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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
"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!
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!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
" 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!
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!
Monday, November 3, 2008
"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....
It can best be summed up with the following pictures
That's all I have to say about that....
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