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....
Friday, October 31, 2008
"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!
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!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
"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
Thursday, October 23, 2008
"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.
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.
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