Deer, much like everything else on earth, find me intimidating. It's a curse I deal with every single day.
Make Good Art
3 years ago
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
POV Experiment: story two
I'm taking old stories from a college road trip and retelling them from another point of view. Here's my pov of story two: We watched the Bearcats lose in their typical March-fashion to UCLA on St. Patricks Day in Flagstaff, Arizona. We sipped Guinness as a 13 year-old bagpipe virgin terrorized our ear drums. His insane mother/teacher thought it made perfect sense to hold his first lesson in public. It sounded like he was torturing a goose. And maybe he's gotten better since then, but that day he was the worst thing to ever happen to music.
Here's another:
Aaron, 13, is very blond and very German. His grandpa was born in Bockenheim just outside of Frankfort and came to the US in 1917. St. Patrick's Day has as much significance to their family as First Nations Day (Canada's June nod to their natives). Despite this, Aaron and his mother Kat, 43, walk into McTeller's with a new set of bagpipes. They were the first of eight booked bagpipe players that day. Kat lied earlier that month about Aaron's skill level.
Aaron holds the door for his mom. "I don't think I wanna do this."
"Sure you do. You were so excited last night."
"Yeah but there's people."
"Oh...there are four man babies drinking beer at 11 in the morning. Don't worry about them."
"I still wanna go I think. Please."
"Aaron. Who's idea was this? Hmm?"
"Mine."
"And who said he needs to practice if he thinks he's going to play in front of our entire family and all of grandpa's friends?"
"I did."
"Well..."
"But it's not going to be for years."
"How do you know?" Kat pulls the pipes out of the case and hands them to Aaron. "It could happen at any time. You gotta be ready."
"Maybe he doesn't even like bagpipes. Maybe it was a stupid idea."
"Aaron. He's going to be dead. You could play the trombone for all he cares."
Aaron stares at his mom, shocked by her bluntness. He loves his grandpa. More than baseball, more than the Hustler magazine he and his friends have hidden in their woods, more than his 12 old lab, Saddie, who also is going to die soon.
Kat recognizes she went too far. "I'm sorry. It's not a stupid idea, Aaron. He will love it."
Aaron looks, deciding if he believes her. "How do you know?"
"Cause I know. But you have to practice. He won't love it if you don't practice. Now c'mon."
Aaron regains his strange but noble courage, and fills the bag with air. He takes a quick glance around the room. It'll be fine he says to himself. He pictures his grandpa inside that pillow-filled coffin wearing a blue suit. He does need to practice. His mom is right. Using his bony elbow, Aaron sets out on his terribly loud, maiden voyage. His grandpa could have been more proud.
Here's another:
Aaron, 13, is very blond and very German. His grandpa was born in Bockenheim just outside of Frankfort and came to the US in 1917. St. Patrick's Day has as much significance to their family as First Nations Day (Canada's June nod to their natives). Despite this, Aaron and his mother Kat, 43, walk into McTeller's with a new set of bagpipes. They were the first of eight booked bagpipe players that day. Kat lied earlier that month about Aaron's skill level.
Aaron holds the door for his mom. "I don't think I wanna do this."
"Sure you do. You were so excited last night."
"Yeah but there's people."
"Oh...there are four man babies drinking beer at 11 in the morning. Don't worry about them."
"I still wanna go I think. Please."
"Aaron. Who's idea was this? Hmm?"
"Mine."
"And who said he needs to practice if he thinks he's going to play in front of our entire family and all of grandpa's friends?"
"I did."
"Well..."
"But it's not going to be for years."
"How do you know?" Kat pulls the pipes out of the case and hands them to Aaron. "It could happen at any time. You gotta be ready."
"Maybe he doesn't even like bagpipes. Maybe it was a stupid idea."
"Aaron. He's going to be dead. You could play the trombone for all he cares."
Aaron stares at his mom, shocked by her bluntness. He loves his grandpa. More than baseball, more than the Hustler magazine he and his friends have hidden in their woods, more than his 12 old lab, Saddie, who also is going to die soon.
Kat recognizes she went too far. "I'm sorry. It's not a stupid idea, Aaron. He will love it."
Aaron looks, deciding if he believes her. "How do you know?"
"Cause I know. But you have to practice. He won't love it if you don't practice. Now c'mon."
Aaron regains his strange but noble courage, and fills the bag with air. He takes a quick glance around the room. It'll be fine he says to himself. He pictures his grandpa inside that pillow-filled coffin wearing a blue suit. He does need to practice. His mom is right. Using his bony elbow, Aaron sets out on his terribly loud, maiden voyage. His grandpa could have been more proud.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
We're all gonna die
If you don't see this as the beginning of the end for all of us, you're blind. I'm 5,000,000% positive that armies of ninja bears are training in West Virginia as we speak. There won't be any youtube videos of that. We'll all be dead.
POV Experiment: story one
Here's my point of view of story one: We stumbled upon an Irish pub in St. Louis that served entire pitchers of beer for a quarter. That enabled us to spend the night dancing with Refrigerator Perry's daughters (figuratively speaking).
Here's another:
Theatrice walks off the dance floor and up to the bar. She wipes beads of sweat off her forehead with a cocktail napkin. Her sister Rondelle and cousin Maylinda remain on the floor. Theatrice orders a drink with a simple finger-wave to the bartender, Mike. She (and her cousins) are regulars on Wednesday nights. It's Quarter Pitcher night but Theatrice (and her cousins) hate beer. They drink white zinfandel spritzers.
"One Zin Spritz. Do your partners in crime need one?" Mike asks looking to the dance floor where Rondelle and Maylinda are dancing with three white boys.
"No, they're good right now." Thea leans against the bar watching them.
Mike takes Thea's money and says, "I see they found some dry fish out there."
Dry fish are the reason Thea and the girls come out on Wednesday nights. Quarter pitchers are bait for the Abercrombies and Fitches of St. Louis University. They consume gallons and gallons of draft beer and always end up on the dance floor.
"White boys are silly aren't they?" Thea takes a sip of her spritz.
"Like fish out of water on that floor. These ones are especially bad. They from SLU?" Mike asks.
"No. Ohio."
"Ohio? What are they doing here?"
"Flailin'." Thea laughs as one of the white boys smacks her cousin's rump.
"That looks more like smackin'." Mike says.
"White boys are silly aren't they?" Theatrice shakes her head and walks back onto the dance floor. One of the white boys is convinced Thea is in love with him. He raises the roof and flails his way toward her.
Here's another:
Theatrice walks off the dance floor and up to the bar. She wipes beads of sweat off her forehead with a cocktail napkin. Her sister Rondelle and cousin Maylinda remain on the floor. Theatrice orders a drink with a simple finger-wave to the bartender, Mike. She (and her cousins) are regulars on Wednesday nights. It's Quarter Pitcher night but Theatrice (and her cousins) hate beer. They drink white zinfandel spritzers.
"One Zin Spritz. Do your partners in crime need one?" Mike asks looking to the dance floor where Rondelle and Maylinda are dancing with three white boys.
"No, they're good right now." Thea leans against the bar watching them.
Mike takes Thea's money and says, "I see they found some dry fish out there."
Dry fish are the reason Thea and the girls come out on Wednesday nights. Quarter pitchers are bait for the Abercrombies and Fitches of St. Louis University. They consume gallons and gallons of draft beer and always end up on the dance floor.
"White boys are silly aren't they?" Thea takes a sip of her spritz.
"Like fish out of water on that floor. These ones are especially bad. They from SLU?" Mike asks.
"No. Ohio."
"Ohio? What are they doing here?"
"Flailin'." Thea laughs as one of the white boys smacks her cousin's rump.
"That looks more like smackin'." Mike says.
"White boys are silly aren't they?" Theatrice shakes her head and walks back onto the dance floor. One of the white boys is convinced Thea is in love with him. He raises the roof and flails his way toward her.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
POV Experiment: intro
My senior year of college we took a road trip for our spring break. Little pips and tiny squeaks were going to Panama City for a week of jello shots and crotch-to-crotch dancing. That was so literally sophomoric. We were epic. And mature. So we went to China. Just kidding. We were epic lite and went to the Grand Canyon. That was our only real plan. Head West and find adventure. Ryan's parents let us borrow their conversion van. Gordon's parents let us borrow Gordon.
Here are a few moments that became rememberies. (BOOM- I just made up a word.)
We stumbled upon an Irish pub in St. Louis that served entire pitchers of beer for a quarter. That enabled us to spend the night dancing with Refrigerator Perry's daughters (figuratively speaking).
We watched the Bearcats lose in their typical March-fashion to UCLA on St. Patricks Day in Flagstaff, Arizona. We sipped Guinness as a 13 year-old bagpipe virgin terrorized our ear drums. His insane mother/teacher thought it made perfect sense to hold his first lesson in public. It sounded like he was torturing a goose. And maybe he's gotten better since then, but that day he was the worst thing to ever happen to music.
We camped in Sedona, AZ after a day of hiking the red rocks. When we got to the site and set up camp we needed firewood. Instead of buying it for like $3 we decided to march into the forest and find a batch of logs the campsite manager said existed. He told us the electric company downed a mess of trees as they cleared the way for a new line. The campsite manager was being a jerk I think. The logs were literally over the river/creek, thru the woods and up a monster hill. And they were the size of bass drums. And they were half granite. So we ended up throwing the half ton logs back down the hill, hauled them over the creek and up to our site. It was easily the most exhausting day of my life. Those big boys burned good did their best to keep us warm that night as the temperature dipped to about 20 degrees. We slept in our winter coats and shoes inside of sleeping bags and almost died. The moral of the story is we saved $3. We invested that money in the stock market (bought shares in the internet) and now we're filthy rich. Totally worth it.
We made it to the Grand Canyon and there was snow and fog everywhere. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you. We were slightly depressed that we drove all that way to see fog. We were freezing, sore and tired. All we kept thinking about was the pips and squeaks in Panama City. But then, like a Christmas miracle, the fog evaporated. We were the groom, the canyon our arranged-marriage bride, and we watched as her veil got lifted revealing a craggy beauty that left us breathless. We spent the next few hours throwing snow balls into our bride's mouth. It was intimate and beautiful. Then Tyler looked at a map and told us we could be in San Diego in five hours. Our sunshine-lust clouded our judgement and caused us to believe him. We jumped in the van and drove thru the night.
Nearly ten hours later (and a brief, border patrol scare) we woke up in San Diego. Shockingly, Tyler was way off. We had slept/parked on the street in a super swank neighborhood and that morning stumbled out of the van for a stretch in the California sun. Rich ladies walking their dogs didn't know what to make of a conversion van with horns tied to the front grill and four grizzly Adams lurking amongst their stucco mansions. We left for the beach. Ryan and I soaked it all in while Gordy and Tyler did laundry. That's how they celebrated our 44 hour pilgrimage. They machine-washed their thunderpanties inside a florescent-lit laundromat. I'm still dumbstruck by that move.
So my next few posts are going to be Point of View Experiments. I'll take these little vignettes and tell the same story from a different point of view. It'll be fun for me and probably boring for you. So...tune in later when I go back to posting the mind-blowing videos you've grown to love and need to survive.
Here are a few moments that became rememberies. (BOOM- I just made up a word.)
We stumbled upon an Irish pub in St. Louis that served entire pitchers of beer for a quarter. That enabled us to spend the night dancing with Refrigerator Perry's daughters (figuratively speaking).
We watched the Bearcats lose in their typical March-fashion to UCLA on St. Patricks Day in Flagstaff, Arizona. We sipped Guinness as a 13 year-old bagpipe virgin terrorized our ear drums. His insane mother/teacher thought it made perfect sense to hold his first lesson in public. It sounded like he was torturing a goose. And maybe he's gotten better since then, but that day he was the worst thing to ever happen to music.
We camped in Sedona, AZ after a day of hiking the red rocks. When we got to the site and set up camp we needed firewood. Instead of buying it for like $3 we decided to march into the forest and find a batch of logs the campsite manager said existed. He told us the electric company downed a mess of trees as they cleared the way for a new line. The campsite manager was being a jerk I think. The logs were literally over the river/creek, thru the woods and up a monster hill. And they were the size of bass drums. And they were half granite. So we ended up throwing the half ton logs back down the hill, hauled them over the creek and up to our site. It was easily the most exhausting day of my life. Those big boys burned good did their best to keep us warm that night as the temperature dipped to about 20 degrees. We slept in our winter coats and shoes inside of sleeping bags and almost died. The moral of the story is we saved $3. We invested that money in the stock market (bought shares in the internet) and now we're filthy rich. Totally worth it.
We made it to the Grand Canyon and there was snow and fog everywhere. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you. We were slightly depressed that we drove all that way to see fog. We were freezing, sore and tired. All we kept thinking about was the pips and squeaks in Panama City. But then, like a Christmas miracle, the fog evaporated. We were the groom, the canyon our arranged-marriage bride, and we watched as her veil got lifted revealing a craggy beauty that left us breathless. We spent the next few hours throwing snow balls into our bride's mouth. It was intimate and beautiful. Then Tyler looked at a map and told us we could be in San Diego in five hours. Our sunshine-lust clouded our judgement and caused us to believe him. We jumped in the van and drove thru the night.
Nearly ten hours later (and a brief, border patrol scare) we woke up in San Diego. Shockingly, Tyler was way off. We had slept/parked on the street in a super swank neighborhood and that morning stumbled out of the van for a stretch in the California sun. Rich ladies walking their dogs didn't know what to make of a conversion van with horns tied to the front grill and four grizzly Adams lurking amongst their stucco mansions. We left for the beach. Ryan and I soaked it all in while Gordy and Tyler did laundry. That's how they celebrated our 44 hour pilgrimage. They machine-washed their thunderpanties inside a florescent-lit laundromat. I'm still dumbstruck by that move.
So my next few posts are going to be Point of View Experiments. I'll take these little vignettes and tell the same story from a different point of view. It'll be fun for me and probably boring for you. So...tune in later when I go back to posting the mind-blowing videos you've grown to love and need to survive.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Reel
We posted our reel. It's pretty crazy to see all this work mashed together. There are so many behind-the-scenes stories crammed into this tiny highlight reel. It makes my head spin with lots of emotions.
Fox Hunt Fail Follow-up
I was at Chez Nora in Covington last night and this piece of art was in the men's bathrooom. No joke. What are the chances? 
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Fox Hunt Fail
I think I might be an idiot.
Yesterday I went to a conference in the city of strip malls (Columbus, Ohio). Around 4:45pm I went on a fox hunt. "What's a fox hunt?" you ask. It's a euphemism for going #2 which is a euphemism for a bowel movement. For a couple years now I've been unsuccessful in getting this euphemism to sweep the nation. It works like this if you want to start incorporating it into your BM proclamations.
"I'm going on a fox hunt." You announce.
"What?" Your friend asks.
"Gotta release the houuuuuuuuunds!" You elaborate.
"You're so clever and amazing." Your friend realizes.
(euphemism side note: I'm not so sure I love this euphemism as much as I used to now that I own an actual hound.)
ANYWAYS, back to me being an idiot. I walked around looking for the restroom. They were kind of tucked away around the building. I saw the door to the women's bathroom and kept walking another 50 feet. I saw another door and went in. I had the whole place to myself which is great because I prefer hunting fox in complete privacy. So as I sat there, pondering life's mysteries, someone walked in and sat in the stall beside me. She was having an intense conversation on her cell phone. My inner conversation went like this:
Why is this woman in the...OH, MY, FROG! I'm in the women's bathroom. That's why there were so many stalls in here. Now it makes sense. I gotta get out of the women's restroom before any more women come to the restroom. Can she tell I have men's shoes? Should I lift them up? Can she tell my #2 smells like a dude's? Do dudes' #2s smell different? What if other women come in and I have to walk out and apologize for making their hall-of-stalls smell like male turds? The next session is ending right now, they're coming, you need to hurry up. I wish I could disappear. I could just hide here until night fall. I wish she would hurry up. I'm gonna get arrested. Is she gone? Jump up and look over at the sink area. Ok, yep, she's gone. Run. Wait. Flush. Now run. You're exiting, act cool. Act like you go into women's restrooms all the time. No, that's pervy. Just walk. Walk fast and don't make eye contact with anyone. Just go to your bathroom and wash your hands. It's the one with urinals, idiot. Is anyone looking? I don't know, I'm scared to look up from my dude shoes. Just walllllllk, there's your sign, the one without a women in a dress. You're safe. Exhale, you're safe.
It was a very unpleasant fox hunt yesterday at 4:45pm. Very unpleasant. When I made it into my restroom and saw those beautiful, white capped urinals, I felt like the Von Trapp family crossing over to Switzerland. The urinals were alive with the smell of men-music. (That's a euphemism for #1 which is a euphemism for urine.)
The end.
Yesterday I went to a conference in the city of strip malls (Columbus, Ohio). Around 4:45pm I went on a fox hunt. "What's a fox hunt?" you ask. It's a euphemism for going #2 which is a euphemism for a bowel movement. For a couple years now I've been unsuccessful in getting this euphemism to sweep the nation. It works like this if you want to start incorporating it into your BM proclamations.
"I'm going on a fox hunt." You announce.
"What?" Your friend asks.
"Gotta release the houuuuuuuuunds!" You elaborate.
"You're so clever and amazing." Your friend realizes.
(euphemism side note: I'm not so sure I love this euphemism as much as I used to now that I own an actual hound.)
ANYWAYS, back to me being an idiot. I walked around looking for the restroom. They were kind of tucked away around the building. I saw the door to the women's bathroom and kept walking another 50 feet. I saw another door and went in. I had the whole place to myself which is great because I prefer hunting fox in complete privacy. So as I sat there, pondering life's mysteries, someone walked in and sat in the stall beside me. She was having an intense conversation on her cell phone. My inner conversation went like this:
Why is this woman in the...OH, MY, FROG! I'm in the women's bathroom. That's why there were so many stalls in here. Now it makes sense. I gotta get out of the women's restroom before any more women come to the restroom. Can she tell I have men's shoes? Should I lift them up? Can she tell my #2 smells like a dude's? Do dudes' #2s smell different? What if other women come in and I have to walk out and apologize for making their hall-of-stalls smell like male turds? The next session is ending right now, they're coming, you need to hurry up. I wish I could disappear. I could just hide here until night fall. I wish she would hurry up. I'm gonna get arrested. Is she gone? Jump up and look over at the sink area. Ok, yep, she's gone. Run. Wait. Flush. Now run. You're exiting, act cool. Act like you go into women's restrooms all the time. No, that's pervy. Just walk. Walk fast and don't make eye contact with anyone. Just go to your bathroom and wash your hands. It's the one with urinals, idiot. Is anyone looking? I don't know, I'm scared to look up from my dude shoes. Just walllllllk, there's your sign, the one without a women in a dress. You're safe. Exhale, you're safe.
It was a very unpleasant fox hunt yesterday at 4:45pm. Very unpleasant. When I made it into my restroom and saw those beautiful, white capped urinals, I felt like the Von Trapp family crossing over to Switzerland. The urinals were alive with the smell of men-music. (That's a euphemism for #1 which is a euphemism for urine.)
The end.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
K-Strass: fake yo-yo master
In my opinion, there's not much worse than local news. So, I love what ole' K-Strass is doing. He's on a tour scamming local news shows and doing the impossible: making the shows even more awkward than they already are.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
P.O.V.
The other day I was thinking about my time in Boston, Mass. My last stint there was a truly great period of my life. I lived with three good pals, worked in the North End, ate Dunkin Donuts breakfast sandwiches every weekend, and went to "Chapel" every Friday night. We were very religious. Chapel was held at a dive bar on the edge of Boston College's campus called Mary Ann's, the last stop on the Green Line's C train. It was a veritable oasis that we piously trekked to after a long week of work for the sacraments of pop-a-shot and $1 beers. The place reeked of puke, cologne- soaked polo shirts, and spilled beer. It had the look of a 1983 bar inspired by a leaf-peeper's 1967 dining room. Browns, buttery golds, burnt oranges all twisted together and mixed with neon beer signs. It was holy.
One night, after lots of sacraments, my pal Tyler noticed a few pretty girls drinking bottles of Coronas. He approached them. I trailed behind a step to witness his game. As something awesome blasted from the jukebox, something awesome blasted out of Tyler. "You guys much really like Corona." He swayed (accidentally in beat) waiting for their reply. They didn't have one so he elaborated. "Cause these are a buck!" He raised his glass so they knew what he was talking about. They turned around and we went back to pop-a-shot.
Whenever we find ourselves around a campfire we retell this story (and many more). I thought about this the other day and wondered what'd it look like if the Corona girls also retold this story when they get together. I know they don't. But I wanted to play around with the same story from a different point of view. So here goes.
Anna is a medical sales rep and her two friends (Mandy and Eric) are moms. They're at a spa, chatting about old times.
"Remember Mary Ann's?" Anna says.
Mandy rolls her eyes underneath her cucumbers. "That place was a hole."
"Remember the jello-shot night?" Erin says. "Junior year?"
"Yeah. It was after our spring fling. You puked in the bathroom." Anna recalls.
"Everyone puked in that place. That bathroom?!! Sick." Mandy doesn't wax nostalgic like her friends.
"Remember Buck?" Anna asks Erin who nods as she sips her wheat grass smoothie.
"Who's Buck?" Mandy doesn't remember Buck.
"You weren't there that night. Buck was this guy who looked like a...I don't know, how would you describe him, Mandy?"
"He looked like Nick Lachey."
"Yeah, but a beat up version."
"He was cute!"
"Yeah. Until he talked."
"What happened?" Mandy asks.
"He and his buddies were obsessed with that basketball game." Erin explains.
"And Busch Light." Anna chimes.
"Yeah. They weren't BC guys."
"Which is why we were interested."
"Yes. We were...but..."
"He talked." Anna concedes.
"Right. Buck came over to Anna and made fun of her for drinking Corona."
"He was wasted." Anna defends Buck to Mandy.
Erin continues, "He goes, "You guys must love that Corona. Just point blank. And he just stood there."
"That was his line?" Mandy asks.
"I guess?" Erin says. "Then he lifts his Busch Light and goes, "Cause these are a buck!"
"I almost pooped." Anna laughs. "And he was dead serious."
"Why would he say that?!" Mandy asks disgusted.
"Who knows? Cause he was drunk. We turned around and ignored him." Erin explains.
"Did he say anything else? Mandy asks.
"Nope. He and his toady friends went back to playing miniature basketball." Anna says.
"And drinking Busch Lights for a buck!" Erin adds.
"Sweet Buck." Anna reaches for her drink. "Nick Lachey's poor cousin."
The Corona girls laugh and go back to relaxing in their terry cloth robes, sipping their cleansing smoothies and tapping their pedicured feet to the soothing sounds of Enya.
One night, after lots of sacraments, my pal Tyler noticed a few pretty girls drinking bottles of Coronas. He approached them. I trailed behind a step to witness his game. As something awesome blasted from the jukebox, something awesome blasted out of Tyler. "You guys much really like Corona." He swayed (accidentally in beat) waiting for their reply. They didn't have one so he elaborated. "Cause these are a buck!" He raised his glass so they knew what he was talking about. They turned around and we went back to pop-a-shot.
Whenever we find ourselves around a campfire we retell this story (and many more). I thought about this the other day and wondered what'd it look like if the Corona girls also retold this story when they get together. I know they don't. But I wanted to play around with the same story from a different point of view. So here goes.
Anna is a medical sales rep and her two friends (Mandy and Eric) are moms. They're at a spa, chatting about old times.
"Remember Mary Ann's?" Anna says.
Mandy rolls her eyes underneath her cucumbers. "That place was a hole."
"Remember the jello-shot night?" Erin says. "Junior year?"
"Yeah. It was after our spring fling. You puked in the bathroom." Anna recalls.
"Everyone puked in that place. That bathroom?!! Sick." Mandy doesn't wax nostalgic like her friends.
"Remember Buck?" Anna asks Erin who nods as she sips her wheat grass smoothie.
"Who's Buck?" Mandy doesn't remember Buck.
"You weren't there that night. Buck was this guy who looked like a...I don't know, how would you describe him, Mandy?"
"He looked like Nick Lachey."
"Yeah, but a beat up version."
"He was cute!"
"Yeah. Until he talked."
"What happened?" Mandy asks.
"He and his buddies were obsessed with that basketball game." Erin explains.
"And Busch Light." Anna chimes.
"Yeah. They weren't BC guys."
"Which is why we were interested."
"Yes. We were...but..."
"He talked." Anna concedes.
"Right. Buck came over to Anna and made fun of her for drinking Corona."
"He was wasted." Anna defends Buck to Mandy.
Erin continues, "He goes, "You guys must love that Corona. Just point blank. And he just stood there."
"That was his line?" Mandy asks.
"I guess?" Erin says. "Then he lifts his Busch Light and goes, "Cause these are a buck!"
"I almost pooped." Anna laughs. "And he was dead serious."
"Why would he say that?!" Mandy asks disgusted.
"Who knows? Cause he was drunk. We turned around and ignored him." Erin explains.
"Did he say anything else? Mandy asks.
"Nope. He and his toady friends went back to playing miniature basketball." Anna says.
"And drinking Busch Lights for a buck!" Erin adds.
"Sweet Buck." Anna reaches for her drink. "Nick Lachey's poor cousin."
The Corona girls laugh and go back to relaxing in their terry cloth robes, sipping their cleansing smoothies and tapping their pedicured feet to the soothing sounds of Enya.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Bad News Brown
I'm pretty sure the harmonica (also known as the french harp, mouth organ, lickin' stick, Gob-iron, tin sandwich, Rhythm stick, sidewalk Stradivarius, blind harp and slide harp) has never looked so cool. I did a little research and put together an abridged history.
The "harmonica" has been attributed to being invented by the emperor of Japan over 2,000 years ago. Currently, it is the peoples' instrument of China and is annually the most sold instrument in the world. It has retained this elite status since 1922, when the popularity of Borrha Minovitch and The Harmonica Rascals brought it to prominence starting in the French Quarter in New Orleans. Blues players in the city picked up the Gob-iron and started "bending" notes into their unique sound through changes in air pressure. Then Bob Dylan happened. And now Bad News Brown. The future is unclear. But I'm certain The Harmonica Rascals are thrilled with the mad beats of this video.
Also, Mr. Bad News makes me wanna buy a new hat. Now I'm going to research that.
The "harmonica" has been attributed to being invented by the emperor of Japan over 2,000 years ago. Currently, it is the peoples' instrument of China and is annually the most sold instrument in the world. It has retained this elite status since 1922, when the popularity of Borrha Minovitch and The Harmonica Rascals brought it to prominence starting in the French Quarter in New Orleans. Blues players in the city picked up the Gob-iron and started "bending" notes into their unique sound through changes in air pressure. Then Bob Dylan happened. And now Bad News Brown. The future is unclear. But I'm certain The Harmonica Rascals are thrilled with the mad beats of this video.
Also, Mr. Bad News makes me wanna buy a new hat. Now I'm going to research that.
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