afrojet

Saddle Up and Ride
I thought I’d watch the end of the ACLS Game 6 last night while I mixed up some five-spice powder and set the rice to simmer. I had no idea I was committing to yet another extra-inning marathon that would take me deep into the night – ending just before the Daily Show and John Stewart’s explanation of why he bitchslapped CNN’s Tucker Carlson.

These extra-inning affairs are really starting to take their toll. It’s especially hard to watch former Twins player David Ortiz win every game for Boston with his supreme clutch hitting. Clutch hitting was so missing from the Twins post-season. Seriously tho, why the hell did the Twins trade Ortiz?

Hey, saw that puppet-movie this weekend and I laughed pretty damn hard. The songs were my favorite part. There were some great Lee Greenwood “I’m Proud To Be An American” mocking songs which were especially poignant and funny after I had to sit and listen to a shitty ass-clown patriot-act approved country (and western) anthem entitled “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)“, which was played in the theater before the movie previews even started. The song, sung by a group of musically challenged halflings -birthed from the ill-legit conception of John Asscroft and Rush Limbaugh, is so offensive in every way, that I wish only bad things happen to the tour bus of a band called Big and Rich. I curse you once for these lyrics:

An’ I wouldn’t trade ol’ Leroy or my Chevrolet for your Escalade, or your freak parade:
I’m the only John Wayne left in this town.

And I curse you a thousand more times for evoking the great and lauded Willie Nelson in your damn song. I also curse the daughter of Hulk Hogan, whose empty song I was forced to to listen to as well. God damn, now I’m all worked up. Lessons learned. Get to your movie as late as you possibly can or suffer the torture of listening to pop-songs that have less to offer then that jujube stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

Horny Goat Weed
The absolute best piece of music for driving that long stretch of 494 that connects South Minneapolis to the darkest corners of Inver Grove Heights, where the worlds finest cribbage players come to congregate on frigid fall nights, has got to be M83’s Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts. It’s the perfect soundtrack for that journey. Especially after you’ve dominated you’re opponents at the crib board, and you’re still washing the carnage off your hands.

I walked away with the money pot last night after scoring my first 24 hand. For those of you who don’t play, it’s a high scoring hand that doesn’t come up very often. That hand, single-handedly crushed one of my lesser opponents, a mother and son team who fought like dogs. At one point the mother was so angry and dejected with her son (who is probably 40), that she heaped mad insults at him, wishing she had thrown him in a dumpster when he was born or cursing herself for not having beat his head against the side of his crib. As you can tell by this off-color humor, the stakes are high and the players feisty. Let me tell you tho, there is little in this world funnier than women pushing 80 who cuss like they are auditioning for a guest spot on South Park.

This weekend my three goals are to: 1) spend about seven hours raking leaves, 2) take my brand new edger to the invading grasses that wish to obscure my sidewalk, and 3) catch the Team America: World Police movie. If all that gets dialed in I will be very happy.

This post powered by Crunk juice. Now with more Horny Goat Weed!

Questionable Neighborhood

A little piece of news from the Southwest Journal Crime Report:

Sept. 17, 2:55 a.m., 5700 block of Blaisdell Ave. A resident awoke to a noise in their basement and found a suspect with a “mullet” burglarizing the home. The victim tried but couldn’t catch the suspect.

Enjoying:
William Shatner’s new album Has Been. Especially the track with Henry Rollins.
The Slint reunion news.
Letterpress video (one, two).

Largactyl

Again with the crushing workload – the late nights working through the weekend. Everytime I came up for air I was slammed in the face by the brutal power of the New York Yankees and the Ghengis Khan antics they brought to our home state. After Saturday night’s loss I felt like a piece of tissue stuck to someone’s boot as they exited the Metrodome’s public toilets. And then last night, under the scrutiny of the Monday night lights, the Packers lost by something like a million points. For therapy, I’ve tuned in the low-frequencies of Japanese Doom Metal while pounding vast amounts proton powered peanut butter.

Incidentally, or perhaps indecently, I faired much better at my first Cribbage meet of the year. My partner and I won six of our ten games, which was the best record of the night on our team. The conversation for the night was juiced. Everybody but me seems to be taking pills. Lots of pills. Mostly legal but highly lethal. And everyone seems to love swapping pharmaceutical stories. It’s the new conversational currency. One guy on the opposing team just got out of rehab after his doctors got him hooked on Oxycottin. He was taking them for an accident he had on the job. He’s a butcher. The doctors at the rehab center told him he was “like a heroin addict”, which, he said sent him into a rage – running around the center showing people his naked arms – screaming, “Look at my arms!! I’m not a heroin addict”. He talked too much and I killed him on the cribbage board. In the second round, he was so bombed that I had to help him count his cards on every hand. We faired less well with the older players, their cribbage skills are second nature, like walking or breathing. At one point I reached to peg out of turn and an old lady slapped my hand. Fucking hell. Can’t wait for this week! I’m going to be all worked up and high-strung. I’m going to be the one slapping people’s hands. Maybe for no damn reason at all.

Bald egotism
A crushing long night passes into morning and I still can’t accept the fact that the Twins lost Game 2. But spirits are high still after the Game 1 victory – they float blissfully on the hopes of capturing Game 3 here at home. It will be tricky channel bouncing Friday night with the Twins playing opposite the second presidential debates. Wow, a night of epic battles for sure. A perfect way to end the week, don’t you think?

Last night in a bar, watching the Twins, putting down Phillips Rum, with a layover weary traveling friend from Vancouver B.C., the place got weird when a middle age women in way-too-tight-ass jeans stumbled through the door and parked herself right next to us at the bar. Smiling big. No talking just smiling. Big droopy eyes. We both sensed the immediate danger and tremor this women was carrying and tried in vain to talk right at one another without accepting the potted intruder. But she was determined to get us to buy her a drink. She started barking unknown agreements to whatever we were saying. Raise your glasses kids. Shit turned uglier ten minutes later when her kid marched through the door like he owned the joint. He bellied up to the bar and immediately started ordering the bartender around. I need chips. I need a coke. Odd stuff. The kid was like nine. The whole incident made John Edward’s ‘Two Americas’ slogan resonate like a kick drum to the forehead.

In other news, I had to pass on the Vote For Change concert in favor of the Twins Tuesday night. I am bummed tho, I heard great tales of Neil Young sitting in on a couple of sets

Tonight begins my third year in the Great Saint Paul Cribbage League. It ain’t the World Series of Poker, but the stakes are always high. I haven’t played a hand of cribbage in months. As I go up against the retired-set tonight (those people probably play 10 games a day), my chances for humiliation and horrible catastrophe are very high. I may cheat.

Tangent question: Why are there so many bald-headed females in futuristic sci-fi movies? THX-1138. Star Trek 1. Aliens 3. I’m sure there’s more but in all these movies all the wimmins have shiny bald heads. Why do people (male directors) think that in the not-to-distant future ladies fashion will be all cue-balls? I for one, much prefer the futuristic vision of Barbarella. I’m thinking that in the future, bigger, skyscraper elevated hair will be the look and not the smooth eggheads favorable now with the sci-fi vogue.

Go Twins! Please Win.
Oh man. I was offered tickets to the Vote For Change Tour tonight in Saint Paul and I had to pass. What?!? I know, it’s terrible but I have to watch my boy Johan Santana take it to the Yankees this evening. Nothing can get in the way of that right? Not even the chance to see Springsteen and R.E.M. I mean maybe if they would show the game on one of those jumbo monster screens on the side of the concert but I don’t think that would happen. All I know is that the Twinks better win this one or else I’m gonna be more than a little sore. Ohhh the post-season is so cruel!

The Don’t Vote Billboard
Has anybody else seen this billboard that says ‘DONT VOTE’? I saw it the other night on highway 280 just north of I-94. That’s all the billboard says. The only other text is the Clear Channel logo that appears standard on the bottom most billboards around town. According to this article from the AP wires, it’s just a teaser billboard that will have a ‘reveal’ later on Oct 11. It’s certainly got my attention. But as the article states the billboard has appeared in many lower income neighborhoods and as we have officially been christened a Battleground state, I find the billboard quite chilling. I’m sure the reveal will be something really poignant, like, “No, really, Vote!. My hope is the board get a little ‘modification‘ even before the planned reveal.

Exercise the Mind by Destroying the Liver
I’m trying to gear up for tonight’s heated intellectual debate. Mental push-ups, people. Tonight’s intense political discourse will no doubt be historical, the barbs and jabs so electric, one might – if one held their head just so – see a slight pale glow hovering over Miami. With all the pre-fight pabulum and polemics the pundits will be pounding into our plump potatoes, and with John Stewart rounding things up after the fight, it’s bound to be a long night. A case of beer plus if I had to estimate.

I thought I’d do my public service by limbering up your minds with a little trivia this morning, just to get the grey-matter messaged and ready for tonight’s epic battle.

Here are your questions:

1. Name four U.S. states that have a name and a capital that share the same first letter ( for example: Minnesota/Minneapolis would be wrong! ).
2. What is the new proof of Jack Daniels Whiskey, that the company neglected to tell its customers it had lowered it to?
3. How do I vote?
4. What song by what artist was the first to use the “izz” infix, thus spawning a linguistic revolution and giving birth to a real boss trend? Bonus points if you can quote the lyric from memory.
5. What is the correct definition of “Tribal Sovereignty“?

Meet the Wiggles
Back from the Germanic olde stylings of bountiful Milwaukee. Exhausting. The little kids that plied for my attention all weekend wore me right the hell out. So many wandering and fragmentary innings of baseball played. Huge castles and kingdoms were erected and then surreptitiously connected by loose wooden railway systems. The older kid, thankfully the only one of the two that can actually walk and talk, proved to be a formidable task master. He worked us at a brutal clip – gave the finger to our Union, and worked us right through our lunch breaks. Mostly, the kid was really into gearing up for a specific activity then he was in actually doing the activity. Baseball demanded the right and proper way to wear a batting glove, to don a helmet, to tap the base with the end of ones bat. Pitchers were not allowed to pitch unless they went through the entire wind-up process. I don’t know where this three year old learned to micro-manage like that. The kid is already extremely detailed oriented. His dad hasn’t been able to find him a pint sized catchers mask yet, so the kid employes a nifty trick. He wears two gloves. One he uses as a standard catchers mitt and the other he uses as a face protector. Here is a visual aid. The best part of this formula is that once the ball is hit, and before he runs after it, he slides the glove off his face and onto the top of his mellon – just like a pro catcher would do in a foul tip situation. Witnessing this maneuver is so hilarious that most of the time I would get tagged out because I was paralyzed with laughter.

There isn’t much else to do when locked away in a subdivision twenty minutes outside of Milwaukee, so when not engaged in toys, there was ample cartoon gazing. And to that I’d just like to say Fuck the Wiggles! That show is straight up dumb diddly dumb dumb dumb. People want to know what happened to the American education system? It got infiltrated by a wiggely fab five from down-under and they made our kids dumber than a box of rocks. Listen up parents, don’t do this to your kid.

The Wiggles made me need alcohol in a big big way. I escaped the subdivision Saturday and drove into Milwaukee proper. I found my good friend Brian and immediately set out on a very fine pub crawl that included pool, pabst, and tator-tot po’ boys. Milwaukee is my kinda town; down-to-earth and beer friendly. And since they haven’t passed any kind of arcane smoking ban up there, I’ll have to put it on my list of ‘places to move to’ come next April when Minneapolis becomes uninhabitably smoke-free.

Toys R’ Melancholic
What the hell happened to Toys R’ Us? What was once the flagship, the mecca of my childhood toy browsing has become some kind of enfeebled flop house of gummed up mockery. Seriously, I’ve been to third-world toy stores that were far more uplifting and chipper than the gloomy, forgotten shelves of yesterdays warehouse play-land. The misses says that everyone buys their toys at Target and Wallmart now. Nobody really shops at big-box toy exclusive retail shops anymore. I’m sure she’s right, and it makes total sense. So for the love of god, somebody please put ol’ Toys R’ Us out of its misery.

We went there last night to procure our gift for the weekend road trip, purely on my insistence mind you. I didn’t want to slum it in the toy section of Target when I could go to the castle of toys. About two minutes after walking into the store, I was struck by the fact that there were no kids anywhere. None. The demographic sampling of a Toys R’ Us on a Thursday evening is white, male, 27-35 years olds. Although I am the bright yellow bulls-eye of that demo, I found it to be entirely creepy. Walking into the Hot Wheels section of a Toys R’ Us is like walking into a porno shop. There are lots of guys holding products in there hands while silently looking shifty eyed at one another. No wonder there are no kids here. The place is black and threatening.

But there were still toys there and after I got past the fact that I shall never come here again, I started in on the toys. The most distressing toy I found was the Barbie Cash Register, which has buttons that when pressed say things like “Cash or Credit?..Credit…OK…please swipe your card”. Also of interest were a new line of Hot Wheels cars that were branded with the ghetto vernacular “Whips”. I actually bought one of these. You can get cars that are West Coast Customs cars (as seen on MTV’s Pimp My Ride). Finally, and on a fitting note, I found the dj scribble Dzak scratchaholic toy (pictured above) in the green tag clearance bin. It’s made by DSI toys who had to file for Chapter 7. I was able to pick him up (his name is Dzak) for 75 cents! Dzak plays a whole batch of beats and depending on which way you twist his head he’ll makes scratching noises, he beat-boxs, and says things like “Floss it” and “Make it Hot”.