Security!

chalk

2005-08-02T19:06:00.000-05:00

Written on the chalk board on the Venice Café’s wall facing Lemp:

Free the Mad Russian

Fuck yeah, that guy was on World Wide Magazine, which may have been the funniest show I’ve seen in my entire life, primarily because it was centered on St. Louis hoosiers in the early-to-mid 80s.

Unfortunately, you really have to see an episode of World Wide Magazine to appreciate it. There ain’t shit about it online. Pete Parisi’s obit may be the best I can do. I mean, jesus, look what entry comes up 5th on the Google results.

handsy

2005-08-01T20:04:00.000-05:00

At the gym today, I worked out next to a girl I saw getting openly groped upside the bar at Lucas Park Saturday night. I’ve seen her at the gym before, and oddly enough, the handsy Romeo who basically got to first, second, and third base in the few seconds I noticed them.

I’ve seen them at the gym for at least a year, but never together until Saturday night. See, I notice, sometimes in obvious and obnoxious ways, every girl at the gym. I know where they are, and who, if anyone, they're talking to. A friend even called me out on it. She said she watched me leer one girl for her entire 150-foot walk to the locker room. I’m mildy ashamed, but, honestly, I can’t help it without serious concentration. It sucks. I have little control. But, said observation skills make me think that these two hadn’t talked until that night. Then again, they didn’t seem to be talking much Saturday night.

I am not hating by any means, let alone mocking. Shit, I’ve done my fair share of sloppy kissing+ in bars, so I didn’t care. I just thought it was odd I knew (faces, not names) them both, and probably witnessed the debut (&zenith?) of their relationship. Unfortunately, the dude was not at the gym today, so I didn’t get the pleasure of witnessing their interaction. I look forward to it.

The whole time I was working out next to the girl, I wondered if she saw me notice her drunken public tryst Saturday night. I hope so. Was she ashamed? I hope so. That makes it funnier.

The Gift That Was XXXVI

2005-07-29T15:30:00.000-05:00

I was introduced to The Gift That Was XXXVI yesterday when I saw it on another website. See, I’m a huge Rams fans and still not over the 2001 Super Bowl loss. In fact, I’d say that loss ranks above last year’s World Series in fandom pain. Anyway, The Gift That Was XXXVI (even with its overwrought, overdramatic narration) did an excellent job of reawakening my suppressed SB 36 rage. (WARNING, The Gift That Was is only enjoyable for bitter Rams dorks) In fact, it was the perfect hor doeuvre for visiting Rams Park today for day #2 of training camp. Yes, I am a big enough Rams dork to drive to Earth City to simply see them practice. No, I do not wear jerseys. I am a grown man; I do not wear another man’s name on my back. No, I do not get autographs. I am a grown man; The only signatures I collect are my tenant’s on her rent check.

I met Brad at Rams Park at 9 a.m., just in time for the sun to rise above whatever shielding topography surrounded Rams Park . Sure, it was only 79 degrees, but the sun, combined with the humidity, made for uncomfortable conditions. I was happy to see more than 1,200 fans (based off yesterday’s attendance). I like seeing my city support its teams. The practices were pretty boring, but it was good to see what players look like—their size, weight, speed, etc. Also in attendance were no less than four hot young lasses, seemingly already dressed to hit Harry’s, exclusively there to see players they personally know. I know this because I talked to them. I want to mock these girls for being such hopeless, naïve groupies, but, 1) they're hot, and 2) I’m the same guy who talks to every Rams player he sees when out on the town.

After Rams Park, DeYahoo! and I hit Sauget for lunch. According to my receipt we visited:

IRC LP
1401 Mississippi Ave, Bay 10
Sauget, IL 62201

It was magnificent. I love Bay 10. It helped me forget my SB 36 rage.

Vacation sick

2005-07-28T16:09:00.000-05:00

Tuesday night, I alternated two hours of sleep with 15 minutes of being awake. I have some sick summer cold, nothing nearly as serious as the Avian Flu I had on my birthday, but enough to really slow me down during my time off. That night, I had cold sweats, a minor fever, a runny nose, and a little cough—enough shit to make it uncomfortable enough to fall sleep for extended periods. The only good thing about waking up that often was that, in no less than three of those instances, I opened my eyes to my TV still on and the Girls Gone Wild infomercial playing. Great images to sooth a sick soul; fodder for dreams at that. If I was working, I’d mos def call in sick, but being I am on vacation—my own time—I’m just trying to ignore how crappy I feel.

For instance, yesterday, I played golf with Justin, Fred, and Chris. I haven’t played golf in three years, but it used to be my favorite sport to play (as opposed to watch). After working at Quail Creek as a teenager—then again as a college student who knew the value of all-I-wanted free golf—I actually polished my skills enough to rarely throw my clubs or yell “FUCK!” as loud as I could. But, as my free time interests drifted more towards chasing girls in bars, my time on the course disappeared. So, with time off this week, and Justin—who just picked up the sport—always wanting to play, I decided to dig my clubs out of my attic and go shoot 18 holes. I shot incredibly well on the front nine with a respectable 46, but the wheels came on the back. I kept keeping score after posting two 8s in a row. Fuck that shit. Still, I had a great time, and will play again soon. (Perhaps at Forest Park tomorrow, STL City style, i.e. sans shirts.)

The only bad thing about golfing yesterday was I had to schlep all the way out to Wentzville to meet Justin at his UPS store. We golfed out there. What the fuck? I drove 44 miles to play golf yesterday. 88 round trip. It was PAST the 636 area code for Christ sake. (573 was on many of the ads out there.) See:

Notice that Wentzville isn’t even on my STL map. What the fuck? On the hour ride out there, what I found interesting (I’m probably one of the few) was how pronounced the sprawl of metropolitan St. Louis has become. At no point on my 40+-mile trip on I-70 did I drive by undeveloped farmland. It was simply a 40+-mile stretch of Loews, Wal-Marts, car dealerships, gas stations, Tan Co.’s, and strip malls. Is Wentzville part of what we consider “St. Louis” now? Do my tax dollars pay for all those new roads and infrastructure? If so, how much? Does Chuck Berry really get off on chicks taking a shit, as evidenced by his lawsuits regarding videos taken from inside his Wentzville’s restaurant’s bathroom? If so, how much?

More proof that I feel like shit: I left McGurk’s last night at 11 AND the hostess (a new one I did not recognize) seemed to be flirting with me. At 10:30, I started to cough more and more and figured I’d see her in the future when I was healthy. What the fuck cold? Get lost already.

hubba hubba

2005-07-27T09:41:00.000-05:00

Rudi Bakhtiar, get lost, I have a new TV news chick crush. This time, it's our town's own Corrina Collins. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, Corrina Collins. She joined FOX 2 as a weekend anchor/reporter in April 2005. Collins also co-anchors FOX 2 News Sunday Morning with Paul Schankman. You can also catch her dynamic, in-depth reports weekdays on FOX 2 News. Man, she's fucking hot. Way hotter than Rhandi Naughton as well, and much much more e-stalk worthy.

Top 20

2005-07-25T19:54:00.000-05:00

I’ve put my iPod through strenuous use lately. Other than the usual times I listen at the gym, I’ve be wearing it when I go on walks through the hood. The shuffle selection is pretty broke-ass. I have 1785 songs (6.6 gigs), but Sheila E’s “Love Bizarre” (featuring Prince) comes up all the fucking time. (Supposedly, a repetitive shuffle-function is a common iPod complaint.) “Love Bizarre” was on Romance 1600, Sheila E's second solo release, originally issued in 1985. All the shit on Romance 1600 was co-written & produced by Prince. I own none of Romance 1600, save "Love Bizarre." I only heard the song in one place, ever: the movie Krush Groove (1985). Sheila E performs it midway through the movie at some club.

Krush Groove is based on the life of Russell Simmons. Russell Walker (Simmons, as played by Blair Underwood) runs the hot record label Krush Groove. His acts include Run-DMC, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, New Edition, Kurtis Blow and most importantly, The Fat Boys. When Run-DMC has a hit record in the making and Russell doesn't have the money to press records, he borrows money from a drug dealer/loan shark. At the same time Russell and Run are both competing for the heart of Sheila E. Classic Shit.

Anyway, in “Love Bizarre” Sheila E, Prince and an active saxophone hauntingly harmonize lyrics like: “The moon up above it shines on upon our skin/ Whispering words that scream of outrageous sin.” It could have been on Purple Rain. Great song; classic Prince. Unfortunately, when I downloaded the song from eTomi Pro, I got five versions of varying length. I assume having five “Love Bizarre” tracks on my iPod has something to do with it coming up so much on the shuffle, but shit man, I hear it, and now skip by it, much too often, even for having five tracks.

Therefore, because all the shuffle repetition, I’ve finally started to create play lists, the first of which was “STL Rap.” “STL Rap,” every piece of local hip hop I own, is 163 tracks--a damn lot. More than I thought, and it doesn’t even include some Chingy and JKwon releases, as well as what's totally new noncommercially. I’ve heard all those 163 tracks too many times, so I hereby present the Top 20 STL hip hop tracks, as recently reviewed by me on one of my walks while listening to the “STL Rap” play list. In the near future, I’ll have a detailed post about the top 5. Notice few are recent. Maybe I don’t know what’s going on anymore or Nelly sucks. Someone give me a heads up if I need to hear something:

20) “I'm A Keeper” Gatekeepaz, DJ Charlie Chan - Lyrics 2 Go
19) “Hot in Here” Nelly, Nellyville
18) “Who’s” The Boss, St. Lunatics, St. Lunatics EP
17) “All Praise Due” All, DJ Charlie Chan - Lyrics 2 Go
16) “Right Thurr” Chingy, Jackpot
15) “No Concept” Pangea, DJ Charlie Chan - Lyrics 2 Go
14) “Air Force Ones” Nelly (w/ St. Lunatics), Nellyville
13) “What Da Hook Gonna Be” Murphy Lee, Murphy’s Law
12) “Ride With Me” Nelly (w/ City Spud), Country Grammar
11) “St. Lou” Storm, DJ Charlie Chan - Lyrics 2 Go
10) “Welcome to Atlanta (remix)” need to research what album its on
9) “Batter Up” St. Lunatics, Country Grammar
8) “Hold Up” Murphy Lee (featuring Nelly), Murphy’s Law
7) “Tipsy” J-Kwon, Hood Hop
6) “Bagg Up” Chingy, Jackpot
5) “Good Evening” Potzee (featuring Murphy Lee), need more research
4) “Pimp Juice” Nelly, Nellyville
3) “Drop Dead Gorgeous” Kayne West (featuring Murphy Lee), I'm Good
2) “Gimme What U Got” St. Lunatics, St. Lunatics EP
1) “Country Grammar” Nelly, Country Grammar

“Continuous over 5 Days $25”

2005-07-23T16:42:00.000-05:00

Thursday evening, my Sebling was ticketed by the City of St. Louis for “Continuous over 5 Days $25.” Apparently, the City has caught on to the fact that the Sebling hasn’t moved from the street in front of my house since the Sebling was left there....a long time ago.

On May 9, the Sebling just straight-up stopped running on the 14th St. viaduct just south of downtown. I coasted to the side of the road, and sent out my May Day phone call. Some dude who was just bicycling past stopped and played good Samaritan by pushing the Sebling down 14th to a side street while I steered. Like me, he knew nothing about the mechanical workings of the 2.3 liter V-6, but, we stared at the engine and pointed at shit. He babbled like he knew what he was talking about, but the thing never started again. I had to call Kurt to tow it. I offered to buy the good Samaritan a beer (He seemed like the type to get loaded under I-55 by Stadium Liquor), but, because I didn’t have a working car let alone a bike, I palmed him $4 and told him to go buy some cold 2X4’s. He left when Kurt arrived for the tow.

Now, by “tow,” I mean we tied a 50-foot bright yellow rope from the hitch on his truck to the chassis of the Sebling. He pulled, while I steered the dead car. I told that asshole Kurt to drive straight to my house, because, I was embarrassed enough to drive that broke-ass ride (it has hundreds of little dents and one huge one. It has no outside handle on the driver’s side. It looks like shit.). Because he was a wise ass though, Kurt paraded me up and down three Soulard blocks. I had no choice but to ride along and hope no cute girls saw me.

Finally, when we got to my house we just positioned the Sebling along the curb in a harmless spot. We untied the rope from his truck, but because it had been pulled so tight, we couldn’t get it off my chassis. I left the rope attached and threw it up under the car. The car has now been there for more than 10 weeks. Recently, some wise ass has taken the rope from under the car and tied it to the tree next to the car. He—it has to be a fucking dude—has done this repeatedly. I've had to untie my car from a tree more times than I care to.

I have no digitial camera. This is the best I could do:

I assume having my car tied to a tree was why I was ticketed. Some rule-crazy cop decided that even though my tags don’t expire until next month, I deserved to be fined for being a fucking hoosier and leaving a non-running car tied to a tree in front of my house for 70+ days.

Now that Uncle Jim has returned from Red China, I hope he can come help me fix it. Until then, what do I do? Push it up/down the street each day giving it the false appearance of a running car? I can’t do that alone. I will mos def be ticketed again. Asshole rule crazy cops. Fuck you and your “Continuous over 5 Days $25.”

(BTW, I purchased a new car in May. It's candy-painted with a loud stereo.)

[Cue Motley Crue’s "10 Seconds to Love"]

2005-07-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is my last day at the 9-to-5 job I’ve held for the last five years. At 4:30 p.m., I will have 10 days vacation until beginning my new job on August 1. TEN FUCKING DAYS. [Cue Motley Crue’s "10 Seconds to Love"] I haven’t had this much time off since 2000, when I was on the dole. I just learned that I would have next week off yesterday. I thought I was starting July 27. Here I come…with a to-do list.

1) Design and install brick patio
When I advertised my downstairs apartment, my ad bragged about how the apartment had a “beautiful fenced backyard.” It does. Kinda. The landscaping is finished and, honestly, looks pretty good (I fucking water that shit every day), but I need to finish a small brick patio, and maybe, if I’m really ambitious, install a drain to prevent my breezeway from looking like the Mississippi River Delta after any strong rain. Water (and dirt) from the yard comes streaming towards the house and into the breezeway, making for a muddy mess. Unacceptable. My tenant returns August 10.

2) Buy table
I had a sweet patio table (w/ chairs) before my last tenant moved out. It had a nice wood mast with a canvas umbrella strung with Christmas lights. I thought it was an add-in with the purchase of my house, but came to find out—when the table went missing after he moved—that it was my tenant’s all along. A table/chair set like that one runs $600+. That’s bullshit, but I need to get something back there. I invested all this time/money into making my yard look cool, but the rare time I spend back there is to water the plants. I water and immediately go back inside. (Shit, the heat index in 116.) Still, I have to have a BBQ before the weather turns cold, so I need to find an acceptable table/chair set.

3) Cut front lawn
I have two small strips of dead weeds, beer bottles and grass in front of my house. The grass has grown too long, but I have to wait until there’s no cars parked in front, so I can shoot the cut grass into the street. I’ve been waiting 8 days. I am a hoosier. With 10 days off, I’ll have to have a chance to cut the yard.

4) Read book
I’m ashamed to admit it, but the last book I read was Three Nights in August, in April. Three weeks ago, I bought Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man. The protagonists are, according to the back page, a “rich, glamorous daring couple who solve homicides in between wisecracks and martinis.” It was written in 1932. I’ve always been a big fan of The Maltese Falcon and other hardboiled fiction, so I have high hopes.

5) Go to county pool
For all my loving of city living, I do dislike one thing immensely: the lack of a social swimming pool. We don’t get that luxury down here. (I think they turn on the fire hydrants at Pontiac Park, but there’s no girls in bikinis, just dog shit.) Last Saturday, I attended a birthday party at Brentwood Villa. It’s like fucking Melrose Place up in there. The condo buildings (w/ overlooking balconies) complete envelope the pool. Great scenery. I want to darken while watching pretty girls in bikinis, so I am going to the suburbs to hang out with DeYahoo! at least once in the 10 days.

6) Have lunch in Sauget
For years now, DeYahoo! and I have talked about going to lunch in Sauget by the Solutia plant. Great entertainment. This week, it happens. I can’t wait.

7) Take trip
I have 10 fucking days. [Cue Motley Crue’s "10 Seconds to Love"] Do I really want to spend them all in metropolitan St. Louis?

soulard baseball

2005-07-20T21:13:00.000-05:00

I saw BC St. Louis take beating tonight, witnessing two innings of the little league game up the block. Boys Club St. Louis is right at Sidney and 11th, next to my first two Soulard apartments. The field is cool with great grass (relatively speaking), an electronic scoreboard, aluminum bleachers, and outfield fences. I know I would have enjoyed playing there when I was in little league.

I’ve watched games there before, but never saw such poor play out of the neighborhood squad. I really shouldn’t talk shit since the kids are about 11, but I saw more walks and wild throws than swings. I even have to quibble with some BC St. Louis managing. Whoever this dude is, he left his pitcher in much too long. When I left and started to walk back home, the score was Visitors 14, BC St. Louis 4.

The whole reason I walked anywhere was to get some outdoor exercise. I live down in this sweet walkable neighborhood, but walk nowhere but bars. So, tonight, I tried to get some outdoor, non-gym cardio. The iPod makes it much cooler, but also more dangerous. I can’t bump Murphy Lee’s hot joint “Good Evening” and still hear ignorant hoosiers in Passats tear assing down Barton, but it was still cool to listen to music while I was walking and watching the little league game.

After two innings, I walked home, and then hit the well-worn one block stretch to Joanie’s Pizza, where I ordered food and drank beer until it was done. Good lord do I love drinking Bud drafts in ice-frosted mugs watching the Cardinal game. I talked to the dude next to me after Pujols went yard. He seemed to know his baseball until he told me he rode his bike FIVE miles from Compton Heights. Hoosier, please. That’s 2.5 miles tops. I can't trust some one who lies like that. (I know how far Compton Heights is because I was cruising the meandering streets of that neighborhood last night. And, while I saw a beautiful girl smoking a cigarette on the front porch of the typical century-old Compton Heights mansion, I was cruising for business purposes and business purposes only.)

In better news, while at Joanie’s, my dad called to tell me he has a Whitey Herzog bobblehead , procured for me at last nights game. Dad is going to three games this week. He’s a fan….of beer and peanuts.

I think I’ll bring that Whitey bobblehead to the next BC St. Louis game. Good luck charm….BC St. Louis needs some help and I need some non-gym exercise.

Weekend quick hits

2005-04-11T10:19:00.000-05:00

Walked up to Tucker’s for dinner Friday night. Know what, the bar at Tuckers on a Friday night is ALL male, ALL hoosiers, ALL smoking filterless camels, and ALL shots. I love hoosier watching but it was even too much for me the 12 minutes I was there waiting for my food. I showered right when I got home, even before I ate.

Saturday morning, I had planned on planting grass—still ain’t done it…fuck—but got sidetracked pruning a tree that had begun overtaking my parking spot in the alley. Tree was out of control, so I had to use a bandsaw to trim, making sure I didn’t touch the 126 wires—phone, cable, electric—running through the tree. It was Operation Brightside, bitches. BTW, you know how hard it is to use a bandsaw to prune shit? It’s like trying to break out of prison with just a hacksaw blade. VERY time consuming and tiring. Took me 180 minutes. Luckily a neighbor saw me, sympathized and let me borrow some great pruning shears that cut my time by 75%. Thank you, Mary!

When pruning, I talked to my hoos-whah neighbors across the alley. All four in the family have mustaches—dad/brother, son/brother, wife/sister/daughter, menacing-yet-harmless Doberman pincher. They also informed me that the peahen is not a peahen but a guinea fowl. The hoos-whahs even like that fucking guinea fowl. They said that last year, it had 17 babies. “She’ll grow on you!” Fuck no. Wait, 17 babies. How’d that thing get knocked up??????

Walked up to Heather’s for Mike’s P. surprise 30th b-day party Saturday evening. Heather’s party are always done up right—huge open bar, catered food, lots of smokers, lots of hot married chicks. Basically, I was shitcanned by 7:30 p.m., chain smoking, eating chicken wings, and catching hell from Jill for not liking her friend like I should. By 8:30, both kegs were dry and we were passing around bottles of Mad Dog—seriously, we were drinking Mad Dog-- like some high school nerds at the bonfire and reminiscing about growing up in Oakville. I have to say, Mad Dog is not as bad as I remember it. My new favorite is Wiper-Fluid Blue. I want to say I walked home at 12:30, but I don’t really remember.

Last night at 7:30, Kurt and I went up to McGurk’s for dinner on the patio and I have to say it was the most entertaining part of the weekend. The table to our right was anchored by four COMPLETELY loaded hot (sorry, can’t stop using “hot”) girls, scantily dressed in skirts and tight red shirts. Basically, they were dressed like trash-bag hos. Good? Bad? Ummm, you know my answer…..Apparently, they had attended the Birds game and drank waaaaaaay too much. They just stumbled to from each seat, basically playing drunken musical chairs. They knocked over chairs eight times, fell into the waitress twice, fell down the stairs three times, and got admonished by one’s embarrassed husband all night. Of course the girls thought each episode was funnier than the last. I agree. The spectacle was a total riot and being they were attractive girls, they were the hit of the Sunday night crowd, specifically with me a Kurt. Even better, they kept making phone calls and more of they’re hot friends kept showing up. I love it all. I think I’m going back to McGurks on a Sunday soon.

Ohh and lastly, I drove my car a grand total of ZERO times between Friday 4:30 p.m. and this morning 8 a.m. Of course I didn’t leave my neighborhood, but I walked to Tuckers, Vincent’s, SCG, Heathers, and McGurks. Why am I getting a new car again?

Frontenac Starbucks parking lot, 8:34 a.m.

2005-04-08T09:50:00.000-05:00

Tall man, clad in white track suit and ball-cap pulled very low (to not be recognized) talks on cell phone headset and walks toward Starbucks door and also toward a geeky, hungover, half-awake, confused, UBER-Rams fan nerd.

Sean: [in low voice, semingly talking to himself] Holyshit, is that Aeneas Williams?

St. Louis Rams' Aeneas Williams celebrates after a 46-yard interception return for a touchdown against the Cleveland Browns in 2003.

Sean: [in loud voice, sure to be heard from across the parking lot] Hey Aeneas! How’s the neck? [Sean places right hand on his own neck as he says “neck,” sympathizing with the Rams great who had to retire last year because of an arthritic neck]

Aeneas: Ohh, hey. [Aeneas nods and keeps walking.]

Sean: [in low voice, seemingly talking to himself] Man, I am so freaking cool. I just talked to a Hall of Famer.

In my head

2005-04-07T11:42:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah, “April is the cruelest month.” Whatever, T.S. You don’t know shit. April is easily one of the top three months for weather in the STL—you know, your hometown T.S. So, shut the hell up T.S. April is sweet. April means 65 degrees during the day, 50 at night. You don’t need a heavy winter coat/8-ball leather jacket; you don’t begin sweating the minute you sit in your black & red primer Chevy Nova; your house isn’t filled with stale, beer-scented air because you now have your windows open all the time. As Big Boi might say, April is so fresh and so clean clean….(gong?)

Unfortunately, with open windows, the sounds of Soulard come at much higher decibel levels. (Remember? The mensa musing.) Surprisingly, I haven’t been awakened much by drunks this spring, but sweet freaking lord, the birds are loud in the morning, specifically, that peahen bitch. See, the peahen is officially in my head. The minute it starts eerily squawking (6:15 a.m.), I snap up, wide awake, cursing under my morning breathe and wishing it were dead. Being wide awake at 6:15 kills about an hour of sleep. I want that hour of sleep. Desperately. Fucking peahen. What’s worse is that the squawking seems to be getting louder and longer the last week. Peahen/Peacock mating season perhaps? wtf!

Two nights ago, I tore up some cotton pads and overstuffed my ears hoping it would at least dampen the noise. Nope. Didn’t do shit except make my ears uncomfortably itchy. Last night, I tried sleeping with my window closed. It became dangerously warm, so much so, that I couldn’t even get to sleep. Not being able to fall asleep is much worse than being woken up early, so I of course I had to open the windows.

So, until summer hits and I close the windows and crank up the AC, I’ve come up with five options:

1) Start my day an hour earlier, so I’m actually getting up at 6:15, the time the peahen starts making noise. (HA! No damn way. Ever.)

2)Tyson suggested I talk to the neighbors, see if it’s bothering them as much as me, get a “'Shut the fuck up, peahen' petition” going, and have the bird sent to some sort of more natural habitat. (Probably not. I think I seem demented enough freaking out about a bird waking me up an hour early. Asking for a petition signature would officially mean I had my schizo break.)

3) Kill it. (The option I most seriously consider at 6:15 a.m. I imagine borrowing Uncle Jim’s pellet gun, heading up to my attic and sliding the gun’s barrel out the small hole in my dormer. There’s no way in hell anyone would ever know it’s me [well, except for this blog post] and I’d have instant silence. It’d have to be a head shot, so I couldn’t miss. I don’t want to be cruel. (hmmmm, maybe.)

4) Buy some real earplugs and hope my house doesn't catch on fire. I wouldn't be able to hear the fire alarm. (maybe)

5)Nothing, so I can keep blogging about the peahen. (probably)

Looks like April in the STL can be cruel after all. Fucking peahen. die.

mmmm, mmmm, mm, mm, mm* and Lou Brock's hair

2005-04-05T08:57:00.002-05:00

Today at 6:05 CST, the Cardinals open their 2005 Season against the Houston Astros. Normally, I look forward to this day for weeks if not months, but this year, I just can’t shake the bitter taste of the 2004 World Series sweep. I’m still really really fucking pissed. (Hell, I still haven’t recovered from the Rams Superbowl 36 loss.) The 2004 Cardinals were a charmed squad, better than ANY Cardinal team of my lifetime (yes, better than 82, 85, 87, 96, and 2002), but they laid down like a bunch of Brooklyn, Illinois hookers in the World Series. Godfreakingdamnit.

See, I fully understand how difficult it is to get to the World Series—it’s virtually impossible for any team not named The Yankees—but the Cards did it last year. It was incredible. I was on cloud nine all season. From July 1 on, Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration” was in my car mix CD. (“Celebration” was the theme song of the 1982 World Champion St. Louis Cardinals, so I thought it’d be good luck…no dice.)

On October 21, 2004, 10:12 p.m., my season peaked when the Cardinals clinched the NL pennant, with me in attendance thanks to DeYahoo. It's the happiest I’d been as a sports fan since Superbowl 34. It was surreal. So surreal I had to snap pictures. The one below perfectly captures the moment. The guy in front of me shoved his fist into the hair and, in the background, you can see the Cardinals streaming onto the field to celebrate.

I look at this picture and smile. Smiling makes things less bitter. See, 2004 was a good season. Maybe we’ll win a fucking game in the WS this year. Damn. freaking WS sweep.

Now, on a lighter note, what the fuck is up with Cardinal great and Hall of Famer Lou Brock’s hair???? This is Brock at his 1985 Hall of Fame induction. Notice that he’s BALD:

This is Brock’s hair last year, 19 years after the first pic. (For the ignorant, Brock is in the middle, between Ozzie Smith and Bob Gibson.) Notice that he is NOT bald:

WTF! Lou, come on, you’re a black man. You guys look good bald. Kill the afro rug, buddy. You look ridiculous.

* “mmmm, mmmm, mm, mm, mm” is a completely unique, umm, “phrase” uttered by Cards radio broadcaster Mike Shannon anytime something unusually good/bad happens in the game. It’s 100% Shannon. Shannon rules. He’s waaaay fucking cooler than you too.

Roooooorrrrr!

2005-04-04T11:52:00.000-05:00

Yeah, what up! I’m I-L-L…I-N-I GUY. I roam the streets of downtown St. Louis—Ed Jones Dome to Al Hrbosky’s Ballpark Saloon—in full body paint taking pictures with random ILL fans like this rube, Diamond Dave. I pretty much love the Illini more than anything, including having any sort of self respect. Self Respect??? Who fucking needs that? Not me. I just want Illinois guard Luther Head to enact his last name. On me! Right now! I love the Fighting Illini.

I do have to admit being in full body paint and wearing Hulk hands present their own unique set of difficulties, but because I love the Illini sooooooooooooo fucking much, I can overcome any problems. ANY problem, dirty! You’re probably asking yourself “What problems, ILL Guy? You mean going shirtless and completely covering yourself with orange and blue paint isn’t all puppies and kittens?” No fucking way, dudes. This is hard freaking work.

You know how hard it is to find blue lipstick to match the blue paint on my overflowing gut? I had to order this shit factory-direct from some Ethiopian in Antwerp. Fucking burns like the clap too, but come on, it’s worth it. I love fucking fabulous.

You know how difficult it is to get orange paint off frosted jeans? Can’t use bleach. Can't useall temperature Cheer. They'd ruin the frost job on my Lee’s for christ sake. I have to use gasoline, saliva, a toothbrush and more than anything elbow grease.

You know how hard it is to load the bong with Hulk hands, let along open a bag of Funyuns with these things? I have to have people exhale their bong rips right into my mouth then immediately cannonball with a Funyun. Sucks. Especially if some Funyuns fall into my Hulk Hands. Those things chaff.

What’s worse though, with these pointy blue eyebrows and menacing scowl people always think I’m pissed off, so you can’t imagine how difficult it is get a bagel in the morning. I ask for LIGHT blueberry cream cheese and they think I’ll freak out on them, busting down the counter and cracking skulls. Ridiculous. I am not mean. I just love the Illini and bagels in the morning.

Oh well. At least we’re in the Championship game tonight.

I-L-L...I-N-I…

[Welcome to the STL, I-L-L….I-N-I GUY]

Final Four

2005-04-02T11:13:00.000-05:00

With Diamond Dave and Brian in town, last night, we trudged around my usual nighttime haunts--O'Flannery's, Lucas Park, McGurk’s, DBs.

Know what? College b-ball fans are predominantly male, thus the 50K (or whatever) additional people in downtown STL are predominantly male, and therefore the patrons in all MY bars are nearly exclusively male. Why I imagined that MY bars would be full of pretty, blue-eyed, blond-haired, southern-accented girls from North Carolina, I have no idea. I am an idiot.

It's all dude.
Final Four=

I am not gay. This sucks. At least I get to showcase my superb basketball skills at Hoop City today.

The ethereal

2005-04-01T10:13:00.000-05:00

I made my second trip to Finale last night. My second free trip to a music venue—my side profession has its benefits. “Intimate” is such an overused word to describe smaller bars/music venues, but it genuinely works with Finale. The stage is only a foot off the floor and the tables jut right up the stage’s edge, so you can see every soft-brown freckle or scraggly wrinkle on the performers’ faces.

Last night, Erin Bode ran through her 90-minute set (jazz vocal standards to Cindy Lauper covers) in front of a packed house. At Finale, “packed” means 120 people in 600 square feet. (It’s reminiscent of my Mardi Gras party without the drunken, pissed-themselves goons who are my friends.) It was so crowded, I could have sipped my neighbor’s Cabernet and she wouldn’t have known.

Simply put, Bode was magnificent. (The Wall Street Journal agrees. All the local fish wrappings have published their glowing reviews as well.) She’s absolutely beautiful with a girlishly-shy smile and most importantly, at the prime old age of 27, she sounds like Ella Fitzgerald.

I highly recommend checking Bode out before she blows up nationally. Rest assured, that has a great chance of happening. You can brag to your friends that you saw Bode at Balaban’s before she was touring with Norah Jones.

Nelly, Chingy, J-Kwon, Murphy Lee, make way for the STL’s next—my new crush, the ethereal Erin Bode.

(Honestly, the picture does her beauty no justice. You must see her in person.)

Rated-X Hoosiertales

2005-03-31T15:10:00.001-05:00

My friends are equally adept at observing and reporting the words and actions of our favorite STL denizen--the hoosier. I just got this e-mail from a friend.

DISCLAIMER--I'm serious about that X rating, folks. Hoosiers are vulgar and offensive. Don't continue reading if you're offended by gross hoosiers.

So, my brother and I went to the [STL inner suburb popular with hoosiers] U-Haul place last Friday to get my moving truck. At 7:30 am. The guy working there was the biggest scumball, sleezebag ever -- white dude, probably 35, unshaven, dirty. Among the things he said:

1. He had sex with the lead singer from Vixen. And she had a wild sex room at with whips, chains and swings. She was wild. Even better was the fact he called her "it." "You know the lead singer of Vixen? Yeah, I fucked it."

2. He had the latest Playboy with the "WWE chick" in his filing cabinet. He then showed it to us. This chick had the "biggest pussy" he'd ever seen.

3. He once fought a cop to the point of having a gun pointed at his head and being slammed to the ground.

4. He has had his identity stolen several times.

5. All he remembered from the night before is ... nothing. But he knows he "woke up with a wet dick."

6. We were getting a "good truck." To prove it, he got the thing up to about 30 mph in the gravel parking lot and slammed on the brakes. He jumped out and yelled, "This bitch even has an emergency brake!"

The next morning, I went back to settle the bill. I got there at 7:57 am and went in. He said, "I guess you want to get shot for breaking and entering." The store didn't open until 8, so he seriously made me sit there on a dirty couch until it was exactly 8. Then he said, "Can I fucking help you?

This dude cussed nonstop. In this "office." there was a pile/pryamid of about 25 empty Marlboro boxes, and many pictures of weird fuckers.

When I left, I said thanks. He said, "Yeah, thanks for bugging the fucking piss out of me."

Hoosiers are funny. My friends' documentation of said hoosiers is even funnier.

Funerals suck. Wakes rule.

2005-03-31T11:17:00.000-05:00

Like after every S. City, Italian funeral I’ve been to in my whole life, Rose’s wake luncheon was held at Pietro’s on Watson. When we arrived, it was packed with old ladies chowing down on Veal Parmigiana and overly-buttered bread, getting shit all over their gaudy, puffy blouses. Blue hairs love this place, unnaturally so. They must have some shuttle service between all the S. City retirement homes and Pietro’s. I don’t know how it’s going to stay in business after 2015. 99% of their clientele will be dead. Anyway, some highlights of the wake:

Twenty-four of the 28 people at the wake luncheon were family or close friends. The other four were random old ladies from Rose’s church. Anyway, Carol—80 years old, hunched over and shaking from Parkinson’s—sat next to me at our table. Her first comment to me: “Has the waitress been here yet? I want a drink.” Sounds about right. When the waitress arrived: “I’d like a Rob Roy, please.” A fucking ROB ROY! Jesus. I’ve never heard anyone order that, let alone a crunked-up-looking old lady. It was shocking. Carol was a card and, after finishing ½ her Rob Roy, drunk She called out my Irish dad. “OK, who’s the foreigner at the table?” She threw her shaking hands up in joy when she found out I lived in Soulard. “I love Soulard! I used to go out there all the time.” Carol has a Masters in PT from Columbia. Imagine that—going to ivy-league Columbia as a woman in the 1940s. She told stories about working in the polio ward at STL University. Polio. Jesus. My generation’s had it easy with disease. Great woman to sit next to.

Heard some cool new stories about Rose. In each trip to Italy, she’d start the day out with espresso—espresso cut with equal parts grappa. Imagine how shitty that’d taste. Yikes. Damn, Rose was tough. In WWII, Rose worked for McDonnell-Douglas as a riveter, so Cousin Rose was literally Rosie the Riveter. Cool.

Rose’s grand-niece and my distant cousin Laura is in cosmetology school at some place out at Manchester and 141. She offered to cut my hair—25% discount for family! I’m going tomorrow. Could be interesting. Could also be full of pretty stylists. Fuck it up less than Custom Cuts and you have a regular customer, Laura.

Dennis, who’s in the know on every freaking construction project in the area, filled me in on what’s taking so long for the STL University Arena to get underway. (This whole discussion was prompted by Carol.) Apparently, when Old Man Alberici (patriarch of HUGE national J.S. Alberici construction firm based in the STL) died recently, he willed tens of millions of dollars to SLU for the new arena. But since then, the money’s been tied up in probate. Additionally, Clayco (another HUGE national construction firm based in the STL) willed some money to SLU and is now arguing with Alberici on who’ll build the thing. Won’t find that story in the STL Business Journal. Good job, Dennis.

Ohh, and I caught a lunchtime buzz drinking beer and wine. Rose would have done the same.

Soulard Coffee Garden vs. the Frontenac Starbucks

2005-03-29T12:39:00.000-05:00

I hit those two coffee shops a combined four times a week. See, coffee/espresso is just like Mr. Brownstone—“used to do a little, but a little wouldn’t do it….” I find myself wanting to go every morning now, but at $4/pop, I try to limit myself. I usually get a large (fuck those made-up words like “venti” and “grande.”) skim-milk latté, and add some artificial sweetener. It picks me up, nice. Many days, I need it. The Frontenac Starbucks has been open less than a year, but I find myself going there more and more on weekday mornings (weekends are ALL SCG) , instead of SCG. Why? Do I really like that non-descript chain more than the charming coffee shop three blocks from my house? Depends.

The rundown:

Which one looks cooler?
Soulard Coffee Garden has the quirky coffee shop image down pat. Two floors of booths, tables, art, band fliers, books, comfortable couches, FREE newspapers, and, it’s all in an old red-brick building that screams STL. Most importantly, SCG has a beautiful-yet-flawed-patio out back. Summertime Sunday mornings are great here. The Frontenac Starbucks (FS)? Well shit, I think you know EXACTLY what it looks like. If you didn’t know any better, you could be in a Cleveland or Fresno Starbucks. Unless you consider the three tables outside peering onto the parking lot filled with shiny Beemers cool, this place looks like any Starbucks in the world. Nothing STL about it. Nothing.
Edge: SCG

Which one has cooler customers?
You get it all in SCG—smelly hippies to post-morning-coitus couples to asshole hoosiers to silly gay guys to tourists from STL County to hungover rehabbers. People watching is great at SCG. When it comes to hot girls though, SCG rarely comes through. In four years of going, I’ve met one girl in SGC. One. FS? Well, it’s the affluent suburbs, so hot, rich girls flock to this place. (I’m completely staying away from mentioning the jumper-clad St. Joe HS girls.) The hot, rich girls dress nice, look nice, smell nice, drive huge Range Rovers (with W stickers) and basically drive me nuts. In fact, the quality (at least in looks) of the girls at the FS makes me completely overlook how fucking annoying and nerdy the rest of the people are in there. A bunch of suits reading the WSJ. Fuck Peggy Noonan. Booooooooring.
Edge: FS (simply because of the pretty girls.)

Which one has cooler baristas?
Hmm, this is tough. They know me and what I order at both, but the SCG baristas seem more authentic with their tats, weird hair, funny clothes, and attitude. The FS baristas are better looking--but seemingly incredibly normal--blonde girls, so that’s cool, but they’re not as nice as the SCG ones. Two of the baristas at the FS even look the same. It’s weird.
Edge: tie

Which one has better food?
Unlike FS, SCG serves three meals a day—croissants to paninis to fruit. It’s not even close. The only thing that makes FS slightly competitive is the fact FS serves reduced- or low-fat products. SCG hasn’t caught on to that yet. Come on SGR, we can’t always eat greasy egg, ham, and cheese croissants from breakfast. How about a light, non-fruit, menu?
Edge: SCG

Which one has better coffee?
At SCG, they actually seem to understand coffee and can answer questions. Unfortunately, many times, you wouldn’t know it because they seem to forget to clean the espresso press (is that its real name?), the thing that looks like an ice cream scoop. If you don’t clean the press often, your coffee tastes bitter and gross. Too often my SCG coffee is more bitter than it should be. Still, SCG never screws me with 33% foam, like the FS is apt to do. Nonetheless, the FS has better “condiments” —chocolate/vanilla powder, more artificial sweetener brands, and nutmeg and other frou frou shit. I use the chocolate powder every time I go to FS. It’s important to have. It makes my latte taste awesome. AWESOME.
Edge: Tie, but if SCG just adds chocolate powder, they’re on top.

Verdict: SCG squeaks out a win (2-1-2), but then again, pretty girls make just about everything better…

RIP Cousin Rose

2005-03-28T14:46:00.000-05:00

I apologize if this entry is too personal (I don’t expect nor really want any comments), but my dad just called to tell me Cousin Rose died last night.

Obviously, I’m very sad but am also very grateful to have seen her last Saturday. Rose would have loved this stupid fucking blog. It’s right up her whiskey-drinking alley, so I thought a public goodbye here would be appropriate. Rose was my family’s last connection to the old-school Hill and old-world Milan. She will be greatly missed.

In the summer of '02, when my brother and I traveled to Cuggiono (outside Milan) to visit family, Cousin Alberto—who spoke little English—got frustrated at his inability to properly describe things in my grandfather’s house (the house is Alberto’s now), so he telephoned Rose, who was in the STL, to serve as a translator. Rose, thousands of miles away, got a huge kick out of imagining two dumbass STL hoosiers with one Italian native just staring at each other smiling, because they couldn’t really communicate. Rose had a hard time translating because she was laughing so hard. I'm pretty sure she also suggested we all go to the bar up the street.

Rose's service is Wednesday at St. Ambrose. The last time I went to St. Ambrose was over the summer with Rose to hear Alberto sing. I’ll toast her over Scotch tonight.

Sarete mancati, Rose.
Salute.

Gross

2005-03-28T10:39:00.000-05:00

Check out this subconjunctival hematoma in my left eye. I noticed it this morning when shaving in the shower. It’s just a painless and harmless collection of blood (a hematoma) under (sub) the surface of my eye (the conjunctiva).

My friend Jeff, an optometrist, says it’s more common in smokers and can often show up after a sneeze or cough. Hmmm, well, I am by no fucking means a gross smoker…..sure, I light up at the bar, but that’s it. But, my allergies have been kicking my ass for weeks, so I have been sneezing and coughing a lot.

It most ways, my subconjunctival hematoma is gross, but in others, it’s kinda of cool. If I want to be dramatic, I can invent stories on how I got it. “Yeah, I got this blood in my eye from smoking too many Camel Lights and sneezing at the pollen in the air.” is NOT going to work, so I need to come up with something better.

“See that blood in my eye? It’s from the punk-ass carjacker who tried ganking my Sebling’s 17-inch rims at Chouteau and Tucker. Sure, he had an AK, but he didn’t know how to use it. I shoved that gun’s butt right back into his fucking face and the barrel scratched my eye. Bitch.”

Or

“See that blood in my eye? That’s where an electron neutrino flew right fucking through my eye. RIGHT THROUGH! Contrary to what scientists say, those fuckers DO interact with matter.”

Jeff says I’ll have the subconjunctival hematoma all week. Sweet. More time to perfect my drama.

Grab your Glocks when you see Tupac

2005-03-27T18:28:00.000-05:00

Saturday night came x2 due to my retreat Friday night and hard work during the day Saturday. Scott was in from Columbia for Easter and stopped by my place before we walked up to McGurk’s for dinner with the rest of the family. Scott and his girlfriend were in Boulder for spring break last week. Little bro got me a souvenir--The Mountain Gazette’s Hunter S. Thompson tribute issue. (HST lived out there for years.) That’s the second HST item Scott's gotten me. Smart little brother.

Mom, Dad and Sara were already well into their first round by the time we arrived at McGurk’s. Scott preached about beer like he was some sophisticate and my dad, Dennis, took it all in like a naïve student, drinking whatever Scott suggested. At round three, Sara started talking about a guy in her Russian class who’s catalogue shopping for a Russian bride. Funny reactions. My mom is probably one of the nicest women around, critical and judgmental of little. She hunched in close to Sara, like she was saying something she shouldn't, asking “Is he weird?” Mom, come on, he’s buying a Russian girl’s passage to the U.S by e-mail. Of course he’s weird. My dad, well, he’s like me, but 30 years older. His reaction (he was on round four): “That guy best be careful. She’s gonna bring her Glock.” I just thought he was being a hoosier with a bad gun joke until Scott pointed out that Glocks are Austrian-made and very popular with the Russian mob. Smart, drunk Dennis.

After dinner, Justin and Kyle stopped by my place. Unbelievably, Kyle fucking beat me in Halo. Bastard. We all walked up to McGurk’s at 10:30. (That’s two separate trips to McGurk’s in 4 hours.) Already buzzed from dinner, I started drinking Scotch immediately. Great idea. Ran into Jen, who’s good friends with an ex girlfriend. Interestingly, through the grape vine, I heard said ex got a boob job within the last year. Ex and I talk a little now, but I’m not going to ask her about her boob job on e-mail—she’s never brought it up. So, I got the dirt from Jen. Ex got Ds. wow. The ex was already gorgeous, but now? I’m not a fan of fake boobs at all, but, jesus, I’m curious.

Talked to Amy, who, while off duty from cocktailing, was in McGurk’s anyway. “You genuinely like this bar, don’t you?” “Yep.” Smart girl. I welcomed Erin back to her old neighborhood on her way out. We talked a little about her move to Boulder and her miraculous drug-free recovery.

Couldn’t stay away from Lucas Park, so we headed downtown at 1. Justin drove us in his sweet brand-fucking-new Cherokee. I promptly and properly christened his ride, spilling my beer in the front seat cause it has some futuristic bullshit cup holders. Sorry, J-ho. Kyle was drunk as shit by now. He was still pissed that I said he couldn’t freestyle, so he rapped over some breakbeat station on Justin’s satellite radio. He made “chilling with Hixx” a big part of into his flow, so it was great.

LP was ridiculously crowded, so much that it wasn’t worth staying. After a few laps and conversations with college friends and random girls, we went up to Pepper Lounge. Unbelievably, Pepper was just as fucking crowded, but with a lesser-quality crowd. I think you know what that means. (Who knew STL could support two downtown hot spots, BTW)? We stumbled around for a while until the house lights came on. Whoever wrote Pepper Lounge turns into Pepper “Scrounge” (sorry, can’t remember which blogger) at closing was right on. It’s depressing. I had to wingman for Kurt. This chic wasn’t even cute, but, shit, the rules. Her friend was worse. I tried talking to the friend for three minutes, then left to look for Justin.

The gluttony finally ended at 4:30 a.m. when, after pigging out on Jack in the Box, I passed out watching Sling Blade. Any scenes with the Doyle’s band crack me up, especially when I've been tying one on for the past nine hours.

Right now, I’m staring at the grass seed and fertilizer in my backyard. No fucking way. I’m too tired from last night.

Home Improvement Saturday

2005-03-26T19:34:00.000-05:00

When you help move your friend into a nice house in the suburbs, it makes you ask why you’ve been so idle on your own house. In my case, the answer is easy. Since the Sept. 04 purchase, my routine hasn’t changed. Nights, Thursday through Saturday, I go out. I drink. I stay our late. It’s fun. I’m good at it. When Saturday morning comes—you know, the best time to begin home improvement shit—I’m fast asleep until noon, then I eat, hit the gym, run errands. By then, it’s 6 p.m. Saturday’s over.

Yesterday, I took a Friday night off for the first time since….well, I have no idea. I didn’t leave my place all night. Sure, I drank some beers, but I was in bed by 1. Today, I got up early (9 a.m.). After a stop by the Barton Lofts to check on Kurt and Brad’s construction progress (looking great, fellas…wish I could afford one), I hit the road to a slowly improved home.

First, to Uncle Jim’s to settle some debts and gather advice and tools. Cousin Rose—75-year-old-Italian, fluent in the language, cool-as-hell, world-traveled, tell-it-like-it-is Rose—was back from her hospital stay and in typical form. Rose wished her pain killers were better. “You know what I need, Sean? A drink. That’d work real good.” To Rose, for as long as I’ve know her, “a drink” doesn’t mean water, but whiskey. When Rose would come over, my grandmother would immediately ask, “Rose, you want a drink?” The whiskey was under the kitchen sink. Rose was the only one I ever saw drink it. I thought that was hardcore when I was a kid. Too bad she hasn’t been able to drink for years. Especially, now that when I say “I want a drink,” it means I want whiskey. It was good to see her. Uncle Jim chided mean for not taking the Christmas tree stand last week, claiming my sister Sara would be disappointed. He also asked if I wanted some deer meat, forced me to admire the craftsmanship on his home-made bulb planter, and sent me on my way with his extra lawn mower and other shit.

[Quick Side Bar. Yesterday I claimed to have never been a crime victim in Soulard, but I forgot that the week I moved into my house, some drunk assclown stole my lawn mower. It was an old fucked up one. Of no value I thought, but some hoosier took it. He even took the fucking gas can. Lowlife. I hope the thing blows up on that criminal.]

From Jim’s, I hit Home Depot (HD) on S. Kingshighway. Sweet fucking Jesus that place sucks. Real conversation between Sean and a HD worker:

Sean: Excuse me, can you tell me where the bathroom is, please?
HD worker: Ummm, I don’t work in this department.
Sean: What? Are, are you kidding?
[HD worker mumbled something, turned his back and walked away.]

So, because HD workers are more useless than a wizard who can't cast spells, I roamed aimlessly for much too long. Eventually, I got all the ingredients to grow grass—step #1 in making my backyard go from Samuel Jackson to Ben Wallace (afroed, not braided)—and some painting supplies.

No one remotely normal enjoys being in HD, so the hot dog stand at the HD exit must be making a killing. He’s the only reliable worker in the whole place. You leave HD all annoyed at the useless HD rubes doing nothing but pissing you off, then when you’re leaving, bam, you catch a whiff of those 100% Beef Chicago-style franks. Lunchtime, so I got two—ketchup, mustard, tomatoes, onions, peppers, celery salt (not recommended. first and last time)—eating one before I even got back to my car. They’re even perfectly wrapped in wax paper, so you can eat one without having your filthy hands—I never did find the bathroom—touch the bun.

I could only spend three total hours home improving (painting, tree pruning), but I’ve got tomorrow to begin the grass. By July, I hope to be comfortably passing out on its soft, luxurious blades.

Crime, it pays real nice......

2005-03-25T10:11:00.000-05:00

I’m off today, so have already strolled up to Soulard Coffee Garden for breakfast before a big day of helping my friend Chris move. (Is there anything worse than moving, BTW? Too bad that 1) I’m a good friend and 2) I owe Chris big time for him helping me move three times in the last 18 months.)

Anyway, as I perused the Post-Dispatch, I came across the “Law & Order” section—always a good read. It’s like a mini Evening Whirl without dramatic prose and ridiculous nicknames. I have to give DeYahoo credit for telling me about this story yesterday, but it’s really fucking shitty to see it right in print, right in front of you. Now, The Evening Whirl doesn’t seem so interesting because I’m detached from what it reports:

Soulard mugger shoots man, injures woman

A robber armed with a pistol shot a man and struck a woman on the head after he surprised them early Thursday on a residential block in the Soulard neighborhood, St. Louis police said.

The victims, in their early 20s, were taken to a hospital with injuries that were not considered life-threatening, a department spokeswoman said. Police said the two told them that they were walking to a friend's house in the 900 block of Ann Avenue shortly after 1 a.m. when a man with a revolver suddenly appeared and announced a holdup.

The woman, 23, thought the gunman was joking and refused to surrender her purse, police said. He struck her with the pistol and shot her boyfriend, 24, in the chest, before running east on Ann with the purse, police said.

The 900 block of Ann is exactly two block away from my house. Reading this story caused my stomach to turn. It made me angry, sad, annoyed, scared, and I guess right now, contemplative.

I’ve lived in Soulard for five years now and have never had anything worse than some neighborhood teenagers piss on my steps. (ohhh, those fucking asshole teenagers. They’re lucky they’re faster than me.) It’s not like crime is rampant by any means down here, but, just like anywhere (Ladue to St. Charles), there’s crime. But, why haven’t I been a victim? Why? Why haven’t I had my car broken into? Why haven’t I had my house burglarized? Why haven’t I been mugged? Have I been lucky? Does the fact that I’m a guy have anything to do with it? What about the fact that I’m relatively big? Am I safer because I trying carrying a brick with me on my late-night drunken stumbles home? Should I get a club for my car? Should I get an alarm on my house? Should I help organize a neighborhood watch? Do I get paranoid and get up in the middle of the night to make sure my door is locked? Do I now freak out at the all-too-common strange noises that emanate from my 120-year-old house? What the fuck do I do?

Fucking crime…..fucking 184-feet-away crime….jesus.

Nikko, Nikko, Nikko

2005-03-24T09:19:00.000-05:00

See, like Sean, Ozzie is rooting for his son Nikko. Ozzie's so pumped for Nikko's success, he's thrust his fist into the air. (see above) Ok Nikko, I suggest New Edition's "Cool it Now" for your next song. You should sing all the Bobby Brown parts. It'll put you over the top and may get Paula's panties in a bigger bunch, like anyone could even know that. What a ho.

(Too bad American Idol may be the most contrived bullshit in the history of reality tv. Ohh, and that fat tub-o-goo Scott Savol--now that lardass can sing. Good lord.....go Nikko.)

Français

2005-03-23T15:08:00.003-05:00

In the last week, I’ve heard French being spoken three times. Being the STL isn’t exactly an international destination and I wasn’t in class, I find this odd. Very cool, but odd. I took French in high school for three years, then for another two in college. I considered it a major pain in the ass until my last semester, when it finally clicked…well, somewhat. Amazingly, I remembered enough to recognize words in some of what I head. Enough to make sense of it.

Ce potage est trop chaud. (This soup is too hot.)
Last Wednesday, I was with my dad at Grassi’s Deli in Frontenac. The two women in the booth next to us spoke entirely in French. The soup sucked.

Le joueur de trombone est très bon. (The trombone player is very good.)
Last Friday, I was at that new jazz club Finale in Clayton, taking in trumpet-great Maynard Ferguson. The large group behind me was from all kinds of places—France, Uzbekistan, Festus. Frogs love jazz, so it made sense. The group also applauded the loudest, much more than any of the STLiens in the crowd besides me. Lame STLiens! Loosen up.

Qu'est-ce que c'est? (What is that?)
Today, I was again at the Apple store in the Galleria. A group of people (they didn’t really look American in retrospect) were checking out the iPod covers like me. I actually formulated a response en Français (C’est une iPod couverture.), but kept my mouth shut because I’m not that big a dork.

All this French could serve me well, as Omar is wanting to roadtrip from Boston to Montreal in two weeks. I’m down.

Two phrases* I need to master before hitting Montreal:

Je voudrais un Scotch sur les roches, s'il vous plaît.
Fichu! Vous pouvez vraiment secouer votre âne, miel!

* phrases translated directly from babel fish

Office water

2005-03-22T11:20:00.000-05:00

My 9-5 office is INCREDIBLY target rich for blogging, but I know better. I like my job, and want to keep my job. But, this? This was just too much.

We just got this e-mail:

4th Quarter Employee Suggestion Program
Five suggestions were submitted this quarter. [Jane Doe] won for her suggestion on the purchase and placement of water coolers in the office.

See, employees at my company are encouraged to submit suggestions quarterly that will save the company money or improve worker efficiency somehow. Jane Doe was given $100 for suggesting my company replace the water fountains with water coolers.

We get this:

Goddamn brilliant. No commentary needed.

See, Dilbert is funny because it’s real. (Hey, I don’t really read Dilbert, but the good ones are passed around here. Ridiculing office idiosyncrasies is part of the fun of working in an office.)

Ok, no more posts about my office.

[black star] soul [zipper] ard [black star]

2005-03-21T12:49:00.000-05:00

My custom-made hooded sweatshirt from Neighborhoodies arrived last Thursday.

This thing is bad (to quote Run DMC, "not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good), and, as far as I know, completely one of a kind. I got the grey sweatshirt with black lettering and two stars. So, it reads “[black star] soul [zipper] ard [black star].”

Anyway, I left my sweatshirt’s box at my office, and, just now, saw the hand-written note shipped with my sweatshirt.

Thanks Sean!
Keep on being somebody to look at in St. Louis.
May this keep you hot.

[heart] The Hoodies.

I [heart] The Hoodies. They know I'm hot all the way in Brooklyn.

The four hell yeahs of Sunday evening

2005-03-21T10:25:00.000-05:00

Suffering writers block and hoping a quality film will force creativity to smack me upside my misshapen head, Tyson and I went to see Sideways at The Chase Cinema (“Cinema” sound so lame) last night. The evening proved a huge success.

How so:

1) I had planned on nerding it alone to the movie, but Tyson saved me by offering to go with. Company. Hell yeah #1. It’s not like normal, mannerly people talk during movies, so you don’t really need company, and I’m not one of those needy weirdos that has to have a companion at all times, but it makes the drive home much more interesting because you have someone to critique the film with. Someone to talk about what you liked and didn’t like in the film, while the movie is fresh in your head.

2) The Chase is one of two movie theaters in the whole STL (city). (How brokeass is that, BTW? A city of 350K and just two small movie theaters.) Because the city is old, all its amenities are not surrounded by oceans of free parking like they are in the county/suburbs. You have to park on the street or pay to park in a lot. Not a big deal at all (In fact, it allows me to showcase my superb parallel parking skills mastered at CBC), unless, you are running late, which we were last night. In a solid by the movie gods, a single spot was open on the street IMMEDIATLY across from The Chase. Free closer-than-close parking. Hell yeah #2. I perfectly three-point parallel parked, got out and walked a mere 20 feet to the Chase's doors. You couldn’t pull that shit off in the county. Ever. At Ronnie’s you’d have to park a ½ mile away, sidestep some Z28 Cameros (with t-tops) and yell at some soccer mom for driving like a retard.

3) For whatever reason, the usual ticket window was closed, so we walked toward the theater, assuming we’d buy tickets there. Nope. No one selling anything but concessions. Then, noticing that no one was actually taking tickets, we walked right into the room screening Sideways, sitting down just as the lights went off and the previews started. Free movie. Hell yeah #3.

4) Sideways was entertaining enough that I didn’t look at my watch and didn’t start to uncontrollably fidget because my ass was asleep until more than an 90 minutes into the movie. Hell yeah #4.

I should drink some pinot noir or fucking merlot in celebration.

Jim’s Garage

2005-03-19T17:38:00.000-05:00

Earlier in the month, The Sebling (I've given my crunked-up car a name. It's a 1998 Chrysler Sebring, hence "Sebling." funny? yes. more stupid than funny? maybe.) started making faint rear-suspension noises. I ignored it until, two weeks ago, the thumps got louder than my music. So, I did what I always do when I have a car problem—ignore the problem for another week (I long ago stopped worrying about my car. It’s more dented than a golf ball.), then call Uncle Jim.

My mom’s brother is pretty damn cool. (He came up to McGurk’s Thursday to find me.) The guy is also an incredible mechanic and, best of all, a free mechanic. Let me write that last part again, so the full depth of what he does sinks in. Jim’s Garage is the best garage in the whole STL because it’s FREE. He’ll help me out with anything other than major body work. And, by help, I mean he’ll complete 75% of the repairs himself because he gets frustrated watching me go more slowly than he would. I strongly urge him not to, but it doesn’t work.

Today, “we” fixed all kinds of shit on my car. 100%-Italian Jim is equal part South City Hoosier, so I’m also highly entertained the entire time I'm there. Jim lives just off the Hill, so his neighborhood’s character makeup is exactly like his own. Jim’s resourceful, frugal, and unintentionally funny.

His garage is in the back of his house, so you have to drive through the alley to come and go.

When driving through his alley the first time:

Jim: You see any of that stuff you want? [There were huge piles of typical alley garbage next to the dumpsters—furniture, tvs, tires, charred lumber, etc.]
Sean: Shit out of the dumpster? No. What the hell would I do with tires anyway?
Jim: Well, what about those fans there?
Sean: I already have ceiling fans.
Jim: Well, what about when your AC breaks?
Sean: Jim, I don’t want some greasy fans from a dumpster.
Jim: You ever hear of cleaner?

We drove by the fans four more times throughout the day. He urged me to grab them every time. Finally, during the last trip to Autozone, some other hoosier took the damn fans.

Jim: See, they were valuable. Somebody took them. You missed out.”
Sean: Yeah, damn.
Jim: Slow down. [Jim wanted to more carefully examine the other alley garbage. Eureka…] What about that Christmas tree stand there?
Sean: I already have one.
Jim: Well, you should grab it for your sister.

When he asked when I had an oil change last, I told him that because The Sebling burns/leaks oil and I have to add a quart once a month, the oil is being slowly replaced anyway.

Jim: Ahhhh, that’s what cheap hoosiers do. That’s not right.
Sean: Weren’t you just telling me to grab some alley garbage?
Jim: This is different. This is your car.

Lots of other action by the alley dumpsters today. Some mulleted, bearded, Blues-cap-wearing (a triple threat) hoosier spent four minutes tugging on something blue and plastic buried in the dumpster. (A huge homemade blue note perhaps?) When he finally yanked it loose, he noticed we had stopped our car repairs to watch him.

Hoosier [yelling to Jim and I]: I told the old lady to not throw out the pool. Goddamnit.

He shook his head and dragged the deflated blue and white inflatable pool up the alley.

Because Kurt is also a hoosier, a few weeks ago, he bought a four pack of Ice House road sodies. Three were left in my trunk. When Jim saw the Ice House at the end of our repairs today, he got excited.

Jim: What’s this? I’ve never seen this Ice House. Look, it’s 5.5% too.
Sean: Yeah, that shit’s gross. Take it.
Jim: I’m gonna try it. It’ll go great with our deer sausage sandwiches. I shot the deer myself.
Sean: No, I’m going to Amighetti’s now. I’ve been looking forward to it all day. I love those sandwiches.
Jim: Well, how many times can you eat deer sausage with your Uncle?

I stayed. Jim poured our air-temperature Ice Houses into glasses. The deer sausage was hard and dry on the edges. Jim called hard and dry "cured." After some chit chat, I finished my sandwich, profusely thanked Jim for the help (I owe him yard work), and drove the fully repaired Sebling to Amighetti’s.

Green plastic watering hole

2005-03-18T11:34:00.001-05:00

Last night I came Irish correct, eating some corned beef and cabbage (CBC). I wasn’t about to cook that shit myself and funktify my place, so I stopped into the City Grocer for their prepared CBC. Know what? CBC sucks. really fucking bad. I realize British food is known to be uber-shitty (they eat spotted dick for crying out loud), but I thought I should hold it down for that 44%. Never again. The beef was flavorlessly dry like jerky and the cabbage wet (and tasting) like November oak leaves. Gross shit. From now on, no matter what day, my 56% Milanese is ruling. Dagos can cook. Needless to say, my dinner consisted mostly of beer. Irish beer, but beer.

Kurt and I walked up to McGurk’s at about 10:30. For the 137th time since Mardi Gras, I saw three drunk girls “Woooooooo”ing and riding the lion statutes outside the Bastille. I don’t think they realize how ironic it is to see girls riding anything in/outside a gay bar.

McGurk’s was, as expected, packed, and, as expected, permeated with two-steps-forward-one-step-sideways, shit-faced, green-clad hoosiers. It’s damn funny to be sober in a bar full of drunken slobs. What was unexpected though—besides the bullshit $5 cover—was the way they’ve completely enclosed the back beer garden in plastic. It’s weird. It’s not like one huge circus tent over everything; There's smaller, individual clear-plastic tents that form walls anywhere there is a hand rail. So, clear-plastic tunnels lead to all the outside bars, while another tunnel loops around the waterfall/pond. I felt like a gerbil. It’s completely disorienting because nothing looks the same as it does sans plastic.

A 100%-accurate representation of McGurk’s beer garden:

The crowd was a little different. St. Pat's calls people out from the woodwork, so I ran into too may people I knew. Drunk-monkey Doan was, as usual, surrounded by about five hot Asian girls, and, as usual, telling ridiculous stories. (The latest involved him taking out this waitress from The Vault. “She’s danced in Nelly and Chingy videos, dude!” Doan said on their first date, at the end of the meal, she ordered a whole other entrée to go. Ghetto. Then before date two, she called him to say she couldn’t meet him cause she had no gas money. Ghetto.)

Ironically (sorry, much irony in this post) Omar’s girlfriend Nina was the first chick I saw. While she wasn’t enjoying a spinach salad, she was drunk-as-hell from all her vodka tonics, slurring her words, and giving me too much shit. After sharing some iPod stories with Nina, I mentioned how I absolutely love all the “doe-eyed” McGurk’s waitresses (No, NOT your homely friends, Nina), specifically Hannah. While Kurt loudly agreed (“Fuck yeah, they’re hot!”), I came to find out he and Nina had no idea what “doe-eyed” meant. Kurt thought “doe” meant money; Nina thought it meant un-baked bread. Wrong. Wrong. My Bambi analogy did nothing but confuse, so I let them keep their own definition. “Dough-eyed”…..

Ran into Brad, Ben and Ray, who were a drunker mess than Nina, so worthless in real conversation. I think Brad told me 15 times that the Blackthorn Pizza he had earlier was the best he’d ever had. “Yeah, yeah, I know dude. Shut the hell up about that pizza. Wait, wait, do you have any leftover in your car?”

Because the NCAA Wrestling Championship is in town, McGurk’s was also full of out-of-towners from wrestling-mad states like Oklahoma and The Dakotas. Awesome…. I’ve met few Oklahoma girls period, but last’s night’s were a treat. Two-second eye-contact with a chubby, accented Sooner led to an IMMEDIATE invite to her hotel afterparty at The Radisson—room 2427. Maybe if I was drinking scotch honey, but not tonight. You’re, umm, not my type.

Kurt and I settled into talking to some Wash U soccer players. All three were cute, athletically slim, and too young, but, as you know, I’m a sucker for the doe-eyed. “My” girl got annoying after about 15 seconds when she laughed too hard at my lame jokes. (There’s no way in hell she could actually hear me.) It got worse when she said she was from Lincoln Park in Chicago and kept shit-talking the STL. “I can’t wait to go back to a big city.” Me too, sweetie… Kurt promised we’d go to their next game—April 2—in full body paint. Of course, knowing full well I wasn’t going to their game, I innocently lied and agreed with him.

By that point, it was late, and I was tired, so I left. When I walked by the Bastille, again girls were “Woooo”ing while riding the lion statues. Again, I laughed.

Erin go braugh, motherfuckers…..

Dead

2005-03-17T15:18:00.000-05:00

My backyard is rather bleak right now. Sparse grass, dead leaves, dead bushes, dead ivy, half-dead trees, birds-I-desperately-want-dead. Well, in the midst of all this brown, dead crap is this little flower. [ADDENDUM 1: This flower is not the "something green sprouting in my flower bed," as described in the March 5 "My walk to Soulard Market" post. It's completely different and nowhere near my flower bed, so it is minorly interesting.]

I have no idea what it is, but among all the shit brown, its white-capped-green sticks out like Sean wearing a Boston Celtics jersey on the dance floor at The Monastery.

It’s so small next to the half-dead tree, you can’t even see it in this panoramic shot. Trust me, it’s inside the red circle. [ADDENDUM 2: See, this flower is in the back corner of my yard, next to a tree and a pile of dirt, a pile placed there by me in September. The pile is the fill dirt from the brick walking patio I laid next to my stairs. I had planned on moving the dirt that weekend with Kurt, but, well, that didn't happen. Hell, maybe I planted that thing in Sept.]

I should enjoy this flower; I mean it is rather pretty, buuuuut, I’m killing it soon when I start using powertools and shovels to make my backyard look cool by planting other stuff like banana trees and poppies.

Erin go braugh, motherfuckers

2005-03-17T09:52:00.000-05:00

This summer marks my ten year anniversary of patronizing John D. McGurk’s in Soulard. By my own estimation, I’ve spent 10 to 12 hours a month in that bar (for ten straight years), drinking pints, chasing girls, and trying my best to NOT hear the authentic-yet-annoyingly-whiny Irish folk music. (That shit sucks ya’ll.)

Ten to 12 hours a month for ten years is the equivalent of FIFTY to SIXTY full days. Jebus. Hell, I didn’t even live in Soulard until 1999 and I was still going there all the time 95-98. I put McGurk’s in my top-3 STL bars. There’s little wrong with it. I never don’t want to go there. I can easily walk to McGurk’s to drunkenly stumble home later. I do this walking/stumbling quite often. Rest assured, I will be belly up to the McGurk’s bar tonight, for I am a 7/16ths-Irish drunken Irishman--my name is “Sean” for Christ sake.

It’s St. Pat’s day. Today, my blue eyes are green. Today, my Bud Light bottle is a Harp pint. Today, I’m taking my grandmother’s maiden name of McHale.

Sean, 44% Mic.
Sean McHale, 100%

Johnson's Cuts

2005-03-15T14:31:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, as many of you know Martin Johnson killed his blog, so to still get your Johnson fix, I’m introducing “Johnson’s Cuts.” Often times, Marty e-mails movie links to me and my friends. Often times, the links are very funny. Often times, I get lazy about writing a wholly original blog post and rehash shit already talked about amongst my friends. Sean, sloth czar.

Here are the latest links from Marty, with brief commentary by me. Hopefully, Marty will send his own commentary (QUALITY commentary, Johnson) in the future

Imagine Larry Rice talking like this guy. He’d be a lot cooler with the commode mouth. I’d send Larry more money so he could get better musical entertainment for his pledge drives. Anyone else seen his old-ass husband-wife musical combo on Rice’s channel 24? Old husband plays piano, old wife plays tambourine, and they harmonize about Hey-Zues’ love. I swear that Will Ferrell was directly parodying those two with his Marty Culp and Bobbi Mohan-Culp skits. Anyway, here’s Preacher Man dropping cuss-word-laced biblical knowledge.

Admittedly, getting hit in the junk hurts. Bad. Still, real men go fetal position and stifle tears by biting their fist like Squiggy from Laverne&Shirley. They don’t sob like a turned-out ho. Pillow fights can be dangerous.

Nothing worse than Tron toe. Nothing. (alright, that was a Johnson commentary) I’d look awesome in this Tron costume. In this instance, “awesome”=”completely fucking ridiculous.”

You like Peeps?

2005-03-14T16:37:00.000-05:00

At lunch today, I saw a five-year-old brat scream his head off until mom bought some Peeps. It is Easter time you know. I can't say I really like those marshmallow birds. I never have. Too sweet. Too sticky. Too chewy. My mom, who loves Peeps (unnaturally so), always stuffs our Easter basket with them knowing full well that my brother, sister and I hate them. Devious. She gets to eat them all. And yes, I may be 30, but I still get an Easter basket.

Does anyone else really like Peeps besides my moms?

Also, when trying to find a Peep pic, I came across this amusing website devoted to tongue-in-cheek Peep research. Watch Peeps smoke, drink, and, well, die.

I need an armband

2005-03-14T11:14:00.000-05:00

I’m still totally digging my iPod Shuffle. When I was cleaning my place last night, I listened to it the whole time. When I was sweeping, Smashing Pumpkins “Drown.” When I was doing dishes, Mike Jones “Still Tippin'” When I was folding laundry, Fontella Bass “Rescue Me.” When I was wiping down the counter, Veruca Salt “Seether.” When I took out the garbage, OutKast “Hootie Hoo.” When I Swiffered, Jay Z “Can’t Knock the Hustle.” I didn't hear my phone ring, I didn't hear the loud-ass Harleys screaming down Russell, I didn't hear anything but my music.

I can’t wait to use it at the gym too, but I simply can’t have it flopping all around my neck when I’m on a cardio machine. I need to buy an armband. (See, Apple only gives you this lame white string for the Shuffle. You hang it around your neck like a gold medal from the 35th Olympiad. Dorky as hell.) The Galleria’s Apple store, while staffed by a damn hot and exotic looking sales girl, was useless in my visit yesterday afternoon. They don’t have armbands in stock, so I was told to go online and buy one.

From the Apple website:

Apple iPod shuffle Armband
Whether jogging or working out, the specially designed iPod shuffle Arm Band is a stylish accessory for use with your iPod shuffle.
Price:
$29.00
Ships:5-7 weeks

First of all, notice that price--$30 for an accessory for a product that only costs $100. That’s freaking ridiculous. Does the armband play music or something too? Does it flirt with me in a sexy chick voice between songs? It better do something beside just hang on my arm. Second, notice the ship time--five to seven weeks. Not days, WEEKS. Apple, come on. I know your products are damn good, and hence in high demand, but plan a little. Call/IM/e-mail your supplier in Hong Kong, tell them to stop riding the subway and step up production. An incredibly impatient dude in the middle of the U.S. wants his armband so he can use his shuffle at the gym. Now, Apple. NOW.

dropped change

2005-03-13T20:50:00.000-05:00

Coming home from my basketball game, I stopped at the McDonald's at 1919 S. Jefferson. I ordered a small strawberry shake and a Big N Tasty. The total was $3.81, but, because I gave all my bills to Jason for our fantasy baseball league, I had no cash. The 1919 S. Jefferson McDonald's does not take debit cards, so I paid in change.

While compiling the correct change, I dropped two quarters under my seat. I didn’t care. They’re probably sitting next to some empty beer cans and stale rap snacks. Eventually, when I had all my change together, I reached out to give the drive-thru chic the $3.81--9 quarters, 11 dimes, 9 nickels, and 1 penny. In transfer, I dropped 2 quarters onto the parking lot. I was out of quarters, so I had to put together 25 pennies, 2 dimes, and 1 nickel.

For whatever reason, none of my change dropping got me pissed. I figured someone else could use that change in the lot more than me. Know what though? Paying for McDonald’s in change makes it taste better. Yep. Best McDonald’s shake I’ve had in years. I sucked it down before I was even home.

'cause it's Friday, you ain't got no job, and you ain't got shit to do…

2005-03-12T15:20:00.000-05:00

What Friday wrought:

At lunch, I hit up West County mall to tear through my gambling winnings. Like a bitch, I spent most of my money on new clothes. Hey, looking good (ok, decent) is tough fucking work--gym, clothes, copious lotion for the face, binge drinking, etc. Finally found the cotton khaki suit I wanted at Lord&Taylor. Damn, I’m going to look pimp. Back off ladies…(On the flipside, I’m pretty sure the Express Men salesman was hitting on me--always a risk when shopping for stylish clothes. Back off too men...really. back off.)

After hyping Vincent’s Market Wine Tasting for weeks, I actually went and stayed. Tyson and I met sweet-as-candy Libby and her roommates at their place on Menard at 5:45. (Tyson, Libby and me work out at the same gym, but I had no idea she lived three blocks down Menard until Monday. At the gym, I usually leer under my cap's bill rather than talk to girls. ) Vincent’s Wine Tasting was much more happening this week. I give primary credit to offering TJ’s pizza with the vino. A local distributor organized the tasting (one ounce wine in Dixie cup) for the Delicato label wines, while Vince was responsible for the snacks, hence TJ’s. Yes, “Delicato." Sounds like some cheap, off-brand condom you buy from truckstop bathroom vending machines, right? Fittingly, it didn’t taste great. The wine chic was working her ass off, acting like a standup comic going through her whole routine. “I want to open a goth bar with coffins and blood and zombies and meat cleavers. It’ll be great!” Umm, no it won’t. Shut up and talk about the wine. No dice. She talked about that damn goth bar until 6:45. I bought a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc anyway. $5.

Justin steamrolled into Soulard at about nine and before saying “What up!” noticed the new, unopened iPod Shuffle on my coffee table. Like a 5-year-old seeing an unopened HotWheel, Justin freaked. “Dude, let me open it. Come on! Let me open it. COME ON! “ 26 years ago, Justin learned he gets his way being annoying, so I relented and let him fiddle with it. I have to give him some credit though. It was five-year-old Justin that opened my eyes to how cool the Shuffle is. I thought I was happy with my Rio player, but this iPod put it to shame. Better software, bigger memory, smaller casing, and waaaaaaaaaaay better headphones. Louder headphones. (I've attended too many loud-ass rock shows, so I need mas volume.) Like some chimps, Justin, Tyson, and me all took turns playing with it. I HIGHLY recommend the iPod Shuffle. Justin bought one at 9:50 last night.

Met up with Kyle and some other people at Blueberry Hill for the Science Hip Hop spin in the Duckroom. We got there early (10:45) to get our drink on proper. It’s tough to talk over the music, so you end up drinking your beers in about half the time. Needless to say, I was crunk by 11:30. The DJs spun old-school rap the whole night, and Kyle—who’s 100% black—gave my nerd 2% ass an education. We played the who-can-name-the-song-the-fastest game and Kyle won every fucking time. I suck. Hell, while I recognized most of the songs, Kyle really knew them. Again, I suck. Ohh, and Sean danced. I used at least three dance moves—the Cocktail Sauce, the Tartar Sauce, and the Catfish Nugget. I can move…..not really. I was just drunk and making up dance moves named for my dinner.

After closing out BBH, the “Chesire or no Chesire” debate was brief. We strolled into that dump at 1:19. By 1:47, it was like the fog had rolled into London, and see, that’s why the Chesire sucks (well, other than the annoying posers who frequent the bar.) I smoke when I drink, but even I couldn’t handle the 2-inch diameter smoke particles in the air. Unbeknownst to me but knownst to Justin, some friends were hiding in the corner, so we stopped to chill with them. I was my usual gentlemanly, charming self, while the other three seemed to just annoy each other by constantly talking over one another. I mostly listened, so was quite amused. Drunk monkey Justin spilled his guts to one of the hiding girls. “I like you! Wait, not I don’t! I hate you. You’re not even cute. Wait, no, no, I like you.” Their conversation seemed surprisingly familiar, so Justin’s been mocked incessantly (by me) since last night.

Nothing kills heartache like White Castle, so the high-class S. Broadway locale was the last stop. The drive-through was 12 cars deep at 3:02 a.m. The line inside was 9 guys deep. Inside, bad news. In line, a vagrant-looking old black guy in front of me turned back to me and said, “Excuse me.” I, without even thinking, cut the guy off and say, “No man, I got nothing!” Guy: “Noooo, I just want to go sit down in that booth behind you. I’m not panhandling, motherfucker. Jesus!” Sean: “Oh, sorry.” (in my defense, panhandlers are in that place all the time.)

At any rate, after my poor display at BBH and then the White Castle incident, I hereby rescind 1% of my 2%.

Lazy, fat Americans

2005-03-11T10:59:00.000-05:00

I like to think that I’m into reading books about urban planning, but it’s not really true. Sure, I find the subject very interesting, but, well, I spend my free time doing things that are much less productive, like drinking beer and chasing girls. Nonetheless, my friend Tyson is genuinely into reading books about urban planning. He’s like a Cliff Notes for books on urban planning, giving me the highlights of the books he reads.

Here are Tyson’s latest Cliff Notes, this time on Joel Garraeu’s Edge City. EC deals with suburban cities like Clayton and Chesterfield. In the back, Garraeu lists some of the "laws" that developers use as rules of thumb that help determine what their projects look like.

Here are some of Tyson’s highlights:

The farthest distance an American will walk before getting into a car: six-hundred feet.
(according to him that's why malls never allow a clear line of sight from one end to the other, if people saw how far they were actually walking, they'd walk outside and drive to the other end.)

How many stories up or down an American will use the stairs: One. Frequently zero.

How to make a subway pay for itself from the farebox: Give its riders only three choices: take the train to work; live under Chinese communism; or swim the South China Sea. (Hong Kong has the only subway system in the world that does not require subsidies.)

The probable maximum number of riders you can hope to switch out of their cars and into a commuter railroad, should you choose to build one: twelve percent. In other words 10 million square feet of office and retail space may yield forty-eight hundred train trips.
Number of riders a light rail system needs per day to be cost effective: seven thousand.

How big an edge city would have to be to generate that many riders: fourteen and a half million square feet of office - more than downtown St. Louis or Cincinnati.

The maximum desirable commute, throughout human history, regardless of transportation technology: forty-five minutes.

The law of severed continuity: All subdivisions are named after whatever species are first driven out by the construction. e.g. Quail Trail Estates.

"Asshole blogger" (nm)

2005-03-11T09:56:00.000-05:00

Sean, word czar

2005-03-10T15:58:00.000-05:00

The coin of my realm is words. I make my living writing, editing, and creating words. So, when I hear constant misuse of certain words, it drives me freaking crazy--particularly when ignorant stooges use the opposite word that they mean. Lately, it seems that “literally” has completely confused people, well, at least really fucking stupid people....people who are functionally illiterate...the majority of the American public.

Let’s review for the very dim:

literal adj 1 a: adhering to fact or to the ordinary construction or primary meaning of an expression: ACTUAL b: free from exaggeration or embellishment c: characterized or concerned mainly with the facts

figurative adj 1 a: expressing one thing in terms normally denoting another with which it may be regarded as analogous: METAPHORICAL b: characterized by figures of speech

Notice that those two words are virtual antonyms, yet most people fail to grasp this fact and use “literal(ly)” when they mean “figurative(ly).” Idiots.

Improper use of “literal(ly),” example #1:

Dude, when I was sitting on the lawn for the Nugent/Hagar show, I was literally sweating my nuts off.

I doubt it, buddy. While the STL’s heat, humidity, and love of really shitty music does bad things to the human body, it does not cause one’s testicles to fall off. “Figuratively” is the correct adverb.

Proper use of “literal(ly),” example #1:

After doing those three Everclear shots and lighting my Kool straight from the dumpster's flames, my mouth was literally on fire.

Dumbass. Your mouth’s on fire.

Improper use of “literal(ly),” example #2

Drinking that whole bottle of Robotussin DM literally has me flying, dirty.

No way, you hoos. Drinking a whole bottle of Robotussin DM does nothing but make you vomit. I assure you, you did not leave the ground. Once again, “figuratively” is the correct adverb.

Proper use of “literal(ly),” example #2

Sean is literally a pimp.

What? You need a ho?

Alright, no more confusing those words people.

How to ruin the best Pico de Gallo ever—Ever!—in 69 easy steps

2005-03-09T15:17:00.000-05:00

1) At the gym, let your hunger distract you from subtly staring at the two new hot girls and from proper form while lifting weights.
2) Think, “What the fuck am I going to make for dinner? Man, she’s hot.”
3) Remember you have tortillas, steak, mozzarella, and some fresh vegetables (two Roma tomatoes, small red onion, green pepper).
4) Cut your work out short because you are so hungry.
5) Decide you’re too hungry to cook and drive to Taco Bell.
6) Ditch Taco Bell because the line is too long.
7) Go to City Grocers downtown.
8) Buy fresh cilantro, a lime, and two vine-ripened tomatoes, while getting pissed they have no jalapenos.
9) Under your breathe, curse the new checker because she’s messed up the register and forced you to wait to check out.
10) Set your groceries atop the checkout scanner, and go “read” the SI swimsuit issue.
11) Four minutes later, change to The Sporting News because SI is causing intense physical pain.
12) Six minutes later, actually check out.
13) Drive home, getting pissed at all the unsynched traffic lights.
14) Swear to call your alderman and complain about said lights.
15) Turn up 100.3 because they’re playing Trillville’s “Some Cut.”
16) Park car and schlep groceries out of car and up stairs.
17) Leave gym back in car because you’re lazy.
18) Drop groceries on counter, smashing produce.
19) Yell, “Fuck.”
20) Preheat over for steak.
21) Shower.
22) Season steak, place in oven.
23) Remove your badass chopping knife from cutting block.
24) Admire its dull shine and dangerously sharp edge.
25) Think, “Fuck, I best not cut myself.”
26) Consider going back to Taco Bell for fear of losing a digit.
27) Tell self to “stop being a pantywaist” and remove cutting board from pantry.
28) Admire cutting board’s strong wood smell.
29) Skillfully dice (extra fine) two Roma tomatoes, two vine-ripened tomatoes, one half small red onion, one third of a green pepper, and one cup cilantro.
30) Get pissed cause you have nowhere to mix pico.
31) Remember Marie gave you some Tupperware.
32) Look for Tupperware for four minutes.
33) Find Tupperware.
34) Add diced tomatoes, red onion, green pepper and cilantro to Tupperware, mixing with dollop of fresh minced garlic, juice of one half a lime, salt, black pepper, red pepper, and tablespoon of olive oil.
35) Eat spoonful of pico.
36) To yourself, swear it’s the best food you’ve ever tasted.
37) Eat more, marveling at your cooking skill in making four cups of fresh pico
38) Even though you live alone, turn toward couch and say “This is the best food I’ve ever tasted,” like someone is there.
39) Yell ,“This is the best food you’ve ever tasted.”
40) Get out bag of Doritos to eat pico with.
41) Remove steak from oven.
42) Thinly slice beef.
43) Warm skillet until hot.
44) Add olive oil to skillet.
45) Place steak, 1/2 cup mozzarella, and three cups of pico between two tortillas, making a quesadilla.
46) Add quesadilla to skillet.
47) Think, “Damn, this is going to be so fucking good.”
48) Eat remaining cup of fresh pico.
49) After 5 minutes, wonder why the cheese isn’t melting.
50) Double check that range is on. (It is.)
51) Notice quesadilla is draining liquid like a galvanized swimming pool in South County.
52) After three more minutes, flip quesadilla, spilling 1/4 quesadilla’s contents into skillet.
53) Yell, “Fuck.”
54) Grab spoon and eat spilled contents.
55) Think, “Hey, this tastes different.”
56) Grill for three more minutes until cheese is completely melted.
57) Slide quesadilla onto plate.
58) Notice that while cheese in melted, neither side of quesadilla is crispy and instead is floppy like Dumbo’s ears.
59) Open quesadilla to see your precious precious pico is now a stewed mess of bland vegetables.
60) Yell, “Fuck”
61) Try eating pico again, but quit in frustration, moving gross stewed pico around plate with spoon.
62) Yell, “Fuck.”
63) Wonder how pico went from so good to so bad in under 15 minutes.
64) Realize that pico is a topping not filling.
65) Realize that cooking pico changes its texture, taste, and color—all that is good with pico.
66) Yell, “Fuck.”
67) Take ruined contents of quesadilla to alley and throw contents at the nighttime home of that peahen bitch that will wake you up in less than 10 hours.
68) Yell, “Fuck.”
69) Polish off bag of Doritos wishing you had more pico.

Sean=98% white, 2% black, 58% dixie, 42% yankee, 100% jackass

2005-03-09T11:20:00.000-05:00

I can't imagine many of you from the STL will score differently. Well, on the dixie/yankee thing that is.

http://mywebpages.comcast.net/lgrob/southern_dialect_quiz.htm

STL to BOS=nonsense

2005-03-08T15:52:00.000-05:00

I’m going to Boston next month to chill with Omar, and lately, I’ve been researching flight prices. My ff miles are through American, so I usually book American Airline flights through www.aa.com or www.orbitz.com. The AA website has always been a piece of crap in getting cheap flights, but today's research illustrates why AA and virtually all major airlines completely suck as a businesses and are all on the verge of bankruptcy. Stupid fucking airlines.

From aa.com:
American Airlines 456--STL to BOS, Thursday April 7
American Airlines 4471-- BOS to STL, Sunday April 10
$1016.90

From orbitz.com:
American Airlines 456-- STL to BOS, Thursday April 7
American Airlines 4471-- BOS to STL, Sunday April 10
$253.00

Notice that those are the EXACT same flights, yet Orbitz is $763.90 cheaper. How is this possible? HOW?

Primary pain in my ass

2005-03-08T10:55:00.000-05:00

With my recent purchase of a Soulard home came an official declaration of city residence and the responsibility of voting in city elections. I am a good citizen… Most recently, I voted in STL County, so I was curious how STL city would match up. The STL elections (city) had been rife with fraud for years. Dead people voted. People voted twice. Non-existent people voted. You know, typical, old big-city politics.

I voted at Humbolt School on S. 9th St. I had no idea where to go once I was at Humbolt, so I followed a kid with a backpack inside. Once inside, it was rather obvious this was the school section, not a polling place. (How do those little pukes use those supershort drinking fountains anyway? I had a hard time bending over to get a drink.) Seeing my confusion, the security guard, yes security guard, kindly told me I should go to the lower lot. So, I called the kid giving me shit a boogerface dummyhead and left.

The lower lot wasn’t much better. I had no idea where to park. There were no painted lines, so I set the Sebling right in the middle of the whole lot. I saw one Slay sign, so knew I had come to the right place, but there were no annoying asses campaigning for their candidate like there are in the county, so I still wasn’t sure what was up. I went inside and again see NOTHING that designates an election, so I just keep walking down the hallway, looking into each room, hoping to see the usual Old Bags who run elections.

Finally, at the end of the hall, I walk into the actual polling place. Other than two election workers, it was completely empty. I give the guy my voter ID card. Apparently, he doesn’t know his alphabet too well. He’s looking on the wrong page, so I have to tell him my last name again. When he finds my name, he asks me to sign and hands me a ballot. That’s it. No ID check. No address verification. He only made sure I had my voter ID card. I could have been Marshall freaking Faulk and he wouldn’t have known. It’s not fraud or anything, but it’s also no great sign for city politics.

Being the STL hasn’t had a non-Democratic Mayor since something like 1950, you have to vote Democrat to have any sort of affect of city elections. This is a primary, but in reality, it decides who’ll be the next STL mayor. There wasn’t even a Republican running and I ain’t voting Green.

The Democratic Primary ballot

Mayor
Bill Hass
Francis Slay
Irene Smith

Comptroller
Darlene Green

Alderman (Ward 7)
Phyllis Young

Yep, that’s it. Three people running for mayor and two uncontested contests. Glad I came to vote. Well, without a doubt, Slay is winning this election. My vote is meaningless. While I was tempted to vote for Irene Smith--I mean she did filibuster by pissing and all--I ended up voting for Bill Hass. Why? 1) He’s crazy, 2) He’s sincere, 3) He blogs. Go Bill Hass.

The City doesn’t give out those dopeass “I Voted” stickers, so I’m making my own right now. I’m cooler than a polar bear’s toenails…

"Ha ha" (said in Nelson voice)

2005-03-07T13:53:00.000-05:00

Just got back from lunch. I usually go to Schnucks, so I can hit the salad bar (I’m healthy, bitch) and grab a sandwich (I also like meat). Today, the old Lah-doo ladies in huge Cadillacs were particularly bad and slow with their driving. How the fuck they can see with those Blue Blockers sunglasses on, I have no idea.

One Old Bag (for the ignorant, "Old Bag"=female senior citizen) had completely clogged up the lanes closest to the store (row #1) waiting for a spot right by the entrance. I never drive up to row #1, but today did so to avoid a whole other parking lot traffic jam. Bad idea. Old Bag #2 was taking her sweet sweet time trying to back out of the spot. I was in a hurry, so I zoomed around Old Bag #1 as well as two other cars behind her, and made a left into a whole other lane of spots (row #2). I just bypassed the whole Old Bag pileup. I was VERY proud of avoiding the mess, but, apparently, the two cars behind Old Bag #1 didn’t like my bypassing. I had taken the last open spot in the row #2.

Very impressed with my bypassing of such nonsense, saving much time, I got out of my car smiling to see that one of the dudes who was waiting behind Old Bag #1 was now blocking my way with his car, glaring at me. I guess I took "his" spot. (How the hell was I supposed to know? If he really wanted this spot, why didn’t he bypass the Old Bag pile-up like me?)

Glaring back at this rube, I then noticed that another row up (row #3) was COMPLETELY empty, so I pointed this out, yelling at his closed car: “Dude, stop glaring at me, but more importantly, stop being so fucking lazy. Look. There’s tons of spots right there, 10 feet further from the store. Stop being such a lazy ass.” (When should I stop saying “dude,” BTW?) Amazingly, I think it clicked and he drove up to the next row. To myself, I “Ha Ha”ed like Nelson.

I didn’t see him inside Schnucks. I think he saw how much bigger I was than him OR realized I was right--he was being lazy.

MAC

2005-03-06T20:02:00.000-05:00

Hit up the Missouri Athletic Club downtown last night for poker with some friends. I probably overuse the term “old school” more than I overdrink (I was out Wed-Sat night this week. No wonder I feel like this), but the MAC is as old school as they come.

It’s a club, but instead of glowsticks, there’s chandeliers; instead of loud techno beats, there’s soft piano; instead of indifferent bitch-ass waitresses, there’s totally kiss-ass, eager-to-please help, help that numbers more than 1; instead of a dark dance floor, there’s brightly-lit private rooms; instead of sticky booths, there’s plush, clean furniture and white-linen tables; instead of shitty california rolls, there’s HUGE shrimp cocktail; instead of E (wait, do club people still do that?), there’s Macanudo cigars; instead of some tool bartender spitting fire, there’s only the flame of wooden matches lighting said Macanudos; instead of no-neck, dumb-as-a-bag-of-hammers bouncers, there’s 60-year-old men in full-length rain coats with gritty voices, and .38 revolvers. (OK, I have no idea if that guy had a gun, but he seemed like he should have one of those snub-nose .38s under his coat.); instead of drunk kids, there’s drunk men.

Obviously, both clubs have beer and booze. Thank freaking god. I drank just as much in our private MAC room as I would at 1214 or Velvet. Drinking scotch as Lucas Park is just me trying to get drunk. Drinking scotch while playing poker at the MAC is just right.

Last night, I felt more sophisticated and classy than I had since the 2003 Poison concert.
I’m going to have to look into joining. Sean could use some classing up, and, as you know, my gym sucks.

Fred, Chris, Justin, Omar, Tate, and me played my least favorite poker game—Texas Hold ‘Em. That game sucks total ass. You chase certain cards more than I chase certain girls. Sooooooooo fucking boring. Of course I won. With a $100 buy in, I walked away with $500. Not too shabby.

A pic of my wad-o-winnings taken with my brokeass camera phone. (I really need to get a nice, small digital):

That dough’s under my bed, fool. Don’t come creeping. I have pistol under my pillow. I only hope my nighttime drooling hasn’t rusted it’s steel.

My walk to Soulard Market

2005-03-05T18:22:00.000-05:00

This morning, I noticed I had something green sprouting in my flower bed. I have no idea what it is. I’ve never had a flower bed. Hell, the only thing alive in my whole house is me. Now, I have a backyard. If I want my backyard to look cool, I have to grow stuff. I haven’t owned a plant since 2000. It died. That being the case, I figured I’d walk to Soulard Market and buy something alive. Naw, not rabbits or chickens, but bamboo or flowers or something. I need practice.

When I got to Allen and 10th, I stopped to laugh at the beat-up, old-school Dodge RV with California plates and a potato gun strapped to the back. Fittingly, it was across from The Shanti. Mid-laugh, I noticed a guy with a guitar case walking into 1860 Hard Shell. I’ve been thinking about guitars all week, so I followed him inside. Fuck buying something alive. $2 cover for Soul Reunion.

Few open seats, so I sat at the bar next to a, umm, minorly handicapable gentleman. He was tearing the filters off his Derringer cigarettes and sucking on the unlit butts. Yuck. He ordered two baskets of fries. I thought of Billy Bob Thorton in Slingblade. Luckily, the band started again, and I forgot about him (...well, apparently not.)

Soul Reunion was a slick mid-Saturday interlude. They played R&B and soul covers. Sam & Dave, Marvin Gaye, Temptations, Al Green, BB King. Standard Soulard. The lead singer was a showman, dressed in a suit, white turtle neck, flashy sunglasses, and fur paperboy hat worn backward. He was constantly wiping the perspiration off his face with a handkerchief. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer were pretty nondescript, but Soul Reunion’s musical kingpin was mos def the short, skinny, white saxophonist. This guy could blow the horn. He was great. I have no idea how he got his sax to make some of those noises. During his solo in the Spy Hunter Theme Song (sorry, don’t know the song’s real name), I got a headache watching him strain to make all those notes. It looked like he was going to pass out. He didn’t get to improvise nearly enough, mostly just playing in rhythm with the guitarist.

The crowd was eating Soul Reunion up. Older crowd. Other than the help, I was the youngest one there. A grandma with a walker sat in the back. 50-year-old (maybe) single (maybe) ladies (hopefully) with gaudy costume jewelry were pounding white zin between their cigarette drags, dancing, and chasing the 50-year-old dudes drinking bloody marys. Keep in mind it was 2:30 p.m. One of the ladies slowly ran her hand down my back reaching for an ashtray. I didn’t like it. Somehow, I ignored the siren song of both old lady and booze. Unlike the old ladies, the underlit, neatly-rowed liquor bottles were damn seductive. I drank water. No scotch. No old ladies

Right before I left, a yuppie chic and her 10-year-old daughter popped in for one song. The whole song, mom danced and daughter pouted. I laughed, tipped the beautiful-yet-aloof (bitch….ok, I take it back…) bartender, and walked out behind mom and daughter.

I guess I don’t go to bars just to chase girls.

I still need to get a plant. Shit.

2%

2005-03-04T15:06:00.000-05:00

Recently, I had one of my black friends tell me that I was 2% black. I was flattered. We were ripping on our gym and my friend said our gym sucks because it’s in the city where all the black folks live, so the owner really doesn’t care about upkeep. He thought I could relate.

Our e-mail exchange:

Friend: You are kind of black in a white way

Sean: What does that even mean?

Friend: You are cool, but you still walk like a white guy. Your new nickname is Pookie Sean John.

Sean: Now, you're going to make me self conscious about my walk. “pooke sean jean”? christ.

Friend: “pookie” not “pooke.” Get your street name right poo poo. Don’t forget the baggy pants and you might be 15 percent black. Naw, still 2 percent.

See, upon first glance at Sean (non-EOC version), I look like any other cracka from South County. You’d think I was a nerd-ass, preppy white guy who wears khakis Monday through Friday, drives a beige Honda Accord, listens to Creed, shops exclusively at the Gap, and most importantly follows the Blues. Nope. I’m waaaaaaay doper than that. Hockey sucks. Sean has style.

My 2% blackness broken down.

(Obviously, I’m using stereotypes, but come on, this is a blog. There’s nothing earnest about it. Lighten up, motherfuckers.)

1) My ideal car is a 1977 Cadillac El Dorado convertible. I like the large body, suspension so soft it’s like your in a boat, seats big enough to sleep on, a purring V-8, and the drop top. Hunter S. Thompson (J. Depp) drove one like it in Fear and Loathing—The White Whale. Old school ‘llacs scream style.

When I own this car, I’m going to keep the factory rims, but also buy some 100-spokes to floss on the weekends. You know, twinkies.

2) Almost exclusively, I listen to hip hop and soul. When I can, I watch Rap City—The Basement and 106th & Park on BET. If I see Bruce Bruce, I’ll stop channel surfing. I wish Bishop Don Magic Juan followed me around like he does with Snoop. My favorite album of all time is by OutKast.

or

For better or worse, I think Big Boi and Dre peaked in 1998 with Aquemini. Mainstream critics finally noticed after Aquemini, so when Stankonia (their weakest album at the time) dropped, critics couldn’t stop fellating Big Boi and Dre. At most there are 3 good songs on Stankonia. The critics started swallowing with OutKast’s latest, Speakerboxx/The Love Below. Man, what a turd those albums are. Save “The Way You Move,” there are ZERO hot joints on the album. “Hey Ya” isn’t OutKast, it’s New Edition. Critics don’t know shit.

3) I take public transit….and enjoy it. Many times when flying, I take the Metro to the airport. Anytime I go to a Cards game, I take the Carondolet #73. I love people watching, and public transit offers the best/worst of our fellow STLiens.

4) Sometimes, I wear a large platinum chain, bartered for at Northwest Plaza. Don't call it "bling." My mom says "bling."

5) I play buckets all the time. Not one-on-one. Not basketball. “Buckets.” It’s an everyman-for-himself variation of basketball. No passing. Only driving to the hole, getting your ass beat down when you don’t come strong. Honestly, I don’t like it, but who am I to argue? I’m the “Cream of Wheat motherfucker.”

6) I prefer girls with round asses. While I appreciate the ironing-board backside, straight up and straight down, no frills, no thrills, miss six o’clocks, I like mild budunkadunks.

7) I use words and phrases like “budunkadunk,” “crunk,” “rekanize,” and “off the chain.” I use “dirty” as a term of endearment. While I have a degree in English, I prefer “ain’t” to “isn’t” and enjoy using improper verb forms.

8) I love hot sauce—Frank’s is my favorite—and use it on about everything.

9) I eat Rap Snacks and genuinely like them. I don’t care that all the flavors taste exactly the same.

10) I live in Soulard, which is mildly ghetto, or at least surrounded by ghetto on two sides. Until I get my car stolen, I’ll consider that a small benefit. I love living in city. The suburbs are incredibly boring to me. Furthermore, last year at this time, I was contemplating a move to the ATL. I love the ATL. Black folks love the ATL more.

2%

Suck a hog Steve Fossett

2005-03-03T11:36:00.001-05:00

Steve, I'm sick of hearing about you. The STL media rides your nuts, swinging from your pubes like you're Auggie Busch or Bob Jamerson. Obviously, the STL media is a bunch of lazy, fatass rubes who would rather write about some richass, self-absorbed flyboy than real news like the lack of a mailbox in front of Vincent's Market.

It's gotten so bad that my friend Chris pointed out the fact that Letterman is mocking you: "By sitting in this chair, I am doing more for the advancement of air travel than Steve Fossett is in that plane." You hear that, Steve? You're a punchline now. NO ONE likes you. Pretty soon, Leno is going to be mocking you. You know how embarrasing that'll be? Jay Leno and his band of retards mocking you right before not-so-funny newspaper misprints. You'll be one in the same with Martha Stewart. Fuck.

Do you really think anyone gives a damn about your flight, Steve? Well, we don't.

The thing is, I like planes, dude. I like jets. I appreciate the wonder that is human flight. I had jet posters on my wall for years. (right next to the GNR poster) Hell, I can name about any plane in the sky. 707! F-15! MD-111! F-18! I love things that fly. I STILL make paper airplanes anytime I can. But, you're killing me, man. I don't want to hear about your stupid-ass plane or your stupid-ass flight anymore. You suck.

So, I have one thing for you and one thing only, Steve fucking Fossett.

You better have some chaff or flares in that plane, buddy.

Cards open Grapefruit League play tomorrow

2005-03-02T18:35:00.000-05:00

You suck Smash. You suck KSHE.

2005-03-02T14:35:00.000-05:00

I used to like Smash. The 1990-vintage KSHE-95 Smash. Back when I was a freshman in high school, when KSHE-95 was cool. Yes, KHSE was cool at one point. No Point. No rap stations. (Can you actually imagine that? There was just Majic 108 in 1990.) KSHE was it for cool stations.

In 1990, Smash was wry with one-liners regarding hotrodding hoosiers from L.A. (“lower Arnold") or loose women, sans prom dress, from North County. In fact, Smash is probably responsible for my love of hoosier mocking. Somewhere, though, Smash went horribly wrong....or I became more sophisticated.....

If you’ve gone to any sort of St. Louis sports rally, you’ve seen his band, which, in a mainlined-blast of creativity, is named The Smash Band. They’re analogous with any wedding band cranking out “Mustang Sally” and “Born to be Wild” covers. They totally fucking suck.

The Smash Band’s “Gotta Go to Work” was the Superbowl champion 1999 Rams’ unofficial theme song. The thing is, it was absolutely horrible, a simple laundry list run down of the Rams roster with a lame chorus chant. I hear it, and I cringe. Today, The Smash Band runs around town pounding out their lite-rock, pop, and R&B covers. Before every Rams tailgate, they play the Budweiser tent at Baer Park. I hate them. I hate them so fucking much.

Recently, Smash started doing talk radio, taking over for Charles Jaco on 97.1 before Jamie Allman started shilling for the Arch Bishop. It was god-awful radio. Smash does not know politics. Smash cannot offer a complex opinion. Smash only knows one thing and that’s hoosiers, because, well, Smash is STL King Hoosier.

All these Smash thoughts came to me when I heard about KSHE 95’s latest gift to hoosier STL--Marchbandness.

Debuted last year, Marchbandness is KSHE’s spin on March Madness and all those NCAA tournament basketball pools. Rather than college basketball teams, you choose classuck rock bands. Winners are determined by which band gets the most hoosier phone calls. Last year, Rush won the whole enchilada. Yes, fucking stupidass Rush. Not Zepplin. Not the Stones. RUSH!

Anyway, I’m filling out my pool right now. I’ll post it later this afternoon. I urge you all to do the same. The thing is though, you don’t want to choose who is the better band, you want to choose who HOOSIERS think the better band is. Subtly different.

Hint: STLien hoosiers LOVE Sammy Hagar. Unnaturally so. So, choosing Sammy is like choosing the Illini.

The signs and posters at Vincent’s Market in Soulard

2005-03-01T09:49:00.000-05:00

Mailbox Missing Again
Call USPS with info at (877) 877-7833

Well, the big blue mailbox in front of Vincent’s is missing, but the funny part is that’s it’s missing “again.” No one knows what happened to it this time. No one knew last time. Could have been stolen. Could have been removed by the USPS themselves. Could be being held for ransom. Vince wants info. NOW. Obviously, I never use this mailbox. Ever.

Wine and Cheese tasting
Friday, March 4, 5-7

Of all the signs, this one was the most shocking. Vincent’s gets much of its business from drunks buying 32 oz. cans of Miller ($0.99) and 24 oz. cans of Camo Malt Liquor ($1.29), so I’m positive the crowd will be very very interesting. While Soulard has gone more yuppie in the last few years, I’m not sure if it’s yuppie enough. They just started stocking wine and hard liquor a year ago. I've heard mixed reviews on their wine selection. Much of their hard liquor comes in plastic bottles. I think the drunks who hang out under the highway by Stadium Liquor may crash this wine&cheese party, eating all the cheese and drinking all the wine. I’ll be there. Hopefully Billie Ray Valentine will too and hopefully, it won't be Ripple paired with Velveta chunks.

Mid Missouri Wrestling Alliance-Southern Illinois Championship Wrestling
South Broadway Athletic Club
March 12, 2005
8-11 p.m.
$7.00 for Advanced Tickets
$8.00 for Tickets at the Door
$4.00 for Tickets for Children

Those who aren’t familiar with SBAC wrestling are missing out in the finest hoosier watching this side of the Arnold water tower. Holy crap its fun. Yell want you want. Drink $1 beers. Feel superior to the fans who are genuinely there, because well, you’re ironically there.

Rickshaw Drivers Wanted
Get exercise while earning money
and enjoying the downtown and Soulard sights
Call Eric 771-5555

I don’t think Eric has gotten many calls because that signs been up for months. Obviously, he’s not paying enough or he requires you to have your own rickshaw. Fuck Eric.

Karma's a bitch

2005-02-28T11:40:00.000-05:00

I’m not blogging about basketball anymore. Every time I do, the next time I play, bad things happen. After I wrote about beating down that retarded guy at the gym, the next time I played buckets, I was humiliated by two very good street ballers. In that game, after taking an 11-0-0 lead, they realized I could hoop and started to try. I lost 32-28-11. Yep. I was outscored 60-0. Knocked me down a few notches. I played retarded guy to their Sean. Sean is a good, not great baller.

Last night, at the Drifter game, my game bottomed out. After having one of my best games of all time the first week, last night I sucked ass. I was still hungover as hell from the ATL, so had no energy and, believe it or not, I’m also still kinda sick. Didn’t help at all. I had no aerobic endurance. We lost 65-32 or some god awful score like that.

Last night, my teammates gave me all kinds of shit for the glowing piece I wrote about myself for the first game. I deserved it. I only had 3 points, 2 assists, 3 rebounds, and 2 blocks. Worst of all, I turned my right ankle, and have a bruised left ass cheek from getting knocked on my ass by the D-III team we played last night. We only scored 8 points in the second half. Sure, three were by me, but Christ I sucked. I’m embarrassed.

I iced my ankle up for an hour last night, but it didn’t help. I’m hobbling around like the old man I am. I couldn’t even get my shoe on this morning and it’s starting to turn deep blue. I suck. My ankle sucks.

No more b-ball posts. This is it. So, basketball karma gods, let me play well next week...please. Notice the self-deprecation b-ball karma gods: “Sean is a good, not great baller,” “I sucked ass,” “Christ I sucked,” “I’m embarrassed,” “I suck.”

Help me out! My ankle hurts.

Saturday - still off the heezy fo' sheezy

2005-02-27T18:45:00.000-05:00

Well, back from the Dirty South where I had a hugely successful business and personal trip. I did the ATL up right, wisely using my free time to get drunk as hell in downtown bars, send post cards, ride public transit, and try to remember every single OutKast line that mentions an ATL landmark/intersection so I could go see it. Most of my nights involved social events with open bars 6-8 p.m., so I was drunk…a lot.

Once again, I realized that while the STL is home and I’ll probably never leave, I could easily move to a bigger/cooler city and do just fine. I am the bomb diggity. I had a camera, and tried to take as many pictures as I could, but lugging around that huge Canon is a pain in the ass, so I’m only posting the coolest five. Yes, I'm using cool ironically. These pics are lame as hell, but shit, I took em. May as well post em.

Here’s a rundown of my Hotlanta good times:

Wednesday

I strolled from my downtown hotel to the convention center to do some work. Downtown ATL is cooler than DT STL, but not by much. ATL is a car and suburb town, so DT ATL isn’t really too busy or happening. There's little foot traffic other than panhandlers (which are everywhere, BTW) and annoying conventioneers. More tall buildings than here though. Luckily, we have the Arch.

I walked through Centennial Park on the way. You may remember that some hoosier ignited a bomb in Centennial Park the 1996 Olympics. (The cops mistakenly nabbed the fatass mustache Richard Jewel.) Well, the remnants of the bomb are gone, but the park itself is rather nice. Unfortunately, they have some lame little fountain and play really bad music when it squirts. I heard Neil Diamond’s “America.” Bad news.

Look at this Bellagio wanna-be bullshit:

After working for a little while, I walked over to the CNN Center to hit happy hour at McCormick & Schmick's and attempt to track down hot ass CNN anchor Rudi Bakhtiar. (I hate CNN News, but will stop channel surfing if I see she’s on.)

Mmmmmm, Rudi Bakhtiar:

While a chain restaraunt, M&S is a topnotch seafood place. (The fact we don’t have one in the STL makes me very angry, actually. Hell, I don’t think we have any good seafood places. Anytime someone asks me for a good seafood restaurant suggestion, I’m at a loss.) I sat at the bar and had four local beers and a half dozen oysters on the half shell. The crowd was lame (no hot girls) and more importantly no Rudi Bakhtiar, so I started talking to the bartender. I asked him when Rudi was coming, and that’s when he dropped this bomb: “She got demoted, actually. Doubt she shows. She was fucking someone she shouldn’t have and paid a price.” So, right there, it was like I was stabbed, then the knife turned. I learned that not only is Rudi Bakhtiar slutty enough to fuck dudes she "shouldn’t," but that dude wasn’t me. Rudi Rudi Rudi. You can’t do better than me either.

Here’s another shot of Centennial Park on my walk home, when I was tipsy:

I didn’t stray far that night, and hit up the hotel bar then the hotel “club” Champions. There, I hung out with some British Airways flight attendants. One was Irish and one Scottish. One was hot. One wasn’t. They were surprisingly lame for flight attendants, so I bought one her birthday shot and called it a night.

Thursday

I worked my ass off all day, so didn’t stay out late or venture far again. I went to Champions again, hoping to grab some food, but was greeted with a PACKED house, so I left and walked up to the Hard Rock Café. Again, packed. All conventioneers too. I may be one, but this trip put me over the top in my hatred of conventioneers. They have no idea how to act when out of town. The majority are fat middle aged men who prowl hotel bars for hookers or girls who act like hookers. They drink too much, smoke smelly cigars, and brag about the hot side girlfriends they have in Canada to anyone who’ll listen. (Really, some nerd bragged about his canadian girlfriend like Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen fucking Candles.) Most of them are married, but many don’t care. Later, they end up doing foolish things like dancing to J-Kwon in their cheap suits and nametags. Very funny, but also very annoying. I wanted to beat them all up or at least punch a few in the face. One conventioneer from Pittsburgh named Gary complained how his feet hurt and proceeded to take off his shoes and rub them down. fucking sick. He then showed me the scars on his leg from his heart bypass sugery. See, that's the problem with conventioneers. No shame and they'll talk to anyone.

Friday

Again, worked my ass off, but went out to dinner with some cool girls I work with. When I found out we were going to a fondue place, I almost backed out, but luckily I didn’t. We went to Dante’s Down the Hatch in Buckhead. This place was riot. It’s set up like a pirate ship with kitschy crap all over the place. They have live crocodiles and turtles and effigies of General Sherman, Mark Twain, and Huck and Tom. Downstairs they have an oldass barber shop and a bathroom attendant who puts soap on your hands for you and turns the faucet on/off. Kinda weird. You don't touch anything but your own hands. Best of all, they have GREAT live jazz. The stage is just in the middle of the room too. I think I heard Kind of Blue in its entirety. I highly recommend this place if you're going to the ATL. Food was OK, but the atmosphere was great and I drank alot. (I started with the house specialty strawberry daquiri. I even got to keep the glass) Most impressively, it was also crawling with pretty girls.

After dinner, the girls wanted to karaoke, so we went back to Champions. God, I fucking hate that place. I know it way too well. Luckily, I met some other girls. Molly and Tina work as drug reps and were at the same conference. Both were very pretty and very cool. I now have new friends in the ATL. Molly drinks scotch like Sean, so I was impressed. Tina's parents are Iranian immigrants, but she was born and grew up in the ATL. It’s very strange/hot to hear a southern accent come out of a Middle Eastern mouth. Tina was completely floored when I guessed that she was Iranian. She couldn’t believe it and said that Molly must have told me. Nope. I’m good at picking out people’s heritage. I can even tell Asians apart. (man, that sounds bad...sorry) Tina was even more shocked when I asked if she spoke Farsi. “No one in Atlanta knows what Farsi even is.” I don’t think Atlanta has many smart people... especially now that I’m back in the STL. Made dinner plans with Molly and Tina for Saturday night . Molly was talking all kinds of shit about getting a limo and going to some club called Compound afterward. Umm, whatever. I'm just glad we can leave Champions. Closed Champions out and went to bed. I was drunk and tired.

Saturday

Only worked a little while, so had much free time. After lunch, me and my niggas rode the MARTA through the hood just tryin to find that hookup.... at Lenox Square Mall. LS is just a freaking huge mall, but it’s a great spot to people watch, because, as Jermaine Dupree says “....ain't no tellin who you might see up in Lenox Square.” The coolest part about this daytrip was I brought my mp3, so I listened to music all day when I was walking. I think you know what kind of music I listned to.

Here is the longest escalator I’ve been on in my life. You ride it to/from the Peachtree Center MARTA stop. It takes longer than 4 minutes. People sit down on the steps its so long. It’s very disorienting too. I’m amazed no one has fallen and died.

My MARTA train was pretty brokeass with red vomit under one of the seats. I thought I was back in Soulard:

I somehow got off at the wrong station, but some cute girls helped me out. I would have bet my life they were 15, but they said they were in college. Nonetheless, they were way to young, but we still helped eachother get to the mall. Southern Hospitality is real.

JD is very right about Lenox Square, BTW. In addition to the million hot black girls, I saw Eddie George with his son at Godiva Chocolate, one of the Ying Yang twins in Crate&Barrel, Cee-Lo at Starbucks, and Dominique Wilkins just walking. I saw DW last time I was in the ATL too. I love Lenox Square Mall.

After LS, I took MARTA back downtown to the Atlanta Underground. The Underground is nice but straight ghetto (jerseys, canes, jewelry). I felt at home, but it’s still really lame. Sherman should have burned it too. (not the people, asshole.)

That night I went out to dinner with Tina, Molly and some of their friends (Han, Blake and Blake’s girlfriend.) Sans limo. We went to Dailey’s in downtown ATL. Nice little place. Guy on the grand piano. We just had appetizers and decided to properly drink our dinners. Dailey's was just ok, but the company was good. Han introduced me to fine bourbon. Bookers. Shit’s $80/bottle, he said. It has to be good I thought and being I drink scotch rocks and dryass Bombay martinis all the time, I thought I could handle it. Nope. Bookers came over rocks with two cherries like a manhattan. Tasted like robotussin. Sucked. Bad. Of course I finished it.

After dinner, we headed to midtown Atlanta. I was told Buckhead is no longer cool. It's mostly for college kids. Sounds like the Landing. I forgot the name of the first bar we went to, but it was just a normal bar. Nothing too cool about it. We only stayed for one drink. After that we went to this club called Halo. It was exactly like Tangerine, but bigger. It made me miss Tangerine. Funky furniture, acid lights, weird movies playing. I liked it.

Conversation turned to hip hop at one point and I was utterly shocked to learn that the girls had no idea what the Bia Bia check in is. Maybe they don’t have the check in here, but how can they not know about the song at least. How the fuck can you live in the ATL and not be down with Lil Jon? I stuck up for STL hiphop, I mean it has infected the world, but had to admit the ATL scene was hotter. I was also using my “Sherman should have burned it too” line for anything I didn’t like. Again, the girls didn’t get it. (For the uneducated, Sherman torched ATL in the Civil War burning about everything en route to the Atlantic. How could you not know that too, dumbass.)

We closed out Halo. Bars close at 2:30 in the ATL. By that time, I was a freaking mess. I had consumed only hard liquor all night. Scotch, martinis, bourbon. Had little for dinner. Good times. I feel like hell today and have a basketball game in an hour. On the flight home, turbulence was so bad, I actually reached for the puke bag. Jebus.

Alright, that’s it for now. I’ll be fixing this post and making it cooler for a while.

Shine

2005-02-25T09:06:00.000-05:00

It's early, so there's no line at the cybercafe, and I can go steady bloggin for a little while.

Business trips mean Sean is dressing up. While I'm not from Mississippi nor do I have bad table manners, I imagine David Banner's "Like a Pimp" soundtracking my steps. I carry a briefcase (ok, messenger bag) and wear a suit, a tie, and nice shoes, which inevitably need a shine. So, I hit the shoe shine station.

Here are the five reasons I like getting my shoes shined by a professional:

1) You sit on a throne, with a servant literally at your feet. You're high up man, above it all, giving orders. Here, the velvet and carved-wood chairs are like 6 feet in the air. I feel royal.

2) As long as you're not at Lambert, pretty girls from exotic countries do the shining. Yesterday (and this morning), it was Claudia from Sao Paulo, Brasil. (yes, s). Claudia was sweet, talkative (she has family in KC), and most importantly, built like a capital-B up top and in back. Sean likes

3)If done right (and by a female), it's almost like a mini foot massage, mildly intimate, and mildly relaxing. Think I'm joking? Get a 10-minute shoe shine from a hot chic, rube.

4)It keeps me clean. When I shine my own shoes, I get that polish everywhere--clothes, floor, hands, face, mouth. I'm am not a freaking minstrel show.

5) The shoes, man. The shoes. They need it.

Alright, time to go back to stalking Rudi Bakhtiar....."dem girls get down on the flo, on the flo..."

rode the Marta though the hood.....

2005-02-24T13:09:00.000-05:00

I'm in Hotlanta, bitches.

That's Atlanta for the uncool.

No time for steady bloggin'.

many posts coming when I return to the STL though.

You hear me Elizabeth!

2005-02-22T20:59:00.000-05:00

I was just half-ass watching some “St. Louis rules!” show on channel 9. I was also reading, so didn’t pay careful attention. Anyway, they start into this piece on Hamiet Bluiett, a world-renowned baritone saxophonist from across the river.

I look up and see a picture of him:

The VERY first thing I think of is Grady, from Sanford and Son.
Bluiett even talks like Grady. (Yes, I have the theme song in my head too.)

Here’s Aunt Esther, Fred, Lamont and Grady. Who knows what Grady’s doing:

Bluiett is from Brooklyn, IL. Red Foxx is from St. Louis.

That may be my proper sendoff to the ATL.

RIP Panasonic RX-CW43

2005-02-22T11:49:00.001-05:00

My Panasonic RX-CW43 portable stereo component system just died. No matter how many times I smack her, she won’t go. Fuck. First HST, now this.

My RX-CW43 is 17 years old. I bought her when I was 13 to listen to glam metal tapes selected from the Columbia House Record Club. In 1988, that was Poison, Cinderella, Warrant, Motley Crue, Skid Row, and most of all Guns N Roses.

See how bad-ass looking she is with those speakers detached:

My RX-CW43 has (ok, HAD….so sad) three “analogue” TNT (Touch N Tune) FM preset buttons. She has a dual tape deck with high speed dubbing, a five-bar “analogue” graphic equalizer, relay replay, auto reverse and best of all detachable speakers to get that full, deep sound. With handy switches, you can jump between radio, tape, CD/line; normal or high speed dubbing; stereo or mono sound; and FM/AM. The sturdy handle allows you to take your music with you.

Look at all the lights and buttons and switches and DUAL tape decks:

All, no more.

A quick internet search revealed that the only place offering a replacement is some vintage electronic store in Montreal. “Ghetto panasonic, RX-CW43; Donnée non disponible; $40.” Apparently, Frog Mounties know fine ghetto electronics.

Without my RX-CW43, I have to listen to the office muzak now. It’s a show tune station. I feel like I’m in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I don’t want to be in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

RIP HST

2005-02-21T15:49:00.000-05:00

"On February 20, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson took his life with a gunshot to the head at his fortified compound in Woody Creek, Colorado," said a statement issued by Thompson's son, Juan Thompson, to the Aspen Daily News.

And so, on my 30th birthday, one of my favorite authors kills himself. Strange. I won’t make this some sentimental tribute to Thompson, but you have to be of a certain type of mind to genuinely enjoy him. I have that mind.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is superb. I read it before all six of my own trips to Las Vegas. After one particularly good/bad bender, I did my best to channel Thompson, directly lifting half a line from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas to magazine story I was writing. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas fans will see it immediately. Everyone else can suck it.

The Hotel San Remo Casino and Resort sits across from the MGM Grand just off the Vegas strip. While it bills itself as an alternative to the impersonal hustle of the larger properties, in reality it’s a dump. Smells likes cheese. Holes in the carpet. Its $5.95 prime rib dinner – served 24 hours a day, seven days a week – is the sad main draw.

I have strange memories of this nervous night in San Remo last October. Drunk as hell, I had been treated horribly by both the blackjack and craps tables. But then, at the ATM, I hear her. “Woo hoo, witchy woman …” Not a great voice, but sincere. She was trying. I hate the Eagles, but this woman – unlike the crooked dealers – was trying. Sure, the lounge was empty, but she didn’t care. I walked inside The Bonne Chance Bar, ordered a screwdriver and sat in the vomit-smelling chairs alone until my friends were broke like me and we could leave. I was entertained the whole time. Vegas lounge acts have that hypnotic allure.

Inhale, exhale, ash

2005-02-21T14:11:00.000-05:00

I'm going to the ATL Wednesday for a business trip, so in order to make sure I look my best for the sexy belles who speak with Southern accents, I had to get some shirts laundered. I meant to do this last week, but, as you know, I was out of commission. Well, the only place around here that can get my shirts back to me in time is Erlich’s “4-Hour Cleaning & Laundry Co.” at 14th and Washington downtown. (notice the proper use of the dash.)

Erlich’s is old school, run by some old ladies. Been there for decades, weathering the good/bad/good cycles on the Ave. Normally, I love authenticity of older places, but, today, the “old school” was a minor problem for me.

See, when I went inside, all three ladies behind the counter were smoking, in addition to two vagrant-looking dudes talking to them. Smoking. All of them. At a laundry service. Among all the clothes. Exhaling on all those clothes. Ashing around all those clothes. Coming close to burning all those clothes. Apparently, they think FDR is President, Bogart today's biggest hollywood star, and lighting up Pall Malls anywhere you go is a-ok.

I don’t like my dry cleaners to be smokers. I think that’s normal.

My favorite place in St. Louis

2005-02-20T19:37:00.000-05:00

Many times, people will ask me what my favorite place in town is, thinking it will be a bar. I love bars, but no. The circled seats are where I enjoy my time most. Those seats are hidden gems, never sold unless the crowd is more than 40K. I usually buy a $10 general admission and move directly to those seats. Great panoramic view, right up on the upperdeck rail. There's no other fans in front of or below you, only CF. I plan on getting the most out of those seats this last season at Busch.

Here's a picture of the view from the seats, taken from my camera phone. Notice that you can see no nerd-ass Cards fans wearing McGwire jerseys, blocking your view. (that's their huge appeal.) It's just you and the field. Also notice that queen Jim Edmonds in CF. He's probably doing something minorly gay or dramatic:

I own way too many books

2005-02-19T17:04:00.000-05:00

Instructions from Vicki's blog from John’s blog. I have no idea who John is, but I thought this was interesting:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.

"So Katje here is hollering into a silence, a North Sea of hopes, and Pirate Prentice, who knows her from hurried meetings—in city squares that manage to be barracksfaced and claustrophobic, under dark, soft-wood smells of staircases steep as ladders, on a gaffrigger by an oily quai and a cat’s amber eyes staring down, in a block of old flats with rain in the courtyard and a bulky, ancient Schwarzlose stripped to toggle links and oil pump littered about the dusty room—who has each time seen her as face belonging with others he knows better, at the margin of each enterprise, now, confronted with this face out of context, an enormous sky all sea-clouds in full march, tall and plum, behind her, detects danger in her loneliness, realizes he’s never heard her name, not till the meeting by the windmill know as 'The Angel.'”

From Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.

No, there are no typos/misspelling in the Gravity’s Rainbow quote. I think that 146-word sentence perfectly illustrates why I’ve never gotten past page 30 of this book. What the hell are you talking about Pynchon? “barracksfaced”? “gaffrigger”? “quai”? “Schwarzlose”? Jebus

Maybe I should stop going to Great Clips

2005-02-19T14:32:00.000-05:00

I got my hair cut today. I went to the Great Clips in Hampton Plaza. I've been going to Great Clips and Custom Cuts for about four years after I stopped going to the $5.25 Barber on S. Broadway because he gave you the same hair cut no matter what you told him. I thought I was cool going to the $5.25 Barber because I was getting my haircut with guys who literally just got out of prison, but, even at such a cheap prices and with such interesting barber shop action, there's only so many botched cuts you can take. After one particularly bad cut, one I had to fix myself, I vowed to never go back and instead decided to upgrade to the strip mall chains. I figure cutting my hair is simple; if the $5.25 Barber can't handle it, surely the chains can. Hell, we cut our own hair in college. Sure, we also wore ball caps ALL the time, but I still think cutting my hair is easy. In four years of getting my hair cut at the strip mall chains, they've only fucked it up once or twice. Not too bad.

Well, today at Great Clips in Hampton Plaza, I arrived to a packed house. There was only one open seat in the waiting area. It was between a fat guy wearing too-tight sweat pants and those old school Adidas sandals with dirty socks and a chic who smelled like bologna. So, within 10 seconds of arriving I was completely weirded out. Because there were no magazines published within the last year, I was forced to observe my surroundings. The more I did, the more weirded out I got.

All the "stylists" were over-makeuped fatties wearing those suede, round-toe, open-back slip-ons. Few wore socks. You could blatantly see the white, pasty skin of their heels. Ahhh!

I looked at the people getting their hair cut, and it was like the sex roles had been reversed. All the women were getting their hair cut short like men, while all the men were getting their perms cleaned-up like women.

One guy told the "stylist" to pretend he was just wearing a hat when she cut the top, because he wears a hat all the time anyway.

A woman, wearing an oversized American flag sweatshirt with the words "In God We Trust" under the flag, specifically asked for a side spike. I shit you not. She wasn't satisfied with the first go and asked that more be taken off the left side.

Another guy complained that he was going bald, and the female "stylist" told him to not worry about it because she was going bald too. She then bent over and, not only let him look at the bald spot, but feel it. "Wow, you are going bald. Do they make Rogaine for chics?"

When the lone cute girl was getting her hair shampooed, the "stylist" said, "I've never seen flakes this big. NEVER!" Dandruff is way gross, so I about vomited. (It was then that I noticed that it was snowing outside. Whew.)

Well, after taking all this in, I about had a panic attack and questioned how in the fuck I could be getting my hair cut in the same place as these rubes. What the hell was I thinking? I had to leave. Well, right when I was getting ready to step out, they called my name. I really needed a haircut, and being I have a big, classy evening planned, I just decided to stay and tell them to take off no more than ¼ of an inch. How could they fuck that up?

Well, after giving the ¼-inch request to my tatted-down stylist, she asked, "Are you growing your hair out in back?" (Second time I've been asked this at a strip mall chain, BTW. Could be a sign.) Wow, she thinks I'm growing a mullet, I thought. I wanted to scream "NO, you hoosier bitch. I am not growing a mullet!" But, I kept my mouth shut--she did have scissors in my hair. Because it was only a ¼ inch, she finished in less than five minutes. I guess I should go practice-style my hair now to make sure it's ok. I still have a few hours until dinner, so if it's fucked up, I can try to get it fixed. I also need to stop going to strip mall chains for hair cuts.

under my bed

2005-02-19T11:15:00.000-05:00

Since Marty ratted me out regarding my affection for porn and more importantly blurted out where I hide said porn (under my bed in case you forgot), I thought I should at least explain myself. See, I do like porn; I am a man. But it's not the usual run of the mill magazines. I don't suscribe to the normal stuff like Moolays That Lay (non-dyke hot girls with mullets) or Melon Farmers (self explanatory, no?). I like FETISH porn. Specifically, camel toes. If you don't know what a "camel toe" is, you should first google the term. If it still doesn't make sense, the picture below should help.

Lastly, my fever is gone. holla!

Must. Get. Better.

2005-02-18T16:07:00.000-05:00

I am sick. I have no idea what I have, but whatever it is, it’s gross. I have a fever, so I’m cold as hell yet sweating. I cough up strangely-colored prizes. I have a headache. I cannot sleep comfortably.

Normally, I’d cherish the time off work, but see, I have a birthday dinner WITH date tomorrow night. Tony’s at that, so I’m freaking out, trying to get well. After getting colds like 4-5 times per winter a few years ago, I decided to get super anal-retentive about eating right and washing my hands all the time. Until yesterday morning, it worked very well, but this cold/flu has hit me like a ton of bricks.

As of now, 30 hours into my sickness, I’ve taken no less than six medications/foul tasting liquids to get me well.

Here’s the run down:

Tylenol Cold, non-drowsy
I took this yesterday morning before going to work. It did nothing but get me strangely high and make me feel like my head wasn’t attached to my body. I don’t like feeling high at work. I never like my head feeling like it’s not attached to my body. The box says there’s no crank in it, but the way it made me feel yesterday, I don’t buy it. I’m also pretty sure pseudoephedrine, in large doses, is a mild hallucinogen. That would make my detached-head-feeling problem make more sense. I will never take this again.

Airborne Formula
My friend Marty, who’s a nurse, suggested this stuff when, yesterday morning, I was whining about how I was sick. Airborne Formula “was developed by a school teacher who was sick of catching colds in class.” Upon hearing that, my friend Pat raised a good point—“Elementary school teachers coming up with medicines? I'm sure that's exactly how this came about. I think I'll talk to my mechanic about these lesions on my penis and see if he can come up with a cream to heal it.” What makes this even funnier is that Pat’s wife is a teacher and he has lesions on his penis. Well, Pat may have raised an excellent point, but I’m desperate and am willing to do about anything to get well. So, I’ve been taking it every three hours, as recommended. Basically, Airborne Formula is a monstro multi-vitamin. You drop the pill—it looks like one of those Necco candy wafers—into a glass of water and let it bubble for a minute like Alka-Seltzer. The water turns clumpy and fluorescent green like Mountain Dew. Surprisingly, it tastes really shitty. Like a penny. (Come on, like you don’t know what a penny tastes like?)

Aspirin
Yesterday, after waking from my afternoon fully-clothed nap because I was sweating, I decided I had to get some writing done and force my fever to break. So, I took 1300 mg of aspirin. 30 minutes after taking it, I felt the best I did all day. I was well enough to write 90% of my story. Touché aspirin.

Water
I don’t mean like a glass every once in a while, I mean I chug a whole LITER on the hour, every hour. “Drink lots of fluids” is the first thing anyone says when telling you how to get better. This time, I’m listening. When you drink that much water though, it tastes really shitty and you have to pee all the time. I don’t mind the peeing. I do mind forgetting to chug the water. I have to set my microwave’s alarm to remind myself to drink it. I haven't had to drink this much water since I chugged a few gallons to ensure I'd pass my first post-college drug test. Most importantly, when I drink my water, I splash it all over myself like Napoleon when Lafawnda gave him that dance tape. I am a dork.

Biaxin XL 500 MG
Jesus. "XL" is right. These things look like mini blimps without the moving sign. After calling my doctor with my I’m-sick-but-have-to-get-well-by-tomorrow sob story, the first question the nurse asked me was “What color is your phlegm, green or yellow?” Apparently, the color of your loogies dictates whether you have a cold or the flu. I still think I have the flu, but doc prescribed some antibiotics. He didn’t even see me in person; I guess he knows more. These horse pills better do two things 1) get me well by tomorrow and 2) NOT fuck with my immune system so much that I die from just sitting on a dirty-ass Metro seat 10 years from now.

Ben & Jerry’s Brownie Batter Ice Cream
After sidestepping the black dude slamming a 22-oz can of Coors in the parking lot at the ghetto Walgreens on South Broadway, I went inside to get my drugs. I like ice cream. A lot. But, I can’t have it in my place cause I’ll eat it all in one sitting, so I have to never buy it, UNLESS I’m sick. I’m sick, so ice cream it is. I wanted to get the Cookie Dough, but they were out. I thought Brownie Batter would be just as good, but honestly, it’s a disappointment. It just tastes like chocolate. Lame, but not so lame that I didn’t polish off the whole tub

Alright, my alarm went off. I need to chug a liter of water and go take a nap. Wish me luck. Dinner is in less than 36 hours.

"We are role playing."

2005-02-16T09:52:00.000-05:00

I don't remember Larry Connors not being on the news. He's been around forever and, save when he was giggling on-air at inside jokes with Julius Hunter, he's built himself quite the respectable reputation as an anchor. No more. It's sweeps. Larry decided to get tased. Idiot. Apparently, he forgot to put in the crystals. Larry gets shocked hardcore. This is really really really funny.

"Ohhhh, it hurts so bad!"

http://www.kmov.com/perl/common/video/wmPlayer.pl?title=www.kmov.com/050215_lcotaser.wmv

Bass lines

2005-02-15T21:22:00.000-05:00

Sorry, no matter how cool my neighborhood/life is, I can’t constantly sing their hoosier praises. I need a break. Bear with me please....

With Michael Jackson in the news, yet again, for trying to frig young teenage boys, I got to thinking about Jackson when he was younger. Juxtapose how cool Jackson was in 1985 to how cool he is today, exactly 20 years later. (That’s a bigger fall than the one the coins from Vanilla Ice’s pockets took when Suge Knight held Ice over that ledge.) So, with all this creepy news about Jackson, I thought it may be time to actually give him some credit and revisit his greatest contribution, by far, to modern American society:

the bass line to “Billie Jean.”

To point out how freaking sweet that bass line is, and more specifically how sweet his seminal (yes, pun intended….) Thriller album was/is, let’s leave it to Dave Chappelle. In his routine, Chappelle is discussing black-celebrity crime (OJ, Jackson, etc.) and the reaction of most black folks if sitting on the jury trying a black celebrity.

Prosecutor: So, you don't think Michael Jackson is guilty?
Dave Chappelle: No, man. He made Thriller. [dramatic pause] Thriller!

Well, of course Jackson’s guilty of frigging young boys, but still, that’s about right. No serious music fan can deny how badass that album is. I haven’t owned Thriller in years and have no desire to. (Hell, I’ve only downloaded “Billie Jean” and “Beat it.” I don’t want anything else.) But, come on, everyone born before 1978 knows about every damn song on the album.

Thriller is the bestselling album of all time, with 45 million worldwide sales powered by SEVEN Top 10 U.S. singles and eight Grammy Awards. Thriller's only nine tracks long. 78 percent of the albums songs went top 10. Jebus! No filler. No Cedric the Entertainer yapping into Nelly’s answering machine between tracks. No lame ghetto parodies of the $100,000 Pyramid. No experimental musical crap.

Look:

1. Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
2. Baby Be Mine
3. Girl Is Mine
4. Thriller
5. Beat It
6. Billie Jean
7. Human Nature
8. P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)
9. Lady in My Life

Now, back to “Billie Jean.”

Listen to it: (See if I had some real PC skills, I’d have a link to the song here, but I don’t have real PC skills, so you’ll have to dig through your own music collection to find it. I know you fucking have it too, bitch.)

Look at this "Billie Jean" bass staff and follow along to the bass line. (Yes, I’ve really done this. You should too. No, I can no longer read music, but it’s still cool to follow along, bouncing your fingers with the notes):

Notice how simple it is. Only five notes (with one key change later in the song), yet, without a doubt, it’s the best bass line of all time. So, the next time you hear about Jackson trying to frig young teenage boys, like say, oh, tonight, let your brain float out of your head from boredom and remember the “Billie Jean” bass line.

Alright, now back to some hoosier talk:

#2 bass line of all time?

Duff “Rose” McKeggan’s from Appetite for Destruction’s “Rocket Queen.” Fucking A.....

Mardi Gras, revisited, slightly.

2005-02-15T12:23:00.000-05:00

I'm busy as hell this week doing virtually nothing but writing all kinds of bullshit for all my jobs. Stupid stupid jobs..... Anyway, until I get more interesting--hopefully, later today/tonight--I'll leave you with this all-too-true e-mail that my friend Chris got from his college-age sister. I think he asked why she and her friends didn't come to my Mardi Gras party:

I left Mardi Gras kinda early anyway. I was sick of all the people and the gross old guys hitting on me. They were probably your friends.

I love my friends.

Jack in the Box fries their tacos whole and tops them with a processed-cheese product. Mmm. Seriously. Mmm!

2005-02-14T12:43:00.000-05:00

This is possibly the funniest voicemail of all time. Bibles, mace, fat ladies, umbrellas. Jebus. It's a Jack in the Box Operations Manager explaining to his boss that he's running late.

https://webmail.ksu.edu/horde/util/go.php?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thenerdgroup.com%2Ffunnyvoicemail.wav&Horde=fc6e4dd058d53c076425bde6ac4c7b32

Drifters fall in opener, Sean leads all scorers

2005-02-13T21:19:00.000-05:00

CHESTERFIELD, Mo.—The West County Family YMCA opened its door to the dopest ballers since the 1998 Washington Generals when the Drifters began their YMCA 2005 Spring season with a 54-45 loss to the ironically-dubbed, cracka-ass Playaz Club.

Commencing league play for the first time in nearly 18 months, the Drifter's stamina proved to be the biggest issue, as they had a tough time dealing with the Playaz Club's stifling 2-3 zone defense.

Displaying his new versatile inside/outside game, Sean was steady throughout, leading ALL scorers with 15 points on seven of 12 shooting. He went three for four from beyond the arc, drilling a three-pointer at the halftime buzzer, after having a shot drop 99% in, then bounce out, on the previous possession. Active on the offensive and defensive glass, Sean grabbed five rebounds, while dishing out one assist.

When asked if his grueling off-season regime of street buckets with the bros and scotch on the rocks brought his game to this new high level, Sean was quick to credit his work ethic.

“You know, I’ve shot around for at least 15 minutes a day for two straight weeks, and I was drunk as hell last night too,” he explained. “I was drinking everything. Wine, beer, shots, vodka, scotch. Until like 4:30 in the morning. It obviously paid off. I was the best guy on the floor tonight.”

Noisy birds

2005-02-13T15:20:00.000-05:00

I live in the city. My densely populated neighborhood has alleys and subsidized housing and many bus stops. With more than 30 bars, it is often loud with drunks. After living here for 5 years, I am programmed to sleep through the late night Mensa-musings of loud drunks, (i.e., “NO, you fucking eat it, asshole!). Still, without fail, one of the below wakes me up every freaking morning. I hate them all.

Whipporwill

Relevant whippoorwill information:

Whippoorwills are named for their call. The males of this nocturnal species particularly love to sing at night. They build their nests on the forest floor.

Notice that this bird is supposed to live in a forest and sing at night. Obviously, this is not true because I hear that motherfucker every morning. Is this bird confused? Did he mistake colorful mardi gras beads for colorful forest flora? Is he jet lagged from flying from the forest to the city and doesn’t know what time it is?

Peahen

Relevant peahen information:

Peafowl do most of their foraging in the early morning and shortly before sunset, retreating to the shade and security of the forest for the hottest portion of the day. The most distinct features of the peahen are its feathers and its eerie call.

Once again, notice that forest. I don’t live in a forest. I live in the city. It is also winter. The hottest portion of the day is only 40 degrees. There's nothing to forage for except gross, wet garbage. More importantly, there’s NO FUCKING FOREST. Is this someone’s pet? Was she being sold as food at Soulard Market and somehow escaped? Most importantly, what’s with the eerie calling you peahen bitch? It’s loud. It’s obnoxious. It wakes me up.

Traffic helicopter

Being I live very close to downtown and several major highway interchanges, it’s understandable that I often hear traffic coppers. But, do they really need to hover DIRECTLY over my house every morning? These helicopters don't even provide a valuable service. Traffic is the same every day, and if it's not, so what? There's only so many ways into downtown. The worst thing is, there’s multiple choppers. I don’t understand why this town needs traffic helicopters period, let alone multiple. It perplexes me so much, that I’m convinced that they’re not even traffic helicopters. H.M. Murdoch is waiting to break Hannibal out of Molly’s bathroom. Lt. Col. Kilgore is scouting the River Des Peres for surfing. The Feds are tailing Henry Hill to/from the SBAC. Whatever the fuck it is, it can’t just be for traffic.

Alarm clock

Too bad I’m always being woken up by all kinds of birds, or maybe I could sleep to 12:08.

Charles in Charge

2005-02-12T03:26:00.000-05:00

Friday night, some dude that looked and acted like Charles Nelson Reilly sat next to me at Johnny’s in Soulard.

CNR talking shit:

Before we proceed, let me make sure you know that Johnny’s is basically a Hooters in a 120-year-old building--scantily-clad waitress hos hustling the drunk-monkey all-male clientele. That’s it. It’s as hetero a place you can go in Soulard. Got it?

Earlier in the day, my inability to find a nearby fish fry put me in a bad mood, so, in an evening protest, I polished off a classy $3 bottle of wine not named after a mean animal (e.g., dog, bird) or train (p.m.). I was hammered. Still craving fried fish at 8 p.m., I went up to Johnny’s to get a cat fish sandwich. I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and people/hoosier watched.

Well, Charles Nelson Reilly arrived alone--wearing huge glasses, a flowing scarf, and a sweater vest--immediately ordering a “Tropical Wave.” (And yes, I am aware of the similarities between the EOC's glasses and CNR's glasses. Fuck off.) A “Tropical Wave”???? I couldn’t believe Johnny’s even had that frou frou shit, so I asked him. CNR hissed and said it was on the back of the menu. (Yep, I looked, and there it was. Who knew? Not me. Not the Chris-Pronger-jersey-wearing Bloosiers in here tonight, that’s for sure.)

Charles Nelson Reilly then volunteered he was “visiting from the Central West End this evening." I wanted to tell this Soulard tourist that he was a block east of the gay strip, but the humor of supremely-gay CNR in Soulard's Hooters was killing me.

When the waitress asked Charles Nelson Reilly whether he wanted fries or a vegetable medley, I knew the answer. When he actually said “vegetable medley, pleassssssse,” with a major lisp, I lost it and started laughing, laughing so hard I got some food stuck in my throat.

Ten seconds later, when he asked the waitress how “freaky” Mardi Gras got, because he’s never “visited,” I laughed again, lodging the food even further.

When he made it clear he was ready for another “Tropical Wave” by using his straw to loudly slurp his near-empty glass like some drama queen, I lost it some more. I laughed so hard I got a coughing fit and had to leave.

Charles Nelson Reilly and his Central West End look-a-likes on holiday in Soulard are funny.

Crunk bells

2005-02-10T21:50:00.000-05:00

Lil Jon. What up. It’s Sean. Yeah, I thought I should call you before J.D. and Jazze Pha, who was at the Spinx fight with Nelly, tell you that I been calling myself Sean, Esquire of Crunk. Well, it was fun for a day, but damn, I’m still hurting from being EOC. No more!

Tell you what. Fix your music and “Crunk” is forever yours. Forever. See, I was at the gym today, and for the millionth time, the gym’s eight-song mix CD was playing that Usher song you did. “Yeahhh!” sucks, dude. Bad. A bell sounding like a ringing phone all over the song? Like every fucking measure! Daaaaamn, it’s so annoying. I can hear that bell THROUGH my headphones.

The first few times, I thought it was a real phone in the back office. I mean, I had my volume up as high as it would go, but no matter what, I kept hearing that bell. I thought I was going crazy for a little while. Damn. NO MORE BELLS, LIL JON!

Hey, I like some of your tracks. “What’s Happinin!” is a great song. Great. Primarily because of Trick Daddy and Bruce Bruce, but it’s hot. When you broke with “Bia’, Bia’,” I was with you. The Beat's Bia' Bia' Check In is hilarious, but dude, NO MORE BELLS. Deal?

Alright, cool. I’ll see you in the ATL next week. We’ll hit up the Clarmont like last time. I got da ones. Peace.

B-ball

2005-02-09T10:54:00.000-05:00

Before I went to the gym yesterday, this was the very last e-mail I sent a friend:

Alright, I'm off to the gym to play basketball. If I play well, I think I'm blogging about it..."I dunked on a 6 foot 7 dude today. Hung on the rim like a chimp, making feral noises. It was bad fucking ass."

Well, that happened…kinda…ohh, the irony.

See, when I got to the gym, the usual basketballs players were MIA, so, I decided to just shoot around alone. Well, when I got to the court, I noticed it wasn’t empty, but instead this retarded guy was in there. He asked me if I wanted to play one-on-one, but I politely declined, because, well, he’s retarded. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against retarded guys, and in fact always go out of my way to be nice to them. For instance, any time this guy would miss a shot (which in retrospect wasn't too often), I’d pass the ball back to him.

Well after 15 minutes, I finished my shooting, and left to do more cardio. That’s when I noticed all the good cardio machines were taken. What to do. What to do. So, I decided to see if the retarded guy still wanted to play one-on-one. Why not? OF COURSE he still wanted to play, so, we played.

It was then that I was overcome with serious confusion. I’ve never played a retarded guy in basketball. How the hell am I supposed to play? It’d be an easy decision if this guy also couldn’t walk right or something, but this dude was bigger than me, and I’m 6’ 1” 195. I could be playing Lennie from Mice and Men for all I know. Hell, maybe he’s even hustling me. I had no idea what to do.

My pre-and early-game thoughts:
· Do I try? If so, how hard?
· Do I only shoot jump shots? If so, only threes or only midrangers?
· I’m right handed; do I only use my left hand?
· Only reverse lay ups?
· Can I post up? If so, which moves? Jump hooks? Drop steps?
· Do I not use my ankle-breaking crossover?
· Do I box out?
· Do I call traveling/other fouls on him? (hey, he did on me, actually)

I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I tried the first half of the game, and took a 10-1 lead. It was pretty easy, so I felt guilty and relented. That’s when this retarded guy started drilling shots all over cause of my lazy defense. (Hey, how would you defend a retarded guy???) He caught up and before I knew it, the score was only 12-8. Well, I wasn’t about to lose to a retarded guy in one-on-one, so I had to start trying again. Bam. I won 21-10. I rule. I’ll actually get to know this guy’s name tomorrow. He seems OK. But until then, any words of advice on how to play retarded guys in basketball? Seriously.

my back hurts

2005-02-08T11:23:00.000-05:00

My Mardi Gras party gave me one last heavy-kick square in the junk this morning. My back hurts like a mofo. It'll pass, but right now, I feel like some old fucking man every time I get up from my chair. In fact, I'm pretty sure I give out a super-pathetic little yelp when I get up from my chair. I need a legitimate massage or something.

Why my back hurts: Yesterday, I spent about 2 hours cleaning, after cleaning for 3 hours Sunday. Yesterday afternoon, I was crawling around that mud hole I call a backyard, picking shit up by hand. No, not literally shit, but close to it. I'm talking cigarette butts (Parliaments were the most popular brand. I know who smokes those too, assholes.), beads, feathers, plastic cups, jello shot cups, jello shots, licorice, smarties, glass peppermint schnapps bottles, plastic half-empty rum bottles, empty Hi-C bottles, broken branches, broken ivy, beer cans, soggy pretzels, soggy bbq chips, 2/3 eaten brats, hamburger buns, broken sunglasses, jack n the box bags, ice bags, and assorted change. You know, all the evidence of a good party.

Once I compiled my backyard trash, I made 5 trips to the dumpster in the alley. Of course, I couldn't use the dumpster right behind my house because it was already full, so I had to trudge 2 blocks up the street, dragging my trashcan around vomit piles to get to a somewhat-empty dumpster. These were FULL trashcans too, with the first few cans being 1/4 filled with liquid (rain water and beer), so in other words, really fucking heavy.

When I finally got my backyard trash free, I started to clean my steps, patio, and deck like any true South City hoosier would--with my hose, making steady, back-in-forth movements with the water, slowing pushing the dirt toward the street. Well, plain water doesn't really take slurricane out of wood, so I then decided to mop my entire deck and its stairs. Know what? A soapy mop can't get slurricanes out of a deck either. So, I went back to the hose but with more water-pressure by ingeniously squeezing the hose. No dice…again…fuck. So, inside my house, I now have a nasty-cigarette-burn souvenir on my hard-wood floors. Outside my house, I now have a bright-red-slurricane-stain souvenir on my deck. And, now, Sean has a fucked-up-back souvenir from 2 hours of hard labor yesterday--picking up trash, carrying trash, hosing trash, and soapy mopping trash, ALL without the help of any sort of trash bag hos.

Hopefully, my blog posts will get more interesting, but my back fucking hurts.

Ok, I’m taking four Advil and will stop complaining. I’m tough…

Mardi Gras 2005 by the numbers

2005-02-07T20:56:00.000-05:00

Sean , Esquire of Crunk

Guests, as estimated by my gate ($854 total at $7/person): 122
Uninvited guests/friends of friends: too many
Uninvited hot girls: too few
Groups of sisters: 2
Groups of sisters >50 years of age: 1
Groups of sisters <28: 1
Age of group of sisters having most fun: >50
Aunts of mine: 2
Age of my aunts who are sisters >50: 2
Countries represented: 3
Cities represented: 6
Beer kegs purchased: 5
Beer kegs tapped at 9:57 a.m.: 1
Beer kegs consumed by 6:30 p.m.: 5
Beer given away to hot chics: not enough
Beer purchased pre Spinx fight: 3.5 cases
Slurricanes made: 12 gallons
Slurricanes consumed by 7 p.m.: 12 gallons
Slurricanes spilled on deck/floor: 2 gallons
Jello shots made: 300
Jello shots consumed by 5:30 p.m.: 300
Jello shots given to hot chics: at least 200
Jello shots spilled on floor: 9
Cigarettes smoked: 354
Cigarettes extinguished in outside bucket: 0
Cigarettes extinguished in yard/on deck: 353
Cigarettes extinguished on my floor: 1
Huge ketchup bottles brought by guests: 2
Buttons left on fridge: 1 (The Washington Ave Players Project)
Times I told someone to stop doing something: 13
Times a friend hit on the wife of dude he didn’t know: 4
Times friends were told to “stop hitting on my wife” by other friends: 4
Near fights between friends of mine who didn’t know each other: 4
Times a girl slapped a guy: 1
People caught doing drugs in my bathroom: 4
Times a girl asked if “anyone wanted some Ritalin”: 1
Times I was asked for a condom: 2
Times I was asked for a condom by a girl: 1
Hot Guatamalen girls who danced in my living room: 4
Girls who flashed from my house: 1
Girls who flashed my house: 3
Number of sex acts performed in my bed: 2
Number of sex acts performed in my bed involving me: 0
Bricks replaced in my walk: 2
Bricks replaced in my walk by a stranger at an unknown time: 2
Windows broken: 1
Doors kicked when beer ran dry: 1
Door jambs broken because the door was kicked: 1
Times I thought I lost $500: 1
Times I thought I lost $500 because I was so drunk, called a friend, asked him if he knew what happened, and 30 seconds later, found the money in a bucket, right where I put it: 1
Times I played Motley Crue: 19
Girls who wore my oversized glasses: 2
Girls who wore my oversized glasses that I wanted to kiss: 2
Number of people who crammed into my 350-square-foot living room to watch the fight: 25
Times I don’t remember too well: 5:30 to 8:30 p.m.; 11:30 p.m. to 1 a.m.
Time my party ended: 11:23 p.m.
Time I left to walk to another party: 11:30 p.m.
Times, en route to another party, I paused in the alley to talk myself into not puking: 1
Time I left second party for final walk home: 12:30
In action firefighters seen in final walk home: 2
Bowls of jambalaya give to me by neighbor on final walk home: 1
Time I passed out: 1ish
Time Sunday I was awakened to hoosiers fighting in my alley: 6:30 a.m.
Number of tomato slices found in my pocket that morning: 1
Number of pickle slices found in my pocket that morning: 1
Pictures of above events I'll post when I figure out how: many

you want this cheesburger?

2005-01-11T16:39:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know I misspelled "cheeseburger." Fuck off

2005-01-11T16:36:00.000-05:00