The Off-Center of Attention

     One thing I love about being a musician is performing live.  Whether it be atop a stage, amidst fog strewn graves, or among a many inebriated individuals at the local bar, each has it's special, memorable moments.  One's that stick with me and drive me to keep playing whilst life continues to become more complicated and pressurized. 

     Now, I'm no singer/songwriter although I do write and sing songs.  As where the former generally creates their own material independently, I prefer to work out songs within a group-type setting.  (Note to self: It's called a band you pretentious dick!)

      Moving on... So, when I perform live it is always with at least one other person, usually more.  And when I get together with a drummer, guitarist/vocalist (and pianist, if I'm extremely lucky!)  and shit just locks, it is a high that will last for days.  I'm all smiles and excited and motivated as fuck.  For the following week I'm just daydreaming about the future.  Like when you meet someone new and talk on the phone all night and then afterwards you go to bed thinking of what the rest of your life could be like with that person.  That is the feeling I get after playing a 45 minute set out in the woods on a cold Autumn night in Mt. Kisco, New York!

     Then, as is life, I go back to my real job and all motivation and passion gets sucked out of me and I just want to go home and drink.  Beers, that is.

     I also love playing live when someone in the audience notices a predicament I may be in.  I smoke.  I drink.  I play bass.  I love doing all three simultaneously.  Performing for a bunch of smoking, drinking attendees is hard to watch when your hands are full.  We played a gig this past July on the island of Aero, Denmark, where smoking was "permitted" in bars.  So I lit up a butt on stage and supplied an adequate backdrop in which the "stars" could shine.  (No disrespect you two, you are true and shining stars, love you both!!!)

     Anyway, I lit up a butt on stage (or rather slightly a bit off stage as the stage was really only meant for 1,) something I haven't been able to do for years in the bars back home.  Apparently, someone was watching.  Every time I would finish my L&M this gentleman from Germany would walk up with a lit cigarette and stuff it in my mouth.  Hans introduced himself after the first set; Verbatim:  "I like vatching you play, don't fuck my vife."  She was the attractive blond standing next to him whose name I refused to remember for fear that this guy might actually kick my ass for even acknowledging her.  He turned out to be a really cool dude who just enjoyed watching a good show. From my perspective, it was an on point off-the-cuff show.  One of those shows where the "star" starts playing some random cover that wasn't discussed beforehand and assumes you'll be able to catch on and you just happen to nail it.  Drunk.  And Smoking...  I love it!      
    
     Back home at the Kisco gig... I had set myself up with 2 steins full of Captain Lawrence to hold me through the set.  Didn't last.  While playing, a spectator (Jeremy) grabbed one of my mugs, disappeared, then reappeared with a full frothing blessing of alcoholic goodness.  That kind of shit goes a long way to someone who's job is to supply you with musical accompaniment to your evening's goings-on.  Or at least it does with me.  I'm supposed to be there for your entertainment.  When I'm given a beer or a smoke on stage in between songs on the fly from someone enjoying the show and just wanting to help me out...you make my fucking night!

     These are only a few examples.  The night I suffered a concussion from overzealous Burnbath fans dancing like rabid monkeys onto the stage is a story for a another day.  Perhaps the next one.  Man...that story is actually pretty fucked up, and it has nothing to with the concussion...

     In conclusion, I love putting myself out there.  Sometimes it might end with me getting punched in the face.  At others, I'm the "star."  Either or,  as much as I hate being in public, being the off-center of attention ain't a bad place to be... 
           
gII

For the ladies...

     Ever take a dump while showering?  Dude, yesterday morning I thought I might pop my shower-shitting cherry.  

     Woke up at 5:25 am to the voices of Mike and Casey going on about today's goings-on.  Slapped the snooze, got up and made my way towards the bathroom.  Flicking the light switch I gaze into the mirror and noted that I look particularly awful today.  What else is new?  I step into the shower, finger's mentally crossed, praying that by simply raining hot water down upon my head the shame and hangover may wash away from my soul and spiral down into the drain never to be seen again...right.

     As we all know, that shit may feel really good but eventually you have to get the fuck out of the shower.

     Except this time...oof.

     It started with a slight pressure, a little gas perhaps.  No problem.  Let out a poot, continuing my morning wash.  Then out of nowhere, I'm struck with a tremendous urge to either blow some serious ass or shit my fucking face off!  As I lean against the sort-of-glass door I contemplate my options.  Holy shit, I might have to get out of here and dump.  But the pressure is so paralyzing that I can't move. 

     Just...want...to...relieve...the...pressure!

     I can't hold it.  This is going to happen.  Oh god this is happening...

gII

      

Not Enough Leaves

Just as spring arises from the last vestiges of winter
And Her rebirth begins
I long for our love to rekindle and ignite
That which has laid dormant for too long
If each blossoming Sunflower could fill your heart with love
And every new leaf could cast a shadow over ever wrong
I've done, I would wish for an overflowing bed of Sunflowers
And for an endless grove of Oaks
In hope that one day you could again love me
If each fresh blade of grass were another day with you
And if at every dusk, when the sun sinks just a little bit slower
low the horizon, could extend those days just a little bit longer
Then I would wish for boundless fields of grass
And for every day to rise in late June
If only your love could change like the seasons
Than maybe your trust could explain a reason
to love me.

Antisocial: Nothing personal

     I don't like people.  In general and more often than not in person as well.  It's not a matter of what they feel I need to be told but rather why they feel I'm the one to be told of such things.  Look, I could really care less about what you wish to tell me.  And 9 times out of 10 I do.  Care less that is.  Though I never actually counted.  More likely it's 10 out of 10 but color me generous.  Believe it or not I'm not a bad person.  (well, not too much really...and depending on who you talk to, they may have deserved it...  or not.  I do feel horrible about those who did not.) 

     On occasion I do succumb to the blabberings of that random individual behind the counter, or standing beside me at the counter, or on the other side of my counter, and I smile and sometimes laugh.  When I do it's mostly genuine.  Perhaps I may convey my own lame observation.  Unless I'm working.  Then the initial laugh is real but the response winds up becoming some forced cliche, not wanting or being able to say what's really on my mind. 

     It's not because I feel that I'm better than everyone else.  Quite the contrary.  I think that rather everyone thinks they are better than me.  And while many people surely are more "successful" human beings than I, or at least according to what our society deems the standard, we're all in the same fucking boat!  I have no idea the problems and circumstances surrounding your existence.  And you don't know mine.  So who the fuck are you to analyze and criticize my decisions in regards to my life, something you know nothing about.  Yet, we can't help ourselves, can we?  We all become experts when it comes to breaking down the actions of others trying to find cause and reason.  When will we learn that our initial assumptions are almost always wrong?  Unfortunately, probably never.  I don't want to call myself diplomatic.  I ain't never gonna receive "diplomatic immunity" for any crime I committed...(is that a double negative? hmm, maybe I will then...fuck, alright.  I may have a chance.)  But all I'm trying to say is if you don't approach things with an open mind and reserve judgment before all the facts are known, how the hell do ever expect to grow and mature?  You don't know everything, you never will.  And don't tell me that you know "enough."  There's so much to experience out there that you could never possibly know "enough"!  

     Life's a piece of shit.  It doesn't have to be.  Get off your lazy ass and do something about it.  Anything.  Stop waiting around for someone else to change your world.  In the end, the only one that is there for you is you.  Life sucks and you're to blame...

     Harsh words?  Definitely.  So what the fuck are you gonna do about it? 

     Probably nothing, just like the rest of us...

gII

Hurricane Irene: East Coast Threat or Economic Saviour?

     I find myself spending alot of time in grocery stores.  I was in one yesterday.  That would be Thursday, August 25 2011.  The place was a madhouse.  People were at the door waiting to get in at 6 in the morning so that they may be first to get their "in case of emergency" supplies.  A little crazy or perhaps very responsible.  From then on it was a non-stop barrage of frantic panicked consumers needing to get their hands on anything and everything to ensure they could survive the next 3 years cut off from society.  They would not stop coming.  By 11 am I had to ask myself what the fuck?  Am I the only one that has to work on a Thursday?  It was the busiest day I've seen since the week of Christmas .  In fact, Hurricane Irene surpassed all holiday sales I've seen to date.

     Now it's Friday.  Second wave.  God help me.  They're back.  Apparently there's a whole other part of the community that don't have to work on Friday's.  Man did I choose the wrong fucking profession.  Today it was like the world was coming to it's end.  Again, the moment the doors opened customers were overloading their carts with every perishable item they could grab... 

...and that's my "what the fuck?" moment.

     Dude.  Let's all pretend were rational human beings for a second.  A hurricane is on it's way.  

     Worst-Case Scenario:  You die.  

     Ok, that sucks and probably ain't gonna happen anyway so relax.  

     More likely scenarios are thus:

 You lose power
 Your basement gets flooded
 Windows get blown in
 Lawn furniture blows away
 Tree falls on your car (I dread that one!)
 Your newborn gets torn from your arms, hits
 the pavement face first and is sucked down a
 sewer drain in a swirling pool of blood and
 garbage never to be seen again.

     That's pretty fucked up and I apologize.

     Back to my "what the fuck?" moment.  Losing power is the most likely, if not the number 1 scenario in this situation.  So why the hell would anyone be stocking up on PERISHABLE anything?!?!  What are you going to do with the 10 pounds of deli meats you just purchased when your refrigerator don't work.  What about the 3 gallons of milk you bought?  Do you plan on playing the "Let's see who can drink a gallon of milk in an hour and not puke" game.  Don't forget the 5 bags of ice you bought.  What good is that going to do?  It's ice asshole.  It melts.  What can you possibly keep cold on 5 bags of ice for any extended period of time that will save you from death?  How much shit are you really gonna fit in your cooler, stupid?  Think. 

     But on the flip-side, business has never been so good!    Like I said before, we're making more money this week than any other week last year!  The way you folks are spending money it makes me question the real state of our economy.  Natural disasters are a grocery stores best friend.  I want to take this time to thank you all personally for letting the media brainwash you into buying all sorts of shit you don't need.  

     You only need 2 things to survive Ms. Irene.  Beer and Cigarettes.  Unless you have children.  Cigarettes are not meant for kids.  

    And fuck water.
  
     Good luck everyone!

gII   

A Confession...

     I admit it.  I have a problem.  I can't control myself.  I just feel so damn good when I'm doing it!  It's an addiction and I blame our materialistic-oriented society.  No, I blame myself.  Put a few beers in me and before you know it I'm on Amazon buying all sorts of shit I don't need, or really want (I'll explain the latter later.)

At first, I'll log on looking for a good read to expand my library.  Usually it's a Stargate Novel or some Terry Pratchett hard-cover edition from England.  One of my most recent purchases was a $30 Stargate:SG-1 board game that I just had to have, even if I don't have any friends to play it with.  I'm about to play it by myself 'cause I'm that much of a geek.

     $30.  Not bad.  Ain't gonna break the bank.  But that's where they get you.  Spend $50 and you can get "FREE SHIPPING!"  Well, fuck.  What's another $20.  So now I'm adding a couple more books to the cart.  Oh, look at this CD they recommended for me, this shit looks awesome!  Add it!  Before long I'm looking at about $200.  Still, ain't too bad...until it arrives on my doorstep.

     Once I thought I was ordering MLB: The Show (baseball video game) for the PS3.  When it finally arrived I was so excited, till I opened it up and saw it was for the PS2.  Dumb-ass.  If you don't play video games you may be saying to yourself "yeah, so?"  Understandable.  Here's another one...

     Growing up I loved the Disney movie "The Black Cauldron."  Read the book.  Always wanted to own it.  So when I saw it available on DVD on Amazon 20 some-odd years later I just had to have it!  Imagine my surprise and heart-breaking disappointment when I opened up the box from the post office to find a fucking VHS tape.  Really?  VH-fucking-S?  For $20???  Fuck me.  I later found out it's available for rental on Netflix, which I subscribe to.  Watched it.  Not as cool as I remembered it to be.  Again, I suck. 

     This last time around, as previously mentioned, I bought the Stargate:SG-1 board game in addition to 6 more Stargate novels.  And, of course, I bought 2 copies of the same book.  God Damn It!  The complications of shopping on-line whilst drinking. 

     The cool thing is when the mail comes it's like Christmas.  You get all the presents that you always wanted.  Granted, you bought them, but thanks to the glorious effects of alcohol, you forgot.  Once again, alcohol helps one make decisions an otherwise indecisive, insecure, tentative human being would never make.

Here's to being single.  And alone.

gII

European Tour 2011 - smokers

     This one is for the smokers.  Cigarette smokers.  (Sorry boys, didn't get a chance to smoke any real shit on this trip.  Put the feelers out there but nobody really trusts an American in Europe.)  Anyway.  Here in the states we're paying outrageous prices for cigarettes.  The taxes are more than the actual cost of the product.  In New York you can pay up to $12 for a pack of 20 smokes.  That's bullshit!  But I didn't really have to tell you that, did I?  The last 2 packs of butts I bought were from the "Dubbele Adelaar" in Hooglede, Belgium.  From a vending machine.  Remember those?  Now, I'm a Camel Lights smoker ( Or Camel Blue whatever-the-fuck smoker.)  They weren't available but the 24 count Pall Mall was.  For 5 euro. That's around 7.50 U.S. dollars, on the heavy side.  Still way the fuck less than anything you can purchase in New York, plus 4 more smokes!  And!!!?  They all cost the same.  Let me clarify.  There appears to be no "state-by-state" regulation on cigarette prices.  Wherever I was in any given country the price for the same pack of butts remained the same throughout the land.  There's a government seal similiar to our state seal on each pack.  Except their seal also denotes price.  Imagine that.  Here's the price.  Pay it ...or don't.  You ain't gonna find a better deal.  Talk about regulation!  
     I guess my real gripe stems from this:  America is exploiting cigarette smokers unfairly and unjustly.  Taxes on our cigarettes rise steadily year after year.  For what?  They say it's supposed to act as a deterrent, to turn people off from smoking.  If that ain't a steaming pile of horse shit I don't know what is... other than an actual steaming pile of horse shit, I'm well aware of what that is thanks due to my neighbors.  
     The government knows smoking is an addiction.  They openly preach on it.  They also know that we, as addicts, will continue to buy tobacco regardless of cost 'cause we're fucking addicted!  So I say FUCK YOU AMERICA!  If you all agree smoking is so deadly to our health than BAN FUCKING SMOKING!  If it's killing that many people each year than why the fuck do you continue to let us smoke?  ...Oh yeah, that's right, 'cause we're paying your mother fucking bills!  You hypocritical pieces of shit!  I hope you die from lung cancer.  

hugs and kisses

gII      

European Tour 2011 - Chapter 1: Drinking in Belgium

  It is Thursday, July 28th, 2011.  My first full day back from a 2 week trip across the Atlantic.  As always, Europe never fails to impress or intimidate this shy, wide-eyed American (unless, of course, I'm in Belgium.  Then I become very sleepy-eyed and opinionated.  Beer reference...they're quite strong and delicious.)  I traveled with some family and friends through 3 different countries.  We drank, we played, we fought, we forgave (or at least I hope they have) and explored many towns and cities none of us have ever been in before.  So much has happened within the past fortnight that it'll take me twenty more to tell the full story.  And even then I'd probably would've left some shit out.
     Here's an abridged beginning.  We took off from JFK on an Indian plane, serving Indian food and showing Indian movies.  We landed in Brussels, Belgium at around 7 in the morning local time (their local.)  Stayed a night with some really great friends, traveled to Germany, made our way up to Denmark, then shot back down to Belgium.  Itinerary at it's most basic.  Details to come.

Chapter 1

Belgian Beer

     Now, I haven't been to every beer-producing region in the world but after some online research and years of very in-depth, hands-on experimentation I have deduced and ultimately concluded that Belgium is by far the front runner in all that is glorious and wonderful in the universe in regards to God's beverage of choice.  (It's beer, silly.  Wine is for sissy's...or for after the beer has run out.)  Every single one I tasted was like tasting beer for the first time.  And believe you me I've tried as many as possible (like that was in doubt.)  Each brand has it's own uniquely shaped glass designed to enhance the experience.  It's almost surreal the first time you enter a bar in Belgium.  You see all these different glasses lining the shelves, presumably for decorative purposes.  Then you start ordering one drink after another and realize "Holy shit!  They actually use all of them!"  
     I'd like to address one of my personal favorites.  Some may say it's not the best that Belgium has to offer and that may be true.  But the mere mention of it's name turns heads, some smiling, some shaking in a silent "No!"  
     Every Belgian smirks when the talk of Duvel enters conversation (yes, it means Devil.)  A smooth yet deceptive 8.5% blond that will easily destroy all morals and turn nuns into whores (Or at least that was the plan...well, the destroying of morals part definitely, but the nuns, that's on them.)  And yet Duvel is the first drink I am offered every single time I am introduced to a Belgian.  Perhaps they can sense I enjoy beer, or trouble, could even be a test.  That's the other thing about the Belgian culture that I've been exposed to.  Whenever you meet someone new there are 2 Stages.  Stage 1:  Greetings and Salutations.  Stage 2:  Let's have a beer!  It's all about breaking the ice and conversing, getting to know each other.  Beer becomes the social lubricant it was meant to be.  It's encouraged, embraced even!  
     I think there must be an unspoken rule, for lack of better phrasing.  You can have a drink.  You can get drunk.  You can even get obliterated.  As long as you're not starting fist-fights with anyone other than yourself, you're cool.  And we'll find you a ride if you need one.
    
So when are we moving there?

     Back to today.  First full day back.  Gotta go back to work tomorrow.  Really not looking forward to that world of shit.  Head to the store to pick up some provisions...milk, drano, beer.  At 12 noon I'm sitting in the sun drinking a Budweiser, reading a Stargate Novel and unwinding from the whirlwind that is a European vacation.  Before I know it the 12 pack is gone and I'm looking at an empty fridge scratching my head thinking "what the fuck?"  I built my tolerance so high drinking Belgian beers I've completely fucked my American beer drinking standards.   The Magical "8th" Beer just became The Magical Mother-Fucking "18th" Beer Mother Fucker!"  Fuck.  My country's beer sucks.  And don't tell me I can buy better beer here than Bud.  I know I can. I do.  Weekly.  The fact is you can get shit-faced on $50 at any random bar in Belgium.  SHIT-FACED!  Try that in America.  I have.  It don't happen.  Belgium.  A land where beer is crafted with care, made to savor, and enjoyed by all (at quite reasonable prices.)  And is always accompanied by friendly smiling strangers open and eager to strike up a conversation.  If you've never been you need to go.  Especially if you're a beer drinker like myself.  I'm ready when you are!

gII

No Sober, No Rover : Pet Shops Rebel Against Potted Patrons

     I recently read an article in the paper pertaining to purveyors of puppy's politely pushing people of a plastered persuasion, predisposed to purchasing a poodle, pug, pug-a-doodle, or any other precious prospective pet back out the entrance with a stubborn refusal to sell them "Man's Best Friend."

     Which is, as being a current purchaser of a puppy under the influence (Me, stupid.  Not the puppy), a fantastic idea.  Owning a dog is a huge responsibility right up there with raising a child  or negotiating your job, child, and canine commitments around a steadfast refusal to abandon alcoholism.  I bought my dog off an internet website in May of 2010.  I always wanted a beagle.  Loved their personality and, to me, beagles are the embodiment of Dog (I'm sure all dog owners feel the same way about their dog, at least I hope they do.)  The site had pictures of her at 4 weeks of age and God was she adorable!  So I did my research.  For 2 weeks, every night, I would go online and read up on everything about beagles.  Their behavior, their needs, their history, intelligence, compatibility tests, EVERYTHING!  Everything I read brought me closer to the conclusion that a beagle was the perfect companion for me!  All I had to do was click "PURCHASE."
     Sober, I may never have done it.  But alas, I drink most nights so chances were this puppy would be mine whether or not a good idea it was...
     Sometime around May 30th I found myself sitting in front of the computer, beer cans encroaching upon my monitor, a bit before 9 o'clock in the evening.  Hand on mouse, slanted arrow circling the "CONFIRM" button, I had to think this through.  Is this what I really wanted?  Can I do this?  Do I have the time to feed, walk, play, love, this beautiful baby bitch?  And what the fuck?  Who buys a dog off the god damn internet?  I click this button and there goes a decent sum of money I may never see again.  But look, there's pictures of celebrity's and the dogs they've purchased on this very site!  How happy are they?!? It has to be legit, right? I mean, come on!  Look at these photos!

     Crack another beer...fuck it.  Click!

     Not 5 minutes later my cell phone rings.  Oh fuck.  

     "Good evening Mr. Deuce!  Congratulations on the newest member of your family!  What airport would you prefer to receive her at?"  What? No home delivery? But everything I order on the internet just magically shows up at my front door!  No dick, she's coming from Ohio and she is a living creature.  What have I done?

     Fuck.  Looks like I'm in this for the long haul.  I clicked "CONFIRM," my money's gone and I doubt I'll ever see it again.  Hey, still might get a puppy out of it...

     Information exchanged.  I psych myself up the following 2 weeks.  Friends and loved ones express mixed emotions regarding my decision to introduce a dog into the household.  Ranging from "Please tell me you're lying" to "That's fucking awesome!"  Both prefaced with "Are you fucking kidding me???"  Keeping up the positive outlook to all, I suffered trying to suppress my own doubts and reservations.  After all, here's a decision I made without conferring with anybody else for the fear they would reject my proposal without consideration and leave me dejected, resentful and angry.  Better to act first and ask other's opinions later when it comes to questionable matters of the heart, no?...  I thought so too! 

     Waiting for her arrival, everyone present was waiting giddily apprehensive.  We all saw the pictures by now.  It was time to see the newest addition to our family!  After given the run-a-round by airport security of where the fuck you pick up dogs arriving on planes, we found the debarkation station.  Standing, waiting, anticipation turning to impatience, a cage finally rolls down the conveyor belt.  Inside, oh inside...

     The most precious, adorable, beautiful 8 week old beagle I have ever seen!  Boy, did I ever make the right decision!!!  I picked up the cage and took her outside.  Cage in hand, my dad opens the door, takes her out, hugs her, and never let's go.  The little one and I name her Daisy Lu while we walk through the parking garage.  We got in the car and she slept the entire ride home. 

     Nowadays, she won't stop digging holes in my fucking backyard!

     Point of the story (bit long, apologies) is that sometimes people need that little bit of alcohol to push them towards making great decisions in their lives.  Especially us shy, timid, reclusive introverts.  While I applaud pet store owners making it a practice to turn away stumbling drunks from committing a life altering acquisition, there are those of us who require a sip of liquid courage to help cross that Bridge of Uncertainty. 

     I guess, in summation, GOD BLESS THE INTERNET!

...and beer...and puppies.  beer first though...



 

Parenting: 1st installment. Seriously.

     I remember taking a job assessment test during Home Economics in 5th grade.  The results of my questionnaire  concluded that the most suitable workplace for a future worker of my requisites would be that of one residing within the vocation of "Interior Design."  Go ahead.  Make your jokes.  Some of you may be whispering amongst yourselves "Oh I've known all along."  Or something along the lines of "Isn't it obvious" or "The boy always seemed a bit off..."  Well HAHA!  The Capital of the World NEW YORK ruled that being "a bit off is fine by us" and that I can marry whomever I so choose!  Go NEW YORK!  

     If only I were "a bit off."  My chances of finding love would nearly double.  Odds are I could marry, procure a child or two, spend lot's of money, buy a house, work hard, drink harder, fall out of love, get a divorce, spend alot more money, possibly repeat.  But I digress.

     I remember seeing "Stay At Home Mom" as an actual job title.  I also remember thinking "what kind of shit is that?"  When the fuck was this "test" drawn up?  And then, being 12, I also thought Bullshit!  I want that fucking job!*  In a court of law they'll argue that you have to read the fine print.  Dude, at fucking 12 years old there ain't no fucking fine print! (Although, there could very well be now, as I am no longer 12 I am a bit out of the loop, so to speak.)  Job assessment test my ass.  Another game for the kids to play 'cause ol' teach is too hungover to lift her snout out of her coffee mug.

     Jump ahead 20 some-odd years.  Met a girl.  With a kid.  The best ever in the entire fucking world...the kid, not so much the... relationship with mommy. 

     Long story...shortened.  

     So why the fuck didn't anyone tell me that "Parenting" would be the most difficult job in the world???

     ...to be continued,

gII

*yes, I cursed just as much at age 12 as I do now.  Perhaps more.  Ask my sister, she threatened to tell our parents!  Ha, did you think I'd forget?

A Burnbath Classic... currently not airing.

     Ok, so being this is the Burnbath blog it's about time we air some tunes that made the band so mildly famous!  Let's start off with a remix of the Burnbath death metal song.  Memory fails me at the moment the actual name of the original, though I do remember something about "Bricks and Bottles."  So we shall call it thus.  This rendition is entitled "Midnight Dragon."  It's a slowed down, jazzed up version that speaks on one of my favorite drinks of yore.  The 64 ounce Midnight Dragon.  A mighty smooth beverage served up in a handled brown glass bottle.  A case of 9 split betwixt 3 makes for quite the unfortunately memorable experience.

     1 dragon.  2 dragons.  3 dragons?  Why?

     Upon awakening you thank God! you're in your own bed.  At least, somehow, you made it home.  What the fuck time is it?  God, what did I do?  What didn't I do?  Feelings of guilt and self-resentment slam you right in the face and back down on the bed.  Any chance I had a nightmare?  Nope.  The first thing you remember is falling backwards into your parents flower bed whilst your buddy Kev begs you to give him the code to your garage door.  Lying on your back you see Mom and Dad.  Feet first, midsections, then ultimately their worried faces as the door passes overhead and under the ceiling...  man, that can't have turned out well.  A glass of water and a smoke later, it's time to lay back down.  Around hour 2 of consciousness the previous evenings events start slowly paying dividends out of a memory bank entirely fucked from a night of relentless, unadulturated deposits.  The first and second memories surface.  Then comes that third , offensive, soul destroying, highly regrettable, "man, I-don't-think-I-can-ever-talk-to-my-best-friend-again-ever" memory that hits you right in the gut and for the first time in your life you consider suicide as a viable option.*

But it's all good.  Thankfully, Midnight Dragon has the same effect on everyone!  Nobody truly knows what happened the night before. (All will be revealed, rest assured.)  That's the beauty of drinking the Dragon.  The next day we all wind up being "that guy" from the night before. 

     ...ooh, what a mighty smooth beverage.  How I miss you Midnight Dragon! And 64 ounce bottles of brew for that matter!  Where have you gone?  Why did you abandon me??? Why?!?  

gII

*suicide is for pussies...pussy's?  Either or, you're still a pussy dead or alive.  Might as well live.

An Unknown Soldier poem?

     This here is my latest poem.  Seriously.  It's not polite to laugh.  I've been known to write a sweet-ass sonnet from time to time.  This here ain't no sonnet but may be something even better.  Brought to you now, without the approval and come to think about it the consent of anyone else in the band, I give to you my half of the lyrics to the title track of the upcoming Unknown Soldiers album!  Keep in mind Money Shot has equally if not more lines than I do in this tune so the true identity of this song will not be put forward here.  His shit's way better than mine anyway...Anyhow, onto the song...

There's a nagging deep down inside me
I can't escape, it's hard to breathe
Reality breeds the nightmares of my sleep
And every waking moment it is all I think about
Wanna lock myself in my room and
DRINK TILL I PASS THE FUCK OUT!

The pounding and porno
And late nights have born no
Solutions.  I forego 
All rational thought.
Keep pumping and panting
On stained floors I can't bring
My legs up and standing
SELF DIGNITY IS ALL BUT LOST!

Conscience is begging for a quick release
What have I done, please be a dream.
Plead to any God that'll listen to me
But His forsaken torment has been brought upon myself 
A line's been crossed and now my thought is 
FOR HIM TO GO AND FUCK HIMSELF!

All friendships been severed
The loved ones off better
Not knowing just whether
I'm dead or alive.
Alone I am lost
A bottle the cost
One lifetime is tossed
Time to man up for my crimes

...so that's what I got...please keep in mind that I left out the chorus and all of Money's shit.  Just wanted to give you a taste of what's going on in Unknown Soldier land.  Don't tell them I told you.  Im out.

gII

A Crystal Observation...

     Crystal Light is the Iced Tea of choice in my kitchen.  It comes in these ridiculously tiny packets that magically yield up to 2 quarts of refreshing goodness.  More importantly (to some) it contains 0% of everything from fat, sodium, carbs, etc., (not to mention completely void of any nutritional value whatsoever.)  It tastes pretty decent although personally I prefer the big ol' cans of powdered mix where I gotta drop 4 heaping scoop-fuls in the pitcher to create a sweet, enjoyable anytime drink.  But this ain't about my preference.

     It's about what else, or lack there of, the Crystal Light in my kitchen contains.  Upon further investigation, as I scan past the Nutrition Facts and come upon the list of actual ingredients the basic, everyday, recognizable if not entirely understandable words play out.  Citric Acid (provides tartness.)  Maltodextrin (ok, sure.)  Instant Tea...um, ok.  That seems odd.  Why is Instant Tea not the first ingredient on this list?  Isn't the first ingredient supposed to be the most prominent?  So am I drinking "Iced Tea" or fucking "Citric Acid?"  Hey, don't get me wrong.  If "Citric Acid" is what it is then pour me another glass, I'm a fan!  Can't we just call it what it is?

     Next on the list is Corn Syrup Solids"tt." 

     Eyebrow raised.

     How many footnotes do I need to reference if we're already at double crosses?  The traditional asterisk, single cross, and now double crosses???  Ok, I'll play along.  Let's see what double crosses denotes...oh god, you gotta be shitting me.

     tt = ADDS A TRIVIAL AMOUNT OF SUGAR

     Who...what...what the FUCK is a trivial amount of sugar?!?  Did I miss the memo?  Since the fuck when did the F.D.A. approve "trivial" as an acceptable classification of measurement when informing consumers of what's in their consumables?  Trivial?  What the fuck does that even mean?  Stop yourself.  I looked it up just to make sure I'm not that out of touch with reality that I missed the redefinition party.  Nope, trivial still means "unimportant, insignificant, trifling and /or common place."  Huh.  Really? 

SO THEN WHY THE FUCK DO I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT IT?!?

     Oh, that's right.  I live in America.  Land of the free, home of the brave (those parts I am extremely proud of) and oh yeah, home of the country where anyone can sue anything with a better than 50/50 chance of "winning." 

     So, what fucking asshole sued some other dumb asshole to force my government to put this piece of legislative bullshit into action?

     Or, was it some bored politician with a family full of fatties and a bone to pick?

     Or, is Crystal Light at fault and did they themselves add this info in their own self-serving pomposity hoping to curry favor amongst the health conscious-lable reading sheep shoppers. 

     Who the fuck cares...I don't.  I just needed to get this off my chest.

gII
    
     
      

One night after the game...

     So one night on my way home from the ball game I said to myself "How couldn't this be the most opportune time to buy a bag of drugs."  The ball game was over, can't recall whether we won or lost, but judging by the amount of beer I consumed it was obvious that I'm the winner.  Awaiting my train to roll into 125th my body-mind-and/or inner demons convince me the 7 minute E.T.A. is plenty of time to step outside for a quick butt.  And hey, who knows, maybe by chance there might happen to be a gentleman outside willing to trust a white boy from the suburbs and sell him some dope.
     Well wouldn't you know it!?!  By golly, there was such a gentleman!
     Now, I know for some of you it may be hard to believe but sometimes the drink disables my instincts and I get played for a fool.  After striking up the obligatory conversation with aforementioned gentleman I'm assured he can procure what I desire.

DO NOT GIVE HIM THE MONEY!!!
DO NOT GIVE HIM THE MONEY!!!

     ...my mind is screaming and I don't.  Yet.

     He goes on about his man right around the block that got what I want and that all I need to do is give him the money and he'll be back in five.
     
     Yeah ok, not gonna happen.

     As I continue to refuse his offer he pulls out his wallet, driver's license, and car keys as "collateral."  "Check it out.  Look, it's me.  I ain't gonna fuck you.  Here's my shit." 

     And I accept.  Like a dumb punk ass bitch I accept.  I do.  I'm drunk.  Blind drunk.  Drunk so much that it really looked like the dude to me.  That and I just really wanted to get high.  There is no doubt this is the same guy.

     I convince myself, reluctantly receiving his wallet and keys in exchange for a 20 and a dream.

     The moment he walked away I knew he would never come back.
Fuck this and fuck him, hope he enjoys his crack
Might be a 20 lighter but the trains here at last
I got 45 minutes to peruse this black sac in my lap
Scored a credit card, driver's license, doctor appointment notices.
Found a gold plated document denoting some church of religious devotion.
And a set of keys with a Miami Beach keepsake.
Now what the fuck am I gonna do with another man's life's take?
Take it home, stash it away in a dark place and try to forget
Took about a week and a half but after that I didn't let
It bother my conscience anymore, that shit buried deep down in a drawer.
Never giving a moment of thought about some other man's belongings I bought.
     ...Until this evening as I hang around cleaning and handle this gleaming gold dedication to believing in something I don't know what about.
     Should I drop this in a mailbox or just throw this shit out?
What if it was me? Lost my I.D., car keys, credit cards and picture of my family?

     I would want someone to return it...fuck that shit, I'ma burn it!   All!
     

The Magical 8th Beer

     There's no harder choice than deciding to crack open that "8th" beer.  After working your ass off all day the only thing on your mind is going home, drinking a beer, walking the dog, smoking a butt, maybe eat, and sitting your ass down in front of the computer/TV and decompress. 
     That 1st beer always goes down too fast.  You don't really get a chance to sit down when you walk in the door.  The dog is going nuts and you just went through a grueling hour and a half of Catholic School Homework with the little one.  So you grab the bottle, pop the top, and start slugging gulps down while putting the leash on lil' miss pyscho.  Grab the cell, camels, and head outside for an event that'll take at least 30 minutes.
     When you finally get back indoors that 1st beer is gone.  The 2nd beer in essence becomes the 1st beer because this is the beer you can actually enjoy.  During this beer you can sit and try to catch the days news.  The dog has done her business and takes time out to eat.  She usually relaxes for about 15  minutes giving a nice respite from everything. 
     The 3rd beer is opened and consumed during this brief downtime.  Short lived.  The bitch starts garnering for your attention. 
     The 4th beer.  It's now time to smoke and walk the dog.  Starting to catch a slight buzz off 3 beers during the first hour home the 4th beer goes down smoothly and quick.
     5 and 6 pass by whilst listening to the ball game and thinking of things you don't need but must buy online.  Dog is in her bed.  Now one can truly relax...
                        !Numero Siete!
     You have crossed the threshold at number 7.  Drinking a 6-pack is probably documented somewhere as being the "just right" amount of beers to get you feeling alot better than you were 4 hours ago.  Or, a 6-pack was designed from some scientific research concluding that 6 bottles of beer is the "just right" amount of weight your wife could lift comfortably on her way to the checkout.  Both are wrong.  A) You ALWAYS need more than six.  Even if you don't drink 'em all tonight, you can tomorrow.  and B) If your chick struggles lifting anything less than a 12 pack, dump her, fast.  Shit just ain't gonna work out.
     Number 7 seems to go down pretty quick.  The ball game is in the 5th or 6th inning.  The evening has finally settled into a nice, relaxed state of haziness.  Near the end of #7 you debate whether to pound it and open another or go and smoke a camel, come back in and go to sleep.  But then something happens in the game and that pretty much makes up your mind.  More beer... and a cigarette.
     Any dedicated beer drinker has a bottle opener on their keychain or a lighter in pocket.  Worst case, find an edge of anything, nestle rim of the cap on top of said edge and hammer down with free hand onto hand holding the gold.  I have an old Mets baseball-bat-shaped bottle opener attached to my car keys.  Lets Go Mets! 
     After taking the next victim out of the fridge I sit back down in front of my computer and snatch up the pile of metal sticks and rings accompanied with small plastic tags and snuggle it neatly beneath the cap.  The keys bounce off the glass bottle announcing with a clear bright "ping" her arrival.  The 8th beer!  Oh, so tasty!  Now officially fucked, cruising the internet between innings becomes a little riskier...  Now you're on facebook considering chatting with people you haven't seen in 20 years.  After sending a short "hey, what's up?" to a girl you completely dissed and/or cut off in the past you're on to shopping the net for anything and everything you can't afford, namely an "Unknown Soldiers" domain name that's going for over 3 grand. (No, not even the magical 8th has made me make that purchase...yet)
  The game is in the 9th.  The bottles are piling up.  The bed is a beckoning.  The Magical 8th beer has achieved its goal.  I feel fantastic!  I have numerous new albums on my IPOD! I reached out to chicks I'd never normally talk to!  Fuck this, let's go for 9!

greek II


     

Here goes everything...

     This is my blog.  In all likelihood you will find it to be childish, vulgar and disturbing.  Three words that more or less sum up who I am.  Others may argue and say there is more to me than that, don't believe 'em.  Everybody lies, to themselves and to those around them so they may be able to rationalize that their fantasy reality is socially acceptable, worthy of being deemed successful when it really is just a slightly different fucked up version of everyone else's.  So that's that.  
     Included in this anti-selfeffacement movement will be my insights and opinions regarding personal, social and global events as I see fit.  There will probably be some bullshit about the New York Mets from time to time, being that I'm a fan.  You are forewarned.
     This "blog page" is still in it's infancy so bear with me as I tweak and twist it into awesomedom...or awesome yet dumb, either or it's mine so fuck off and keep reading. 
     After much debate inside my mind over what should be the first offering of my special, intimate retellings, my reimaginationings, regurgitations of daily occurences, whatever, I decided to hit you up with this one.  Destroy.

     greek II