Thursday, March 24, 2005

Guessing for GOD.

My brother was dicking around with this website named Now the point of this site is to guess whatever it is you are thinking of within 20 questions ('unknown', while available as an answer is apparently not acceptable, damnit). A friend of ours, Dungster, answered the challenge by trying to get the thing to guess 'god'. Needless to say, it was stumped. There have been all kinds of answers produced by the thing, and I wanted to share mine.

If your god is as difficult to pin-down as I belive it would be, then you will, without a doubt, give the 20Q machine the same bit of confusion.

It hit a couple of metaphors for god (at least, as far as I am concerned, philisophically), but never guessed it by name. My comments on the process are in purple. Enjoy, and please try this yourself. Let me know how yours goes!

BEGIN GAME ---------------------------------------

It is classified as Unknown.
A Good start, I believe.
1 Can it be heard? No.
Well, no god I've ever heard of made any known sounds to me.
2 Could you send it in the mail? No.
3 Could it be found in a classroom? Yes.
Especially in the south, to counter evolution theory.
# Is it larger than a microwave oven (or bread box)? Unknown.
# Can you buy it? Unknown.
I should have answered this one 'probably', but I'm hedging my bets here.
# Is it heavier than a pound of butter? Unknown.
I noticed that the thing wouldn't count 'Unknown' answers, so there are no more.
4 Is it manufactured? Yes.
Your philosophy might not fit mine. What?
5 Is it found in a bathroom? Yes.
I have definitely seen MY god in the bathroom on occasion.
6 Do you clean it regularly? No.
This is a given. I'm a dude. I clean NOTHING regularly.
7 Can you switch it on and off? Yes.
Just look at Bush.
8 Is it bright? Depends.
There is more than one meaning for the word.
9 Is it usually warm? No.
My god would be a cold-ass mutha.
10 Is it smaller than a loaf of bread? Irrelevant.
Honestly, I didn't want to type 'irrelevant', but I already said 'unknown' to the breadbox.
11 Is it square shaped? Probably.
And round shaped, and trapezoidal, and rhomboid
12 Does it use electricity? Yes.
Sure. Why not?
13 Do you use it with a computer? No.
No god amongst these circuits.
14 Is it flat? Sometimes.
At some point or another, it would have to be every dimension.
15 Would you find it on a farm? Yes.
Remember 'The Dust Bowl' of the late twenties? Yep.
16 Can it affect you (cause an effect to you)? Depends.
This all depends on whether I choose to believe, I suppose.
17 I guess that it is a light switch? No.
No, No, No. Stupid game.
18 Does it weigh more than a duck? Irrelevant.
Who picked that question? Ducks have different weights.
19 Does it break if dropped? Depends.
Depends on who you ask.
20 I guess that it is a clock's second hand? No.
Whoa, that came from left field.
21 Does it provide protection? Depends.
Sometimes you'd need protection from it.
22 Is it electronic? No.
This may be arguable. But I'll stick to my first answer.
23 Do you use it at work? No.
That would be against company policy. Others do though.
24 Does it burn? Sometimes.
Like, when god gets mad at little white kids at the beach. Fucker.
25 Does it get wet? Doubtful.
That would require it to have surfaces of some sort.
26 Is it made out of wood? Irrelevant.
27 Can you lift it? No.
But it can lift YOU by way of hymns! Or so they say.
28 Does it have lights on it? Probably.
It might be a spaceship for all I know. Or a Christmas tree.
29 I guess that it is the ceiling? Close.
Not bad, not bad! But no cigar. Where's the good word?
I am guessing that it is a wall? Close
Best metaphor I've ever heard. Ever.

Did I win? I mean, 'wall'? Good enough for me, shit. It didn't get it within 20 though, so that shows some desperation on its part. So, I suppose that gives me the win here. Well, so will anyone else playing the thing. Try it out and post your results. I'm curious!

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


I was out sick yesterday, so I couldn’t update this bad mutha ‘till today. My ear… it feels like it may be giving birth to a goose egg. And my voice is all hoarse and sultry, like the chick who sings Betty Davis Eyes. But not as girly, of course. Or, maybe MORE girly, I have no idea. I cannot hear myself, so I really don’t know what I am talking about.

Enough about nothing though. I am going to try my best and describe my fifth day at SxSW. It was the best of times, it was the grossest of times, it was a night of bad decisions and idiot atrocities. I had a good time, and I am very lucky to be alive.

Because we went to bed early the previous night (well, 3am is early, all things considered), we were able to get out of the house and to Stubb’s for a free concert by noon. The weather was amazingly good. Cool breeze, sunny skies, and the humidity was reasonable. Breakestra was on first, and they were absolutely fantastic. If you have never heard this band, then you are missing out on one of the most creative and truly American music-movement groups that has been around in a LONG time. Their blend of hip hop, Blues, Funk, Jazz, and orchestra is absolutely brilliant. Don’t miss out.

Bill and I decided to kick things off with tallboys of Lonestar. Bill orders, and the ‘tender tells him that the beers are free, because he’s wearing a The Smiths t-shirt. Mine says ‘Blue Ball Wrecking Crew’ on it, and that gets a slight chuckle, but no promise of free beer from the help. We get to drinking, listening to the sound guys warm things up, when I spot a photographer who used to work with my best friend (who now lives in London) doing contract photography for a magazine. He is there to pick up a press pass for later that night. Andrew Shaptor is his name, and if you respect photography, you need to check this guy out. He is taking a break from photography to pursue documentary work. His first creation surrounds the question of where American music is headed, and whether or not that direction is positive. He’s interviewing big names and up-and-comers for this documentary, so it should be pretty badass.

After buying Andrew a beer, it becomes clear that everyone is getting free beer. The bars are open until the event spends its tab. Andrew, if you are reading this, I swear I did not know that at the time.

So we begin to load up like the dirt bags we are.

During the course of the shows, we run into several good local DJs (Nick Nack, Chicken George, Witness, even Z-trip was there) and fight off the ridiculous number of bees and wasps around the place. And no, these were not hallucinations. One flew up this guy’s shorts… we did not have the heart to tell him. I was afraid he’d freak and get a nut stung. That would weigh on my conscience for years to come. It eventually took off to bother someone else.

Now I grew up in Houston, so I’ve been around wasps and bees and flying shit that stings, my entire life. I’ve been stung by them all. Sometimes the sting is debilitating (big, fat red wasps ALWAYS sting multiple times), sometimes it is just irritating (mowing near a yellow-jacket nest - well, what we down south call ‘yellow jackets” anyhow – will end up with ten of those little fuckers stinging your head and shit). But even though the occurrence was fairly regular, the individual experience is always, absolutely horrifying for me. The sound of those little wings buzzing near my ears is like a dentist’s drill to me. It evokes a sense of impending pain, which if I flail my arms and scream like a three year-old girl with enough fervor, I can avoid. So, on several occasions during the concert, Craig, who is physically full-grown man, could be seen screaming and running around the outskirts of the crowd, Lonestar in hand, shrieking like a two year-old in a Santa photo, running from a bug no bigger than a toe nail.

But I never got stung. So there. Nanny-nanny boo-boo and whatnot.

After Stubb’s, I had to take Rivas to the airport. Here’s where the day started to get kinda strange. Rivas drops his car at my crib, and I drive him to the airport from there. Keep in mind, the weather was tremendously beautiful not but 30 minutes prior. Half way to the airport, we hit heavy rain. The heavy rain turns into sheets of leaded water and tree-bending winds, which then turns into marble-sized hail. For those who live outside of tornado prone areas, this is the standard precursor for a tornado. Lucky for us, one never showed up, but the hail continued to ping and pop off my truck well after I dropped Rivas off at the departures entrance. I couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of me, so I couldn’t leave the relative security of the airport.

Back at the festival, all was relatively well. Just some rain and mild winds. They were very fortunate to avoid that damn hail. Rivas had to get out in it to get his bags. I watched. Shiiiiit, don’t hate. I’ve been beat-down by hail. I don’t need to repeat that experience. The weather eventually cleared up, and I left the airport to return to my bender.

Got back to the festival and went straight to the Fader party to meet up with everyone. Once there, I saw all kinds of people. More folks from Houston were there, including Fred from the Boys and Girls Club DJs, Witness, the Aerosol Warfare guys, and Starsign. The really cool couple I met in line at the Nylon party were also there. Bill, The Big O, my bro, etc. So we stood around, catching up with each other, drinking fist after fist of free Red Stripe.

Once the supply of Red Stripe was deemed to soon-be dry, we left Fader to find a party being thrown by the Aerosol Warfare guys at a shoe store on Brazos called Motion. DJ Scuba Gooding Sr. with the Prhymates was on the decks, there was free wine/beer, and the party was to promote a series of Converse shoes which had been artfully designed and crafted by local artisans. There was a live ice sculpture done out front by one of the guys from Aerosol Warfare, the DJs kept swapping out, dancers were bustin’ out, and everyone was getting completely plowed. At one point, there was a circle, which I was merely a member of, rockin’ it back and forth with my cup of beer, when a friend of the DJ who was dancing in the circle hopped over and accidentally slapped the cup up into my face. It sent the majority of the full cup to the floor, making a huge pond of beer beneath my feet. Like a true douche bag, as soon as my cup hit the floor, I was marching my way back to the keg, unfazed by the accidental attack. Everyone was staring at me like I just threw it on the ground myself, and then walked away, all punk rock or some shit.

Well, that’s not how it felt to me. To me, it went like this:

- I have a beer, and I’m drinking it while watching people dance.
- BAM! My beer has been slapped into my face.
- Hey, look, I no longer have a beer in my hand.
- Must remedy the no-beer situation.
- Back to the keg!
- Hey, what are all these people so pissed about?
- I mean, I’m the one who is soaking wet here.
- Looking back at the pond on the dancefloor…
- Well, it wasn’t my doing, specifically, but…
- Hm. I guess I could have offered to clean that up. Damnit.
- …
- …
- WOW! This beer sure is good! Let’s DANCE!

The kegs floated before 10pm.

But before the first keg set floated, I found and immediate need to take a leak. But there was no bathroom for us to use, since this establishment was for retail only. So I did like I always do when relatively battered out of my mind, and wandered outside to find a good spot. The stairwell at the front of the omni has always been a popular spot for locals to drain themselves while staggering to and from 6th street. So, I just ran to that and did my business. All eight gallons of the stuff.

Apparently everyone else had the same idea, because the Omni eventually stationed security guards in front of it to block any more pee-vandals. Just fucking great. So the next time I felt the urge to purge, I decided to wander up an adjoining parking garage. The entrance to this parking garage is an upward spiral, going up five or so floors, with parking all around the spiral. So I’m wandering up and up and up, looking for a good spot to drain, but finding nothing that would be properly protected from passersby. Considering what I was willing to do next, I have no idea why my privacy was of any real concern.

So I go up another level and decide upon a nice dark spot, wedged between a cement ramp and the front end of a Bronco. I shimmied down into the wedge and was just about to start putting the fire out when my olfactory system went completely haywire.

Here is where I must say a few words, as a sort of disclaimer.

1) Drunk Logic, if not oxymoronic, is completely nonexistent.
2) It is easy to judge a man who is being honest to you about himself, by being dishonest with yourself about yourself. That is to say, quick judgment is rarely honest judgment.
3) The list of things I have done while inebriated which HONESTLY caused me to second guess my future with booze is three lines short. This situation is number two.

Let’s get on with it, because this situation is… uniquely Craig.

My senses are ringing all kinds of bells because the scent is easily recognized, but rarely smelled in such a situation. I step back, and up the ramp into the lamplight, and look down on my right shoe. Yep. That’s human shit. And it is ALL over the front of my right shoe. Down in the grip grooves, over the front of the toe, just all up in there. I would swear I saw peanuts stuck in there.

Fuck me.

So there I am, standing on this ramp, with my shoe still on, staring at my poo-covered foot, while people and cars are driving by. Enraged by the defamation of my sneakers, I staggered further up the ramp to a better lit corner to finish my piss. And that’s when an idea that would only hit me under those conditions made itself known.

And I then made the stupidest somewhat-lucid decision I have ever made in my entire life.

In my mind, I had two problems.

1) I had human feces on my shoe, which might possibly contain the Ebola virus. Since the maker felt compelled to deliver it in a rather public place, I must assume it was a dire emergency, and therefore more foul than your average stool. To get this clean, I would need a high-powered water source.
2) I needed to relieve a kiddy-pool’s worth of frothy beer piss from my body, and I had no where decent to get that job done.

You’ve probably known where this was headed for the last three paragraphs.

So I put those two together, and chucked one stone at both birds. That’s right. I stood there, on one foot, next to some Chevy Pickup, under a light, while people were walking down/driving by, pissing the human crap off my right shoe. If that weren’t bad enough, after I finished peeing on it, I took the shoe off for inspection. Noting that there was still a substantial amount of poo still clinging to my sneak, I decided to walk further up to find a better water source.

Yeah, I know: walk UP to find a better water source? Like what? Rain? But keep in mind, I just pissed on my own foot to get someone else’s shit off it. I’m not all there folks.

So I’m climbing higher into the parking garage with my left shoe on, and a shit-covered shoe in my right hand, looking around frantically for a water fountain I suppose. I did find a leaking water main, on one of the top levels, which was leaking a stream just weaker than the one that was previously splashing out from my body. I stood there, while cars were passing maybe two feet from me, washing the turd off. When I was tired of working at it, I just put that fucker back on and started back down the garage. Some people had been hanging out at their car, parked in front of the water main, and when I walked off, they started honking their horn and yelling some gibberish at me. I ignored them and kept walking down the spiral until about half the way down, I realized that my trunk was still exposed. I never put Big Jim and Twins away after peeing.

Fucking fantastic.

So anyone who was driving down a parking garage exit on Saturday night who saw some crazy looking dude in a yellow jacket, one shoe on, penis hanging out in the breeze, using a broken water main to wash human feces off the bottom of his shoe… Well, not that I have any apologies for the trauma you may have experienced by that sight, but rest assured that I never intended to be in that situation. I mean, fuck.

Humbled, and somewhat calmed by that experience, I headed back down and back to the shoe store party. There, on the floor of the store, remained small puddles of my previous beer. I knew if I went in there, the material still stuck to my shoe would dissolve into the beer, releasing the pungent smell of human caca. Now I don’t necessarily mind admitting what happened (as evidenced by this entry), but I certainly don’t want to smell like someone else’s ass. So I just hung out front until the puddles cleared up entirely.

The dancing continued for another hour or so. I had long, forgotten conversations with people who are probably really interesting, and should have been made available to more deserving party goers. But, whatever.

More kegs arrived, I harassed some more strangers, and told the shoe-poo story to bunch of fellow revelers, who thought it was quite entertaining, but who preferred I continue to stay outside. Fucking hygiene. Always holdin’ me back and shit.

So I split and went to Red Fez to watch Z-trip and DJ Mel spin together. My word, what a goddamn LINE. I had successfully avoided lines ALL DAY up until that point. I was by myself, so just waited it out like any good citizen would. As soon as I had reached the front of the line, Bill and The Big O arrived. They walked right up to me, almost expectant. There was no way I could just let them in the front of the line. We would be lynched. So what did they do? Well, Bill just looked me in the eye and said, “well we don’t need to get in that fucking line anyway. We’ll be in there before you!” Then he pointed all the way down the line, “before all these motherfuckers!” I laughed a half-hearted laugh, because he really pissed off everyone in line behind me. And just to make things worse, they got in before I did. They must have paid the bouncer, because if there was a way to sneak in for free, I would have already done it.

When we finally got inside, the place was afire with excitement. Red Bull and vodkas flowed freely amongst all the Houstonians and Austinites in our group. Everything went kind of bright-yellow for me, I’m guessing because I had peed out all the other colors of the palette. Z-tip was scratching and he and Mel were blending back and forth. It was a sight to behold.

I do not have a solid grasp on the remaining events of the evening. So I will just tell the splinters and chipped memories within my grasp.

-- I was high-fiving strangers, which I never do.
-- I was getting shots from strangers, which I always do.
-- I was bothering the DJs, which I never do (unless they’re off)
-- I paid the bouncer to get a bunch of other people in, ahead of the line.
-- I went outside and handpicked the people to come inside, like studio 54 or some shit.

Yes, it is official. I suck. I hate that fucking asshole who strolls out of the club, hands the bouncer a $20, and then cherry-picks his cheap-ass friends (who refused to tip their own damn way in) to come inside, like any of them matter. That dude is a douche balloon. I am that douche balloon. Who would have known? I’ve come to grips with that, and I’ve since moved on. You should too.

Got the fuck out of dodge, and got up at noon the next day.

Sunday was a down day. I was the walking dead. Had lunch at Curra’s with The big O, my bro, Bill, Kim and Cee. We told stories, discussed current events, and made some thin plans for the coming year. It was a very pleasant lunch. When we left, we ran into a bunch of people from Houston who looked about as healthy as I did (read: sick with the after-effects of a binged-booze night). We all nodded at each other, gave some dap, and then quietly went our separate ways. If I could re-do that moment, I would have been far more pleasant, because I have vague memories of them wanting to leave the Red Fez because I was completely losing my shit on the dance floor.

But those memories are really vague. And they are intermingled with me making out with a purple giraffe. And we all know giraffes aren’t purple, so those ‘memories’ are complete bullshit, and cannot be trusted.

Sweet Jesus, one day I will grow up (again), I promise.

Damn you purple giraffes!

(Please note that there is no Day SIX of the bender. I cut it off short. POW!)

Monday, March 21, 2005


Friday… my word. Day THREE really screwed with my preferred sleep patterns, and my job is really making my free-party attendance card look sadly vacant. The abuse brought by Thursday night became evident as the afternoon crept up on me. Anyone can observe or define a hangover, but Friday was the first day where the evil oscillation took hold. The oscillation is the cruel waffling of your personality between obscenely drunk and hopelessly hungover. Compulsives with schizoaffective disorder might come close to feeling as emotionally unpredictable as one who is in the process of oscillation. You cannot describe it discreetly, it must be experienced, but I will offer up one possible comparison and then do my best to explain it.

My Friday hangover felt the way I would imagine I would feel if I were 12 years old, with a mild (but medically tested and proven) case of Down Syndrome, on two hits of acid, riding a rollercoaster made of Styrofoam on rails of cracked cement. That’s a rough estimate, because again, I was IN the thing so I cannot be trusted to describe it discreetly.

Part of the oscillation hangover, with it’s profound swings of explosive emotion and resultant confusion, are the hallucinations. I have never heard anyone discuss hallucinations during the recovery period, but I sure as fuck have them. Usually, it is something pretty harmless such as thinking things are flying at your face, colors moving around on wallpaper, or hearing what sounds like your name being called out to you at random moments. Such as, let’s say, umm… while you are taking a crap in an airport bathroom. And you start frustratingly answering back, getting more and more pissed off that whoever is calling your name won’t answer. Yeah. That’ll get that slow old man to hurry the fuck up and stop babysitting the hand dryer. Believe you me.

I know, it sounds crazy. And not ‘crazy-ha!’ but ‘crazy-loon’. And if it were my regular life, I guess I would be just that. Nuts.

But I’m not nuts. I’m just not very bright. By knowingly subjecting myself to such calamity only shows my potential for impressive stupidity. There’s a cavernous difference between that and clinical/medical insanity. Cavernous. That’s a pretty word.

So I left work with a hallucination hangover, thinking that there were flies or bees or some pack of winged insects constantly buzzing around my truck interior, threatening to hit my face, while I drove to the Vice Party (how fitting). I knew it was a hallucination, but I kept swatting at them anyway. I was very relieved to find a spot right by the entrance so I could get the hell out of that insect nightmare and into the one magazine party I felt sure would appreciate my completely blown mind. If you don’t already know Vice Magazine, then it might be too late to really get a feel for what it was meant to be about. The first few issues I read involved sex with AIDS infected prostitutes, doing lines of yay off taxi cab headrests, and lots of letters from really angry prisoners. It was dirty. Mean. And brutally honest about itself. Well, the writing was, anyhow. I’m sure the founders and editors wanted to be millionaires, and not just the genius spreaders of destructive counterculture. But when you publish a whole issue dedicated to the pleasures and pains of anal sex, or masturbation techniques for teenagers, or honest interviews with Brazilian transvestite prostitutes… well, I’m just saying that it was completely badass at the time, and I was in love after picking up my first copy at The Verb in Billyburg, Brooklyn. I still have one or two of those older issues. I hear it was even more brutal when it was a pure Canadian rag.

But now? They are watering themselves down. There’s much more money involved, so the creativity naturally suffers. Or, I am just getting desensitized to it, and they’ll need to work harder to impress me.

Which they don’t give two shits about doing. How do I know, other than the obvious? Why, they made me wait in a fucking line to get in to their party, while I was hallucinating that the cracks on the pavement were snakes. That’s how I know.

It turned out to be pretty tame. It was nice and dark, and my friends were already there. Rivas gave me his seat out of pity. Bill, a good friend of mine is in town, and he got there early to get us a table. A table? Yes. That is correct. We had a table at the Vice party. I know, I know. Weird. I would figure that the only tables to made available at any party associated with them would involve a trampoline and some aspiring backyard wrestlers in Omaha.

I chose to put my beer on it instead of throw (get thrown by) someone through it.

Bill and I were sitting on two old folding/reclining movie theatre seats, connected at the base by plywood. So it was like a bench, really. It was facing away from the stage, so Bill decided it would be smart to turn the thing around so we could remain seated during the show, like the lazy hungover monkeys we are. I had no idea what he was doing, or what I could do to help, or how to even spell the word ‘smart’. I was in the midst of a deeply concerning case of the stupids. Poor Bill had to work the bench around me as I stood in his way, repeatedly, while onlookers gave him pity. The only effort I displayed during the process was probably aimed at relieving a brief itch to my testicles. Or something equally useful. Worth. Less.


MIA went on, and she showed us what youthful, boisterous, nubile entertainment is all about. I was impressed. But I will only listen to her stuff if I get it for free. From her. My crib, like, say 8 o’clock girl? I got some tasty soup and a brand new copy of Anchorman. Word.

We left the Vice party to get into Fader because, well, I was confused and did not know that the Vice party was going to continue. And I thought they ran out of beer. And I think the toxins were starting to settle in my ankles, which would no doubt cripple me for the next week, so I needed to get some circulation going. As we were leaving, I noticed that we had been almost entirely surrounded by our friends throughout the party. I had no idea. I thought it was just me, Bill and Rivas. Oh no. Rachel, Heather and her compatriots, The Big O, and probably some other friends got lost in my haze of hallucination.

We had to park near Deville, and it was their $2 all you can drink party, so we went there. Kim and Ceeplus were there, but we missed them because we went straight for the kegs. No play time damnit, I really needed to get rid of the buzzing. A couple of beers later, and I was back in somewhat lucid-esque word. At least both of my eyes felt able to focus on a single object.

I talked to a couple of my favorite bartenders, who told me drinking stories which made mine look like Romper Room. The free beer kept me from feeling any shame.

It was at Deville that we ran into Heather (different from one at Vice party) who was dressed up as a banana. She and two others. Bananas. Absolutely genius. And they were having a blast. Everyone wanted photos with them. It was crazy.

And then the bartender on the patio found and ate a banana. The crowd loved it. Heather and her friends acted pissed, claimed cannibalism, and threw out some choice curses. But all in good fun. So the bartender threw the peal at one of them who was waiting in line for the port-o-potties. Miss. The bartender goes back to counting tips or some shit, and the banana picks up the peal and chucks it all the way back. BAM! That peal smacked the bartender upside the noggin’ and splayed out over his forehead like a starfish. It was a pure experience to watch a drunk man, dressed as a banana, hurling a peal across a fenced-in parking lot, just to beam a bartender in the face. It was pure to me. Only topped by a man dressed as feces, slinging the stuff. But I’ve never seen anything so profound.

And now that re-read that, I have decided that it will remain a ‘you had to fucking be there’ moment. Alright? Fine.

Everyone was waiting for us at the Fader party, so we abandoned the bananas and headed out.

The line for Fader was impressive. And by impressive, I mean fucking loooooooong. And pointless, since it was going to shut down before long. So we dragged everyone out and went to out Irish Pub for more Car Bombs and Guinness. We met up with more friends, which lead to more drinking, which lead to an even better chance that those damned hallucinated flies would become vultures by morning.

The NYC couple dropped by to tell us that they were going to go camping… which I am still not clear on. I think they really did go. I just don’t understand how it all came to be, or when it could have occurred. But I know that lots of driving and sleeping outside were involved. Man, I have no idea how to weave that into this narrative because I still cannot grasp what it was they were talking about.

Amish and his crew showed up, and we all decided to pay Zero Degrees a visit for some locally flavored hip hop. There were lots of call-outs, most of it highly unnecessary, while my bro, The Big O and I drank at the bar. I was starting to lose grips on things by then, because I also remember hanging out at a bar next door to that named Mug Shots (you clever word manglers you!) for tall-boys of PBR.

Really, you shouldn’t drink PBR unless at least one of the following is true:

1) it came out of your mother’s tit when you suckled
2) you live on your Harley and sell crank
3) you’ve publicly admitted that you are following one of the strangest trends in drinking history by ‘choosing’ poo-beer because it has a cool Friendster profile.

If you do not fall into one of those categories, then beyond your right to drink whatever you want (including goat urine, boric acid), I believe you to have no good excuse for such an awful mess.

My excuse? I was drunk. And broke. Neither of which are acceptable excuses for any condition other than each other. But that’s all I got right now, okay?

The point being, I am a little sketchy on the timeline once we got to Zero Degrees. I know we stayed there for a while, where Amish and his crew kept the front row live for the entire show. I peed a-lot, and dreaded the flavor of my PBR burps. Then, my bro and I left there to hang out at Lovejoy’s. That place is an entire blur to me. I remember rolling tobacco we found on the table and smoking it. Rivas was the best roller, by a LONG SHOT. Mine looked like a piece of really small, white cat poo. I still smoked it. Beers, a few more beers, and who the hell knows what else.

Then, like magic, we were back in the street, headed to Barcelona because I was under the impression that the party we went to there on Thursday was not a specific party (which would require badges, barcodes, passes, or fists full of twenties). So it was an open venue. Before we got there, I got a message from Kim and Cee. They had been hopping from venue to venue, desperately trying to soak it all in before their favorite bands left. Kim let me know that they were at a place called Nuno’s. They were watching a group called Bobby Conn and the Glass Gypsies. Glam rock lives on. I liked their sound, actually. But Bobby must have been missing a mess of gypsies because he only had a keyboardist. *One* hardly constitutes the pluralization of their name. They had a good remake of an 80’s song which I swore was Yaz, from their second album, but now that I’m sober, I was completely wrong about that one. I told everyone there, with authority, that I knew the song. Whether I got converts... I just don't know. I have become the cliche'd drunkard: staggering around, telling lies to anyone willing to listen.

Oh what a shit I am.

And now I don’t even remember what song it was. Or how it went. Lost it. I think I might have sweat that memory out of my being.

The way Nuno's is set up, the bottom bar is open to anyone, but the upstairs venue was a badge\band\cover venue. We had to buy the door girls drinks to get in that place, and I think someone (not me) laid it on pretty thick in order to make that happen. Seeing as how my game could be bested by the Washington Generals, you know it wasn’t me. I pounded Mandarin & tonics at the bar like guy who is pissed about having to buy some chicks drinks in order to get into a crap bar that smells of under-age stomach juices. Looking back, that was probably a free venue, and those chicken heads just wanted some free booze. Hey, I can't hold that against them. Who doesn't want free booze? Shiiiiiiiit.

I am thankful to be allowed to continue my journey, with a full night’s sleep.

I hope those vultures keep their cool tomorrow though.