I'm an Evil Baby! Give Me Meat!

The Most Brian-Influential Albums of the Decade

I'm not that evil a baby. I'm a semi-benign adult and I enjoy a well rounded meal involving vegetables.
The title was suggested by my bat-shit crazy pseudo-nephew Joel. When confronted by the parental question WHAT PART OF "Be Quiet" DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
He responded "I understand the QUI".
I think he may be a genius who'll end up in an asylum. It is rare to find a three-year-old who can master both absurdist and wry humour.
I will visit him in whatever home he ends up in.

That said ...

I've grown tired of Rock 'n' Roll criticism. People buy Bryan Adams records. Huh.
I'm not gonna be the one to tell them to buy Flaming Lips records instead.
I don't care anymore. Buy all the Bryan Adams CDs/Vinyl Re-Issues/Digital Downloads you want ...
Someone buys into Mariah Carey. It ain't me, but if you enjoy it, who am I to judge? Art is subjective. Not my fault y'all got bad taste.

So ... The albums of the decade that made me say "Holy Fuck."
Somewhat ironically, 2007's LP by Holy Fuck just missed the cut.

The Drive-By Truckers - Brighter Than Creations Dark
I was originally struck by 2001's Southern Rock Opera but it was later in the decade the band hit it's creative stride. Southern Rock Opera could have been a single disc. Brighter Than Creation's Dark was the culmination of three great songwriters on a single disc. I love all of the DBT albums before ... I suspect I'll love all that come after. I doubt I'll love a song as much as Danko and Manuel.

Not-so-interesting side note:
The Band's Richard Manuel's brother was a Baptist Minister and he married my parents. This fact really impressed the late Jay Bennett from Wilco when I interviewed him while I was a snotty rock critic. That is neither here nor there nor anywhere.

Hold Steady - Stay Positive
"RAISE A TOAST TO SAINT JOE STRUMMER. I THINK HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN OUR ONLY DECENT TEACHER."

If The Clash and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band had a baby ... well that would be impossible. Eleven men can't have a baby without one woman involved.
Don't expect me to report the impossible - that said, I heard my first Orillia Opera House ghost tonight (he was a cliche).
What was I saying? Oh yeah ... several men can't have a collective baby.
If they did, they'd sound like The Hold Steady. The first song had me rewinding the first song just so I could sing along 'cuz our songs are sing-along songs..
Bonus points for the song Slapped Actress ... 'Some nights actresses get slapped ... Some nights it's just entertainment ... and some other nights it's work."

Green Day - American Idiot
For a band infamous for poop jokes (Dookie) named for 24 hours wasted getting high, American Idiot was a revelation and a remarkable reboot of the band.
2009's 21st Century Breakdown is arguably the better album and will undoubtedly hold up better over time but American Idiot captured the zeitgeist of liberals bewildered by the road down which the the world's final super-power was taking us.
It was a call to arms which - if all goes well - will seem very dated by the end of the next decade.
Which, sadly, it won't.

Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous (2004)
I rarely remember where I was when I first heard a band in such vivid detail. I was sitting in Neal's truck in the parking lot of an LCBO. I apparently owned enough liquor

... I will forgive you if you dismiss this story as improbable and return to your regularly scheduled lives at this point ...

and I heard such a beautiful voice telling me to "pull the rip chord" on my life because "you're sleeping again
alone 'cause nobody loves you."
I looked over at Neal's IPod, desperately wanting to find the name of this angel who advised me to take my own life. I never really considered it - as I said, I had plenty of booze.
It turns out Jenny Lewis was the singer. It took me a week to discover Rilo Kiley was a band, not some Country-Goth chick. I had to Google her. Brother, did I Google her. I Googled her so hard you can insert your own cheap joke here.
I immediately emailed everyone I ever mocked for thinking Lynerd Skynerd was one rockin' dude with an apology.
If my ITunes's memory is worth a damn, this is the album I listened to most from the year 2004 until the present.

Lambchop - How I Quit Smoking
I actually downloaded this album on The Pirate Bay as an attempt to better myself. Given the title, I thought it may offer some insight towards not paying $7.95 per day to give myself cancer. It's my own fault. I wasn't hood-winked by the tobacco industry into smoking these evil little death sticks. I knew what I was getting into - I just thought, at the age of 17, I was invincible.
The first track I listened to was "The Man Who Loved Beer". I used to love beer, but I found it was making me fat. I lost 20 pounds when I quit drinking beer. I originally settled on vodka and grapefruit juice ('cuz that has to be healthy) but eventually gravitated towards a classier whiskey. I'm a dignified guy, I deserve a dignified drink ... Right?
I think so to.
Bushmill's was what I eventually settled on as my signature drink. Scrappy Irish but with a hint of class.
So when I learned that ... Screw it ... I'll come clean.
The above was the worst shaggy dog story ever told. Some British magazine told me to listen to Lambchop. They called them an "unclassifiable hybrid of country, soul, jazz, and avant-garde noise." They gave me a compilation CD with their magazine to prove their point.
They were right. I have no story about How I Quit Smoking by Lambchop.
It was released in 1996 but re-fuckin'-extra-special-released in 2002. I'm counting it.
So I'm a liar and a cheat.
That is all.

Guided By Voices - Live From Austin TX
The chances are good, if you've watched television in the past decade, you've heard a Guided By Voices song. Not just on Austin City Limits, where the short version of this first aired. People who pick songs to underscore particular moments on TV seem to be huge indie rock nerds.

Watching Bob Pollard and his lo-fi company

... yes, watching. I own the DVD. There is a CD available but I've already established I'm not above cheating on this list ...

get progressively more loaded via two wash tubs of beer and tequila shots over 97 minutes is a treat for fans of watching happy drunks get happier. Artists getting drunk on stage rarely ends well. I once saw Van Morrison fall off a stage. I doubt that was his artistic vision for the evening.
The look of utter joy on the face of the band at being on ACL (almost as required viewing as Hockey Night In Canada 'round these parts) sells the happy libertine act.
Throw in a few bizarre non sequiturs, an invitation for fans to join them on stage, mockery of Velvet Revolver, a couple of achingly beautiful ballads and the most get-to-the-point guitar rock since The Ramones and you have, not just a run-on sentence, but a true believer.
GBV were not the most talented band on the planet. But as they said in the intro to Sad If I Lost It "Hey kids, let me tell ya something that Guided By Voices taught the world. That you can suck ... and still rule," They knew their limits, they played within it.
Oh yeah, and Gold Star For Robot Boy and Everyone thinks I'm A Raincloud (When I'm Not Looking) are as excellent a song as they are a song title.
Throw in the fact I have made a very nice friend of the producer of ACL by drunkenly Tweeting about this DVD? Twenty dollars well spent. Hi @TheOtherLeslie (which is a funny name if you have followed my romantic misadventures).

Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
A Ghost Is Born and Sky Blue Sky both have their charms but for sheer fuck-youery to record companies, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot takes the medal this decade.

* For lack of a hit single, Wilco was let go from it's contract by AOL Time Warner subsidiary Reprise, scuttling YHF's planned September 11, 2001 release. They streamed the album on-line until web traffic proved it commercially viable. It was picked up by Nonesuch, a subsidiary of, yes, AOL Time Warner.

Alternately lush and dissonant, YHF makes good on the promise of Summerteeth, Wilco's 1999 break with traditional alt-country.
I would play this album for my staff when I managed a thrift store. They would have much rather listened to Shania Twain or Avril Lavigne, but I was, and remain, both the boss and a giant music fascist.
They could tolerate the orchestral opening track I Am Trying To Break Your Heart. They almost liked the skewed pop of Heavy Metal Drummer. It was Reservations, the final song, with it's dissonant noise coda that really bugged them.
"This is just ... creepy," one of my underlings finally remarked.
"Yeah." I smiled. "It really is, isn't it?"

* (like everything I write, a gross oversimplification)

Radiohead - Kid A
I believe it was a Sunday night. I had to work in the morning. Being a responsible sort, I decided to smoke a joint rather than get drunk.
I also had a home-made roast beef sandwich (lettuce, mustard, a tiny bit of horseradish on rye) ready to go for my lunch the next day.
"What the hell," I thought to myself. "I'll buy lunch tomorrow." On my way to the fridge, I popped Kid A into the stereo.
I had listened to that Radiohead CD roughly 10 times previous. I liked it. I didn't love it, but I liked it well enough.
Suddenly, the heavens opened up and sounds I never could have imagined started bouncing around the room. I asked myself the hard questions. I gave myself the right answers. It was all so simple. My path lay before me.
Then I started in on that sandwich. Best sandwich I have EVER eaten. I still dream about that sandwich.
I've since listened to Kid A, trying to recreate that experience. I liked it well enough but I didn't love it. It's no OK Computer. I think it must have been the sandwich.

The Weakerthans. - Reconstruction Site
The biggest criticism I've heard of The Weakerthans is, boiled down - "They're a bunch of smarty-pants -- too smart for for their own good."
Well excuse me, all of you Ms. Sarah Palin wanabees.
Extra credit should be given to independent learning. The Bible and Ronald Reagan - A Presidential Biography for Kids are not the only books ever written.
Sometimes I like my power-pop bands to be literate.
I like my stupid rock bands to be stupid (Hello Electric by The Cult.)
But I like my literate power pop to be, well, literate and to know stuff. I'm not so threatened by my own smarty-pantsness that I can't admit I don't know stuff. That's what Wikipedia is for:

Did you know Boxcar Willie is one of the lizard people who secretly rule the earth?

Use as many Foucault, Gump Worsley, Niels Bohr or Virtue The Cat references as you like. I'll revel in what I know and be happy to learn the rest.
Plus The Weakerthans play insanely catchy pop-music and I'm tired of hearing 'Are They Punk Enough' just because John Samson used to play bass in Propighandi.
As the old saying goes ... You can draw more flies with honey than you can with obnoxious, dissonant noise.

Bruce Sprigsteen - We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
It isn't the most fun band I've heard this decade, but most definately the band having the most fun. Bruce, most of the E Street Band and friends rip through folk legend Pete Seeger's songs.
It's laughable to think of millionaire The Boss rip through Pay Me My Money Down, a song about bein' ripped off by the man. But I'll be damned if they aren't having so much fun that I always sing along.

Honourable Mention/Discs I Couldn't Find an Appropriate Story For:

The Gaslight Anthem - The '59 Sound - Kinda like The Hold Steady, but slightly less awesome

Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings The Flood/Furnace Room Lullaby

A.C. Newman - Get Guilty

The New Pornographers - Mass Romantic Because Neko Case + A.C. Newman = Awesome.

The Arcade Fire - Funeral Even though I was told to like it by all hipster media everywhere ... I still did

The Rheostatics - 2067
I have a soft spot for the Rheostatics. It wasn't Greatest Hits or Whale Music but ...

Sarah Harmer - I'm A Mountain This album reminds me of cutting stuff up and setting it on fire. Not sure that's the spirit of the music, but...

Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga "The Underdog" may be my favourite song of the decade.

Magnetic Fields - Distortion - I chose this because 69 Love Songs came out in 1999 and that would be cheating a bit too much. However, Too Drunk To Dream is an excellent summary of my romantic misadventures.

Polyphonic Spree - Together We're Heavy I normally don't like hippie collectives, but in this case, I'll overlook the fact they smell bad and likely smoke pot.

Okkervil River - The Stand Ins - I heard a song on the excellent TV show Chuck and Googled it ... it would have displaced Kid A had I a better story.

Old 97's - Satellite Rides - See The previous entry. Except replace Chuck with Ed. Fuck you ... I liked that show. It was whimsical.

Danny Michel - Feather, Fur & Fin The artist I enjoyed most at work this year. I actually parted with cash to buy a CD just 'cuz I wanted him to keep making music.

The Coup - Pick A Bigger Weapon Revolutionary party hip/hop - how can you argue with the lyric "I'm here to laugh, love fuck and drink liquor ... and make the revolution come quicker"?

Ron Sexsmith - Cobblestone Runway God Loves EVERYONE, fuckers!

Buffy The Vampire Slayer OST - Once More With Feeling - What do you want from me? I'm a huge nerd who works in a theatre. You thought this wouldn't be here?

Steve Earle - Transcendental Blues I'm sick of coming up with reasons I like things. That's kinda the point of my opening anti-criticism statement.

Ten Haiku Pick Up Lines

I know better than anyone I haven't written anything not related to work in 3 1/2 months.
As much as it bothers my loyal fan - just one at this point - You can't get blood from a stone.
It doesn't matter how damned funny or charming or virile the stone.
You can't get Oscar Wildesque wit from it, Mr. Frank Sharpton of Columbus, Ohio
This lame attempt to start writing again is despite your threats, Frank. Not because of them. I don't believe you own that video and I doubt Vivid Entertainment wold buy it if you did. Lindsay Lohan tapes are a dime-a-dozen these days.

All the same, let everyone without empty blackmail threats enjoy my attempt at breaking my writer's block with my ten favourite haiku pick up lines.



You kinda look like
a pornographic film star
whose name I forget.

Come back to my place.
I've got a sweet stereo
and a waterbed.

You must be a thief
as you have stolen my heart.
Wanna see my wang?

I hope at last call
your fear of dying alone
gets me a hand job.

My wife and I have
an open relationship
but please don't tell her.

Happy to see you?
Is that a roll of quarters?
Duh ... it's a penis.

I dote on my cat
and I collect sock monkeys.
I swear I'm not gay.

I seem nice at first
but then I will ignore you.
You will gain twelve pounds.

Here in Orillia
I work, have several teeth
That makes me a catch!

At my job I am
a deputy fire warden.
Does that turn you on?

Write me a better haiku pick up line if you think you're so big. I dare ya. You think you're so great. You're not.

An Open Letter To Joel, My Pseudo-Nephew, Concerning His Grip On Reality

Dear Joel,

First things first ... Dinosaurs and Pirates did not exist at the same time. It is almost impossible that pirates and dinosaurs would fight and it is very wrong of you to try to convince me otherwise.

Here is what Wikipedia has to say on the subject:
Dinosaurs were the dominant vertebrate animals of terrestrial ecosystems for over 160 million years, from the late Triassic period (about 230 million years ago) until the end of the Cretaceous period (65 million years ago), when most of them became extinct in the Cretaceous–Tertiary extinction event.

Pirates, on the other hand thrived in the 18th Century. In the popular modern imagination, pirates of the classical period were rebellious, clever teams who operated outside the restricting bureaucracy of modern life. Pirates were also depicted as always raising their Jolly Roger-flag when preparing to hijack a vessel. The Jolly Roger is the traditional name for the flags of European and American pirates and a symbol for piracy that has been adopted by film-makers and toy manufacturers.

Clearly, we can no longer hang out and play Pirates vs. Dinosaurs ... your current three-year-old obsessions be damned. I feel slightly soiled for indulging you in the game earlier this afternoon. I should have pointed out the historical inconsistencies in private -- not in a public forum as I do now -- but fatigue and drink have loosened my tongue.

I demand an immediate apology as you forced me to compromise my 'knowledge' in favour of your "imagination".

I also demand an apology for you saying The Jayhawks were over-rated and not especially essential to the alt-country movement.

Always Your Respectful Pseudo-Uncle,

Brian

Help Me Obi-Wan ... Give me something to post about

I'm currently suffering the worst case of writers block in the history of the world (not including JD Sallinger).
Really. I'm fucked. I had a story about some kid who found out he was a wizard and did all sort of remarkable things. Now Google News tells me it has already been done.
Well, Shit.
Next thing you know ... someone will poach my story of a distopian past where an unreasonable government in 1984 censors anything they find objectionable.
It's not like I'm void of fictional ideas ... a group of orphans lured into a life of pick-pocketing ... a Danish prince driven mad by the murder of his father ... the son of God sacrificed on a chunk of wood to pay for the sins of humanity. I have plenty of ideas for fiction no one else would ever dream about. I just can't find the mojo to turn them into believable myths.
Christ, I even have thoughts about a non-fiction book based on the botanical, biological and paleontological studies of Galagopos Islands where I posit that species evolve from natural selection. Crazy ... I know.
Use the comment section below to suggest something to write about. Quite frankly ... on my own ... I'm fucked.

Sorry I Have Not Posted In A While

I've been getting over extreme tooth pain so:
In the spirit of half-assed malling it in, I present my favourite in-joke punchlines:

Go Team Norsub!

A Skunk fucking a flowery pig!

He was DEE-RICIOUS!
(not as racist as it sounds)

A man who dismantles his own cat has a fool for a vet.

You've hosed me out of my split-apart!

Why would she french her daddy?
(More of a News Radio punch line ... but I'll allow it)

SCARF!

Really? Pornocolyse Now?

Je suis une grande canard vert dans mon pantalons

Wait ... Be Cool ... He's not gay ... he's just British.

That's Right, Barb ... Keep Fiddling While Rome Burns.

Well, more to the point, keep watching The Bachelorette On Demand while the economy collapses, 'abortion doctors' are murdered by Right-To-Lifers and trains in Oshawa are derailing willy-nilly.

While you watch the crappiest television show I've ever seen -- and that includes Walker, Texas Ranger -- some of us are trying to change the world. And those "some of us" would be me.
And this time, I'm trying to change it for the better.

Why, I've been signing on-line petitions. For example to "help free American journalists Laura Ling and Euna Lee who are in a North Korean prison being held on 'illegal entry' and 'hostile acts'.
They were in China reporting for Al Gore’s Current TV and never meant to enter North Korea. But, they are now on trial and looking at possibly spending 10 years in a labor camp in North Korea if they are found guilty."
You can sign the petition by clicking the title. (I should probably learn how to embed links in the copy of my blog.). It likely won't do any good but it also won't do any harm ... unless you are Mark McConkey from Blind River, Ontario. Please do NOT sign this petition, Mark. Kim Jong-Il really dislikes you since the 'pantsing' incident and, at this point, it will only antagonize him. I suspect your relationship is beyond repair.

So keep watching your stupid reality television Barbara. If my IPod needs charging and the TV upstairs is on the fritz - as was the case tonight - it will only encourage me to spend 30 seconds making the world a better place in which to live!

Thank you to Olivia Munn (photo above) for bringing this story to my attention. I visit your site for updates on social issues ... not the lingerie pictures. I promise!

BTW ... R.I.P. ... Jay Bennett (formerly of Wilco) - musical genius and a man very forgiving of stupid interview questions (ahem)... Peter Zezel - best face-off man I've ever seen and by all accounts, one of the nicest guys in hockey, ever ... David Carradine - whose movie Kill Bill still gives Barb nightmares ... Everyone who died on the Beaches of Normandy sixty-five years ago today - for having more stones than I ever will.

An Open Letter To An Uncaring God Concerning My Tooth Pain

Look God ... I know you and I have had our differences. I bitch you out for being an insecure prick who doesn't exist... You claim I don't exist and curse me with male pattern baldness and a pretty serious drinking problem.
Our relationship works. We know where we stand with each other.
But lately, you've raised the fucking stakes, haven't you? This extreme tooth pain is a game changer. You've upped the ante ... little insecure non-existent bitch that you are.
I know I've started baiting your more misguided followers on Twitter, but calling out some closeted queer who was 'nauseated' by the five times he watched Milk is not a satisfying payback for you making my jaw swell up to the size of a dirigible.
Look ... I understand natural disasters ... sometimes you have to clear the decks of poor people to make room for all the unwanted babies you've saved from blissful non-existence.
I understand war ... You need to make your believers fight it out to see which of them "want it more". By the way, I'd like to cast my vote for the faction that don't believe in the Afghani Rape Law, but you aren't listening to me right now, are you?
Because, if you were listening to me, you wouldn't have given me this incredibly excruciating tooth pain.
I know I've had a, let's say British, attitude towards my teeth all of these years. I know I have had said in the past "May God strike me down with incredible tooth pain if I ever drink again" while hungover. I have done nothing to deserve your non-existent mercy except ...
I'm a White North American Male. Remember? I get special treatment?
If you could take this tooth pain and give it to some poor deserving bugger in Sri Lanka I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks,
Your (other) Nemesis,

The Aging Hipster

The Care and Feeding of a Stage Mother

I've had to deal with quite a few stage mothers in the past couple of weeks. It was kind of a new experience for me and I wish I had a list of rules to follow -- much like this one I've just made. You are welcome, future generations of theatre workers. Just try to pay it forward.

1.) Never tell stage mothers -- or dance teachers, for that matter -- how creepy it is to see a nine-year-old tarted up in make-up and a short dress. They assume just because you noticed -- whether it makes your skin crawl or not -- there is something genetically wrong with you.

2.) Have plenty of Vodka, Triple Sec, and cranberry juice on hand. Stage Moms ADORE Sex and The City and love to drink Cosmopolitans. They are often single as most right-thinking husbands have left them. However, the courts being how they are:

3.) Have plenty of faux independent beer on hand for the husbands who stuck around (or feel obligated) to watch. Keith's and Rickard's Red seem to be the most popular.

4.) Never tell Stage Mothers/Gary Bettman/Dance Teachers to hurry it the Hell up because of the Crosby/Ovechkin playoff match-up. They don't appreciate the savage ballet that is Professional Ice Hockey. Instead, just pour yourself a scotch and water, no ice, and figure out how to watch it in your office. Not that I did.

5.) Always invoke the safety of their creepy, overly-sexualized child -- because someone has to. God knows, someone has to. "I'm sorry but you can't go back there. What if someone was trying get to your child? We can't let anyone back there except ushers and teachers." Promise the ushers extra hours if they try to convince the kids to wipe off the make-up and play hopscotch or jacks or whatever kids used to do.

6.) Never Let dogs in the theatre -- really this one is just for me. Really, bitch, you thought I'd let your yappy little dog into the theatre? Your Yorkeshire Terrier would really benefit from seeing your stupid, probably untalented niece dancing to Cuban Pete, or some other tired routine? I won't let a can of Coca Cola into my theatre. What makes you think I'd let you bring a yapping, pissing, shitting little dog into my realm?
I notice you did not lodge the complaint with my superiors you claimed you would. So be it.

An Open Letter To Barb and Joan Concerning Their Ongoing Refusal To Let Me Have a Pet Monkey

Throughout history, many important men have owned pet monkeys. When Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to that church door in Wittenberg, he did so with a chimp named Brendan at his side.
Sir Winston Churchill would unwind after a long day of inspiring Britons during The Blitz with a cigar, a snifter of brandy and a Barbary Ape named, ironically, Adolph.
Abraham Lincoln had a spider monkey named Herb. Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. Ergo, if you don't let me have a pet monkey, you are pro-slavery.
It is simple, unassailable logic.
Also, many great fictional characters had monkey pets/friends. The Clint Eastwood character had Clyde in Any Which Way But Loose. Homer had Mojo in an episode of The Simpsons. Ross had a hairy, inhuman partner in Friends. Plus he also had Maurice the Monkey.
As you know from the last bachelor party I threw, I am not an unreasonable man. All firearms were discharged out of doors with one execption -- and I maintain that instance was the fault of flaming sambuca, a tray of butter tarts and the Mayor's sudden pantlessness. So I am willing to compromise and allow any pet simians I may own to be trained as helper monkeys. This would be a great help to you, Barbara, as you are ... ahem ... frequently incapacitated by grape-based beverages.
And Joan ... well ... you're no spring chicken.
We are also frequently plagued by black-outs in this area. For entertainment, we have to resort to board games by candlelight and listening the CBC on a battery powered radio. If I had a pet monkey, however, we could get him loaded for our amusement.
Drunk Monkey is incredibly fun to say. Try it now. Say it with me ... drunk monkey ... that WAS fun, wasn't it? I think it may be the double "unk" sound.
I'll wager my last pair of clean underpants that an actual drunken money would be one hundred times more fun. We could watch him reel around the room, confused by his condition. We could watch him swing from light fixtures, wearing a lampshade as a hat in a humourous fashion. We could watch him sit and stare forlornly into his drink, beating himself up with bitter self-recriminations of lost love, wasted talent and failed opportunities.
In short, Barb and Joan, it would be sheer folly NOT to let me have a pet monkey. I shall name him Hilton Langley.
And I promise to clean up any feces he may fling -- after it dries up and becomes more manageable.

P.S. I've missed you too, dear reader. I've been working like a dog lately. A Border Collie, in fact, who rounds up theatre patrons, removes their drinks from their hands (ironic, no?) and makes them sit down and enjoy a show.

Poseur Meets Author, Acts Like Dickweed

I really like Paul Quarrington.

He wrote some of my favorite books -- King Leary, Logan In Overtime and Whale Music ("the greatest rock'n'roll novel ever written" according to Penthouse magazine.)
He is also a fine song-writer and a better than average guitar player.

He also seemed like the sort of guy who could sit down and have a drink without rubbing your face in the fact that he has released two albums and written ten novels, five books of non-fiction and five plays. He never seems to mention that you have pissed away any talent you once had and now publish your drunken nonsense, desperate for attention, on a free blog.

So I was really happy when Barb phoned to say she had tickets to see Quarrington play some songs and practice his racounteering ( ... racounteermanship? ... racounteerism? I don't know the exact word.) in a small space during the local comedy festival.

Quarrington played two sets of the songs he wrote and sang for the band Porkbelly Futures. He was amiable and amusing. He sang the first folk song about the pornography industry and works The Friendly Giant into one of his songs.

I was kind of excited to approach him and buy his latest book, The Ravine after his performance - until Barb's enthusiasm and my studied lack of enthusiasm kicked in.

At this point, I revert to verbatim quotations:

Brian: I'd like to buy a copy of your latest ...

Barb: Brian is such a fan of yours. He is so excited to meet you!

Brian: Well ... a fan ... yeah ... I guess ... more a guy who thinks you can turn a phrase real ... good.

Paul: Umm ...

Barb: Brian owns all of your books.

Brian: Well ... I own some of your books ... you know ... the good ones ... plus Civilization ... I bought them at thrift stores so you actually didn't get any ...

Paul: Thanks, I guess I ...

Barb: I always do this. I'm going to step aside and let Brian talk.

Brian: Thanks, honey. Why do you act like I am a deaf mute?

Paul: Do you want me to sign it? It that Brian with an 'i' ?

Brian: Umm ...

18 second pause

Barb: Yes. It's Brian with an 'i'.

Brian: err ... Thanks.

Which probably explains the inscription in my book - which cost $19.95 and for which I let him keep the nickel!

To Bryan, Quit trying so hard ... Paul Quarrington.

Andrea and Dave's Baby Just Got Here

Welcome to the world Baby Girl (name pending until the poll to the right closes) Jefferies.
Those looking for my trademarked smart-assery ... move along.
Nothing to see here.

Kurt Cobain R.I.P.

Kurt Cobain killed himself fifteen years ago today.
Do you remember where you were? I remember where I was ... living in a basement apartment, trying to make a living.
Seriously, buddy ... you could have taken your money and fucked off to a South Pacific island. Leaving a child in the care of Courtney Love makes you a bigger douche bag than the 'jock' fans who 'didn't get it' you were constantly complaining about.
I understand chronic pain -- but you just drink and pill yourself through it. It can be fun. There is an upside. Self medication shouldn't involve a shotgun.
I love Nirvana's music -- it really inspired me as a youngster -- but seriously Kurt ...
You should have stuck around so people like myself could have called you over-played and over-rated and wrote that you should have packed it in after In Utero.

That said ... Sorry you felt you had to off yourself. You are missed.

Twitter - Threat or Menace?

I realize I am late to the party but I have become mildly obsessed with Twitter.

Many pundits have condemned Twittering as the death of literate conversation.
I call shenanigans and suggest said pundits may have a vested interest in overly long verbiage which wastes time and burns up precious, precious word counts by which many -- both aspiring and professional -- writers are paid handsome, handsome sums.

RUSTY TROMBONE!

I'd have been paid anywhere between fifty cents and two dollars for typing RUSTY TROMBONE from any reputable journal. It means nothing except for a quick way to earn enough for one of those newfangled coffee drinks.

RUSTY TROMBONE!

Another Starbuck's latte coffee drink.

Most writing contains too many needless words. The reason I can't get through the first page of James Joyce's 'Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man" is -- not my limited attention span -- but the fact it should have been called ''young man artist pic LOL'

The fact I am getting practice at cutting my thoughts down to 140 characters will spare you, gentle reader, several precious seconds of your life. The fact that I have to cut my thoughts down to 140 characters (including spaces) per post spends more minutes of my life than most non-writers would believe.

I love the fact I can write real time reviews of movies/TV shows/music I am listening to at the moment. Mona Lisa Smile sucks!

The only drawback is I no longer get paid for spouting my ill-informed opinions ... Hey wait ...

If you read this ... Please send me three dollars and twenty-five cents.

It is only fair.

Thank You All For a Very Special Day

I wish I could shake the hand of everyone who attended Barb's Birthday Celebration on Saturday afternoon. I salute everyone whose planning and dedication turned the day into such a success. Planners -- whether you were able to attend or not -- you made the day really unforgettable. Kudos!
The floral arrangements were exquisite, the menu was delightful and the service was impeccable.
Whether you travelled across the province or across the city, your attendance truly made Barb feel as special as she deserves.
Those of you who were unable to attend for medical reasons -- your presence was missed but understood. Most, but not all, of us hope you are feeling better.

For those of you unable to attend or remember the after party, I have a few notes:

Three pairs of pants -- two unsoiled -- were turned in to Lost and Found. If you think these pants may be yours, please contact Cory with the size and description of the trousers in question.

Barbara will not be charged with sexual harassment of our waitress, the pizza delivery guy and the paramedic who arrived later in the evening. I would like to thank all three for accepting a written apology in lieu of a lengthy and messy civil suit that I think, we can all agree, would have cast a pall on the festivities.

While Greg claims he can "imitate an elephant", pulling one's pockets out and unzipping one's fly is not an accurate representation.

The "underpants optional" version of the invitation was an editing mistake and Neal would like to apologize to any hot chicks who received it in error.

George's parting declaration of "suck it bitches" was uncharacteristic and, quite frankly, rude but he has been under a lot of pressure recently. I think he misses working on Degrassi: The Next Generation.

Craig's potassium level -- due to the ingestion of banana cake -- remained relatively stable throughout the evening.

I don't actually believe Barbara is "worse than Hitler and Octomom combined" due to her love of The Celebrity Apprentice, People Magazine and spreading nasty cold germs. What I said was rooted in alcohol and anger and I would like to assure people Barbara is "still cool" despite my vehement assertions otherwise.

Once again, thank you to all who attended for contributing to a truly classy event.
If anyone knows the whereabouts of my own pants -- I've already contacted Cory without luck -- please let me know via this blog.

Write, Spell and Think Better, Job Seekers!

Nothing I've encountered inspires an equal amount of rage and amusement as a really bad resume.
While managing at Goodwill I once corrected the many grammar and spelling mistakes of a faxed resume and sent it back with "Try Harder" scrawled across the top.
Admittedly, I did it for my own amusement (plus I may have been high on painkillers) but I'd like to think I did the guy a favour.

Hiring potential ushers for the theatre has reawakened my hatred/secret glee about crappy writing skills. I'm sorry, but in this age of Spellcheck, mistakes are unacceptable. Especially the mistake of relying too heavily on Spellcheck, like the person who last worked at a temp agency and "went to various job placemats."

So, I suspect, did the guy who was working at a ski resort "which has just rapped up there season."

There is just no excuse for the woman who has "Excptional customer service skills and Experrience assisting irate customers." If her attention to detail is exemplified by her resume, I can see why her customers are irate.
But my personal favourite had to be "Excellent verbal and written communnication skills."

I can understand why one person, who works at a prominent fast food franchise, needs a new job. He listed his duties as "food items safely, neatly and efficiently." It must be annoying to be a food item -- but having to be safe, neat and efficient for minimum wage? Unacceptable!

My heart did go out to the person who finished three years of community college and relocated to a new town for an ultimately failed relationship.
"To be honest," the person wrote, "my heart was not in dental hygiene, therefore I went back to my home town to work for the cleaning company and follow my heart."
I could mock this on several different levels but I'll go with this: Why are you telling me this in a cover letter asking for a job?

I don't think hobbies should be listed on resumes, especially if they include "keeping busy" as one gentleman wrote.
And the guy whose list of qualifications decreased in font size to form a funnel shape kind of annoyed me. Seriously, dude ... I could barely read that you are a "proactive problem solver."

Sadly, I had to put some of these resumes in the 'Possible' file. If I excluded everyone whose resume was incredibly fucked up, I'd have a talent pool of three to draw from. I am looking forward to meeting the dude who wrote "My drive and commitment to excellence may only be recognized through a personal meeting."
That guy must have a major pair of 'nads. He will be ruthlessly mocked if his "commitment to excellence" is not up to my exacting standards.

Obscure Ontario Liquor Laws

I took my Smart Serve course tonight. Hold your applause.
Not only did it get me out of baby sitting but, in four-to-six weeks, it will legally allow The Aging Hipster to sell alcoholic beverages in Ontario. Don't think I won't take advantage of that, booze moochers. A glass of wine is now $2.50 at The Leith Home For Failed Writers.
Three bucks for a beer and $3.50 for spirits. If you think you can find a better price, knock yourselves out. We have better music, allow smoking and watch Star Trek (TNG) at midnight.
During my extensive studies for the course, I did unearth some obscure Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario (AGCO) laws.

1 c.) Patrons may, at management's discretion, be forcibly ejected after playing "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley on the juke box three non-consecutive times.
Patrons must, by law, be forcibly ejected after playing this song on the juke box three consecutive times.
Servers may legally kick anyone playing "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf twice before ejecting them.

3 f.) Service of alcoholic beverages is prohibited after 2 am. Please be advised the "Beer Ain't Drinkin'" defense was overturned by the Ontario Court of Appeal on May 5, 2006.

4 a.) A licensed establishment may lose said license if found dispensing drinks not paid for by the patron, even if said patron has huge boobs.

7 a.) Although discrimination on the basis of Race, Sex, Color, National Origin, Disability, Religion or Sexual Orientation is strictly prohibited, the server may address any male ordering a crantini as either 'Charlotte' or 'Princess'.

12 b.) Service shall be immediately stopped to anyone ordering "a hound for the rouse" as laid out in the court case Ellicott v. The Province of Ontario.

18 f.) An alcoholic beverage may contain up to 12 ml of spittle if the tip of "don't bet on the horses" or similar advice is offered in lieu of monetary recompensation.

A critical reappraisal of the film Cabin Boy, fifteen years hence

Anxiety kills theatrical release. I figure that audiences are almost always willing to embrace risk, just as long as they are confident that they are in safe hands and have faith that the film maker is taking them somewhere interesting, and for good reason. I don't think that we even mind if the ride is sometimes a little bit bumpy and we occasionally touch down somewhere quite unexpected. It is this magical mystery element that makes a production like Chris Elliott's Cabin Boy so much more compelling than Woody Allen's Annie Hall, a production of undeniable quality with plenty of quality actors giving quality performances to create a quality film experience that quality critics all are informed upon receiving their union card they must love.

(My apologies to the theatre critic whose prose I stole and replaced with relevant references but, seriously dude -- your job is useless. I should know. I've done it.)

Audiences are happy to embrace risk – much more than most directors and producers give them credit for – but audiences don't like to be made to feel anxious. Watching Elliott cry "My christening wig! I've had in since infancy," as thugs toss his figurative innocence overboard makes the viewer cringe in sympathy and in esoteric understanding. Elliott has boarded the wrong ship in a comic conceit not wielded so very expertly since the writers of Three's Company wove their magic.

While Brian Doyle-Murray and Andy Richter shine, it is truly Chris Elliott that owns Cabin Boy. His unapologetic portrayal of a Fancy Lad gathered no Oscar nominations, garnered no critical praise and is not mentioned in the same breath as De Niro in Raging Bulll or Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump.

Time will prove Cabin Boy as worthy as any Oscar nominated film.

As long as Time rolls marijuana cigarettes and secretly smokes them while Barb is out at a baby shower.

Allow Me To Present ...

The Best Album Cover Ever.

Anger Me!

I've not been posting enough lately.
I've thought long and hard (hehehe) about why and I think I've come up with the answer. I'm just not angry enough anymore.

For example :

Rather than raising their prices to ride out the world food shortage/shitty economy, major food manufacturers are making the quantities smaller while charging the same amount.
I've noticed the trend ... McCain's ... Oakburn Farms ... I'm looking at you.
Sigh ... I've got nothing except resignation ... That'll happen.

Bell Canada buys The Source by Circuit City stores in Canada, forcing employees to quickly back-track on all the anti-Bell propaganda they were forced to spout while trying to earn enough money to appease original pimp daddy Uncle Ted Rogers (now deceased).
I've got some mild amusement that I no longer work there ... a little empathy for those not smart enough to leave ... that's about it.

We have a Conservative government in Ottawa; We have taser happy Mounties in British Columbia; I have a a drunken Barb who insists on yelling "Hulk Smash" and thumping me on top of the head.
No anger -- no venom -- only a slight headache.
No rants save this one -- Barb, if you don't quit yelling "Hulk Smash" and thumping me on the head ... I will send you to rehab.
You don't read comic books. You've never seen a Hulk movie. Where the hell are you getting this from?

I invite you, Gentle Reader, to try and raise my dander ... so to speak.
Send me the most annoying news stories you have read recently. Share your personal stories of consumer frustration and corporate impotence. If you must, Insult my hygiene, appearance or writing ability.

Please note: if your comment is "Hulk Smash" I will have you committed so fast your head will fucking spin.

Happy Fat Tuesday

It is turning out to be a great day for geeky comedy fan boys.
First, Andy Richter signs back on as Conan O'Brien's sidekick when he takes over The Tonight Show on the first of June.
Then Michael Cera - formerly the last holdout - signs on for the long rumoured Arrested Development movie.
The only way today gets any better is if Tina Fey and Alyson Hannigan show up at my door with an assortment of whisky, fireworks and pornographic films.

... and the winner for best belated Oscar blog post is ...

Wanna hear something sad?
I'm nearly forty-years-old and most of the movies of 2008 that I saw were based on comic books:
The Dark Knight, The Hulk, Hancock, Iron Man and Hellboy 2.

I did watch movies about making movies, angry, well-armed, racist senior citizens and panda's who can suddenly perform an acceptable amount of Kung Fu.

Regardless, I watched the Academy Awards.
Partly to mock them, mostly because there was nothing else on television.

As entertainment The Oscars failed.

As an excuse to invent a drinking game it fared a little better.

These were the rules going in:

Drink every time there was a standing ovation.
Drink the eleven times someone I had heard of ... including Charlton Heston over Joan's left-wing protestations ... had died in the memorial video.
Drink every time someone mentioned prominent Negro President Barack Obama.
Drink every time someone thanked God. (When Bill Maher cursed God, I threw up a little bit into my glass in recompense.)
Drink every time a movie I actually watched won anything.
Drink every time Sean Penn weeps.
Drink every time someone in the pre-show mentioned Vera Wang. (Actually, I giggled first then drank. WANG ... hehehe.)
Drink every time some Asian dude thanks his pencil and company robot.

Last year I made the mistake of drinking every time someone sounded like a pretentious twat.
I was carted off to the hospital at 9:38 pm. I had my stomach pumped at 10:19 pm.

Happy Family Day

Family Day brings back so many fuzzy memories, doesn't it? The traditional Family Day Eve dinner of one (1) bucket of chicken and water; listening to classic Family Day carols by Sister Sledge and Mike and The Mechanics; gathering around the television to watch a midnight showing of Eight Is Enough. Priceless memories.
While you casually toss your Family Day Knickers on the sofa, waiting for the Genealogy Monkey to fill it with gifts of oranges and disposable cameras - please spare a thought for those who have no-one to make them feel like a failure.
The only reward afforded these poor unfortunates is a paid day off from work.
Help make someone's Family Day complete.

Anonymously email someone and tell them they have wasted their potential.

Randomly phone people and ask why they haven't given you grandchildren.

Tell folks you've just met that they drink to much and passive aggressively mention interventions.

Start arguments with complete strangers over what you'll get in the will when their parents die.

This Family Day, bring Christian charity to those in need. It starts with you!

(please note: family is defined as one father, one mother and at least one offspring - all others need not apply)

Happy Valentine's Day

I'd like to give you all something of very high quality that takes none of your space and wastes none of your time.
A pipe bomb has been mailed in your name to Hallmark Industries Inc.

Elmo Video Watched, Not Enjoyed, By Drunken Babysitter

Apparently, Screw My Ex-Girlfriend ... Please has been my most influential post since I urged America to vote for change.
I am currently babysitting a five-year-old boy, a two-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old bottle of Scotch.
Later, I will take all three out to the car, roll up the windows and light a cigarette. We won't be going anywhere, I just enjoy all manner of criminal activity.
While I entertain her children with a rousing chorus of Cocaine Blues by Johnny Cash, Skipper is out on a date, all thanks to my blog entry.
So ... who is grossly invading your privacy and robbing you of your dignity now?
Seriously, who is it?
Whoever it is owes me a bottle of bourbon.

It Was A Good Day ...

10:15 am : Wake relatively unhungover.

10:22 am : Sit down with a coffee and smoke in front of SportsCentre.

11:24 am : Go outside to brush off the car. Discover the car does not need brushing.

11:45 am : Arrive at job I don't hate.

3:30 pm : Skip out early from job I don't hate.

4:20 pm : Finish my thrift shop excursion - from which I've obtained two Hugo Boss shirts, a pair of jeans, a silk tie and a Neil Gaiman novel for the princely sum of $12.46

5:45 pm : Eat pizza.

6:30 pm : Nap.

9:00 pm : Wake up.

9:10 pm : Pour myself a Greyhound. Repeat every twenty minutes.

I know age and experience have dulled my expectations but overall; not a bad day.
The only way it could be made better is if I had tickets for "LOST! - THE MUSICAL" starring Tom Waits as John Locke, Neko Case as Kate and Willie Nelson as The Smoke Monster.

On A Positive Note ...

Danny Michel played the same venue, later that week. I loved that show more than I -- see below -- hated the previous gig.
It was one of those times I wondered why I was being paid.
Terri, if you read this, I still expect to be paid.

Click the title to go to his website.

On his Wikipedia page, Danny Michel is described as "Tom Waits meets Cheap Trick."
I didn't find the analogy completely true ... but it sounds awesome, doesn't it?
I'm willing to cut the critic some slack. "Writing about music," as Frank Zappa said, "is like dancing about architecture."
That said ... all four of the faithful readers who take my advice about music ... and everyone else who ends up here looking for Simpsons quotes or ridiculous aircraft plans (I'm looking at you, Roger) ... should buy his music and attend his shows.
He is so good I almost feel bad for mentioning him in such an unsavoury blog.

After Careful Reconsideration, I No Longer Wish To Rock.

I have never related to the authority figure in that Twisted Sister video before Friday night.
(Click the title for those of you who forget what I'm talking about.)

I found myself running the house for five hours of hardcore metal in a hundred seat theatre. The first hour made me giggle. The second hour reduced my giggle to a smirk. After that ... only anger ... Black Hate and Anger - which I think may have been one of the band names.

Perhaps it was my inability to communicate with the 'kids' that caused the problem.
When I said, "Give me the goddamned beer NOW," I really meant "Sorry, but you are in violation of our local liquor laws. Please relinquish that warm can of Old Milwaukee."
When I asked, "Kid, are you some sort of fucking idiot?" I was saying "Son, it isn't the size of the firecracker I take umbrage with. It is the fact that you lit said firecracker indoors and five feet away from me."
When I snarled, "I am going to smack you, you twiggy, pasty-faced little prat," I meant ... well ... I meant exactly that. Except no one could hear me as the music topped out at 116 dbs.

I think the more likely problem is that the music sounded like someone repeatedly kicking the Cookie Monster in the nuts over a wall of dissonance. All is set to the choreography of eight guys in the front row who looked like heavy metal chickens.

I was young once. My first concert was Metallica at Maple Leaf Gardens. Admittedly, I find them unlistenable these days but I can recognize the artistic merit.
But Friday night was ... words fail me ... aggressively unmusical?

I feel like an old, old man. I'm pretty sure I hopped up on the bar at one point, shook my fist and yelled, "You whippersnappers -- get off my damn lawn".
In my defense, they were playing keep away with my bifocals.

DID YOU KNOW ...

... Comedian Rip Taylor served his country honourably as a sniper in the 24th Infantry Division during the Korean War?

DID YOU KNOW ...

.. The Speedo bathing suit was designed by French designer Jacques Speedo, who envisioned it, combined with suspenders and a bow tie, as every day attire?

DID YOU KNOW ...

... The popular 70s' sit-com The Jeffersons was based on a true story?
The real George and Weezie Jefferson are Scandinavian. The characters were changed to African-Americans by the producers to capitalize on the success of Fat Albert and The Cosby Kids.

DID YOU KNOW ...

... Flin Flon is the dirty movie capital of Canada? Nearly two-thirds of the commercial pornography produced in the Great White North emanates from this Manitoba mining town.

DID YOU KNOW ...

... Groundhogs are the only mammal other than humans to employ the missionary position while making love?

DID YOU KNOW ...

... that 27.4 per cent of ballet students in central Ontario are named Caitlan?
A full 73 per cent of them dot their "i"s with little hearts.
Only 0.081 per cent of ballet students are named Butch.

I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, GET FREAKY!!!

Yeah ... you heard that right.
Fisting.
Barrack Obama is shaping up to be the best American President ever!
Watch him shut down the CIA's secret prison network.
Watch him reclaim international goodwill.
Watch him manually pleasure his wife ... TO THE EXTREME!
Maybe it's Michelle who is the top ... I dunno and it ain't my business. But it really does feel like a new day has dawned in America, doesn't it?

Seriously, I know of one 'expert' whose face is going to be red when she looks up fisting on the Urban Dictionary.

The Re-Pantsing of The Aging Hipster: Volume 2

Day 4:
Realize I am - for a living - shaking down Elvis impersonators for ten percent.
Resolve to do better -- and shake fifteen percent from future Elvis impersonators.
This job rocks! I am going to try to wear pants during my working hours. I swear - some of you may have done some excellent book keeping or phone answering, Some of you may have even designed award winning advertisements.
But I'll bet none of you got to threaten an Elvis impersonator for two hundred bucks!

Day 5:
I Do some real hard thinking about myself.
Do I want to shake down fake Elvis's (or Elvii) for a living wage?
Or do I want to sell inferior electronics and try to make a profit from selling an extended warranty that will soon be useless as the company is in bankruptcy protection?
Hmmm... If only I had a barbershop quartet fight to break up. That might help me make up my mind.

Day 6:
Those Barbershop quartet guys can really drink.
I never realized the East Coast/West Coast Barbershop rivalry could be so brutal.
Harmonious Rex and The Mellomen tore into each other like animals. They pull hair ... they bite ... they punch groins of honourable men who are just trying to do their job and keep the peace. God help me ... I don't want to sing soprano - I just don't want the cops to show ... OUCHHH!

Day 7:
I don a proper pant, shirt and tie.
I complete much cancer and alternative energy research.
My balls still hurt from the punching, but ...

Huh?

No officer, I really couldn't identify those guys in a line up.
That could be any barbershop quartet who threatened to punch me in the balls again if I called the police.
The straw boater hats and striped shirts make them all look the same.
Thank you, officer - you do good work. I'll call you if I remember anything.

The Re-Pantsing of The Aging Hipster: Volume 1

DAY ONE:

The shaving of my face and scalp happened today. Three loads of laundry were done yesterday. Four out of five people conclude - I do not smell as bad as I once did.
The one differing opinion doesn't ever think I smell respectable and is, by all accounts, immune to my musky charms. I dismiss this opinion slightly more quickly than I dismiss all other opinions.
Pants were worn (pajama bottoms count as pants, don't they?) and my job was attended. Some of my job was even accomplished. Bar orders were made - Suppliers were yelled at - Power Point presentations were updated.
My co-workers went for beer after work. I joined them and, using all my will power, stuck to black coffee.
I was very proud of myself so when I got home I treated myself by immediately disrobing and a drinking a bottle of Scotch.
There is still much work to be done.

DAY TWO:

Woke up around noon to the news I had to be at work in 45 minutes. Despite this setback, I still manage to hose myself off, find a Mr. T shirt (on which he claims to "Pity The Fool") and fashion a crude skirt from unused wrapping paper and leftover chewing gum from my stocking.
Since I have clean pants I am as puzzled by this behaviour as everyone around me.
City officials and camera crews were babysat while commercials were filmed. I almost kept it together but lost points by forgetting to cross my legs. I'm not used to sitting in an Xmas wrap skirt.
In public.
Upon returning home, Barb tells me I smell of stale booze and despair.

DAY THREE:

Woke up at noon - fairly straight as long as pills don't count. They WERE prescribed by a doctor.
Not to me, but aren't we all the same underneath?
I feel I'm backsliding. I don't work until 5 p.m. and I refuse to wear pants until the last minute. This policy makes fetching the mail and blue box from the end of the lane both predictably chilly and strangely arousing.
Don't let anyone tell you I'm not the SOUL of compromise ... as I am convinced to put on pants at 4:55 for my entrance into the building. Once I get into my office, anything goes, so please knock first.
The rest of my shift was fairly uneventful until the end of the night when (not lying here) I had to shake down an Elvis impersonator for our share of the merchandise sales.
I come home, pour myself a drink and make a blog entry ...

THE END?
(the question mark at the end leads you to believe it might not really be the end)

Thank You For Your Patience

Normal blogging activity will resume shortly.

We are currently in Phase One of 'Operation Start-Acting-Like-A-Normal-Adult-Who-Shaves-And-Bathes-Semi-Regularly-And-Quit-Behaving-Like-A -Booze-Fueled-Sociopath-Who-Refuses-To-Wear-Pants'.
Anyone with a less wordy operation name is encouraged to contact management.


Yours in a special, special way,

The Aging Hipster