If you look at your timeline of Awesome (fig. 2.14 on p. 7 of your textbook), you will see (with the exception of Japan, who has pretty much been consistently awesome since the time of the Samurai. No piece of their pop culture that makes it over here is any less than completely adorable. Fruits Magazine! Pikachu! Dr. Do! Hello Kitty! Supa good time fun pleasure! Herro boy!) that there are definite ups and downs. In the 1100’s, for example, Awesome was in a lull because the Crusades and the Black Plague were decidedly not awesome. But by the 1500’s it was again riding high with male wigs, my man Bill Shakespeare, and the aforementioned Samurai. But when it comes to music, no generation gap caused an increase as enormous as the 1980’s, and a devastating plummet as tragic as the 1990’s. The 80’s were textbook Awesome. The 90’s totally sucked.
What’s my point? I found myself in the possession of a ticket to see the band Candlebox on a few Monday night's ago at the Intersection. After locating them on my timeline of Awesome and seeing them all lumped in the icy depths with the unforgivable suckage of Collective Soul, Toad the Wet Sprocket, the Verve Pipe (sorry, yo), and Creed, needless to say, I was not expecting much. But, it was a great show! They kinda rocked a little bit. Age hasn’t been much of a hindrance to these guys (especially the singer and lead ax man. Call me! Please! I’ll make you a casserole!) and there was enough gratuitous shredding and cussing that any dirtbag rock snob and aging groupie (like me) would get a little rock, in and around the mouth. Steph from downstairs was fun, the opening band A Verse Unsung channeled a little Beastie Boys rowdiness, and Grand Rapids’ own Fled 5 proved that they were more than just a dummy corporation set up to net ass. So for dinner that night, I had a little bit of crow with my chicken tenders and will officially go on the record to say that Candlebox does not, in fact, suck (except for that acoustic guitar thing. The song wasn’t too bad, but why stop the rock? You had me at “FUCK Y-Y-Y-Y-YEAH!”) like I thought they did. The 90’s in general though, still sucked balls. Write that down.
Me and KP were not, however, granted the luxury of Walking with the Dinosaurs at Van Andel a few weeks ago. Tickets were $80. What the fuck? How am I supposed to buy more drugs if I have to spend $80 every time I want to see a freaking dinosaur? Not cool, man. So here’s how I imagined it would be instead:
After the first T Rex (which was an adorable baby. Rhaa!) ate six children in the VIP seats, me and KP were exchanging nervous glances and thinking what luck that our seats were not front row and that KP finished her hot dog prior to the dinosaurs coming out of their dressing rooms (which were very big, indeed). It was actually a decent, quiet little showie show, until after half-time, when the carnage really began. Their marching band did a neat little medley of Queen songs and the dance team was actually pretty good (even though two of the velociraptors tore each other completely to pieces during “Bicycle”) but there was a pyrotechnics problem near the “We Are The Champions” finale that began the chain of events that eventually led to the part where me and KP were making out with a couple of hot fire fighters off-duty on a plane to Maui. Let me digress…
One of the strobes popped a fraction of a second before cue, which spooked the triceratops into spearing the rump of the brontosaurus right before it was supposed to do it’s one-man (lizard?) rendition of the car scene in Grease (this car is systematic…). It being a bit of a princess as it were, it refused to go onstage so the mastodon had to do it instead, which, you know, he was fine with until the brontosaurus got jealous and so he lumbered on stage, which is about the time when everybody (including the crew and roadies) realized that these were not robots, but actual dinosaurs. Oops! There was blood everywhere.
I know what you’re thinking, and believe me I thought the same thing, hey! Aren’t brontosauruses the sweet, lumbering, vegetarian hippies of the Paleolithic age? Weren’t they non-violent? Hell no! That thing was kicking some major ass until the mastodon’s crazy-eyed buddy stegosaurus came to his rescue and started talking some mad shit. Then all the dinosaurs got in on it and dino-wars was really cool for the first fifteen minutes, until they turned on the audience and started picking people out of the upper bowl like Skittles. We decided that we should probably bail. And lucky for me, KP had previous dino-wrestling experience because if it weren’t for her subduing that paleosaur at the last minute, we might have never made it out alive. Thank god the Van Andel made exits that were only big enough for people (in this case, the few raggedy, limbless survivors) and not dinosaurs because that gave us the precious time we needed to escape before they busted down all the walls and went on a rampage down Monroe Avenue.
And who do you think was currently checking into the Marriot Courtyard across the street on a trip to visit his buddies in Grand Rapids while on vacation from the L.A. Kings? Mr. Kyle Quincy! If you’re still breathing in the West Michigan area right now, you have him and him alone to thank. He, thanks to his Canadian upbringing, (with the help of KP and a few other trained dino-wrestlers they had to call in from Special Forces) was able to round up almost all of the marauding dinosaurs from the area before it was too late and they tore the entire town to bloody stumps and entrails. Mind you, I said most of the dinosaurs, most. The rest, about the fire fighters and Maui, you can piece together yourselves. Aloha!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"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??
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??
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
"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).
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).
Thursday, November 20, 2008
"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.
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.
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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