Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Monday, August 29, 2005

Four camps one bad decade

A primo dude in his natural habitat. I will surely catch hell for posting this picture but I am a servant to my adoring public after all.

When I was a wee yewt (My Cousin Vinny style) and the era of metal/hard rock was in full rock throes I was definitely not the coolest dude at the club. I tried and everything but I was just not there…not tall enough, hair wasn’t awesome enough, didn’t know how to rip up my t-shirt appropriately and a laundry list of other things led to my dorkdom. I had lots of friends who were primo dinero though so I got to at least hang around with the rockers that were up to snuff. That was cool. I had friends in a band called Misfit Alley. Go me. Anyway you flash forward a number of years and those uber-rockers have gotten older and fallen into four camps.

Camp One – Dudes that have moved on with their lives and become functional human beings. You probably know some of them and don’t even realize it. They’re just dudes who had their moment in the sun and totally got laid and had bitching times and then saw the end coming and moved on. Those are mostly pretty good dudes although there is usually a twinge of sadness and embarrassment when they talk about the good old days of Lip Service pants and belts made out of handcuffs and/or bullets. If they play music at all they wear sandals and jean shorts onstage. After the gig they drive home listening to “Blizzard of Ozz” in the mini-van. I imagine that occasionally they weep. They hate all new music, new being defined as anything recorded after Metallica’s LOAD album.

Camp Two – Dudes still playing in bands pretending they’re in their twenties and getting really twitchy and perturbed when the sins of their past are brought up in conversation. They’re all over the place although I think the decline of Korn style nu-metal might finally do them in. The conversations you can have with them if you are an old fucker from back then are great.

Me – “Hey, isn’t your name Robbie”
Dude – “Robert….(sneering)…..”
Me – “I thought that was you. We used to play shows together when I was in Stonejury and you were in RATT FINX”
Dude – (totally panicked and looking around to see that no one has heard about the RATT FINX)..”uhhh…yeah…I’m in Ignition Reactor now/”
Me – “Wow no kidding never heard of your band but I remember RATT FINX when your singer would come out yelling ‘WELL LICK MY BUTT AND BALLS IT’S A RATT FINX ROCK AND ROLL SHOW!!!!!! LET ME SEE THOSE TITTIES FLYING!!!!’ Man those were some crazy shows huh?”
Dude – (Head swiveling like the girl from the Exorcist and lip starting to sweat profusely) “….heh…yeah man…..uhhh……..(whispers)….the dudes in my band don’t like me talking about those days so ummmm……”
Me – “What, are you some kind of fugitive war criminal or something?”
Dude – “No man but y’know Ignition Reactor is more serious and stuff and we’re trying to get signed. We have like a shitload going on with myspace and you know it’s not good for the…we don’t give a FUCK about image…but for the uh, the way people see the band and all that we…uhhh…. I mean I used to be in those kind of bands.”
Me – “So you’re not allowed to say you were in RATT FINX?”
Dude – “No, I’m allowed’s just that I can’t I mean don’t man.”
Me – “Oh I see….well I gotta go play now. See you later.”
Dude – (looks down his nose from beneath his dyed black thinning bangs)…”Yeah later.”

The best part is when you have access to a microphone and you can say something great like “I was just talking to Robert from Ignition Reactor. I hadn’t seen him in how long…man ten years, eleven maybe, when he was in a band called RATT FINX and we played a show for his 27th birthday. Give it up for Robert!!!” Robert gets very, very irritated as his cover has blown more wide open than the bowling alleys that are what’s left of his hairline. Camp two dudes are usually replaced in their bands by slightly younger versions of themselves.

Camp Three – The Guns n Roses dudes. These are my favorite dudes of all. They have not progressed an iota since they were the cocks of the walk back in the day. The hair is long (thin but long) the jeans are tight, the boots are snakeskin and the girls (now wives) are still bleach blonde and dumb as shit. They still rock their pointy guitars albeit to fewer people in shittier places and drive Camaros and think they’re total badasses. They’re rare now and hard to find outside of their natural habitat of Ocean City, Maryland but every once in a while you get a glimpse. I was lucky enough to see not one but two just the other day. Where you may ask, well let me tell you......

The Mrs. and I were canoodling in a comfy sofa at a club people watching and chit-chatting when GnR dude #1 came in. Black Boots, acidwashed jeans, button-down pirate shirt tucked in, puffy hair dyed to the blackest of nights and a waddle under his chin that wiggled like a water balloon. With him was his paramour; a loud mouthed pancake make-upped white blonde harridan that was about 100 pounds too big for the miracle of structural integrity that were her jeans. From his look I’m guessing GnRD#1 was a drummer and I’m sure his drumset is massive. GnRD#1 and hag were staring around the club looking dumb when his phone rang. I was bummed that the ringtone wasn’t a Dokken tune or “the Final Countdown” by Europe but instead just bleeps and bloops. After a brief convo he clipped the phone back on and murmured something to Miss Piggy and they went upstairs. Ten minutes later they come down with GnRD#2 who was flipping his hair to and fro and holding the hand of his “lady” who bore a fascinating resemblance to the Joker…..excellent specimens worthy of a museum.

GnRD#2 was obviously THE lead singer. His pants were ultra-tight and in a woman’s cut and he had the bracelets and rings and snakeskin cowboy boots that are part of the uni. Most of all he had the hair and it’s associated flip down to a science. Pliff went the mane to the left, Swiff went the mane to the right and all the while he had the look of total disdain on his angular mug that I recognized from so many nights way back when. He was rocking the attitude and rocking it well. As usually happens and has been happening with the GnRDs for the better part of twenty years their women got drunk and started acting like asshole lunatics screeching about some perceived injustice that had been perpetrated. When this happened the GnRDs “flexed up” and stared around a lot and finally left the room to go upstairs with the women of GnRDs yelling, “I AIN’T GONNA TAKE THAT SHIT YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID” and the like. The highlight for me came a few minutes later when they all came back downstairs to stare around some more and GnRD#1 bit it on the steps and fell. I can’t say for sure but I think the fact that he was wearing dark black aviator sunglasses in a dark club might have led to his downfall (ba-da-bump). Regardless he fell and I couldn’t contain the laughter. It was great.

Camp Four – The dudes that are still doing stuff and are cool enough to have some laughs about what shitheads everyone was back “then”. I love those dudes but there aren’t a whole of them out there. Camp Four dudes…..where are you when we need you the most? You should know that dude in the picture above falls squarely in camp four and he deserves credit for getting to such an illustrious stage in life. As for the slut sitting next to him, well, my guess would be she’s getting ready to start some shit at the bar with her camp three boyfriend after she gets her ugly, bratty kids to go to sleep.

Monday, August 22, 2005

You want the death you got the death!

Let yourself drift through time to this Friday night....

The lights dim until the room is shrouded in the inky darkness of a million black souls....

Fog lifts from the floor and the strains of "in the beginning" from Motley Crue's 'Shout at the Devil' album pierce the air. A single red light reveals a (harrowingly sexy) figure in a dark robe...mysterious and taller than one would think upon first glance standing center stage in front of a shadowy dias.

He lifts a curvy dagger and whistles "the Call of Ktulu" as he disappears into the floor. The stage is dark and quiet save that whimpering.....or the yodel of a dead man yodeling?????

Suddenly a cymbal crashes.....One..Two..Three...Four

The lights explode into incandescent fury and the Pharmacy Prophets pop out of the bottom of the stage accompanied by showers of sparks and laser lights. A Harley is on the stage, flames are everywhere, a beer gets is madness. On the dias at the front of the stage the prone and screaming figure of our friend and sacrificial lamb Mike Holden writhes feebly...knowing that he is about to meet his maker. (He is polite enough to hold the set-list though).

"How y'all doin' tonight?" the high priest asks and the assembled masses reply with their devotional chants of "PLAY FREEBIRD" and "GEE ROSSI YOUR HAIR LOOKS FANTASTIC!!!!."

The band breaks into the breaking down the breakdown and the sacrifice begins.......


the Pharmacy Prophets@ the Velvet Lounge

This Friday 8/26/2005

Joining in the murderous activitiesare 40% of Rotoscope, 100 Years, Loser Beat Winners (X-Bad Livers)

Should be rocking.
8 bucks

Monday, August 15, 2005

The Don'ts

Don't do this.......
There’s a lot of chatter going on at ye olde Arlington Music Scene about getting people to shows, how you do it and then get them to come back and the like, (the obvious answer being “don’t suck monkey ass” hasn’t quite gotten the attention it deserves).

I don’t think the problem lies so much in getting people out to shows to give the band a chance as it does to get them to want to come back and bring friends or to an even lesser degree not light the band on fire and drive it off a cliff into scenic Lake Kerosene. It seems that so many bands are almost suicidal in the way they do things, like they want to fail so they can continue being the desperate, miserable, blame deflecting handjobs that comprise the bulk of local musicians around the world. Musicians love to complain and talk shit about each other and nothing fuels that fire like playing a succession of shitty gigs until the collective explodes into a beautiful pinwheel of sparks in the expansive sky of failure.

So being that I am a helpful sort that has been around these parts for some number of years playing the gigs good and bad I offer these things not to do both onstage and off, these dont’s as you will, with no context or explanation. Just listen to me for your betterment and obey me like Joan of Arc to Jesus and you’ll be fine. We both know that I’m smarter than you are.

Here we go:

Don’t start loading out your gear out across the front of the stage when the band after you is trying to play their set....for some weird reason that makes people want to stab your band in the face with a school bus.

Don’t take your shirt off onstage unless you’re Iggy Pop.

Don’t get so drunk that you get thrown out of the club before your set then go to your piece of shit pickup truck to get a fishing gaff and run back in the front door to poke a 400 pound bouncer named Ricky. This causes Ricky’s awful, horrendous, drunken pig of a girlfriend to run through the bar howling, “SWEET JESUS SOMEONE JUST STABBED RICKY WITH A FUCKING HARPOON!!!!” Not good for the vibe.

Don’t tell some chick at the bar that you want to hit on, “man these guys fucking suck” until you’re sure she’s not married to the singer of the band.

When there is only six people in the club don’t puke on the table where four of them are sitting.

Never start your set grabbing your crotch and screeching Axl Rose style into the mic, “Well lick my butt and balls it’s a (insert band name) rock and roll show!!!”

Don’t put inside jokes on your flyers that just make you seem like a D&D dice wielding nerd. “We cast magic missile” might seem funny at band practice but to the general public it makes your band seem as compelling as eating dog shit.

Don’t assault the soundman in the middle of your set because you don’t have enough guitar in your monitor and then when you’re getting your ass kicked by the other band that jumps in to help out stand on the drum riser with devil horns held high and yell, “That’s what you get when you fuck with StraitJakket!!!!”

Try to refrain from calling your fellow band members assholes during your set, especially into the microphones.

Don’t wear sandals. Your feet are disgusting.

Don’t act like more of a badass than you really are and if you are a badass be ready to prove it to drunk lame-o who’s slutty girlfriend has just told him that she wants to get violated “by a real man like that” in the men’s room toilet stall.

Follow-up to the last one, be sure to duck when everyone else in the room does.

Never wear a vest.

Refrain from giving each other rock nicknames and introducing each other by them. No one other than your fat girlfriend thinks it’s cool that your drummer calls you, “Frankie Solos!”

Don’t suck cock on message boards.

Don’t tell the owner of the club, “We’ll teach you the meaning of the word respect with our music” and then shove the heavy metal horns in his face.

No matter how bad you are don’t apologize for being onstage. If you’re that bad I’m already pissed that you tricked me into being at your show and you don’t have to rub it in.

Don’t tell people you’re going to play at 9:00 and then don’t start till 1:00 in the morning. It’s just rude.

Don’t start crying in the middle of your awesome guitar solo and at the end of the song have the bass player give you a big man hug.

Don’t wear pants that are too small and avoid the glittery shirts at all costs.

Before the show please don’t do bend at the waist hamstring stretches with your ass to the dressing room door while wearing bicycle shorts and with a very serious straight face ask the other bands for some privacy so you can “do what you need to do to get ready to motherfucking rock it” and expect not to get laughed at.

Don’t pick at your balls between songs. It’s very uncomfortable for the audience to watch.

Avoid playing record company showcases at exactly the same moment that an ex-football player accused of slaughtering his wife and a waiter is tootling down a freeway in a white Ford Bronco with the entire LAPD in hot pursuit.

Just admit it, you were in bad heavy metal bands until Weezer broke out and you have never listened to Gang of Four in your life. It’s really OK, no one out there gives a shit enough to judge you for it.

Don’t assume that the audience needs more guitar in the mix. They don’t.

Don’t show up late for a gig sweating like an NFL lineman in the middle of the Sahara desert and after two songs say, “these guys are going to jam for a bit” and go out back to shoot up behind a dumpster.

If you’re playing in a sports bar don’t tell the bartender to turn the TV’s off. It makes the audience who wishes you would just shut the fuck up they could hear Jon Madden want to kill you even more.

For the love of Jesus Christ don’t forget to eat a goddamn mint or some gum before you start close-talking me…, errr I mean the audience, after your terrible fucking set is over about how awesome you are with your atrocious cat shit breath.

Hey Enrique it’s the middle of the summer so you can take the wool ski cap off.

Don’t try to be cool and hawk a big lunger while you’re playing and have it catch on your bass and drip all over you for the rest of the song.

Don’t wink.

Unless you’re Chris Farley don’t do massive amounts of cocaine and get onstage and start telling jokes.

Don’t say, “this is a song about a girl.” All your songs are about girls which is strange since you rarely ever get to touch a real one. Try writing songs about playing Everquest and masturbating to get that soul-touching honesty into your music.

Don’t forget to put on deodorant.

Don't finish a set and jump out from behind the drum set and grab your bass player by the throat and slam him into the wall screaming , "YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING KILL YOU!!!!" If you happen to do that don't follow it up by getting into a knockdown dragout with the singer that ends up behind the bar causing many bottles of delicious liquor to get smashed on the floor. OK if you do that as well don't storm out of the club and throw a shopping cart into a mini-van that you are driving but don't happen to own. On the off chance that you have not listened to this advice well make sure to go back in time and NOT give the keys to your guitar player who is going to storm off in another car stranding your ass and the asses of those you just beat up in the parking lot while the cops show up to investigate the ruckus.
Don't be the guitarist that has the keys to the van and gets drunk and storms off with your roadie thus stranding your awesomely sexy but injured bass player in a parking lot withh a homicidal maniac drummer and a dented van that got stabbed by a shopping cart.
Don't be the first band in the ten year history of the shittiest bar in the universe (or at least the state of Maryland) that is so bad the soundman cuts you off during soundcheck and throws you out the backdoor.
Don’t forget to say thank you.

To me.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

All I wanted was a t-shirt

I just bought a t-shirt that says “Sexier than Satan”

It’s from a UK band called AntiProduct that have the right attitude about things if nothing else. I have rediscovered my love of band t-shirts after years of disdaining them, I’m not sure why. I clearly recall the first concert t-shirt I ever bought, it was a Bruce Springsteen shirt with a pink Cadillac on the front purchased at the Capital Center in 1984.

Not too cool.

After that it was all heavy metal and hard roxx gear starting with Motley Crue and a terribly impressive collection of Iron Maiden shirts. At that time in my life there wasn’t much better to do than throw on an Iron Maiden shirt with a picture of a bloody saber wielding mummy wading through dismembered bodies to really get Moms and Dads in an uproar. Mom was quite concerned that I was a Satanist (incorrect) and my Dad thought I was slightly retarded and had zero to little chance of ever having a girlfriend if I continued down this path of heavy metal knuckleheadery hanging out with my similarly clad and equally dopey buddies (quite correct, smart guy that Dad). The Motley Crue glam era shirts were tough to get away with, even I thought they were kinda fruity but being a true blue fan of the Crue I wore my colors wherever I could (the mall). Of course I couldn’t get out of the house without being martyred for my beliefs at the hands of the unbelieving infidels that I had to live with.

Me – I’m going to the mall.
Dad – Hey hold on a second…..
Me – What Dad, I have to go……why are you so….so….so…..
Dad – I just want to ask you a question. Is that a woman on your shirt?
Me – Which one?
Dad – Any of them….what about blondie?
Me – HIS name is Vince and he’s a guy.
Dad – Why does he want to look like a woman? It’s ridiculous!
Me – It’s not ridiculous it’s cool…you just don’t understand the Crue!
Dad – Pink pants and…what the hell is that a garter belt…..that can’t be cool…it just can’t be.
Older brother – I think Stevie is gay.
Me – I AM NOT!!!
Dad – Your brother is not gay…….he just likes to have shirts with transvestites on them for some reason.
Dad and Older brother erupt in gales of laughter.
Me – YOU GUYS ARE JERKS!!!! ..slams door, goes to mall, talks to no girls, buys more t-shirts, comes home and listens to Shout at the Devil and wishes the Crue would go back to blood and leather.....

As my tastes in music expanded so did the range of my t-shirt collection. I had a lot of good old D.C. punk band shirts and some fantastic Hanoi Rocks and Sex Pistols ones. I wish I still had those. I guess I could buy some of them used off ebay but that would just be gross not to mention terribly pretentious.

Anyhow somewhere along the way around the time I briefly thought looking like James Spader in a Bennetton ad was cool (I was confused…let’s just let it go) I just stopped wearing band t-shirts altogether. After James Spader era was over and I returned to my natural path of glorious attractiveness I did the plain t-shirt, the ironic kooky t-shirt, the company t-shirt, the horrid bowling shirt, (like you didn’t) but not band t-shirts until I went to a show one night and just decided it was time to get back to business. It was time, yes lord I was back serving the cause.

So now I’m having a jolly old romp around buying shirts from artists that are the current day versions in my affection that the Crue and Maiden and W.A.S..P. were back in the good old days. I have found some Hanoi Rocks shirts as a tribute to my past loves and the enduring diggityness I have for that band but not too much of the other older stuff. I would hate to be thought of as someone who was fronting on their lifelong dedication to Twisted Sister by wearing a replica “Stay Away From Captain Howdy shirt” when I bought the original at an actual show when the band was not ironic but iconic, (at least to me). That replica metal band t-shirt trend on dudes is crazy.

Does anybody believe the mope with the faux-hawk and white belt wearing a “I F.U.C.K LIKE A BEAST” shirt has ever really listened to W.A.S.P.? His overly emotional ass should be sacrificed by Blackie Lawless on W.A.S.P.’s spark shooting fire blazing galvanized steel altar of rock and roll like he did to the dancing girl during Johnny Rod’s “Hellion” bass solo on the Electric Circus tour. That’s what I’m talking about.


In addition to the “Sexier than Satan” shirt I have recently picked up the aforementioned Hanoi Rocks numbers and one for Mark Lanegan that says, “methamphetamine blues” across the front. That one is a real hit at the local P.T.A. meetings. I have started picking up shirts from bands that we play with that I actually like such as Marah, their logo is similar to the red, white and blue ABA basketball…not terribly original but I dig it. The collection is gathering mass and I like it, it’s entertaining and quite possibly inspiring as my old man stopped by the other day sporting a Pharmacy Prophets shirt of all things. As stated earlier, he’s a smart guy that Dad.

I wish I had worn the Metallica, “Metal Up Your Ass” t-shirt way back when. It had a knife sticking out of a toilet bowl. I always thought that was cool.

See you later, I'm heading to Hong Kong, (the store not the city).

Monday, August 08, 2005

I am the god of thunder

The band played a double-header this weekend with shows in Fairfax at TT Reynolds on Friday and Club Mojo in Baltimore on Saturday. It was fun albeit a tad tiring because life outside the band doesn't seem to give a shit how late I was out rocking magnificently the night before.

Friday - I have played at TT Reynolds many, many times over the years and have always enjoyed it there but never even once have I played when it was just a decent sunny day outside. Rain, snow, hail, hurricanes...I've had it all and am thankful for the large parking lot right by the door and the steadfast nature of the Fairfaxians who brave the elements to come see us play there. The stage set-up is unique, kinda sideways, but the folks that work there are cool as hell and people genuinely have fun and enjoy music in the bar which sets it apart from most everywhere else in Northern Virginia outside of Arlington. Our friends John and Courtney from
Rotoscope played first and it was quite nice to see them up on a stage again. John has more gadgets in his guitar rig than.....well...Inspector Gadget has in his head and I always dig the cool sounds he can create. I don't know shit about guitar effects and didn't have a single pedal for my first two years of playing guitar in a band so I always marvel at people who can keep all that stuff organized let alone make it useful.

We played second and as we were rocking the heavens opened up in praise and sang along...for real. The mics picked up the sound of thunder outside and pushed it through the P.A. Kinda disconcerting at first but then amusing. Thor can at least thunder on key which puts him head and godly shoulders over 95% of the band dudes that yell into microphones.

The show was good and sweaty and fun was had by all.

Saturday - Off to the Mojo in Baltimore. To get there you pretty much go North, turn left at a housing project, right at a cemetery and park in front of the adult movie theatre. It's a great room though and as with TT's the people that work and hang out there are cool as hell.

Bartender line of the year -
Us - "Hey do we get anything at the bar for the bands?"
Him - "How about a tall glass of go fuck yourself?"

We got along famously for the rest of the night talking about music and his disdain for bastards in pleated khakis that order Pabst Blue Ribbon and pay with an Amex Paltinum card. Funny dude that has been around the block many, many times.

The first band, from Boston, was called Bourbon Princess. Really cool groovy smooth dark rock from the scene that birthed Morphine. Singer played a fretless bass, they had a baritone sax player, a guitarist and a kickass drummer who was as it turns out the original drummer for Morphine. The highlight of the night was their sax player sitting in with us for "All Night" and it made my butt happy to be in the middle of he and our guitarist Trey trading riffs for a while. Good good stuff.

We played the rest of our set and all was well.

The third band was a three piece named after their singer,
Gavin Elder. The crowd was thin by the time they went on but we all hung in and enjoyed their set, kinda Sonic Youthy noise rock that would get soft and loud and weird and raucous all in one three minute tune. Good band and cool guys that I would like to play a show in D.C. with.

The drive home was long and arduous but we made it through weaving amongst the maniacal drunks skipping to and fro upon the B/W Parkway. We cut through some dark parts of D.C to get to Trey's place on Mass. Ave and nobody fucked with us because I'm such a scary badass.


It was fun.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Why you should go to TT's tomorrow night

Because Jack Wagner wants you to be happy!!!!

Give to us your young

What next?

Oh I know, by Congressional decree please welcome the new Panda cub, RONALD REAGAN!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh yeah and your first born sons shall heretofore be known as Ronald Reagan. The following shall also be renamed Ronald Reagan:

Bomb Pops
Ten gallon hats
Ron Jeremy
Front loading toaster ovens
Miniature Golf
Throwing Stars
Heather(s) Thomas and Locklear posters from the 80's
Manute Bol
The LeCar
Lance Armstrong's (good) testicle
The Kingdom of Heaven
Orange Julius (all flavors, not just orange)
Nancy's buttplug
Pit Bull Terriers
Pokemon (all)
Hot Pockets (all flavors)
The United States of America (and territories)

1ST SESSION H. R. 3525
To redesignate the street in the District of Columbia known as 16th Street Northwest as ‘‘Ronald Reagan Boulevard’’.
JULY 28, 2005
Mr. BONILLA introduced the following bill; which was referred to the Committee on Government Reform

To redesignate the street in the District of Columbia known as 16th Street Northwest as ‘‘Ronald Reagan Boulevard’’. Be it enacted by the Senate and House 1 of Representa2
tives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,

The street in the District of Columbia known as 16th Street Northwest shall be known and designated as ‘‘Ronald Reagan Boulevard’’.

Any reference in a law, map, regulation, document, paper, or other record of the United States or the District of Columbia to the street referred to in section shall be deemed to be a reference to ‘‘ Ronald Reagan Boulevard"

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Five days

Last night the lovely Mrs. my wife and I went out to eat a healthy dinner of chili nachos and beer at Hard Times. Ouch. Afterwards as we had babysitter time left on the clock we decided to go chill for a bit and she relented to going to the idiotic bar up the street with me. She has been there before as she is a patient and beautiful soul and indulges my penchant for sucky places and all of that but had not made an appearance at the yokels tavern for some time. So we get in and take the exact same seats that me and friend Jamie occupied the night of the maniacal brawl documented here several months back. We talked about that for a while and I gave her the play-by-play description with color commentary provided by the bartender that got pulled into the middle of the whole thing. It was fun. You would think that being there with her I would see the place through different eyes but it still looked like the same dump filled with the same desperate morons that it always has. It is consistent, I’ll give it that.

Anyway, parked next to us were two young and up and coming bar harridans slamming shots and generally being loud and ignorant. I overheard one say something to the other that took even me by surprise.

Hag in training 1 – “It’s so fucking awesome to be out drinking with you.”
Hag in training 2 – “No shit, ever since I got pregnant I’ve been waiting for this shit. (GULP)
Bartender – “So did you start smoking right after you had the baby?”
Hag in training 2 – “Well I can’t say I never smoked when I was pregnant but not all that much and ever since I got out of the hospital I’ve been smoking like a fiend”
Hag in training 1 – “FUCK YEAH!”
Bartender – “So how old is the baby now?”

Here comes the part that evoked a physical cringe from both of us.

Hag in training 2 – “Five days now, shit I couldn’t wait to get out.”

FIVE FUCKING DAYS?!?!?! Are you kidding me? I mean I probably won’t get parent of the year nominations any time soon but Jesus have a modicum of….something. I’m praying the goofy freak isn’t breastfeeding or the doomed to be a Bobcat operator offspring of hers was surely shitfaced drunk after the midnight feeding.

While I was typing this story out my neighbor Billy with the super TV and extra basement popped in to say hello. I was relating the story of five day baby and he told me about going up to the bar on St. Patrick’s Day. Some hammerhead saved his 90 year old mother a seat at the bar and they hung out getting wrecked with her while he lit up his and her smokes. What a son to do that. I mean it’s tough to light your own cigarettes when you’re 90 and hooked up to bottled oxygen.

I gotta get up there more often, it’s getting whackier by the day.