"No exaggeration, I could not love a human baby more then I love this brush. "

Yes, yes, it’s been a while since we’ve been able to post. I’ve had exams (sucky suck suck suck) and been doing a little soul searching. Plus, nobody reads this anyway so who cares if I post or not? Ill be shure to make plentee of mistak es, to,o so Luke SkyVodKa has somethin’ ta do instead of we!rk or ttry: to meat a gurrl.

My intense self-introspection has lead to three important things:

1) Sleeping more than five or six hours a night is unnecessary and only makes one lethargic and headachy. It is not easier to wake up early in the morning after nine hours than it is to wake up after a square five or five and ½. Plus one gets all sluggy and fat feeling. I had a dear friend once who (during exams) said, “Sleep is like cheesecake. If you don’t eat cheesecake, you don’t miss it. But if you have a little cheesecake, all you want is more.” He was a smart guy. Don’t remember his name, but he was smart. Just kidding, it was Mike. Cheesecake makes you fat. (Stef is also suffering from Heroin, cocaine, marijuana and meth withdrawal at this time. Her nonsensical talk about sleep and not needing it is because she has the shakes and can’t actually sleep. KP on the other hand is not. She functions just fine on 5, 6, 7, 8, or 12 hours of sleep. She likes to eat cheesecake too. And I’m pretty sure Mike was talking about sex, not cheesecake.)

2) Neil Diamond RULES. He is the greatest, hairiest, most prolific and, um, clever songwriter still currently alive. “No one cares at all, not even the chair.” So true! His voice is the audio equivalent of a double-tall almond mocha with an extra shot of espresso, served just a little too hot and covered with melty whipped cream and a little bit of honey, plus a cigarette, plus Jewish, plus Brooklyn, plus chest hair. This fascination started back in the fall, but it’s only grown and flourished. Street cred be damned, Neil Diamond rules. He rules bigtime. I have three words and one Roman numeral for you: Hot August Nights II. Reach out your hand, brother!

3) I think I might quit my job at the bookstore and become a kungfu master…but I’d be a Samurai too though, if I had a problem getting into China or something.

So I could tell you about all the excellent things us girls have been up to lately, I could make up some more COMPLETELY fictional tales about our MADE UP slutface friend Kasey, and the gauntlet of dick she’s been running from Grand Rapids to the Mason-Dixon line, or I could use this space to put up a bunch of my windbag opinions about highly debatable social topics and (hopefully) encourage equally narcissistic, self-indulgent and faux-intelligent commentary. But you can do that on every other site on the internet. Can’t we just talk? We never talk anymore. It reminds me of the time that fish called that guy at his desk and was all “what do you mean you’re not coming?” and the guy is like “I told you not to call me here” and the fish is like “but it’s Saturday.” The fish is right. I can do all three, but quid pro quo y’all, hollar back! And to the fish, you can call me any time.

For the cool things we’ve been doing, KP and Austin channeled Ike and Tina (sans the domestic violence, or so I think, she told me those bruises were from falling down the stairs into the garage where a bunch of blunt rusty tools fell on her arms and eyes) and taught Proud Mary a thing or two (it’s “pumped a lot of ‘tane,” not ‘tang. Ohhh oops). KP also channels, uh, Glenn Danzig during her version of “Purple Rain.” I assure you, if Price were dead he’d be rolling around in his purple-lacquered pink fur-lined coffin. It was awesome, though. Tried BrickRoad Pizza for the first time and unless you’re a vegan who is DEFINITELY, FOR SURE NOT A VAMPIRE, it isn’t worth the money. Why does everybody always link “artisan pizza” to “made up completely of garlic”? Jeez. Anybody want to make out?
We also started the Blue and Silver Car Club with our new friend Dan, who is the president because his car is a classic. KP and I are currently in deliberations over who will be available to take dictation.

Kasey, our 100% derived, completely imaginary, totally non-existent, earnestly illusory, fictional friend and her (also with no connection to reality) easy friend Beth want to go to Quebec for New Years, so we’ll resume the story there. Jean-luc-francois-paul-jean-patrice-antony-larry Du Cavallier, here we come! Donnez-moi gross bisses, mon Hercules Canadienne! Je suis tres facile!

And now for the forum topics: the lazy sub-language of cell phone texting and dateless nerdball gamers that is infecting the youth of this country is deteriorating the English language to illegible rubbish (please disregard the made-up words on this site, the freedom within the language to allow such flexibility is simply being exercised, that’s all). Can’t we at least keep letters and numbers separate? Don’t ever tell me to call u later, or ask me what I want 2 do 4 dinner. Come on. Besides, I just 8. Ridiculous. This is all Cosmopolitan Magazine’s fault. (Actually, KP blames Tiger Beat) Lemme just run this convo by my peeps, K? I’m ‘viewing for a new profesh so I can crib enough benjamins to jet to a real vacay with my guy and BFF. Let me just quick wipe the vomit off these Jimmy Choo’s. (KP: BTW, In defense of text messaging, they only give you like 160 characters. That is like totally not enough when I have to explain how Morgan, my new boyfriend, just broke up with me on myspace and now defriended me on facebook. I mean I have to abrev so whatev.)

Or maybe we could talk about Jurassic Fight Club instead? Is it really as awesome as it sounds?



Hockey, Friday night, 7pm followed immediately by Mega 80’s and some sweet flashdance moves by KP. Who’s down??

"Stop hatin', start participatin'. Come on, twinkle twinkle, baby, twinkle twinkle. Wanna take a shot at me kid? Do it. "

It's mad lib time again. I was bored at work today, cleaned out my desk and found our road trip mad libs. Anyone down?? I'll start. Here is the blank one...

1. When you receive a birthday ________ (noun) or a wedding _________ (noun), you should always send a thank-you ________ (noun).

2. When you _______ (verb) or burp out loud, be sure to cover you _______ (part of the body) and say "I'm _________ (adverb) sorry."

3. If you are a man and wearing a/an ________ (noun) on your head and a/an ________ (noun) approaches, it's always polite to tip your ________ (noun).

4. When you are at a friend's _______ (noun) for dinner, remember, it's not polite to eat with your _________ (part of the body, plural), take food from anyone else's _______ (noun), or leave the table before everyone else.

5. When meeting your friend's parents, always try to make a/an _________ (adjective) impression by greeting them ___________ (adverb).

"It's like you got yesterday, today and tomorrow, all in the same room. There's no telling what can happen."

Anybody ever notice that there is a two-month time lapse between Halloween and Xmas? I mean honestly, how did I miss that? Where the hell did November and December go, man? Now that Rocktober is, sadly, over and Rockvember is missing that clever *ting *, and, those of us unfortunate enough to have high-volume retail jobs this time of year, would rather it just not exist period. In fact, during these times of ridiculously long lines and cranky shoppers, who are most complimentarily described as “irrational” and “delusional,” all I’d really like to do is fling myself, guitar in hand, off the starboard side of a cruise ship in the Caribbean and take my chances with the sea, while “All These Things that I’ve Done” plays effectively in the background. But cruises are too expensive, especially for the suicide package, so I guess until I find me a nice library job where I don’t have to talk to anyone and just hole myself away in the stacks forever, I’ll just find some cool stuff to do around Grand Rapids. Unless you want to move to Canada with me, cause seriously, I’d leave tonight.

Now since most things no longer taste as good, or sound as good or smell as good, as they did before we saw GWAR, I think it would be a good time to discuss one of the very few things/people that’s awesomeness could survive a nuclear holocaust.

I would like you all to meet a friend of ours, Grand Rapids’ own Bob Dylan (only with a warmer, more coherent voice, and a WAY WAY better personality), Mr. Sam Kenny. ( Listen to Sam Here )He is a guitar wielding demi-god, most prominently found in the writings in the dead sea scrolls or at Rocky’s, whichever is more convenient.

You can see Sam Kenny all over town, and I recommend you do so because, even better than a decent alternative to suicide, Sammy is a pleasure. Nay, a reason to live. If nothing else, he is the maple syrup and brown sugar to this town’s porridge, the marshmallows to our collective candied yammies, or the frosting drizzle in a smiley face on Grand Rapids’ strawberry toaster strudel.

In addition to being all cute and stuff, Sammy does covers, he does originals, and he takes requests without even rolling his eyes or sighing deeply and looking at you like you just barfed on his shoe. For that (and for that Jimmy song that he learned so long ago), say thanks to him and shake his hand appreciatively, should you run into him anywhere. Then apologize for running into him. What, were you born in a barn?

He calls his original pieces “bathtub songs,” and I can see why. They are light and buoyant, warm and engaging folk songs sung in Sam’s strangely toasty voice, largely unlike the acts that we usually endorse here at T-Shirt Size: Awesome, but still awesome nonetheless. If you’re thinking it sounds a little sissy because you prefer to turn your amp to 11 and rip shredding riffs on your Fender Sharkmaster (hell yeah!), don’t fear. It is a little sissy, but Sam more than makes up for it with his hilarious (and often adorable) stage presence.

Just like the guy at the end of the bar who just came in for 19 beers because he got laid off from his job in the bikini-bottoms-and-cranberry-flavored-massage-oils factory, who is a little surprised to see Sam there in the first place and even more surprised at how much he’s enjoying it even though it isn’t the Bob Seger he was hoping for, you might find yourself extended into Sammy’s alternate, buttery reality even though you’re Van Halen, not Van Hagar. He sure is rockin’ to watch. He does a little dancing, kicking, and punching but I don’t want to give too much away because you can all go see him for yourself. Here’s how:

So put on your favorite cuddly sweater, order something dark and creamy, and see Sam Kenny wax whimsical. Maybe Sam will make you feel better about getting laid off, maybe he will say something funny to you during his set break and you will become fast friends, or maybe, upon checking out all the girls that instinctively flock to him like the salmon of Capistrano, you’ll put your plastic axe away and pick up a real guitar for chrissakes. Chicks love that stuff.

Sam is playing at the following venues on the following nights. GO SEE HIM!!

Friday, November 21, 2008 – Schuler’s Bookstore, Downtown 6:00 – 8:00 pm

Saturday, November 22, 2008 – Bull’s Head Tavern 9:00 pm

Thursday, December 11, 2008 – Putt Putt’s Bar 9:00 pm

If you show up to these shows, tell him you know KP and Stef and he will tell you anything you want to know about us, even if they are complete falsehoods and neither one of us ever did that, you know, thing he said.

"I don't know what it's called; I only know the sound it makes when it *lies*! "

GATHER ‘ROUND FRIENDS, AND I SHALL SPIN YE ANOTHER TALE THAT I JUST HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF MINE WHO TOLD IT TO ME IN NO PARTICULAR CONFIDENCE AND I SWEAR THAT THE NAMES WEREN’T CHANGED AND THIS IS TOTALLY FICTIONAL. I PROMISE, THIS IS BASED ON NO TRUE STORY.

Because we are a non-emo blog of integrity here at TShirt Size: Awesome, and because we have received a request to hear more about KP’s wild side, I will instead tell you a completely fictional yarn about something that never really happened anywhere and has no weight or bearing in reality whatsoever. In fact, it’s such a farce that the following story I’m about to tell you came from the pages of an L. Ron Hubbard novel and NOT REALITY. Got it? This is so crazy that it might even come from the Old Testament. Crazyville, Nut City, man.

There once was a girl named Kasey, from Cry-Loaming. This girl Kasey was pretty cool until college, when she met this weird, decrepit, half-mummy librarian lady at Shmishigan Shtate (where she might have gone to college, nobody knows) that was so old that she couldn’t drive anymore, and all she could do was point ominously at people and speak cryptically. Seriously? The fact that her name was Suzie Oracle was a complete and total coincidence. So Kasey runs into her in the science non-fiction section (for all you nerds, this is the section of the library where not everything has magical protection properties and names to follow their descriptions. If you want the Shield of Neverending Light or whatever, you’ll have to go the science fiction section. Get it? See how we help you?) Anyway, this crazy old Mrs. Oracle sees Kasey and she starts pointing and shaking like she always does, but instead of a prophecy of doom like she usually delivers, she says nothing, but there is a set of car keys dangling from her gnarly old finger. They belong to the 1977 Buick Electra that she can no longer drive. They are attached to a “California Raisins” key chain that had one of the arms busted off but still looked sweet anyway. Wheels. The rest is destiny.

Kasey’s mission is still unclear as she fills the tank to 7/8ths full, procures at least half a pack of road squares, loads her after-market, curiously tasteful stereo with all the latest Danity Kane, EnVogue, Destiny’s Child, and Boyz 2 Men and sets off only knowing the direction: West; the destination: Sweet. That’s it. This is where it gets really crazy.

She’s been driving all night across several uninteresting moons and intense meteor showers, and she finally runs out of gas in a strange, detached climate called Benver, Tolorado. She’s wearing a pair of snakeskin overall-shorts, and huge, reflective aviators that she just purchased spontaneously, so you know she’s fierce. She smells a little like Slim Jims and gas station foam soap, but that doesn’t seem to bother the kindly folks of Benver, and she makes friends immediately.

Cut forward one night of wildness to the next morning when Kasey rolls out of the affordable and charming abode she rented for the evening, and re-names the car (it used to be ’77 Buick Electra) “Cocktober is the Month After Cocktember.” That was just its show name though, you know, for the papers, she just calls it the Dick-tastic Voyage for short. As she rolls out of Benver just a few minutes past noon, noticing for the first time just how much she doesn’t miss bucket seats and putting her feet on the hump, and rocking, crossing and uncrossing her legs a bit uncomfortably, she realizes that hospitality isn’t necessarily fried chicken upstairs while the ugly, deformed, misunderstood brother has to get shackled up in the basement so the guests don’t know he exists. It could be, maybe, something a tiny bit more personal, a tiny bit more sweaty, a tiny bit closer. 1977 Buick Electras rule. Benver, Tolorado rules. Polar Fleece rules. It was fine.

And then she totally made out with some dude named SteveDave by my car in the parking lot at the Dump. Gross, Kasey.

This part seriously is non-fiction though, I really did shake Mr. Aaron Downey’s hand, though we didn’t have a moment like Kyle Quincey and I did, it was still pretty hot, and I promise that though he seemed a little pre-occupied at the time, I will haunt his dreams. Look out, Aaron Downey, you’ve been marked. I can’t believe I told him: “Hi I’m stef and I totally saw you knock some dude’s block off a few days ago!” how stupid. I should have just poured a shot of tequila down my shirt like a real lady and had him lick it off. Maybe next time, buddy! Keep block-knockin!

" I've come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass... and I'm all out of bubblegum"

So just to clarify, Halloween gets an official T Shirt Size: Awesome verdict right here: Best Holiday Ever. Except maybe National Kung Foo Dinosaur day, or maybe National Jack a Dude like a Pirate Day, but I don’t know when those are (but I promise that a) I will make it known to you all immediately, and b) we will be having a party for both. Bring yer booty!) so left standing, Halloween rules. Thumbs up.

Finding my Viking, Baby One More Time costume a little difficult to assemble three days before Halloween, I was forced to get creative and steal an idea from an un-named friend (who was not with us, by the way), which also proved a bit challenging to find enough stuff for, one day prior to Halloween. If you know where to find a WWII bomber helmet and anything closely resembling an unattached fighter plane throttle, can you please let me know? Perhaps my dream will be realized next year…I was an Asian schoolgirl instead. A bit unoriginal, I know, but I didn’t see any other ones and nobody really even knew what I was supposed to be, except the actual Asian girl who was adorable and dressed like a mail-order bride. She knew because she was an Asian schoolgirl last year, and better than me because she was actually Asian. Bitch. Hasn’t anyone ever seen porn before? No, fuk Yu.



But where KP’s duds also lacked a bit in originality, she more than made up for in authenticity. She was the best Sarah Palin out there. She might even be better than the real Sarah Palin. She was so good as a matter of fact, that I’d like to take this one minute and give an Official T Shirt Size: Awesome THANK YOU to craft-master and art expert George for the spot-on excellence of the John McCain puppet he made for KP.



Without it, she’d just be another power-abusing, under qualified, geographically challenged, six-pack soccer mom with terrific cans. She couldn’t have done it without you, George. Anyway, she looked perfect and out Palin-ed all the other Palins (excluding the guy that was dressed like her, but he was just funny), and looked positively patriotic cradling that cocked rifle next to G.I. Joe the Plumber. It brought a tear to my eye just to see. Take that, stupid Canada.

It was fun, you know, we went and had some beer, we went to a party with Chuck and the Super Mario Brothers, had a conversation with Beatlejuice about the merits of musical expression through playing and how I’m apparently bored. That guy was cool, even though I’d have rather been making out with him than talking philosophy. Oh well. Do you like the idea of having Halloween like once a month maybe? Do you think that instead of all these stupid bank holidays like Flag Day and National Boss’ day and president’s day that we could just substitute them for Halloween? Like, instead of National Boss’ Day, it could be National Dress Like Your Boss Day, and instead of President’s Day it could be National Have a Mistress and a Sweet-Ass Wig Day? Everybody on this band wagon! I’ll bring the punch! Grab Gogol Bordello on the way because I know that Eugene would be down with that and I haven’t forgotten our mission. How about having a National Relax and Join the Parade Day?? What’s more American than that??

I won’t say much more about Saturday other than, while KP visited with mom in the great white north, I witnessed renegade Whitesnake as a guest at an underground karaoke party. I’m not kidding you, either. Like underground cockfighting and underground mud-wrestling, these were bootleg songs in some dude’s (happy birthday, Ken! Fifty never looked so sexy) own homemade karaoke lair, complete with TV screens, several color-coordinated microphones, and all the illegal downloads you could bellow your little heart out to. All I can say about it is that I don’t know what to say. First rule of Fight Club is: don’t talk about Fight Club. Bubba, if what they say about the man with half of a nose being king of the land of the skunks, than you really, really rock. C’mon c’mon c’mon! I wish Gretchen Wilson would get sold as some voodoo doctor’s slave and move to Guam or something and just go away.

And I hate to do this, but, IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON NOV. 4th AND YOU HAVEN’T BEEN TO THE POLLS YET, GO VOTE!!!!! IT’S YOUR JOB!!!! THE GOOD GUYS ACTUALLY HAVE A CHANCE THIS YEAR, SO JUST FOR ONE DAY ACT LIKE A GROWNUP AND FUCKING VOTE. There, I said it. Love you guys!

"Man, I tell you something, if you live in my neighborhood and you're dressed like that, you'd better be a hotel doorman."

Halloween...

It can best be summed up with the following pictures














That's all I have to say about that....

"The following tale of alien encounters is true. And by true, I mean false. It's all lies. But they're entertaining lies."

Halloween is today, as you all know, and it’s Friday so there will not only be all kinds of private parties, but your favorite bar in town is no doubt having some sort of scareoke or alternately clever play on words-type-shindig, and there is no better excuse to make out with rainbow bright or Captain Jack, so you’ll need a costume, right? What?! You haven’t seen a calendar and have been so busy looking up “giant foam fist” on your Google that you didn’t even realize that Halloween is today and you can’t wear that clown costume again because now the cops know what they’re looking for?! Don’t worry, friend! We got you! If you’re only empty handed because your friend bailed on your sweet idea for Motley Crue costumes at the last minute, you’re in luck too (and I agree, a sweet Tommy Lee costume just wouldn’t be the same without an equally sweet Nikki). Here are a few easy, inexpensive, and slightly inappropriate costume ideas from us to you:

o Pink bubble gum makes for sweet fake nipples, you can put them anywhere, and people are a little put-off when you put them in your mouth. Eeeew.

o Pick anyone from the recording industry, especially if you’re of the opposite sex. Cross-dressing is a sure fire winner, and a guy version of Jessica Simpson or Lil’ Kim would be pretty easily tossed together and effective. Amy Winehouse is an easy and good one, no matter what sex you are.

o I saw a guy once that came to a Halloween party wearing only a pair of jeans and his sneakers. I said: “what are you supposed to be?” he said “a pre-mature ejaculation” I said “huh?” he said “I came in my pants” ahhh hahahahaha. I think
it’s been enough years that you won’t run into anyone else that saw that guy do that.

o If you can get enough of that scar tissue gum stuff to make your neck look like a vagina, you can be John McCain, or Jarod the Subway guy

o A bra outside your cloths, messy hair, pit stains, crazily applied lipstick smeared all over your face, and a gun, and nobody will ask you what you’re supposed to be because they’ll be too scared of you to talk to you. Cool.

o Find any suit that you have and pair it with a sweet fake moustache and Viking helmet (found at any Halloween store). This says that Vikings, just like normal people, are perfectly capable of getting a real job, too, thank you.

o McLovin’

o Though un-original, nobody can say “no” to a doctor, especially if you’ve got a clever name like Dr. Ben Dover or Dr. Harry Scrotum.

o Dress up as your best friend (a caricature version, you gotta rib him a little) unbeknownst to your best friend, just make sure that he’ll be wherever you go. See if he even notices.

o Nothing says “this only MIGHT be a costume” like an afro wig and tuxedo t shirt

o I saw a guy once that rolled himself up in a sheet, painted his face green, and went as a joint. We were way too high at the time to notice that it really wasn’t that funny.

That’s all I have time for now, because I have to get my own costume together, but any two things that wouldn’t normally go together works, so, you know, just throw some shit on, and get out there. Rock on!

Here’s a few really last minute Halloween destination for you chumps who don’t have anything better to do:

Billy’s Lounge- Pimps & Ho’s party
Founder’s- Halloween party featuring UV Hippopotamus (not the hip-hoppopotamus though) and Oracle
Mega 80’s (see our post on them) Halloween- Intersection
Monte’s – Halloween Slutfest 2008
Bob – Slutfest 2008 continued. Keep your hands off my hockey players, bitches!
Your mom’s Basement- Dungeons and Dragons by yourself while you think fondly on your 2nd grade art teacher and that one picture you painted her with a body fluid that wasn’t pee. Why was she so freakin’ put out by that? Jeez. I will NOT see you there.
1,000,000 random house parties- just jump on a wagon, dude. That’s what we’re doing! Who can say no to a Charles Manson lookalike who smells a little like lawn fertilizer and is twitching uncontrollably? It’s Halloween! See you at Chuck’s!

I really do love you, Austin!

"Certainly, in the topsy-turvy world of heavy rock, having a good solid piece of wood in your hand is often useful"

Boy, did we have a weekend. We had one of those weekends that all you can really do once its over is lean back in your uncle Lenny’s duct-tapey EZ chair, un-button the top button of your elastic pants, and give one of those deep, watery, gratuitous sigh/farts of total, serene, pleasure. Sorry for that one, uncle Lenny, but don’t act like you never did that.

So Friday night we made it out of work early enough to get a couple of white t shirts. I got a white tank top and a white T, no-bra (shuddup Bubba, I was braless as promised), KP ended up bra-d but leaving golden tickets like KP’s braless either requires weeks of planning and an elaborate sort of pulley system, or the type of stones that even KP doesn’t have. Gall. Chutzpah, you know? Anyway, we chugged our little braless asses on down to the Intersection and saw us some GWAR.

HELL YEAH WE SAW GWAR AND IT WAS LIKE THE FUNNEST THING EVER!!!

When I saw the ad in Recoil at the beginning of the month, it seemed like something I should probably see once before I hit the old dusty trail and I knew that I wouldn’t be disappointed. Beavis and Butthead never led me astray before, but I didn’t know it was going to be as much straight-up fucking FUN as it was. They’ve got this whole concert thing down. Even though 23 years into it, it felt just a tiny bit half-assed (YouTube “Phallus in Wonderland” if you’d like a visual) at the Intersection, they still put on one hell of a crazy metal show.

Picture this: five oozing, gnashing, blood-soaked space monsters wearing nothing but 37lbs of foam rubber and makeup and t-bars rocking the shit out of you, tastelessly, with the amps turned all the way to 11. It really was that cool. They had this whole little act thing going on, featuring crowd favorite, “band manager” and magician, Sleazy P. Martini running for president on the platform that “90% of yous should be dead already”, John McCain being strangled with his own intestines at the hands of the Ninja Turtle-lookin’ thing aptly named “Bonesnapper,” and Hillary Clinton’s tits being ripped off by Oderous himself. Obama’s head was just swinging from the back of his blood-spurting neck cavity. Me and KP got totally soaked with blood and space jizz (see above picture that KP ganked from Bubba) from the giant dick gun. I can’t believe you weren’t there to see this. If you were (unless you were that guy hanging all crazily from his back skin on a couple of fishing hooks, what the fuck, dude?), it was great seeing you, and drop us a line if you’d like to share your experience, or if you know of any other metal shows like that one where we can get soaked in blood and space jizz ‘cause we will totally go there. It will be like a date, only braless. And way more metal. We want to make coffee more metal. We want to make everything more metal.

For those of you who were just born yesterday, or maybe you’re so creepy and home-schooled that you thought the end of Harry Potter 7 was too hard to handle, GWAR has long ago, along the veins of Spinal Tap, DethKlok, and Tenacious D, crossed the bridge from ridiculous parody to actually awesome. They were (as they shouted “FUCK KISS, FUCK LORDI, FUCK SLIPKNOT”, I knew that they were right) the grandfathers of this pilgrimage. They were ridiculous enough to be excellent back when only Burt Reynolds was ridiculous enough to be excellent. Back when people were still thinking that they were actually awesome enough that they didn’t have to laugh at it, much less embrace it fully and shoot it out of a giant dick gun onto all of their pie-eyed, zombie looking, blood spattered fans. This is why I love satire the way I do, and this is why you all should go and see fucking GWAR. It was so much fun I wish it were still happening right now.

Official verdict: more excellent than Dr. Phil coming totally unglued on Oprah and calling all of his half-retarded radish-looking Chia pet patients “half-retarded radish looking Fat Cows.” That would be pretty excellent though. That’s right, Dr. Phil, don’t let Oprah push you around any more! You can’t make a ho a housewife! GWAR was still more excellent.

So then (cause we can’t, we won’t, we don’t stop!) we hopped in my little blue (Nu)Porche and made it to Ann Arbor, a little hung over and fully rocked out, in time to tailgate with Kipp and his friends, who might be the GWAR of tailgaters. These dudes do it right. I’m talking satellite TV’s in the back of their HumVee’s, fifty men deep shot gunning beers every beer oclock and beer thirty, and a straight-up sports cooler filled with Jager bombs. They had the grill going, they had the chili, they had a megaphone that said “Don’t Be a Dick” that was manned by a guy that was a total dick. Again, I was surprised at how much fun we had. But once condom man walked by and our boys hoisted that tailgate trophy (I don’t even know if they knew who was playing in the actual game…who cares! Go Blue!*), it was time for me and KP to hit the bricks (conspicuous paragraph break)

and we booked it back to GR in time for the Griffin’s home opener, where they won 6-4, and our own little guy from Muskegon, Abdelkader, totally almost decapitated some guy. You go, Kid! Current Griff’s muscle and part-time Wings enforcer Aaron Downey (though he isn’t Quincy, siiiigh, it was still nice to see his mug) had a few juicy hits, and Oulahen (you single, buddy? I’m looking for a new hockey boyfriend…) knocked some other dude’s block off.

Just so you guys know, now that hockey season has had a substantial kickoff and we’re headed underway, this will likely be an integral but not consuming part of T Shirt Size: Awesome from now on. Griffins games cost next to nothing and you can sit really close (look for us, the two half-sleazy but not totally road-whored-out chicks screaming for blood in section 121), especially on home Fridays when they have $1 beers and dogs and if you hold up a sign that says “Blow Me, Zane” I will personally buy all of your $1 beers and dogs myself. I better see you all at a bunch of these things. They have our stamp of approval for sure.

Oh and dads, you should probably leave your little kids at home, UNLESS YOU ARE THE DAD FROM SATURDAY NIGHT, YOUR KID KICKS ASS. That little guy was like six (not much older than Darren Helm, I think…) and he was fist pumping, air drumming, and screaming “SHOW NO MERCY” all night long. Best. Kid. Ever. If you’re interested, dad, me and KP will totally babysitt him a few times a week just so he can trash-talk people who try to hassle us. “The lady said she wants diet, bitch. Yeah, you heard me grandpa, what are you gonna do?” Please, dad? If my kid isn’t exactly like that someday, I’m selling him to Douglas J. Wednesday I should have my list of sweet last-minute Halloween costumes out, so stay tuned.

*for the record, KP is a State alum and therefore cared immensely about the game. And she was balls deep in Blue territory, but she held her own like a champ. Stef didn’t really care either way, but wore Blue for camouflage, and a place to wipe her run

"Jocks only think about sports, nerds only think about sex."

OH HOW THE EXCITEMENT OF THE ROAD TRIP CONTINUED WITH OUR TWO CHEEKY HEROINES AND THEIR ENDLESS AMUSEMENT WITH SUGGESTIVELY TITLED GAS STATIONS AND AXE MURDER HOUSES…The Entire Reproduced Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show Done all in miniature….

OK, I can’t in good consciousness finish this narrative and move on to better and awesomer things without first apologizing to all nine of our readers for that brazen display of unabashed nerdiness that KP displayed earlier with all that StarTrek stuff. She has nerd Tourette’s or something and can’t help it and didn’t mean it and PLEASE DON’T TAKE AWAY ALL OF OUR STREET CRED JUST BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T TALK TO ME (stef) BEFORE POSTING THAT. We want you to feel safe with the guidance you receive here at T Shirt Size: Awesome, we want this to be a place that you feel like you can come for a good dose of non-nerd excellence and honest cultural direction, so please, it’s okay, you can come down off that chair you’ve jumped up on, shrieking uncontrollably and incoherently mumbling about “ijasoscared….ahhhh,” it’s okay. She didn’t mean it. Say you’re sorry for scaring the reader, KP.

So I guess back to the road trip, if we still have any readers or even one ounce of credibility left, we were leaving Kansas for Denver and that crazy mutant animal farm and on the wide open road to Colorado (where the beer flows like wine). Turns out, me and KP really liked Denver. Actually, Denver (with the one MAJOR exception of the Avalanche, yeah if you happened to be in Denver on Sept. 26 then that was me with the dark hair and empty beer screaming “fuck the av’s!” down whatever street we found that Oktoberfest on to your lame whines of “fuck Detroit”. Didn’t see Stanley anywhere in Denver, bitch, and I looked for him. Gee...) is an awesome town full of kindly (very kindly, eh KP?) folks who like beards, beer, and live music just as much as we do. But just for you Bubba, who found the word “brevity” in the Microsoft Word dictionary (along with sci0list and skulduggery), instead of recounting cleverly and adjectivally our experience and adventures, I’ll just make you a list and you readers can choose which ones you want to hear about, if any. I hope this is easy enough to read:

The Hostel that was very nice and only $16 per night
Rosario Dawson
Tattered Pages
Oktoberfest
Our Lovely New Pals at North Face (hi guys!)
KP’s Adventurous Side that she didn’t admit to until like a week ago (come on, leave this up)
Omaha
Axe Murder House
World’s Largest coffee pot, covered wagon, and time capsule
The craziest Gas Station Attendant Ever

That should be enough to get you started, just let me know.

If you ever find yourself in Iowa, I’ll just say, before you go right to trying to kill yourself by dressing in black and jumping in front of one of the magnitude of semi-trucks even though the black seems kind of pointless because it’s the middle of the day and everyone can totally see you anyway, just know this: We had a ton of fun in Iowa. There is a lot of kitschy Americana there that is the very fabric of the awesome road trip, and despite the common misconception about Iowa, KANSAS IS WAY WORSE. That axe murder house was so cool and the guy that gave us a tour will be a fixture in all of my short stories from now on, finding that plow in the oak tree was neat and even the people who changed my tire at Wal Mart were a little bit salt-of-the-earthier than normal. Iowa was cool, there, I said it.

"I am a graduate of Starfleet Academy; I know many things."

Ok so I have to display my nerdiness in full force today because when I got to work this morning I saw something that made me so excited I peed my pants a little.

For everyone who knows me, I am a HUGE Nerd! HUGE!! My biggest Nerd achievement is my love of Star Trek. The new Star Trek movie comes out next summer but they just released a few photos of the cast and what not.

IT'S AMAZING!!

Now beware, if you are like me, you just might have to change your pants after seeing these pictures. Try to control yourself.

How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Some day they may be scarce

Ok this is the last of the wallowing in self pity that T-Shirt Size: Awesome will do about the loss of Kyle Quincey. For this to work, play the video below but replace the lyrics with the new ones that Stef wrote. Don't forget the Kleenex, it will bring a tear to your eye.



Goodbye, Kyle Quincey, goodbye (to the tune of “Take my Breath Away” by Berlin)

Watching every motion made here in this hockey game
Trying for the camera, void of any hint of shame
Ripping off your gloves, just to blacken some dude’s eye
Punching in slow motion as his chest cavity seems to say, oh Kyle,
Take my breath away.

When I heard you’re leaving I wasn’t expecting much
Figuring you’d stay, though you aren’t even Dutch
Didn’t have a chance to let you know just how I feel,
That day when you saw me, touched my arm and then you said, my love:

“I think you’re in my way,”

through your crowd of whores I saw you
somehow you slipped away
that douche from the Moose thought he caught you,
you turned to hear him say, ow ow ow ow hey!
That’s my trachea buddy! My solar plexus! Dammit! Arhhhhhhhh! Please stop!! Mercy!

Watching every minute of this stupid LA game
Now you’re not a Red Wing, probably you’re filled with shame
Watching on the line without a second of your face
As I change the channel, now I guess I’ll have to say

Jonathan Ericsson

Take my breath away

_______________________________________________

Seriously though, please come back to Grand Rapids, Kyle Quincy (PS: Is it Quincey? or Quincy?), I don’t think I can make it through another Griffs season without you. Rafalski can actually play, and Aaron Downey will be an ass-whooping pleasure to behold I’m sure, but it won’t be the same without you. Be careful of LA, Buddy, and if you ever date Paris Hilton, you will have ruined the entire sport of hockey, manhood, the holiness of the playoff beard, and the entire reputation of Canada. Come back and see me sometime! I’m a sure thing!

PS-if Sean Avery still played for the Kings your desertion would be one thing, but he doesn’t, and that’s a pretty big torch to carry, pal. Never do a GAP ad. Ever. In fact, if you ever see Sean Avery, you know, just hanging around with all his Versace model friends or whatever, clean his freekin clock on behalf of all that is or ever was bad-ass. Damn, I’m gonna miss you, Kyle.

Ah, sweet pity. Where would my love life be without it?

Newsflash: Kyle Quincy will no longer be playing for a Michigan team. He has been picked up by the LA Kings. Let's all take a moment and reflect on our feelings...

Alright you Primitive Screwheads, listen up! You see this? This... is my boomstick!

"Alright you Primitive Screwheads, listen up! You see this? This... is my boomstick! The twelve-gauge double-barreled Remington. S-Mart's top of the line. You can find this in the sporting goods department. That's right, this sweet baby was made in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Retails for about a hundred and nine, ninety five. It's got a walnut stock, cobalt blue steel, and a hair trigger. That's right. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart. You got that?"

HEY YA STINKIN’ BUMS!! ROCKTOBER UPDATE:

So this month has been no less than awesome so far. Kim (the girl, the legend, the high priestess of Detroit sports and angel of death to all smartassy clowns) and Rick (the man, the legend also, this is some Clash of the Titans shit, we on fiiiire!) got married on Saturday before a beautiful autumn backdrop, adorable and touching ceremony, and supremely fun reception. What is it about hearing a blushing bride, shimmering in her bright white gown with radiance and love, screaming “THAT’S RIGHT, BITCH! WHAT!” when the Wings win? Really brings a tear to my eye, I love you guys.

Also, we rocked out at Pulaski Days, Rocked out elsewhere, and rocked out when Sammy and our new friend Justinn played “Space Oddity” really good the other night at Schuler Books. Oh yeah, and our neighbor downstairs TOTALLY RULES (HI AUSTIN!!!) and KP ate fire, but I was too scared to put it in my mouth so I just touched it with my hand. AUSTIN YOU TOTALLY ROCK! So here’s what’s up for the next couple of weeks:

October 14, 2008 8pm
What: The Thing
Where: Wealthy Street Theatre
Cost: $3.50
Why: I think this will be tons of fun and who doesn't want to see Kurt Russell circa 1982 showing some baddy who's boss?? I rest my case.

Saturday Oct. 18- Electric 6 at the Intersection. Detroit rock hilarity. This ought to be fun

Friday Oct. 24- GWAR at the Orbit Room. I better see you all there!!! God What Awful Racket? Gay Women Against Rape? Who knows what it stands for, but this is guaranteed to be Rocktober-licious. Ladies: plain white tee shirt, no bra. Got that? I will see you all there. If you don’t know Gwar, quit sucking, and let us know if you need a ride. Seriously? Quit sucking though.

Saturday Oct. 25- UM/MSU, we’ll be in Ann Arbor that day trying to break up fights. If you want a ride, we’re leaving at the crack of ass. Thank you, Kipp. First ones there means first ones passed out, right? Then it’s back to Grand Rapids for the Griffins home opener, which you all should be at as well. Dude, Aaron Downey will be playing Griff games this year, and he’s a murderer. Like an axe murderer complete with frilly cuffs and tattered stovepipe hat. Creepy, but I totally love him and wouldn’t let that stop me from touching his pantleg inappropriately at a dinner party in front of his parents.

JURASSIC FIGHT CLUB on the History Channel. I’ve only heard about this, but it really does sound like the coolest show ever made ever and I’ll be whoring myself to anyone with cable just to see it. Premise: computer-generated dinosaurs (from antiquity) fight each other, just to see who would win. AWESOME! DINO FIGHT! I have my money on the aeliosuaur! That’s the whole show, seriously. Watch it.

DARK FLOORS- is the worst/best horror movie of the year, hands down. It has LORDI in it, for chrissakes. Lordi movie = awesome. Anything with LORDI in it is awesome. Especially if there is a haunted hospital, and creepy-ass kid who just wants “the red crayon”. Get this movie, please.

I went to a fight the other night and a hockey game broke out.

I must disrupt the recounting of Me and KP across America, something far more gravitational has just come to my attention. Ladies? You might want to take a seat for this one.

The Wings are looking to trade Kyle Quincey. I may have a hard time getting through the rest of this…*weep* post.

A few words (sung to the tune of Cracklin’ Rosie):

Kyle Quincy got on board
Makin’ a ride of the AHL
You know, taking it slow
He wanted to go,
Punch a few jaws like a poor man’s Maltby

His *sorry his mom might read this *is called the Twilight Train
He got that name from a girl who wasn’t wrong
She threw him her thong
And then hit the bong
Having a time with the Detroit Red Wings, too

Oh I love my buddy Kyle
Him punching faces makes me happy
He and Wings they go in style

Kyle my boy, you’re a store-bought player
But you rock more than Pantera or Slayer
So hang on to us cause your contracts’ running out!
Play now,
Play now,
Play now, my baby

Kyle Quincey make me smile
And if it don’t last for an hour,
Than that’s alright, I’ll wait all night
in your bushes, right
long as you don’t mind that the camera’s filming, yeah!

Oh I’ll miss my buddy Kyle
Him punching grannies makes me happy
Even for a little while

Kyle my boy they don’t need more defensemen
But you can come with me and stay in my basement
And wait for Brett Lebda’s contract to run out!

Play now,
Play now,
Play now, my baby

Kyle Quincey makes me smile
If he’d just give me three minutes
That’s all I’d need, down on my knees
He’d be saying “please
Seriously can you let me out of these handcuffs?”

Ba baba baba…ba babababa ba bababa ba baba ba….baba ba

Please consider, Dave Lewis and Mike Illich, keep Quincey and trade one of those other defense guys like Rafalski or that one other guy that used to play for the Griffins, he’d probably get you a better trade, and Kyle Quincey owes me one. He does. Skating around here with his army of whores like he owns the place, touching my arm that one time and never making good on it, who does he think he is, anyway? He needs to stay in Grand Rapids so his head doesn’t get too much bigger than it already is, he can learn under the careful tutelage of Chelios and Maltby, and maybe next time when they win the Stanley Cup he can have actually contributed to winning it when he chugs beer out of it. Plus, I’m in love with him. Oh, Kyle, don’t stray too far…


And when wind whips through the hole where what giant D-bag Assistant Captain for the Manitoba Moose’s upper bicuspid used to be, the wind will whisper…Kyle.

Hey Bandit! This is Little Beaver... Put your foot to the floor, we got your backdoor and I'm clear!

KP AND STEF ACROSS AMERICA! ACTION! ADVENTURE! AX MURDERERS, BEARDS AND MANY-APPENDAGED FARM ANIMALS
T SHIRT SIZE: AWESOME GOES NATION WIDE!*

Brief synopsis (you can skip if you like):

Our original plan was Munich, Germany for this week, to be present and show some freakin’ respect to our Bavarian brothers during Oktoberfest, but, as you can tell from my use of the word ‘original’, it didn’t happen like that. So we set our sights on Austin, TX for my rock n’ roll boyfriend Jack White and the Austin City Limits festival, and then Texas went all underwater and stuff and was in the newspaper (some people lost all their sporting equipment! How awful! Can you even imagine? All your hai lai and boxing equipment, lawn darts and poker chips, gone! I know, right?), now we’re on the fence. LP is KP’s kid sister and she got a job in the famous hub for the wild wild west, Dodge City Kansas so she enlists KP and me to help her move. To Kansas…to Kansas…ROAD TRIP!

*and if you’re wondering if we bought a keytar,
yes, yes we did.

Day 1 and 2: St. Louis, MO



So there we are at 3:30 am, pulling into the Comfort Inn (or wherever) after a very long, marathon hike from Kalamazoo to St. Louis that we didn’t even get started on until 8pm Michigan time. The GPS malfunctioned a little, and there were three of us in two cars. A scary wrong turn, KP seeing ghosts of blonde haired women, some police calling, then some more wrong turns. Much shit talking and searching the airwaves for name stations (ie: Max, Bob, Dan, Jack, etc.) was done on the phone to keep us focused. We made it. Thank you, Red Bull, corns, and Camel Lights.

Here’s what you need to know about St. Louis, MO. There is a GIANT beer factory there. I mean giant like it has it’s own gravitational pull, giant. You can take a tour where they brag about how delicious their not-so-delicious beer is, and then when it’s done you can sample the beer to see how not-so-delicious it is for real.



P.S: those horses have enormous balls, this portion of the tour is not for the faint of heart. Seriously? Those balls are huge and I bet they do that on purpose to emasculate all the sissy Coors drinkers. Big babies.


We saw the arch at night, Stef argued over whether that river was the Missouri River, the Mississippi River or the Nile, we had some not-so-delicious-but-well-deserved beer at a sweet oyster bar where there was a guy that looked like Dwight Yokam (Actually he looked more like the naked cowboy in NYC but Stef had no idea what I was talking about when I said that) and played the steel guitar and we were the only people in the joint. That is all you need to know about St. Louis, MO. We saw a magical used bookstore too, which was nice. Not a lot to pump your fist about in St. Louis, MO.

Day 3: Kansas Bound

Nine freaking hours in the car, which was pretty alright until we passed Wichita. Then I wanted to kill myself. Here’s my impression of Kansas after you get off of I-80 en route to the famous Dodge City. Ready? It’s like this:













there is absolutely nothing in Kansas and no reason to go there ever for any reason unless you either are really into masochism and hate yourself, or if you’re brave (and bored, Kansas means a level of boredom that I’ve never even experienced before, I was hoping for a tornado just for something to do to see if KP’s evacuation plan works) enough to visit Lisa and bring her a chocolate strawberry and some corns. She’d really like that. If you’ve just been drafted to the Kansas City Chiefs, consider being traded immediately to somewhere better geographically, like the New Orleans Saints or the Denver Broncos. More on Denver later. If it is your “career” you need to worry about, consider the New Orleans Saints, or the Denver Broncos. Do not consider the Detroit Lions, even if the only other option for you is the Chiefs. If this is in fact the case, consider a career change. I hear ex-football guys do quite well in used car sales or personal securities.

So we made it to Dodge City. Finally. The setting sun provided a breathtaking background to the meat-packing plants and kill yards that modern-day Dodge is known for. All this talk about meat-packing is getting me a little riled up and we’re in the famous gateway to the west, home of Gunsmoke, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Big Nose Katie the soiled dove (apparently, according to her plaque),



so let’s see some freaking cowboys! Right? We were boot-pulling, calf-wrassling, move-along-doggie, dude-ranch, licking BBQ sauce off of our fingers ready to hog-tie this town for what it was worth. I wanted to meet Sam Elliot. KP wanted Peter Fonda. I wanted to see Front Street and lose a poker game to a stranger with a curly moustache and whiskey breath, aces up his sleeves and the business end of a Smith & Wesson Peacemaker. Here’s my impression of Front Street:






Talk about a bowel-dropping letdown. A shattering, really. It wasn’t that there was nothing going on (even though there was nothing going on, despite it being Friday night and a small town smack-ass three-hours to anywhere middle of nowhere, shit, if it was my job to be at a slaughter house with a chainsaw, knee-deep in cow stomachs for 18 hours a day in a place like Dodge, all I’d want to do is self-medicate), there was just nothing there. Nothing. No cool old-timey (and pivotal to the growth and formation of this country, mind you) general stores and saloons, no wild sharp-shooter sheriffs fingering their pistols, no cowboys. Nothing. There was a statue of a giant bull and a wax museum that was closed. That was it.

While me and KP attempted to form choppy sentences around our slack jaws and wha? Wha?’s our surprisingly well-versed and knowledgeable tour guide (ps- Kristen and Ryan, while our impression of the city is less than sterling, you guys were great. Thanks for the spaghetti!) explained that during the seventies (as if Dodge had anything going for it even back then) the city tore down all that history because the buildings were “old”. Duh. Drive to Wichita and go to the local Barnes & Noble and find a dictionary (they are in reference, by the way, under the sub-heading of “dictionaries”) and look up the word “HISTORY” (hiss-tor-ee) and see what it says. Shit, use the Oxford or the Webster’s College, or even the Webster’s for kids. I guarantee the word “old” will be in every description.

Why the hell would you guys tear down a great piece of American history just to build a downtown equivalent of a strip mall full of dry-cleaners and un-busy Chinese restaurants? Come on! This is Gunsmoke for chrissakes! Own that shit! Dodge City, in addition to having the two largest meat-packing plants in the country, boasts also a summer full of giant rodeos and Frontier Days. Where the hell is all that cool stuff? Imagine: a young goat roper new to the circuit, no older than 18, thumbs hooked casually in his Wrangler’s, fresh from FriedChickensdale, Oklahoma or something, living out his life-long dreams of being a rodeo star and arriving all starry-eyed to the famous Dodge City only to see, well, this:










How I weep for the little guy, I really do.

Back to the action: me and KP sitting in the back seat of Kristen’s car wiping tears of epic disappointment out of our eyes and struggling to come to terms with the fact that, along with the wild wild west, the macho man is but a relic of better times. This means bar time. For real. Here’s how all that went, we arrive back at Lisa’s new pad and they decide that they don’t know where any bars are and don’t know any cowboys and don’t trust the Mexicans or something, so we’ll just drink at home. I’m already crushed with fatigue and disappointment to the point of submission, and KP is road-weary from nine hours of eyeball-bleeding boredom but trying to hide her anguish for Lisa’s sake, so we give in. We know how to get a party started, it’s me and KP, right? Me and Ryan get in the car (nine PM, mind you, not late at all) to track down some margaritas, only to find that Wal Mart sells no booze, had no mixers, and no liquor stores were open past eight. So sorry for bailing like we did, Lisa, but we were out of there by six am. Verdict?

D O D G E C I T Y S U C K S.


KP pontificates:

Words on Kansas (written on our way the hell out of Dodge):

*sighs * alright, Kansas.
little towns in the middle of nowhere?
that’s just how it is.
(shakes her head in disgust)

Witchita to Dodge City,
started to get excited.
Front street.
This is front street.
My heart hit
the floor.
All the Gunsmoke, all the Wyatt Earp,
red pink sunset over the milo,
Did you see that cow?
It’s leg, is just
flopping there.
It is so sad.

But after three hours of dawn over the prairie and a highway that doesn’t curve and no coffee or decent radio stations and a mood that could be best described as “cranky”, we did find one of those sweet road-side stops with a sign for “five-legged cow”. You know we had to stop. We actually waited for the place to open, paid the man six dollars and it was worth every penny. If you find yourself ever on I 80 in the middle of Kansas en route to Colorado, do yourself a favor and visit this roadside haven of bizarre, macabre, and weird. That guy was visibly crazy.

Here is a (bulleted) list of things that we saw at this particular trap:

 Raccoons
 Foxes
 A box of giant, real live rattlesnakes, kept indoors
 A two-headed calf, dead


 A five legged cow, alive


 A SIX legged cow, alive
 The worlds largest prairie dog, plaster
 The worlds cutest piggies, alive
 Exotic chickens
 Peacock
 Buffalo
 Wart-hog pig tusk thing, gross
 Jackalope, dead
 Coffee cup shaped like a lady’s jubbly
 Widdle goaties and birdies
 Two truckers from Jersey who were about as weirded out as we were

KP wasn’t afraid of the gigantic, sticky black cow tongue as I was, and she was way more into feeding the little goats and piggies and things, but she’s just cool like that and I’m a little nervous around animal mouths. But we made it, we hit the Colorado state line only a short time later, headed for adventure, mystery, the hottest server ever, and Oktoberfest. More to come when KP and Stef hit DENVER. Never go to Dodge City on purpose, please.

Mad Libs: I ________ (noun), will ________ (verb) everyday at the gym for at least ________ (number) minutes

Pulaski Days begin today!! It lasts all weekend so we better see you there! Here is just a basic breakdown of the events.

Friday: Check out all the halls on the West side. They will all be having live music and Polish Dinners. Yummy! Then stick around for some beer and some good old fashioned drunkeness.

Saturday: If you're up early enough you can make it to the parade at 11 am. Its on Michigan between College and Diamond. Then repeat steps taken on Friday night.

If you need a place to go, we will let you know what halls or whatever and you can crash it.


PS: Mad Libs are way fun!! Stef and I enjoyed choosing inappropriate words whilst on our road trip last week. Here's a taste!

Ya everybody! Is dat time once more, lederhosen, dirndls, lift yer stein it’s German time! Vat are you sinking?! Oktoberfest!

Ya everybody! Is dat time once more, lederhosen, dirndls, lift yer stein it’s German time! Vat are you sinking?! Oktoberfest!

Hallo my German friends! It’s almost October (pardon, Rocktober) and you know what that means? Excellence! Excitement! Football! Hockey! I have to say that for not being summer, this is the best month of the year for all things lasses-faire and fun like tiny candy bars. And anything featuring the word “spice”. It’s the time of year where the air is crisp and everything is spooky and grown men dress like comic book characters and hit on slutty (insert noun here)s. Very romantic. But it all starts here, vith Oktoberfest! Ya! Yay!

Everybody pour the beer! When it comes to ethnic celebrations, Rocktober is also the best time to celebrate our Slavic/Bavarian/Germanic neighbors from the East. Believe it or not, you don’t have to be in Munich to enjoy the excess. Just imagine row after row of vomit-soaked picnic tables covered in food-slaws and various wursts, knocking mugs with fat guys and old dudes with puppets while an oompah band plays AC/DC into the night right here in your home town! This weekend John Ball Park will host the second annual Oktoberfest celebration for your boozy enjoyment. In case you happen to mistake the festivities for the actual zoo, Oktoberfest will be the drunk people under the tents, the monkeys and blind disabled bald eagles will be the zoo (extra points will be rewarded to those who can smuggle a monkey or blind eagle into Oktoberfest). Bring twenty dollars to sample delicious German beers from your favorite breweries and halls, Erdinger, Ayinger, and many more (ps-if you don’t make it to the tents, at least get yourself to HopCat for a magnificent glass of the radiant Hacker-Pshorr Oktoberfest. It’s so good it’s like drinking moonbeams and sunshine and tractor pulls and dwarf tossing in a glass), and your favorite heavy, gut busting delectables from Erika’s and more. If you ask for a Heinekin, Dolf Lundgren (he isn’t making a special appearance or anything, he just really likes these things) will jump out of an edelweiss bush and beat you with a schnitzel within an inch of your life. And it’s really fun! There will be German bands, accordions, tokens, and Frauleins who all need help tying their bustier. I believe they will let you in even if you’re not wearing long blond pigtails and a rucksack. I think…

But why stop there? Who else loves a good, drunken Westside parade? The Polish! So don’t blow your entire wad at the beer tent, next weekend it’s Pulaski days! Yesss, the best kind! Nobody, and I mean NOBODY knows how to throw and old fashioned throw down bacchanalski like us. Polish halls all over Grand Rapids open their doors to the general public and allow pretty much any nationality to cross our boarders and occupy our facilities, listen to our clown bands, and do our easy drunk girls. Hmmm…sounds like history…this is one of the best weekends to be in this town for sure. Who enjoys a good invasion more than the Polish? Dunno! Lots of food, dancing, classic rock and polka, in too many different places to go to stay in just one. It’s like St. Patty’s day only it goes for an entire weekend. Diamond hall, Eastern Hall, Kashuska, Sons and Daughters, Falcons, Little hall, really pack ‘em in there. So show up early and please, take getting wasted seriously, this is a national holiday commemorating Poland’s greatest hero. Roll out the barrels and join the parade, me and KP will for sure see you there, ya!

I’ll know a little more about where we’ll be for Pulaski days soon, but that should keep you drunk and getting laid by authentic Westside ass for at least a few weekends. Seriously though, there are a ton of other things to do this Rocktober, so stay tuned friends, this is just the beginning!

If your Uncle Jack helped you off an elephant, would you help your Uncle jack off an elephant?

So, Stef, my little sister and I, are going on a road trip to none other than Dodge City, Kansas, where the buffalo have been replaced with prairie dogs and only the good guys can tell you to "get the hell out of Dodge". From my very little knowledge of the city, it was a major hub during the migration westward during the late 1800's and the TV show "Gunsmoke" was filmed there.

So, to get to Dodge City, we are driving to St. Louis, staying there for a day, then making our way to Dodge City. Once in Dodge City I will just push my sister out of the car and move on to Denver. Our goal is to see every "World's largest bottle of ketchup" and "World's largest ball of twine" between here and there. Anyone have any suggestions to add? Somewhere interesting to stop on our way through Iowa and Nebraska?

The most exciting thing for me will be on the way home, during which time we will stop in a little old town called Riverside, Iowa. Here is just a little taste of what is in store for us in Riverside



I think that picture speaks for itself.

So, in the spirit of the old west and Dodge City, I think you all might enjoy a little video that I like from one of the greatest Westerns of all time. It's Once Upon a Time in the West... Henry Fonda and Charles Bronson are gritty at its best! Unfortunately, if you have never seen this movie, it will most definitely ruin the ending of it, so BEWARE!!

Speeding Tickets, Farm Animals, and Amorous Gas Station Attendents, Another Trip to Detroit Ends Strongly in Our Favor. School’s In, Bitch.

Speeding Tickets, Farm Animals, and Amorous Gas Station Attendents, Another Trip to Detroit Ends Strongly in Our Favor. School’s In, Bitch.

OK, so me, KP, and my darling wonderful Chuck hit the road the other day for the Michigan state fair in beautiful (and by beautiful, I mean disgusting) Detroit Michigan. We wanted to check out the animals, you know, pet a baby duck, laugh at the dog show (the cool obstacle course one, not that lame one where the dog just stands there and gets felt up by some crew-cut judge), maybe watch one of Detroit’s Finest face off with an actual pig (intensity! Drama! He almost lost!), witness a cow being born (ps- DO NOT YOUTUBE THIS. NO MATTER WHAT YOU’VE SEEN IN THE PAST, YOU ARE NOT READY), and oh yes, Alice, the original Motor City nutcase (sorry Ted), the king of the night, sleazebag, lacy, makeup-wearing sex god Alice Cooper. Man, was she good.

This was me and KP’s third time seeing this guy. He is my rock-n-roll father, and a respected hero, maybe even in my top 5 coolest rock stars of all possible time. And I’m not only saying this because he’s like sixty and still stabbing babies on stage and swinging his sword around and doing all the same stuff he’s been doing since (for real) the 60’s, I’m saying that because not only has he been terrifying audiences for so long and took the idea of parents-hate-it-so-teens-adore-it rock to the next level and the next level and the level after that, but the guy has been doing this TOTALLY SANE. He’s really smart. He has class. He’s a Christian Republican golfer (besides the golf thing, I personally am of neither persuasion, FYI) for chrissakes and he still hasn’t sold out. Half of his autobiography is him talking about why he found the church, all the cool Motley Crue rockstar shit he never did, and openly hawking Callaway golf equipment with not even a whiff of shame. By all rock standards he should totally suck. He is so bad-ass that he does not suck. He will never suck, it’s impossible.

Thankfully, he had the whole stage show this time. He had the crutch (my personal favorite), the whip, and the silver fencing sword (it once belonged to Errol Flynn, you know). He had the white top hat and tails, and the black leather/red silk combo. He had the corpse that he spoke to, whipped around, and threw off stage, and he had his vampire/dominatrix daughter dancing, whom he beat and strangled during a weird medley of songs including STEEEEEPHENNNN!!!! Straight jacket. Gallows. He totally hung himself. Backed by the setting sun and the tripped-out calliope lights of the midway, Alice Cooper played dutifully and expertly, the ferryman who ushered us across the river Speedwagon, and into his rock n’ roll nightmare.

He knows what he’s doing. The man’s been putting on variations of this show (and audiences have been eagerly lapping it out of his wrinkly hands) since the 70’s. The guy is good, no doubt about it. But I need to give a special shout out right now to Alice’s band. THE BAND WAS GREAT. The drummer (a fella by the name of Eric Singer who has played for KISS, and Black Sabbath) his one-million piece drum kit (for the second time this summer, homes) made Tommy Lee yet again his bitch with an ultra metal mega-cool drum solo at half-time while Alice received oxygen and defibrillation backstage. It was crazy. Watching the two guitar players switch almost by bar between lead and rhythm, all with a maximum of flair and 80’s-style righteousness had me wiping tears off my moistened cheeks and also my…never mind. They were brutal. They were beautiful. These guys are Keri Kelli (see here )and Jason Hook ( call me, baby!) and they are bronzed, immortal guitar gods, glowing radioactive next to one of rock n’ roll’s most prized possessions. You owe it to yourself as a fan, guitar snob, or groupie to check Alice out, if not only for the baby-stabbing-daughter-beating-Julius Squeezer antics of rock’s original dementor, but also for the head-banging rock contingent that makes up his band. That’s a real guitar hero.

How in the hell does a self-proclaimed conservative Christian in Scottsdale Country Club still get away with baby stabbing? How does he get away with having Barack Obama and John McCain making out on stage, while he prances around in leather pants screaming “I’m your man! I don’t care!!”? How does he hawk 3-rings for Staples, Big Berthas for Calloway, AA, the lord, and never have cheated on his wife of 30 years, all while simultaneously getting us to pound our fists and scream the words to “School’s Out” when school actually starts in three days?!? I don’t know! Neither will you, I’m afraid. We will never know how Alice Cooper still retains all his street cred while turning into the exact same guy he fought all those years. You and me? We will never be that cool. We will sell out and go soft and get cheesy and all that other stuff that should have attached itself to Alice long ago but didn’t. He isn’t an immortal like Sir Paul McCartney and he isn’t a rock zombie like Mick and Keith. He is a man, a dad, a golfer, a radio host (who’s show totally kicks ass and I email him all the time but he won’t adopt me. Jerk.) floating safely down a man-made river of dirt rock that he helped to build. I’ll bet he’s in some kind of pirate ship with black sails a la Pirates of the Caribbean, or even better, a battered Chinese junk boat with tattered sales and a lone lantern at the helm, shining sinisterly onto his made-up nightmare face. That would be sweet. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Bottom line: he’s awesome, KP is awesome, and Chuck is awesome, so the show (and the fair) totally kicked ass. You have to go to a fair and mingle with the yokles if you get a chance. That is an official TshirtSizeAwesome recommendation, from me to you. I think we might have missed the Hudsonville fair (bummer), but there’s still the Allegan County Fair and the Ionia Free Fair (I think…) coming up soon so get your tickets to the demolition derby, always bet on #69, and look for me, KP, and Chuck wearing battered cutoffs and screaming through our walking tacos to SPILL SOME FUCKING BLOOD! Farm animals are hilarious. Always a good time to be had.

NOTE to the horrible people parked in front of us with the cigarettes who brought a ONE MONTH OLD BABY to Alice Cooper: What the hell, man? Your white trash kitsch was evident enough without ashing your stogie into your newborn’s face. This is a rock concert, assholes, leave your teeny, innocent, mentally and physically formative baby AT HOME. The one Alice Cooper tortures is fake (I’m pretty sure), which does not give you the right to torture an actual one. You guys suck. And if I see you in prison someday for child abuse and domestic violence, I’ll totally shank you, for your baby’s sake.

Things that are awesome that aren't supposed to be...

Ok so this is partly to keep the readers and writers on the same page when we’re in our respective roles, and partly to absolve any residual guilt I might have for enjoying these things and still creaming nerds anyway, then taking their lunch money but giving it back right before lunch, you know, not to steal it but just to prove a point. The point being, don’t fuck with me. Even though nerds don’t usually fuck with me anyway, they’re kind of indifferent. I like to make them aware of me and then not to fuck with me once they know…ok I’m done. Here are a few things that seem like they should be not awesome when they actually are (in no order):

• Parking validation- sure it may hinder your ability to storm out of your average ramp-requiring situation (ie: dentist’s office, children’s hospital, your PO’s) all in a huff right after you’ve scattered papers in the receptionist’s face and tipped over her entire jar of jellybeans on purpose, but hey, who wants to pay $8 for stupid parking?

• Spice World- I mean the movie, not the channel you perv. For a bunch of semi-talented, average-looking chubby-ish British chicks who don’t really sing all that great, “write” that great, or perform that great, the Spice Girls are ADORABLE and have somehow found a way to break the linear progression of this dimension and come full circle from completely terrible to totally awesome. Now that’s Girl Power! *See also Puffy AmiYumi

• The Cosby Show- yeah I know that it went off the air fifty years ago or something and now Vanessa’s doing fat-roebics on VH1, Rudy’s slutting it up in Chingy videos and Olivia has somehow become the Disney Channel’s only 37 year old ‘tween star, but damn I wish Dr. Huxtable was my dad, for real. Would it still be creepy to have a crush on Theo though?

• Star Wars- ever tried to build the death star out of Legos? Of course you have. Enough said.

• Rush- predecessors to math and nerd rock, home to the world’s best and most neurotic drummer and a singer who sounds like Alvin and the Chipmunks on acid, completely indistinguishable and untranslatable lyrics and a rhythm section that cannot be processed by most human brains, they bring to mind that old Hemingway question, who’s totally psyching who out, man?

• Ray-Ban’s- from Buddy Holly to Warhol and Dylan to Ringwald to emo to Old Navy, for being hideous, these things aren’t going anywhere. Good call, Beck.

• Slip-N-Slide - Awesome no matter how much weight you’ve actually gained since you were six. Still pain-tastic after all these years. Thanks, Kipp!

• Children’s books- even after all the chapter books I’ve read in my time, Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, Frog and Toad Are Friends, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid (rules!) are surprisingly funny. You go Greg Heffley!

• Lost- I really didn’t even want to admit to this one, but I was actually putting my shoes on to leave when D-Rock started watching the DVD’s and I cancelled my plans for the whole weekend to watch this shit. Seriously. Causing a rift in the space-time continuum? Stop fucking with us, Desmond!

• Finnish rock superstars LORDI- straight-up cheese rock made even cheesier by their awkward, English-ish lyrics, Gwar-type costumes, and 2006 EuroVision award, these guys are bringing back the balls to rock for real. If Iron Maiden and DethKlok had a baby it would be ugly as sin and sound like Lordi. Youtube “Hard Rock Hallelujah.” Zombie cheerleaders? Awesome!M

• Metalocalypse- rarely does one come across a parody band that actually kicks real, tangible ass like Cartoon Network’s DethKlok. For being a cartoon spoof, they’re more metal than most actual metal out there. Think Tenacious D only WAY MORE BRUTAL. In the words of Nathan Explosion, “We found out we could just, you know, buy psychological validation. So you’re fired.”

• Bullet Points- (and numbering, KP loves the numbering)

• Yesterdog- hot dogs are the grossest of all food groups anyway and these ones especially look like they’re covered in baby vomit but I’ll be damned if they aren’t the best tasting food in all of Grand Rapids.

• Mika- well-bred London boy, classically trained in piano, lovely singing voice and flamboyant taste. I’ll break it down: Red Bull + jelly doughnut + Freddy Mercury + fat chicks + amphetamines + the Scissor Sisters + NoDoz = Mika. He is the cure for emo. Sounds like it should suck, right? My point exactly! (KP’s favorite lyrics include: “I said sucking too hard on your lollipop Oh, loves gonna get you down” and “Diet coke and a pizza please Diet coke I'm on my knees screamin, Big girls you are beautiful”)

• Clowns and magic tricks- but I’m still kind of on the fence about this one… (KP: I’m not…seriously what’s more awesome that a dude dressed up in all the colors of the rainbow, with paint on his face, making little doggies out of something phallic looking that he blew up. I love balloon animals!)

• Insect Violence - Fuck bees. I’ll punch a bee in the face. (Spiders are arachnids and, being deathly afraid of spiders, Stef will not come within ten feet of a spider, let alone punch it in the face, but I, KP, totally will, cause I enjoy punching things in the face)

• Alice Cooper- the guy is like 100 years old and a Christian, republican semi-pro golfer in Scottsdale AZ and he still hasn’t sold out. Even I can’t explain that one. Rock on, man. Buy the album Trash if you don’t believe me. (KP: The first time I saw Alice Cooper is concert, I was skeptical, I though he would have to be wheeled out in a wheelchair, but after he guillotined himself on stage I knew I was a fan for LIFE!)

• Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass- how the hell was this stuff ever popular? I know that no one likes to think about their parents getting laid, but unless your mom and dad were Tawny Kitaen and David Coverdale, you were more than likely conceived to one of these songs.

• The Coreys- no not now, please pretend they never made that reality show. I mean the Coreys from 1982. Seriously, didn’t Stephenie Meyers see Lost Boys? Those vampires were sweet. Why can’t Feldman revive himself with a little class like Neal Patrick Harris? Frog rules!! Lost Boys II! Oh… wait…

• Meg White- she doesn’t sing for shit, she doesn’t really have anything to say, and she hardly has to play the drums at all. Yeah, but she’s just so cool. Then she turns up in rehab for “anxiety.” How can I compete with that??

• Karaoke- possibly nothing makes less sense but is more beautiful in the whole world than expressing your emotion through somebody else’s songs. That Charlie Rich has nothing on you.

• Mortal Kombat- the more buttons they add, the more cool shit you can do on accident while you’re just jamming your fingers together and then saying “I totally did that on purpose, I got the code online.” Finish him!

• The Dirt by Motley Crue- I probably told you about this before, but they all tell chapters of their life stories in their own voices, dude. Mick is on another planet, Tommy is a hugably, adorable, little wife-beater, Nikki is unbelievably cognizant considering he was legally dead for eight minutes, and Vince is (surprise!) kind of an asshole. I didn’t want it to end. I stopped reading Brothers Karamazov to read this book. Either Neil Strauss is truly a literary genius, or these guys are the most loveable anti-heroes of all time. What up, Marvel? Where’s the comic already? (KP: I just read that they are making this into a movie, with *gasp* Val Kilmer as David Lee Roth and Christopher Walken as Ozzy. SHUT UP!!)

• The Dice Man- so I just watched the Adventures of Ford Fairlane for the first time (yes, Bubba!). Again, if you pretend the reality show didn’t ever exist, unbelievable!

• Leg Warmers- yes huh they’re cool, I wear them all the time. They look good with heels, flops, and low-top AllStars. Still don’t believe me? Ask Tiffany when you think you’re alone now. (KP: It’s true, and Stef pulls them off all year long, 12 feet of snow on the ground and you want to wear a skirt? Leg warmers! Everywhere we go, people are like, “Hey cool socks!”).

• Calling in sick when you’re not really sick- yeah I know it’s a shitty thing to do, but especially when it’s sunny and nice outside, work is a shitty place to be. Trust me, they’ll get over it. (KP: Other acceptable reasons include: Redwings Parade, not feeling like it, and just because)

• Anthony Bourdain- both his books and No Reservations on the Travel Channel.
Stef holding up a No Reservations DVD, “I’m going to marry him someday. Do you think we make a good couple?” Guy from the library “dude, how old is that guy?” It doesn’t matter how old he is, he could be seventy-five and he’ll still be the voice of our generation, only with the liberty to do and eat way more cooler stuff. This man is the definition of “living the dream” and he still has the gumption to complain about being on TV and in Nairobi eating beetles and intestine all the time. I love you, Anthony Bourdain.

• Tape - Duct tape, packing tape, electrical tape, double sided tape, gaffers tape. Every color, every size, everything you could ever need. It's there for you! Also, when I spend the day discussing the ways to adhere a 200 pound man to a wall upside down, without velcro, you cannot tell me that's not awesome!

That’s enough for now, but I know you’ve got a couple to add, so you know, message us back! I can’t tell you how much we love messages, even if they are self-inflated, over analytical, and rude.(KP: Those are my favorite,!) Holla back, yo! Tell me some things that people wouldn’t think were awesome but are actually awesome.

Hello Anonymous commenter on Stef's Microbrew Post!

Anonymous said...
Hey Stef this comment is for your beer loving ass. I really enjoyed reading your blog about the microbreweries in Grand Rapids. Ive just started my journey into the world of microbrews. I'm 21 and have been a Budweiser and MGD drinker. I think its time to move on from that and start new. What would you recommend for a beginner like myself? Im up for anything. I hope you give me a sweet suggestion.
___________________________________________________________________
Hello my new, anonymous friend! I’m glad that you liked the beer blog; I’m glad that you like beer, and I’m glad that you asked! Here are a few clever tips on microbrew buying and being an amateur beer snob:

1) You first must distinguish which characters of the beer that you like best in consistency and flavor. Are you a light, bubbly guy? Dark and creamy? If you say you’re currently of the Budweiser persuasion, I’d probably go with something not too bitter and easy to warm up to for your first foray into microbrew, like an IPA (India Pale Ale) or wheat beer. However, some of those dark beers are absolutely pleasurable, so please don’t write them off just yet. If you’re like me at all, then you don’t like them too bitter, so try to avoid words like “rye” and “hops,” in beer words they mean “bitter.” Gross.

2) Speaking of beer words, it wouldn’t hurt to at least familiarize yourself with a few of the basics that you’ll be running into and (again) what it is about them that you like and don’t like. Look these words up: porter, lager, wheat beer, stout, pilsner, lambic, IPA, Ale, and Mead. There are more types, but these should at least familiarize you with what you’re ordering. You can get into how it’s made and the minutiae of taste later. Porter and stout are going to be almost black in color, creamy, and flavorful. Good for watching a fall afternoon pass by from your front porch, bad for keg stands and pitcher races. That’s what Busch Light is for.

3) Once you cultivate a general direction, it’s OK to ask the beer guys at a reputable establishment to make recommendations. They’ll understand that you appreciate honesty and if you know what to ask for (i.e.: I’d like some sort of porter or stout to try to impress a discerning but equally naive girl on my front porch at GVSU who is into hazelnuts, sometime this September).

4) I’d try to avoid microbrews that have an animal in the title, it’s creepy, and why is everyone always naming every bottle of alcohol they come up with after some sort of animal, anyway? They don’t make it with animals, and animals don’t like beer anyway. –Adjective animal- -verbing animal-. Knock it off already.

5) Cider is for GIRLS and GIRLS ONLY. Put the Strongbow down!

6) While there are many wonderful breweries within stumbling distance of Grand Rapids, and many more around the continental US, experiment with brewskis from across the globe. And I don’t mean Corona (though I do love it) or Labatt. You can pretty much count on Germany for any type (don’t let the German on the labels deter you; it’s easy to get the hang of it. Weiss=wheat, dart=dark, Heineken=hate) of lighter beer, and if your pants are made out of $50 bills and sewn together with thread made from the sort of relaxation that only a privileged life of leisure can afford, than go to Martha’s and buy anything with the word “Belgian” on the label. Not “Belgian style,” Belgian.

7) Belgian. Those crazy Trappist monks have literally been brewing beer for thousands of years and make it out of light, subtle excellence. A bottle of true Belgian (You have to go to Martha’s to find the St. Bernardus that had me on my knees for free, but Duvel, Chimay, and Delirium are good, easy to find choices) gets me as giddy as KP and every middle school girl in the area clutching their copies of Eclipse and jumping in a circle, totally hearting Edward while downloading copies of the latest Jonas Brothers and waiting in line to buy tickets to High School Musical 5 (OMG! Right?). Belgian beer is DELICIOUS but a bit expensive, so break it out on a special occasion. Again, not recommended for pong or flippy-cup. Also try English beer, but I won’t get into that now.

8) When buying microbrew from the store, here are a few good standbys that won’t do you wrong:
- Bell’s Oberon (of course) or Best Brown
- Magic Hat #9. It’s a teeny bit girly, but you can drink more than one without feeling like you just ate a whole turkey. Their darker brews however, not so much.
- Rogue Dead Guy Ale. Dark, but not too bitter. Slight coffee flavor. Their Vanilla Porter is also nice.
- Newcastle Brown Ale. This is better on tap but if you want something sweet-ish and delicious in a pinch, this always works
- Founder’s Dirty Bastard. Also better on tap, but not bad bottled and will make you very drunk quick * hick * ly.
- Boddington’s, delicious, light, and snobby. English, you know?
- New Holland Brewery’s Dragon’s Milk. Only if you’ve got the dough, this shit is premium. Exceptional, but pricey. Also it’s getting to be fall and that means New Holland’s Ichabod hits the coolers, which is nice.
- Ayenger. German beer, light and easy to put away, if you know what I mean

I hope that gets you started okay, but experimentation is the most important (and funnest) part of the microbrew adventure, so get a dryer (or more Bud Light) buddy to drive you to Hop Cat or talk to Dominic at Graydon’s and do a little damage. Don’t forget to make notes, educate yourself, and let me know what you think. Let me know if I can be of any more help, and Happy Belated 21st Birthday, buddy!

"One pancake. To do with, what they will. They can eat it, use it as a seat cushion. Uh, laminate it."

Is it safe for me to go ahead and say that pancakes are the shit? ‘cause pancakes are the shit. The balls. Pancakes freakin’ rule. I like ‘em crispy a little around the edges with a whole bunch of melty butter and syrup. Maple. Classic. Whatever. I like ‘em with a little bit of bacon, you know, on the side maybe, or (gasp!) blueberries. Oh yes, right in there. Get ‘em in there. Hell yeah. You can do things with a pancake that you can never do with a prostitute even. You can dress ‘em up however you can imagine, from the depths of your black black heart they will be delicious. I bet even pancakes and tuna would be delicious. Or Steak. Tuna and steak.

Ok that was the creepiest paragraph about pancakes I’ve ever written (and that’s me personally, you remember when they released the secret journals of Paulie McPaulski, the ‘breakfast butcher’ shortly after his death by firing squad a few years ago? Now that guy was fucked up) but they are really good. And being so close to both downtown and Eastown like we are, we’re within waddling distance of some of the best breakfast joints in Michigan (and yes, I’ve eaten at every single one and still weigh less than 150. ohmygod I need to go puke) wanna come with? Cool. Here are a few reasons to get your lazy, unwashed ass out of bed and give a pancake a little love:

1) you could probably do that seriously, in a pinch
2) inevitable grease breakfast really is the best hangover cure (put the McMuffin down!)
3) if you’re anything like me, you’ll no doubt have some John in bed with you who wakes up not really remembering who you are or where he is, and thereby feels obligated to pay for said breakfast out of guilt for taking advantage of you and then a little self-pity for not being able to originally close the deal with KP instead.
4) Pancakes, butter, hash browns, sausage patties, chorizo, corned beef hash, and beautiful bacon are all proven mood enhancers, so go ahead, eat the pain away.
5) Mornings suck, except for breakfast. In fact, if you go to breakfast around ten am with that whiny emo girl from down the street and forget your sunglasses even though you made a point to walk there and order a garlic-and-holy-water omelet, you can finally prove that you’re not a vampire and she’ll let it go, already. Jeez.
6) Provides decent, neutral ground for mutually piecing together the events of the previous evening with your equally chemically abusive friends (holy shit, dude! I really don’t like you like that, I swear!).

Here are a few joints in the greater Eastown/East Hills area that are worth the drive for some serious morning grindage, if you’re not cool enough to walk there:

Wolfgang’s. Lake Drive and Wealthy. Grand Rapids staple when it comes to breakfast. We have to start with this guy. Matt Wolfgang owns the place and upon entry your first impression is that he is completely, obsessively in love with himself. This is true, but he really does do the beast breakfast in town, so his narcissism isn’t completely unfounded. They serve anything from portabella-feta-hollandaise-capers*-type artisan breakfast to your traditional eggs-and-bacons and you literally can’t go wrong with any of them. Their omelets are the same size as a newborn baby and the Mahoney Cakes are so sticky and covered with bliss that you’ll think for a minute that the waitress is trying to either murder you or proposition you. Do not misread her when she asks if you want more coffee, they’re trained to come around about 35 times an hour to make sure you don’t need a ‘warm-up’ or ‘refill’ or whatever. Semi-comfortable atmosphere, good service usually, smoking or non, under $10, but be sure to either get there early or plan on waiting because (especially on weekends) the place gets really crowded. Really. It does. We recommend the J.B. Combo with scrambled and patties or if you’re really into suicide, the Westsider with onions. It will Cliff Clavin your ass for sure. Get the English muffin toast; it’s the sexiest piece of toast in the whole town. Hell yeah.

Brandywine. Lake and Robinson. If Wolfgang’s is too busy and you’re starving more than the entire country of India and you just. Can’t. wait. You giant baby, Brandywine is just down the street and offers some breakfast deliciousness of their own. The dining room is a bit more comfortable and artsy (one whole wall is a sweet Matisse mural), and the owners (thankfully) haven’t plastered the place in pictures of themselves like at Wolfgang’s. In fact, they have a wall covered with pictures of loyal customers instead, lending a cozy, friendly, non self-adoring atmosphere, and their English muffin toast is also delicious. In addition to breakfast, which is mostly of the rustic-home-fries-salsa-skillet-with-tons-of-meat-and-sprouts variety, they’ve got a full menu of food for other times of the day as well, so stop in there any time for some greasy hippy spoon love. I like the herb chicken omelet with broccoli myself, but their pancakes are gigantic and delicious too. Try the cinnamon knots (which Brandywine is famous for) and anything with the word “skillet” in it. Under or about $10.

Gaia. Cherry and Diamond. This place is the quintessential hippie vegan establishment and has all the charm to boot. It’s been open for years and years and despite all the pretense and notable absence of requisite a.m. pork products is actually really f-ing good. They know what they’re doing. The serve-yourself coffee and tea counter offers almost any non-carbonated beverage (no Coke!) and they use lots of ginger in the things they cook for a kind-of spicy, pleasurable tingle. The plates tend to resemble giant (big portions, yo) compost piles covered with a tarp of melted cheese but the taste is awesome and unique and surprisingly un-boring even for vegetarian. They are also particularly skilled bakers so get a cookie or some of their amazing corn bread to soak up all the non-greasy, totally vegan magic juice from the bottom of the plate. Take your mom or your snobby North Face hippy girlfriend here to really impress them and show them that you’re not a) as closed minded and un-hip as they constantly accuse you of being, and b) don’t turn into a sniveling giant baby if there is no bacon. The food is all pretty similar but I recommend the veggie hash and corn bread, and any of their juices (order the suicide juice) are fresh-squeezed and full of love. The atmosphere can only be described as bohemian and totally unique. Under $10.

Cheri Inn. Across Cherry from Gaia. Traditional breakfast in the cutest little joint out there. If you’re looking for a good flapjack, they make one of the best in town. They keep strange hours and the dining room is very small but if Wolfgang’s and Brandywine are both packed, duck in here and let them surprise you. Also if you’re putting on airs at Gaia and you need your bacon fix, slip in because their bacon is peppered and GOOD. Older crowd, but only six people in town even know that the Cheri Inn is there so chances are good you’ll find a seat. I recommend the brioche and black coffee. C’est bon (that’s French for “learn French”)! Definitely under $10.

Marie Catrib. Across Lake from Gaia and Cherry from Cheri Inn. Delicious, fancy, artisan breakfast served in a kitschy, comfortable, adorable environment. These people take cooking seriously, for real. They make everything from scratch and feature a menu of interesting and clever breakfasts from over-the-top-sweetness cinnamon roll French toast to spicy, magical chorizo scrambled eggs (totally, honestly, good) and anything in between including vegetarian, worldly, and of course, pancakes. They use local produce and meat, so don’t always expect all the food to look or taste the same, but do expect top quality. I don’t really know how to explain the food other than whatever you pick will be complicated and delicious so please order something besides two-eggs-and-toast. I recommend the chorizo (I can’t remember what it’s called) eggs and home fries, and anything from their bakery. Also open for lunch and dinner but like Wolfgang’s, this place gets pretty crowded so be there early or don’t gripe when you have to wait. Local artist REB did the inside so the dining room is eclectic and cool. Good service. Not necessarily under $10.

Schnitz Bakery and Breakfast. Fulton and Fuller. The breakfast joint just opened not too long ago but the bakery has been there for years. This place is a little different from your traditional breakfast establishment because almost everything on the menu is served in sandwich form. This makes it perfect for on the way to work, on a hike, or protection in case you need to throw it at some bum from the liquor store next door. Also, the food here is REALLY REALLY GOOD. You can’t go wrong. The fact that all your breakfast favorites are tucked lovingly into some sort of sandwich makes it more exciting and the fact that foremost Schnitz is a bakery makes the bread killer too. All sandwiches are served with latkes (potato pancake) and sour cream and all of them are like $5 and under, making it the most affordable breakfast providence around. The coffee is slightly weak and if that doesn’t please you, or if you’re one of those fat guys who like to wash down your bacon sandwich with donuts and muffins and tiny candy bars instead, Common Ground Coffeehouse is right next door and they have ten kinds of free-trade coffees brewing all the time, so there. Get the strawberry French toast sandwich and elect to eat outside so the sun can shine on your face. So beautiful, you’ll want to get the adorable little eggs-n-bacon man on their sign tattooed on your shoulder, but please ask them first because it might be trademarked.

That ought to get you started, chubby. Deserving honorable mention (and outside the three mile radius of the breakfast belt) are the Grand Coney on Michigan, the Ritz Coney on Ionia, and the Garden Room café all the way out on 28th and Breton. When it comes to the best cakes in town, #1, el jefe (Spanish for “learn Spanish”), this place has them. If you have any more questions on the Garden Room café or any of the other establishments listed here today, please leave a post on this blog, or quit being so goddamn lazy and call them yourself. We’ll probably be at Wolfgang’s or Brandywine this Sunday after Bubba’s party, so we’ll see you there!