Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Rantings of a cold-toed nut-kicker

It makes me mad...
...when the bedroom that has the best view and most space when you rent an apartment in the summertime, has the worst heat distribution in the wintertime when it's eight degrees outside. My toes are gone and I don't know where they've got to.

It makes me mad...
...when all I want to do is go out and enjoy a beer and a game of pool that I know I will lose but there is no one that will go out and beat me in pool and let me buy them a beer because they are all lame. That's right, all my friends are lame. You probably are, too.

It makes me mad...
...when a hardcover book costs $38. $38? I like hardcovers, but a paperback is easier to carry around, fits on my limited shelf space, gets beat up, stained and ripped while being read which only adds to the character of the characters in the book, and costs $25 less. You do know that they just use a bigger font in hardcover books to make it have more pages so that someone will justify spending $38 on it. I tried that bullshit in college once and got half a letter grade off one of my papers.

It makes me mad...
...when a taxi driver you are behind is looking for fares in the middle of a snow storm and continuously slams on their brakes to pick up people that don't want to be picked up, which causes you to go screeching to a halt while praying that the driver behind you is paying as much attention as you were so that you don't get rear ended. Or when a taxi is double parked and pulls away from the curb right as you are passing them and you have to drag race this motherfucker for half a block because you don't want to be behind him when he slams on his brakes again to not pick up someone who doesn't want to be picked up anyway.

It makes me mad...
...when people don't pick up after their dogs because they are grossed out by dog shit. That makes no sense to me at all, and I know three people like that. I yell at them regularly.

It makes me mad...
...when someone sits down at a poker game, says that they will take all your money, proceeds to take some of your money, continues to only talk about how much of your money they have taken, then takes more of your money, brags, takes all of your money, laughs in your face and doesn't give you any money for the beer you bought for poker night so that you could have a good time chatting with your friends about topics other than how little money you have.

It makes me mad...
...when people don't ice their sidewalk. If there is ice on your sidewalk than you are making me mad right now. It's not going to melt for at least another 2 months, asshole. It's winter, figure it out.

It makes me mad...
...when someone I don't like tells stories about me, even if they are good stories. If I don't like you, then you will know it (see the above list) and there is no reason for me to be a novelty or anecdote in your feeble attempt to impress some girl at a bar but telling her how crazy I am when I'm in a situation where I am surrounded by friends and am willing to sacrifice my better judgment for some cheep laughs. Don't drag my actions from that context into you getting some drunk chick to think you're cool because your friends are crazy. I'll kick you in the nuts. Hard.

It just makes me mad...

There's more but I'm going out to a dive bar now to lose to some stranger in pool after driving behind a taxi cause the sidewalk is too icy and too covered with frozen dog shit to walk to the bar and my bedroom is 3 degrees above freezing so I have to go out, warm up my toes and spend money that I don't have because I lost it in poker to some asshole. Maybe I'll just stay in and read a beat up paperback book. If you tell a drunk chick this story, I will find you, tap you on the shoulder and promptly kick you in the nuts. Hard. It's not funny. I will. Wicked hard, too.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Thanksgiving is for the birds


Screw it, there is no need to try to deny it. I missed having Thanksgiving this year. No turkey, no mashed potatoes, no gravy soaked stuffing. I missed out and that bums me out because I love to eat. Then I remembered all the crappy things that have happened to me on Thanksgiving; from family feuds to family deaths from exploding turkeys to tryptophan hangovers. This year, I stayed on my couch in my apartment and watched crappy movies on TV. On the bright side of things, a friend on mine who once invited me up to his house for thanksgiving, gave me a box of booze yesterday. Now I have 4 bottles of very nice red wine, 2 bottles of very nice white wine, and 2 bottles of champagne that I've seen served for more than $100 dollars a bottle. The point is that booze is always there for you, even if turkey and stuffing isn't.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

I stay in bed after elections

I should be working, or eating, or walking the dog today. I am not doing any of these things.

On Nov 4th, 2004, I stayed in bed all day and trembled in fear of having W in the White House for another 4 years. I remember sweating under my blanket, and shivering with cold spells. I didn't get anything accomplished that day. I got out of bed two days after the election.

At 10pm on Nov 7th, 2006, I sat in a dive bar, eating onion rings, sipping PBR, and watching votes come in on a small, poorly color balanced, muted TV directly over the heads of 3 old bluegrass musicians in a dive bar around the corner from my house. Sloppy Joes were only $3 as part of a Tuesday night special. I watched with awe as the Dems won the House, and slowly creep towards the Senate, all to the tune of "My Momma Was a Truck Driving Man" and "Who's That Knocking On My Door (Bad News)" and "I Ain't Broke, I'm Badly Bent." I went to sleep around 4am, slightly giddy about the outcome of the elections. But there was a twinge in my smile, a curl to my lip as I fell asleep, and that twitch came from big corporate money. The Dems won big, that is good. At the moment, they are trust worthy, but that's because they didn't have any power in the House or the Senate, or at least they didn't have enough power to get anything done under the War Hawk talons of the GOP. The thing that gets me is what I heard in passing on CNN while trying to mix a crappy cover band and listen to the votes come in before I gave up and just went to the pub. Corporate America put a lot of money into the Dems this year and will have some pull over the politics of the party, which is not unlike every time a party wins power with the help of corporate contributions, legal or otherwise. Anyone could foresee a shift in power (except for W) and being a large contributor for the right side (read as 'correct side' or 'left side') of politics will have it's benefits; and I'm not talking about a thank you letter or gift certificate to Bed Bath and Beyond. So what will happen? Will we see the tax cuts that W put into effect left in place until the Dems lose power again? Will there be accidental tax or environmental loopholes for the contributors to find and exploit? Most likely, yes. The Democrats have Legislative power. Power corrupts everyone. Corruption fucks lil' people like you and me (unless your not as little as me at which point I think you're lost on the web. Go back, man. Go back!). Corporations pour money into a political party that will gain power. That money buys political pull for the Corporation. Policy swing towards money. So, the money I don't have makes my life harder because the people who spent the money I don't have on a political party are gonna fuck me over once the money that they spent starts working for them. It all boils down to the fact that I just don't trust anyone, which makes me nervous. So nervous that I stay in bed after elections.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

A poem to live by

Once again, my father has made my day. It's funny to think about how much time can change perception, how scorn can change to respect, how family sacrifices proximity closeness for emotional closeness, and how spell check doesn't matter when you know how to spell. After a long day of work, and before another long day of work, I received this breath of fresh air in e-mail form. I'll share it with you and ask you to send it to someone that means something to you. I'm a sucker for the sappy stuff sometimes.


"How to Live" by Charles Harper Webb, from Amplified Dog. © Red Hen Press.
           "I don't know how to live."
                                                  –Sharon Olds

Eat lots of steak and salmon and Thai curry and mu shu
pork and fresh green beans and baked potatoes
and fresh strawberries with vanilla ice cream.
Kick-box three days a week. Stay strong and lean.
Go fly-fishing every chance you get, with friends

who'll teach you secrets of the stream. Play guitar
in a rock band. Read Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Kafka,
Shakespeare, Twain. Collect Uncle Scrooge comics.
See Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, and everything Monty Python made.
Love freely. Treat ex-partners as kindly

as you can. Wish them as well as you're able.
Snorkel with moray eels and yellow tangs. Watch
spinner dolphins earn their name as your panga slam-
bams over glittering seas. Try not to lie; it sours
the soul. But being a patsy sours it too. If you cause

a car wreck, and aren't hurt, but someone is, apologize
silently. Learn from your mistake. Walk gratefully
away. Let your insurance handle it. Never drive drunk.
Don't be a drunk, or any kind of "aholic." It's bad
English, and bad news. Don't berate yourself. If you lose

a game or prize you've earned, remember the winners
history forgets. Remember them if you do win. Enjoy
success. Have kids if you want and can afford them,
but don't make them your reason-to-be. Spare them that
misery. Take them to the beach. Mail order sea

monkeys once in your life. Give someone the full-on
ass-kicking he (or she) has earned. Keep a box turtle
in good heath for twenty years. If you get sick, don't thrive
on suffering. There's nothing noble about pain. Die
if you need to, the best way you can. (You define best.)

Go to church if it helps you. Grow tomatoes to put store-
bought in perspective. Listen to Elvis and Bach. Unless
you're tone deaf, own Perlman's "Meditation from Thais."
Don't look for hidden meanings in a cardinal's song.
Don't think TV characters talk to you; that's crazy.

Don't be too sane. Work hard. Loaf easily. Have good
friends, and be good to them. Be immoderate
in moderation. Spend little time anesthetized. Dive
the Great Barrier Reef. Don't touch the coral. Watch
for sea snakes. Smile for the camera. Don't say "Cheese."


I'd only add the following -
Spill some blood, then donate blood and see which
feels better. Water your plants. Clean your room. Call
someone a jerk. Stop saying the word "um," it only slows
you down. Rant and rave about something. Write a letter.
Read a book and then give it away. Spend some time

in a boat. Get caught in a thunderstorm. Build a fire and watch
it go out. Play on the swings. Rearrange your furniture.
Drink some wine on a rooftop, or a mountaintop. Wear
Band-aids with little devil duck prints on them. Make up a word.
Walk to work. Lie to your boss, once. Laugh long and hard at life.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Mr. T and me.

Mr T rocks my world
He called me “Brother.” That makes it official. I am a “brother” now and no one can take that away, because Mr. T said so. I was working at the Four Seasons Hotel, running sound for a 21 piece band. I was out front, enjoying my 5 minute break, standing in front of the revolving doors to the hotel, shooting the breeze with the Valet parking guys when out of no where a large black man wearing a gray hoodie Chicago sweater, speed-walks up to me like only Mr. T. can, and says, “Hey, brother!” like only Mr. T can. To which I replied, “Hey, Mr. T! You were great on the Conan O’Brian show.” He shook my hand, which had jumped out of my Tux pocket and was preventing him from entering the hotel, and replied, “That was the best interview I’ve ever done.” If you haven’t seen the Mr. T. interview on Conan O’Brian, they both end up on top of his desk, dancing like madmen and stating how a talking Mr. T doll is gonna ‘deflower Barbie after kicking G.I. Joe’s ass”. I released his hand and watched a 70 year old woman chase him to the elevators, demand a hug then brag to her husband as they got into their Cadillac. Here’s a video that Mr. T made, it contains knowledge of the ages, so pay attention, fool.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Monday night gang fight

Be warned, I'm drunk. But it seemed like a good time to (post stuff). Yes, it's monday night, but I work on the weekend, every weekend and I have a recording session in the morning, but that's only if you count noon as part of the morning, which I sometimes do. That being said, tomorrow morning, I have a session at noon.


I just came back from a dive bar. I don't think that it's worth going to expensive bars durring the week, or the month or year for that matter. If I wanted to be distracted by large amounts of flat plasma I'd jump into a volcano. Alas, there are no volcano's in Chicago, which is a good thing. So I was at a dive bar and I saw a gang fight. Snoopy is a Latin King. Some poor Mexican, who was very bad at singing along to Mexican songs I'd never heard before, beat Snoopy at pool and, as a result, Snoopy tried to choke him / kill him. I meet Snoopy because I was drinking Scotch, which he thought was Tequila. In my years, I've learned that anyone drinking Scotch in a bar wants to be older than they actually are. In my defense, I'm old enough and just want something to slow me down after a long night. Regardless of why I was drinking Scotch, my new buddy, Snoopy, decided the best thing for him to do was to try to beat the crap out of some guy that beat him in pool. He got kicked out of the dive bar after disrupting some perfectly docile chairs with a very surprised pool victor. I, thinking it was a joke, laughed out loud. Then I realized that it wasn't a joke and jumped in, dragged my new acquaintance, Snoopy, off some other stranger, all the while being called a 'nigga' by a very angry Latin King with fire behind his eyes. Snoopy left, I returned to my Scotch unscathed, and I drank my unscathed Scotch. I'm not sure why I keep capitalizing Scotch, it's just one of those drinks that takes it's self so seriously that I feel that it should start with a capital letter. Am I wrong? It's possible. Who can say? Regardless. I walked across the street to my apt and figured I should write this all down (after e-mailing it all to a different stranger, yes, a stranger that is stranger to me than you). So that is what happened to me tonight. Behold! I've got nothing better to do than to write this down, until tomorrow morning at noon. That's when I've got something better to do.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

My favorite words

Bizzo
(adj) endearing term for a friend who has wronged you by doing any of the following activities behind, or in front of your back.

1) A bizzo is someone who calles and leaves a message on your answering service that starts with "Hey Jerkface! What'cha doing tonight, probably something stupid."

2) A bizzo is someone who casually compares you to an unflattering actor or actress as a way to start up a conversation. Ex. "With your hair like that, you look just like that tall bad guy from Home Alone. Not Joe Peski, the other guy. What was his name? That movie sucked. Anyway, what's up, Jerkface?"

3) A bizzo is someone who, after years of not seeing you due to their copping out on your 2004 New Years party the day before New Years, and convinces all his friends not to come either, calls you an "asshole" and demands that you buy him a drink after two years of excomunication. That being said, a true bizzo will take the drink they forced you to buy for them as an exceptable appology from you, for what they did to you and your failed party.

4) A bizzo will suddenly and abrupty adopt words you've coined and tries to 'zing' you with them. Ex. "Hey, Bizzo! What'cha doing tonight, probably something stupid, Jerkface."

5) A bizzo doesn't drink after you cheers them for being such a good friend, but rather puts their beer down and suddenly remembers how much money you owe them.

6) A bizzo lives their life like a Greek Tragedy of tiny proportions. Ex. "I usually love Kim Chee when its a few months old, but this stuff has sat in the sun too long and tastes like rotten ass. You gotta try it, Jerkface. It's horrible."


Gurmorphen : gur'-morf-inn
(Exclamation) The sound one makes while spitting water back into a public water fountain after being unpleasantly surprised at the temperature, color, taste, texture, and chemical composition of city tap water.

Obsquatch
(Adj/N/V/Exclamation) - A situation, person, experience, or incident that is so overwhelmingly odd that a person succumbs to nausea, hot flashes, cold spells, shortness of breath, irritable bowel syndrome, loss of balance, loss of vision, loss of car keys, scientology, easy-to-use, dishwasher and microwave safe, shoe horn, light house, nearer my God to thee, odorless garlic extract and nosebleeds. Consult your doctor and hide in the basement. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again.

Vocab +2 to hit

I got this e-mail from my Pops, who I love. He is the smartest man I know and we make each other laugh.

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly Neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. The winners are:
1. Coffee (n): the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj): appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v): to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v): to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj): impotent.
6. Negligent (adj): describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v): to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n): olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n): emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n): a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n): a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n): the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n): a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n): a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Circumvent (n): an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year's winners:

1. Bozone (n): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

2. Foreploy (v): Any misre presentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

3. Cashtration (n): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

9. Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

10. Decafalon (n): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

13. Arachnoleptic fit (n): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

14. Beelzebug (n): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

15. Caterpallor (n): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Troubles in Parisite

I keep finding tid-bits from years past. Here is the latest find.

Wednesday, February 25, 2004 9:31 PM
life fuckin sucks

My truck broke today and now I'm super fucking pissed

I feel like I should go crazy, like it will take some stress off me. I'm unemployed and I'm now in the hole for $700 for the fucking truck, I got no clean cloths and my face itches.

I feel like running the 7 miles to the park, ripping all my cloths off and jumping in the pond and quaking like a duck untill I get locked up. I feel like running down the street with a big sign that says, "run me down and I'll let you borrow my Fleetwood Mac collection," or "honk if you need an abortion." I feel like building a catapolt and launching monkeys at the next town over and calling it an act of war. I feel like taking a skinny dump on my front porch and naming it Harry Potter. I feel like hunting down the easter bunny and skinning it. I feel like yelling at children for no reason untill I'm horse and my throat is raw and my face is red. I feel like burning every scratch and sniff book ever published. I feel like dying my hair red, then blue, then green, then orange, then red again and telling people I got in a fight with the kool-aid guy. I feel like making fun of a cripple then confessing to a priest then making fun of the priest and confessing to a cripple. I feel like wresteling the next person I met on the street. I feel like I don't have any rules to live by and I'm super pissed. I feel like jamming the garbage disposal full of junk mail. I feel like banging my head into a wall untill the only thing I can remember is the "My Little Pony" theme song. I feel like blaming the worlds problems on the French. Fuck the French. I feel like riding a tricycle through a mine feild. I feel taking a phone questionair about my long distance provider. I feel like telling every student on the face of the planet the 10 commandments in Japanese. I feel like boiling three gallons of water untill there is no more water to boil, then wearing the pan as a hat for 76 hours. I feel like breaking every window on my street and blaming it on the old folks home around the corner. I feel like playing with matches. I feel like dressing up in a clown suit and hanging out at shooting ranges. I fell like I'm losing my mind.

I feel better

Thursday, September 21, 2006

About Tony

This was originally pubished in a 2003 issue of The-Logos.com online magizine.

About Tony
By Gravy Train
I'm not a writer. I have really bad handwriting that even my parents, the old faithfuls of understanding and unconditional love, complain about. They call me when I write to them to help them translate my scribbles and scratches. I figure that it would be easier on my part just to call them rather than write and my letters have waned in length and frequency. People at my office complain all the time about the messages I leave them so I am required to e-mail all phone messages at this point. This thwarted any attempt at being a writer. So I am not a writer. There is my disclaimer, from here on you have been warned. Right now I am writing because I miss a very good friend of mine who I haven't seen in about 7 years, could be longer, actually. Recently I heard that he cut off his nose and has become a born again Christian, but I won't hold that against Tony.

I met Tony when I was a punk. I was a skinny, scrawny, obnoxious punk in eighth grade. I grew up in Montpelier, Vermont so I wasn't a threatening punk. I don't think we had those in Montpelier. I was just a kid who liked loud music and self induced whiplash. I hung out at a place called The Basement, which was a little room underneath the police station with a pool table and a Sega. It was designed to keep kids/punks like me off drugs. I went there by choice, to play pool and meet my friends. After a game of pool we would leave The Basement, run underneath the train bridge, smoke pot, drink beer, and then return to our "drug free" environment, stoned and drunk. I think The Basement staff knew that we were stoned and drunk but as long as we weren't stoned and drunk and harassing old ladies, we were as good as sober.

Tony was a big guy, a lot older than most of us. He was mean looking, shaved head, broken nose, Mexican, and there weren't many Mexicans where I grew up. He was really loud when he was pissed off, and he was pissed off most of the time. If he lost in pool he'd swear at the table, then at the TV, then at the kid who beat him, then at the window, then at the table again, then he'd take off and go under the train bridge. I never beat Tony at pool. He was a really good skater, and he looked good on a skateboard. Some skaters look gangly and awkward. Not Tony. He'd pull off pretty wild tricks like nollie kick-flips or something. I don't think he had his own skate, he would always use some other kid's board. He broke a lot of skateboards that weren't his. I never owned a skateboard back then. One time he was trying some trick for about an hour and he couldn't land it. His last try the landed wrong and the board smacked him in the nuts. That made him really pissed. A freight train of swears came out of him for the next five minutes or so. It was a run on sentence of strictly swear words. I think that I laughed and then he swore at me. He threw the skateboard at a parking meter then snapped it in half by jumping on it. Then he broke those pieces in half, swearing at them the whole time. Then he threw the pieces at the kid who owned the board and told the kid his skateboard was a piece of shit. Then he told the kid, who’s skateboard was a piece of shit, the he was a piece of shit, too, the kid that is, not Tony. I laughed again and Tony swore at me again.

But everyone liked Tony. He could burp really loud and really long. We recorded a one-minute burp of his one night. Someone had a handheld tape machine and was asking all of us about our opinion of the Montpelier police and the "rampant use of drugs in Montpelier." Just some punks having fun. Most of us said that we liked smoking pot and stealing stuff. Tony unleashed this monster belch right into the tape machine and we were all in awe. His face would have terrorized babies and grandmothers. His neck was pushed way out and the tendons were protruding. Veins on his forehead were bulging. This belch just kept going and going. I can't hold my breath for a minute, but there it was, on tape, one minute of belch. He was drunk and didn't remember burping into a tape machine the next morning, but when we played it for him he laughed and said something like, "holy fucking shit."

I got arrested with Tony once. We were playing hacky-sac on a one-way street when two police cruisers came flying at us from both directions. We were right behind a bank, so we thought there was some kind of bank robbery going on. A cop told us to get out of the road. We kept playing until one of the cops grabbed the hacky-sac away from us. I think Tony swore at him. That's when we got handcuffed. Then we all started swearing at the cops. We each got "disorderly conduct" charges for ‘Disruption of Motor Traffic’ (for playing in the street) and something they called "disrespect to an officer of the law," which was a misdemeanor. I think they just made up that last one. They handed us each $300 fines. I asked if I could do community service cause I was broke and wasn’t about to borrow $300 to pay the MPD, so they gave me a broom, a diesel weed wacker, some work gloves and about thirty hours to clean up the city of Montpelier. I cleaned up the spot under the train bridge where we smoked pot and drank beer. The cops never found that place. Tony didn't pay the fine or do community service. When he was arrested for assaulting an officer less than a year later, they tagged on the disorderly conduct charge and sent him to prison. I was sixteen then. A few days after I got my drivers license I asked my parents if I could borrow the car and of course they asked where I planned on going and I told them to pick up Tony from jail. I don't think they liked the answer but they let me take the car, so I loaded up a few friends and we went to get Tony. It's kind of weird picking up someone from prison, there is this big steel gate and when it opens, there's your buddy in a red Thrasher T-shirt. Nothing else, just a big steel gate and your buddy. He jumped in shotgun and said something like, "Well, that fucking sucked." That was the last we talked about it.

Tony flunked out of my high school. So did a lot of other people. I did pretty well in school, grades wise.

I was getting in a lot of fights at home with my folks. One night my pops almost smacked my mom until I got in the way. I punched him a good one, but he got me even better. I went upstairs to get my little baseball bat, the kind you pick up at a tourist novelty shop that say "I heart Vermontpelier." But I had made this one in shop class on a lathe so it didn't say any stupid crap like that on it. Anyway, I got my little bat so that I could smack my pops in the head with it. I swore at him, he yelled at me, I threatened him, he threatened me, blah blah blah. When my mom saw the little bat she dragged my dad out of the house. I was pissed so I went downtown. I met Tony there and he, for the first time, didn't swear. He took me to Dunkin' Donuts where we had a doughnut. I had my little bat with me. Tony told me I could crash at his place in Barre but he needed to call my mom to tell her I was OK. I didn't want him to but he did and my mom loved Tony ever since that day. We hitch hiked the ten or twelve miles to Barre, but when we got to his house, Tony's mom and stepfather were having a big fight. They kicked him out of the house right then and there. That's when Tony started swearing again. We crashed out on some park picnic tables in a playground nearby. Those things are not too comfortable and we didn't sleep too well. After about a week of hiding out at friend's houses, I returned home. Tony kept crashing at other people's places. I asked my mom if Tony could stay with us until his mom and stepfather let him move back in. That's how Tony and I lived together in the split attic of my folk's house.

He got a job doing tree preservation, stuff like landscaping and playing with cow shit and chain saws. He smelled bad when he came back from work. We decided to charge him rent because his stepfather was being an ass and didn't want Tony to live with us for free anymore. We charged him $35 a month. After a few months, Tony raised his own rent to $100. He got his GED and then bought a Saab. I graduated high school. Tony moved to Washington State to be a lumberjack. That's when he cut off his nose. I heard they fixed it up so it looks real but I don't remember who told me that. The last time I heard from Tony was two years ago on Thanksgiving. He sent my family a thank you card. Short and sweet, "Thanks for everything you have done for me. Tony." No cheesy turkeys or kittens in laundry baskets. Just a blank paper card. My folks talked to Tony's old boss at the tree place a few weeks ago. He said that Tony’s a born again Christian. That's okay with me I guess.

Fuck-shit-ass-damn-bitch-cunt-slut-mother-fucking-dumbass-shitbag-pussy-shiteater-bitchhole- ass-fucking-mother-bitch-ass-shithole-fucker: Tony, I miss you, man.
Written by Gravy Train on Feb 01, 2004

Wedding Bells Tolling In My Hang-Over

Right. I found out that someone reads this crap. Ok then, take this!

Saturday, September 16th, 2006. Wayland, Mass. A grassy field behind a tree nursery. Gareth Hughes marries Amy Santa-Maria creating the Hughes-a-Maria family. I grew a fuzzy navel.

I had been in session for about 14 hours a day the two weeks leading up to this wedding. I was feeling great, about to go on a trip to back to Boston, which I swore to God I would never do due to the fact that I despised Boston after living there unsuccessfully for 4 year after college. I was going to see all my Skidmore chums, and all my Logos Magazine buddies, drink all day and night at open bars and be an all around party animal for a few days before returning to my 14 hour a day job at Three Pear Studios, in Chicago. The flights had been purchased, the hotel accommodations were made, my bags and suits were packed and I just had 2 more sessions on Wed (Sept 13th) and Thurs (Sept 14th) with the most picky hippy jam band to ever grace the planet. Wednesday night's session was supposed to be noon to 8pm. We tracked, retracked, overdubbed, edited and re-retracked until 3am. At about 2am, my body tossed in the towel and decided that the best course of action to get me into bed would be to reverse the course of my bowels and fill my sinuses with half digested hotdog, lamb kabob, and Dr. Pepper. The room became surprisingly hot and stinky. I, with hotdog, lamb kabob and Dr. Pepper what’s-it jammed into my nostrils and ear canals, could not smell anything, nor could I hear anything so tracking and editing for the next hour became a battle against cow ass and undercooked lamb with cous cous invading the inner workings of my head. The session ended. I knew I was in trouble. In less than a day, I had to be looking, behaving, and dancing my best. On my way home, at 3:30am, I stopped by the 24-hour supermarket and dropped $65 on vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. I was going to crush this funk with ferocity unknown to the likes of the common cold since the invention of "letting blood" or "slip-n-slide".

I got sick. Really sick. Can't breathe sick.

So I took vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. By the bucket-full.

I became "whacked out," "hooped up," crazy on cold meds.

I got on a flight headed for Boston with some friends. They got very irritated with my shenanigans. I, of course, thought that I was acting totally within the boundaries of sanity. My friends, as well as Airport Security and Flight Attendants alike, did not agree. I blame the odorless garlic extract. What kind of process does garlic go through in order to become odorless? Obviously one that makes friends, Airport Security and Flight Attendants annoyed.

One the way to the rehearsal dinner I had to stop the caravan of cars traveling from Boston to Wayland so that I could pee due to all the chicken soup, elixirs and liquid placebos that were making my teeth float. I have never in my life taken such a long or satisfying pee that smelled nothing like garlic. The rehearsal dinner was lively. I was docile. I had mentally handcuffed myself to the radiator of 'being totally quiet as to not piss off the bride, groom, old friends, old people, or furry forest animals.' I never knew that such a radiator existed but that is what analogies are best at... inventing radiators... I guess. I drank beers with acasletzer cold tablets. Airborne in white wine was a chaser.

The next day, the day of the wedding, my symptoms were in full visual bloom and my head, though mucus free, fluttered like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. I was messed up, but happy to be alive. I donned my suit, jumped on the shuttle bus and said something stupid to the well dresses attendees already on aboard. Something to the likes of "OK TEAM! TONIGHT WE ARE GOING TO BEAT THEOSE BASTARDS FROM STATE!" I think what I actually said was "... from high school" but to me it seemed like a perfect joke about being on a bus with a bunch of people that were about to go to a rival school to challenge last years state champion football team on homecoming weekend. No one got it. People looked at me funny. I closed my eyes and mentally re-handcuffed myself while I popped 2 Sudafed liquid-gels.

The wedding was beautiful. Gareth, the groom, hadn't shaved above his Adam's Apple. His suit looked great. So did mine. I bought some $3 cheepy sunglasses to shield my puffy, light sensitive eyes from the public and the sun. Amy, the bride, showed up in an old London cab, the kind with back doors that open backwards.

They were so happy, I was high as a kite. I was asked to cue the DJ when Gareth and Amy kissed so that the recessional music would escort them from the alter. Someone else gave me some streamers to throw at them during the recessional. In had visions of myself failing, that when they kissed, I would shoot myself in the face with the spring loaded streamers and start singing the "Family Ties" theme song while disrobing at the end of the isle. Thankfully, I did not fail. They kissed. I waved to the DJ. The music started and I shot my load of silver streamers at the newlyweds as they passed. I was very proud of myself. I deserved a Margarita, and 2000 more milligrams of Vitamin C with Rosehips. I found my seat. I sat down and stayed quiet through out the dinner.

Later I danced like a monkey.

After the wedding, and after many misplaced "he-zah's!" during speeches, the plan was to continue to get plowed drunk at the hotel bar. I was one of the first to show up. Ian (yes, the same Ian from "Living in the bath tub." He is still my friend surprisingly) and I ordered Makers on the rocks from the bartender, Matt. I warned Matt about the ensuing legions of half-cocked wedding go-ers that were about to converge on his 8 seat bar. He seemed unimpressed and ill prepared. By the end, Matt did surprisingly well considering he was surrounded by 40 or more very thirsty, very drunk, well dressed wedding guests. He was seen cracking jokes and laughing amongst the sounds of his glasses breaking and future brides drunkenly babbling about how beautiful Amy looked. In the mean time, Ian and I had started an unfortunate habit of ordering drinks for each other. Like I said, we started with Makers Mark but had quickly moved to more "girly drunk drinks" for kicks. I ordered him a Fuzzy Navel. The recipe is as follows.

1 part peach schnapps
1 part vodka
1 part orange juice
1 part pink lemonade

Mix equal parts of each ingredient in a highball glass, top with ice, and serve.

Very girly.

Ian then ordered me one. Then I order him another and let the following words slip out of my mouth. "If anyone orders a Fuzzy Navel tonight, put it on my tab." I didn't think anyone heard me besides Matt. I went out for a cigarette. When I returned, all eight people at the bar, all six people at the large table in front of the fireplace, all three people on the couch and assorted mingliers, who I swear were not at the wedding, were sipping pinkish-orange cocktails and smiling at me. Word had gotten out. Forgetting that I was dangerously close to toxicity levels of cold pills, I joined the merriment by ordering 3 more Fuzzy Navels. One for me, one for Gareth, and one for me.

The next morning, the conversations buzzing around the huge brunch set up by Amy parents at the large Wayland home wasn't "Didn't Amy look beautiful?" or "Have you ever seen a happier couple?" The burning question that was on everyone's mind was "What do you think Roger's tab was for last night." When I arrived, there was a pool. Bets had been placed weither I had broken the $200 mark due to abundant Fuzzy-ness. Even Gareth was on the edge of his seat. Which is where I leave you, on the edge of you seat. In closing, I am still taking cold meds liberally and still feel like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. A sensation, my friend, which is all too similar to nothing you have ever felt before. It was the best wedding I've ever attended.