever just made it up as you went along?

Because, you know, why not?



I was thinking about a comment by ej a few weeks ago.

He suggested that I offer "The Dude Experience," as some kind of vacation package.

24 hours with the Dude.



Wake up.



Get some donuts.



And then just proceed from there in an orderly fashion.



First, place the mask over your own face.

Then grab the mask next to you, give it a tug, and then loop the tube around the throat of that motherfucker in front of you..

Why?

Why you gonna have to choke a bitch like Wayne Brady?

Why?

I'll tell you why.

Because the stewardess denied you The Full Can Of Diet Pepsi, and poured you the little jigger-and-a-half, like a third of a can, over those three, pathetic, stick-your-tongue-through-the-hole ice cubes.

You're flying home on Sunday after a wedding.

Hungover.

Half-asleep.

Desperate for liquid.



Any kind of liquid, even if it is 2.7 ounces of diet pepsi over some ghetto ice cubes that Northwest Airlines probably outsourced to Canada.



Fucking NAFTA.



And, sure as shit, that fucker reclines...



And your pathetic shot of liquid foams over and you get diet pepsi on your pants.



Right in the crotch.



And you're sitting there,



With a wet crotch,



And a sticky fucking tray,

And you're lapping at that retarded ice cube with your greedy tongue like it's the last strip of bacon at Dachau.



(Oh, save your emails. I am secure. In my home in the 7th Circle of Hell, with Satan chewing on my femur. Right where I belong)



Anyway, forgive me for getting pissed.

Because, hey...

If I choke him, well,

That's just more oxygen for me.



He plays an old guitar
With a coin found by the phone
It was his friends guitar
That he played



It was such a heavy day for me (not to mention that nightmare) that I decided to scratch that exhibtionist/voyeuristic itch and post my solo, unplugged, acoustic, rock opera ...



He's never been in love
But he knows just what love is
He says nevermind
And no one speaks



He thinks he drinks too much
Cause when he tells his two best friends
"I think I drink too much"
No one speaks
No one speaks
No one speaks



He plays an old guitar
With a coin found by the phone
It was his friends guitar
That he played



When he plays
No one speaks
No one speaks
When he plays
No one speaks




P.S. Lyrics in italics from "Friend of a Friend," Foo Fighters, off the acoustic side of their album referred to in the previous post. Hmmm. I wonder who that song was about? Anyway, it is one of six great songs on that album, and one of three that make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.



P.P.S. Friday. Ah, Friday. You are my muse. Friday, let me count the ways. Electric with possibility. You can check out mentally at lunch on Friday. As you damn well should. Because Friday is a sultry, sweaty, sand-stuck-to-her-back-kind-of-girl. Hat's off to Friday, the undisputed heavyweight champion of Days. Saturday may be the Gorilla in the corner, but by Saturday, you've settled into your groove, flowing down the river with the current, definitely enjoying the fuck out of the day, but, compared to Friday?

Well, I think Carly Simon said it best, "An-tic-i-pay-shun. An-tiss-i-pay-yay-shun is makin' me wait."

(I understand that fully 95% of the "unique visitors" to the dude abides will not know what the fuck that last sentence meant, but someday, someday, they'll find out about the clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee,)



P.P.S. I don't know about you, but I feel very secure...

Y'know...

In my manhood.



P.P.P.S. Are you not entertained?

Because if this hasn't been the best 3.5 minutes you have ever spent...

at work...

... on friday ...

... ... well, g'head and tell me ... ...

... ... ... because i'd like to know ... ... ..

Bring some change up to the bridge, bring some alcoholThere we'll make our final wish, just before the fall

I wasn't going to write anything today.

Tough day.

Yet, here I am.

Eating some chicken.

Listening to the Foo Fighters, Still, on a loop.

It is from their last album, In Your Honor. They did one disc acoustic and one disc rock.

Still is on the acoustic side.

It is a fantastic, haunting song. There are a few real gems on that album.

Dude highly recommends it.

(Want a copy? Email me. joemilitello33@yahoo.com I owe some music karma. Stacey, one of my favorite bloggers, just sent me a few discs.)

There was this guy at the gym today.

He was unbelievably buffed.

Of course, he had cut the sleeves and so much material from his shirt that it was a shirt in name only.

He spent a lot of time checking himself out.

When he went to do situps, he dragged the sit-up bench in front of the mirror, so that with each crunch, he could check his bad self out.

He started with his arms folded across his chest, but that was obscuring his view.

So he put his arms behind his head, the better to check out his flexed biceps and flared lats.

I had a hard time not laughing.

It even inspired me to make a up a new phrase...

That guy was worshipping at the Altar of Me.

-

I had a horrible nightmare the other night.

It really freaked me out.

Bells, Quagmire and I were somewhere in Montana.

Bells knew of this spot, a lake.

It was surrounded by huge, 200 foot cliffs.

Supposedly, it was a prime site for cliff diving.

We were standing at the top.

I don't know if you have ever dived (dove? both feel wrong... any grammar nuts pleas comment and let me know) off of a large cliff, be it a quarry or an ocean, but it is always scary... I don't give a shit who you are.

I have done it in Maine, off of a 35 foot cliff (about 3 stories).

I also did it outside of the Dam at Miller's Quarry. Some of you may know that spot.

Additionally, I have gone off olympic high dives at USC, and a couple other places.

I always do a swan dive, and a couple times a one-and-a-half, but, trust me, I am always scared.

So, Bells, Quagmire and I are standing on this cliff.

We are probably 100 feet up, like 8 stories.

Bells, who in the dream had been there before, dove first.

Contrary to what happens in real life cliff-diving situations, Bells dove out a little too far, too close to some rocks that were out in the lake.

I commented to Quagmire, "Dude, he almost dove too far. That is dangerous as hell. Be careful."

Quagmire said OK and then dove.

But, unlike Bells, he didn't go far enough.

He swan dived out, gracefully, and dropped like 40 feet, then clipped an outcropping.

Hard.

He rag-dolled down and slammed into the rocks, arms, legs and other things clearly broken and flopping unnaturally as he cartwheeled out of my sight for a moment, coming to rest on some rocks below.

I started to panic.

I know CPR, and I knew he was probably dead, but I couldn't just stand there.

I thought about climbing down to him, but this was a sheer cliff.

There was no way I could get down to him.

I had to dive, then climb back up.

Of course, I was out of my mind.

I have known Bells and Quagmire since I was about 13 years old.

These are my closest friends in the world.

One of them is very, very, very badly injured, and we are in the middle of nowhere.

No cell phone coverage, and anyway, no chopper in the world could get here in time.

So, I dove, freaking about my own safety.

I woke up when I hit the water.

It was 4:47 a.m.

My sheets were soaked and my heart was beating about 160 bpm.

I didn't go back to sleep.

Craig?

This Christmas?

We're both wearing helmets, and I am not taking you anywhere crazy, dude.

I need you alive so you can write me Ambien scripts so I don't have dreams like these.