Return From the House of Dead Blogs

Um, okay. So like I kind of ignored this blog for a while, which ia partly because I was too gosh darned depressed to think of anything entertaining to write about and foist into the public arena, and partly because I couldn't think of anything to put here. I mean, it isn't like my current life is all that interesting these days.

When I really needed a blog was back when I was a gobbige-haid teeno in San Whackeen County, and all sorts of insane stuff happened to and around me all the time. I used to hang kind of on the periphery of this group that called itself the Hetch Hetchy Boys, because they used to go up to Hetch Hetchy in Yosemite National Park and ingest this stuff called "moon juice," which was essentially a jug of Carlo Rossi's Red Mountain wine with every drug known to man added: LSD, mushrooms, truckdriver whites, peyote buttons, codeine, percodan, reds, yellows, tuinal, valium, xanax, coke, hash, weed, kif, junk, and whatever could be gleaned on the street or from somebody's medicine cabinet. I never went on one of those camping trips, because stories of people barking like raccoons were all too common, and I knew a couple of people who got left there because they climbed trees and had gotten too fucked up on the moon juice to come down, so the other assholes just hopped into their trucks and went back to Stockton.

The other downside was that if you got too toasted, I mean, like drooling scribbled, they would sing the "Babytown" song to you. Imagine a bunch of assholes warbling "Oh I am a little baby 'cause I am a little baby down in Babytown, waah waah waaahhh" in your face while they blew dope smoke in your eyes and poured Regal Select beer down your unwilling gullet, and you can kinda grasp the unpalatable charm of that particular good time. They almost killed one of my pals one night, and I fished him out of a swimming pool at an apartment complex with a net and damn near had to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation; he ended up joining the Army, and then last I heard he'd moved into a mobile home park east of Modesto and had hooked up with some white trash blonde, with a passel of snot-nosed Dumpster-diving BMX bike champs the inevitable result.

Meanwhile that night, the Hetch Hetchy Boys were spraying Right Guard deodorant into one end of a toilet-paper "der-der" tube stuffed with paper towels and huffing the other, which a couple of them insisted would result in a "most famous" or even "religious" buzz. I think both of those guys came to untimely ends not long after.

Anyway, it's Saturday, and I still have some functioning brain cells because I refrained from huffing the Right Guard, and it's a beautiful day. Maybe I'll go to the supermarket and get some bread so I can have a few slices of toast.

Toast: The Snack That's Ready When You Are.

This blog paid for by the Toast Advisory Board.

Jeebus, mon, I swear ...

I'm gonna start posting stuff here soon. I mean, I'm no Beckler, but there oughta be certain things I have something to say about.

Saw Amy Cooper last night. She was great. She fucking rocked. I don't know why she isn't huge. Liani Moore played in the middle. She was all right, but I was really tired after the first band, and it would take someone as stellar as Amy Cooper to wake me from my torpor. Some golf rock band called Radio Astronomy opened. They weren't my cuppa, but they brought a few nice looking ladies in. Unfortunately, the music, from the Jack Johnson school of slacking, put me the rest of the way into the coma induced by the Fox & Goose Cornish pasty I'd scarfed earlier when watching the Juggs, Kim Alexander's new band. What is it about these Hootie & the Blowfish retreads that they can get come into a proper rock club and inflict such Tiger Woods rock on a crowd?

Uh oh. The office is empty. Suddenly everyone's a practicing Catholic. Not me.