I left out a crucial line in my script. Check it out below.

With all apologies to my friends who are New Testament fans, I must suggest this link. It's just too much fun.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:58 | 1 comment

THE LABORS OF TESTAKLES

SCENE ONE: The Parking Lot

(MICHAEL ARIDFOX and J'KAR pull into the parking lot of the Ameriseum, and notice the circling van is being followed by YOUTH and OTHER YOUTH. YOUTH is holding a joint.)

YOUTH: Dude, can we like, have your lighter?

MICHAEL: I will give you a light...

OTHER YOUTH: No, we like, need your lighter.

MICHAEL: Uhh....

YOUTH: How about that lit cigarette? Can I have that?

(MICHAEL ARIDFOX and J'KAR hurry into the elevator, where they meet 6-FOOT JERRY GARCIA. He is carrying a briefcase.)

6-FOOT JERRY GARCIA: You ain't seen my nephew around here, have ya? He's a little wasted and he might be causin' trouble.

J'KAR: No...

MICHAEL (whispering to J'KAR): What's a 6-foot-tall stinky-hippie Jerry Garcia type need with a briefcase?

SCENE TWO: The 6th Floor

(SHEPHERD, WORF, and TAKARA search for the rest of their group by going from floor to floor and listening for a ruckus. They hear one on the 6th floor. For a moment, they stand outside the door and listen.)

TAKARA: That sounded like Shatuga.

SHEPHERD: I swear I heard Kira!

WORF: I'm not knocking, you knock.

(SHEPHERD knocks. The door opens to reveal a packed, smoky hotel room.)

SHEPHERD: Whoops, wrong party!

PARTYGOERS: Come on in!

SHEPHERD: Uhh, we've gotta go look for our party.

(They scurry to the elevator)

SCENE THREE: Newton's Room

(NEWTON, TXARA, SHEPHERD, WORF, and TAKARA lounge in Newton's room and wait for the rest of the party to arrive from Navy Pier. They leave the door open so that anyone from their group can join them. KODO has just wandered a few doors down to his own room. In walks TESTAKLES. He is swaying on his feet, obviously drunk. His pajamas are light blue, and there are dark circles under his eyes)

TESTAKLES: Hey, I'm a cool guy, can I party with you guys?

SHEPHERD: Actually, there's a party on the 6th floor that would love to have you.

TESTAKLES: Will you go up there with me?

SHEPHERD: No, I don't know them.

TESTAKLES: C'mon, lemme party with you guys! I'm a cool guy! I've got weed- I've got lots of weed!

SHEPHERD: Now this is starting to sound like a bust. Your clothes even look like prison blues.

(TESTAKLES looks down at his clothes. He starts to untie his pants)

TESTAKLES: Hey, you guys wanna see my balls? They're really big, for a little guy.

(TESTAKLES begins to reach into his pants to present his gorms. SHEPHERD grabs TESTAKLES by the shoulders and spins him around. He shoves him out the door, slams it, and locks it. TESTAKLES begins to pound on the door yelling, "WHAT'S UP WITH THIS BULLSHIT! C'MON, LEMME PARTY WITH YOU! I'M A COOL GUY!" Meanwhile KODO has heard the exchange and wisely remains in his room, listening. SHEPHERD calls hotel security. At some point, the WIFE AND FRIENDS of TESTAKLES corral him into his room, next door to NEWTON's. SECURITY GUY arrives seconds too late, but tells SHEPHERD to call him if he sees the guy again and he'll have the COPS there in 5 minutes.)

SCENE FOUR: Newton's room, approximately 1/2 hour later

(THE ENTIRE GROUP has arrived and is lounging in NEWTON's room. The story has not been told. TESTAKLES shows up at the door again. NEWTON and SHEPHERD go out into the hall to confront him. TESTAKLES' door is open, and the hall reeks of marijuana like Al Gore's dorm room)

TESTAKLES (meekly): Can I party with you guys now?

NEWTON: No, I don't think so.

TESTAKLES: I can't believe you guys won't let me party with you! I'm a cool guy.

SHEPHERD: Well, the security guy told me to call the cops if I saw you again.

TESTAKLES: You would have that much of a problem with me? C'mon, maaaan!

SHEPHERD: Tell you what. You knock on our door again, I call the boys in blue.

(TESTAKLES looks at NEWTON as if to say, "Is he serious?". NEWTON remains silent, only nodding solemnly. TESTAKLES' shoulders droop and he shuffles back into his dope-den room.)

NEWTON: That guy had a ring on- he was married. His poor wife.

(curtain)

THE END

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:42 | 13 comments

Crappy Contest II Prize Awarded

Perkusi was awarded her prize for the Crappy Contest II. She correctly named the source of the sound clip for a Hooded Corpse's death, but didn't read the answer on the newsgroup. Her prize? A 24-can case of Coke II! Ah! Smooth, refreshing Coke II: If everybody else has Coke, you'll want Coke II. It's one better than Coke- in fact, it's twice as good!

A little less than half of the Coke II was donated to the group. It found its way into Jack and Coke IIs, Rum and Coke IIs, and possibly even some Coke II & XLIII.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 20:49 | 12 comments

From Hoover's:

Red Bull, based in Fuschlam See, Austria, markets its namesake functional energy drink worldwide. The nonalcoholic drink contains the amino acid taurine, B-complex vitamins, caffeine, and carbohydrates (sugars). The company claims the body needs more taurine than is produced naturally during physical exertion. Taurine was first derived in 1826 from ox bile; hence, the Red Bull name.

Mmm... ox bile.

...not bulls testicles, or any other rumored ingredients...

No testicles in it? Why, then, is the taurine derived from ox bile and not bull bile?

Austrian Dietrich Mateschitz, who likes to spend his time snowboarding and skateboarding, founded Red Bull in 1987 and owns 49% of the company. He reportedly drinks up to 10 cans of Red Bull each day.

Ten cans... damn... he's got me beat by six!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:08 | 1 comment

Thursday night: I arrived with Slyph to find Perkusi, Kodo, Drenn, and Newton playing cribbage, of all things. But, as Slyph and I had arrived and thus the party could begin, we went off in search of grub and pub. We chose McNally's, because (as Newton observed) it looked like Sor had drawn it, and their motto was "As Authentic As It Gets". They meant authentically Irish. Drenn had the Irish Nachos. I can't remember if anyone ordered the Irish Chicken Quesadillas. I had the Shepherd's Pie, of course. My pie.

A few beers later, we had our first exciting revelation of a secret character. It was not to be the last. There was even an accidental almost-giveaway of one of mine, thank you very much Perkusi. Then the bill came just as Newton got his last Guiness, so he had to guzzle it. Hehehe. According to him, he was still paying for it on Sunday. Dehydration cannot be cured by drinking more alcohol, and there sure wasn't anything else to drink.

I was in the restroom at the same time as Drenn when I used the paper towel dispenser, yanking out a huge piece of paper towel. Thus, when Newton used the restroom he had to wipe his hands on his plaid, because (as Drenn put it) "When Shepherd was in the bathroom he pulled out the long one". Oh my.

Back to the hotel to await further arrivals. Drinking and chatting into the night. It struck me how rapidly I adjusted to these meatbags that my online friends are stored in. Nobody is exactly as you pictured, but you already know them so well that your mind just adjusts. Plus, it's a relief to get over that text barrier. That, and you can cover 10 times as much in the same time.

Bed at about 5:30. Somebody remind me what happened that night. I remembered the next day, but worked hard the rest of the weekend to destroy those brain cells. In fact, I think I left my left hemisphere in Slyph's car.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:44 | 7 comments

Healery and Drenn have both put pictures of our gathering up. These are the pictures that will lend a face to all of us, for everyone we meet in Clan Lord who bothers to look them up. Last year's RQKC provided the images of my friends that I held in my mind for an entire year, until I met them face to face. This year's pictures will be no different for anyone else. Pictures of us, drunk, exhausted after staying up until 6 every night. Did they take any pictures the first night, when everybody was in their "first-impression" well-groomed mode? No, they got us after three days of drinking, passing out in other people's rooms, and wearing the same clothes.

There is exactly one close-up of myself that I've seen so far. This one. He didn't warn me he was taking it so he could catch Txara... which means I didn't have time to put my glass eye in. Now everybody gets to see how gross my gaping, empty eye socket looks.

And that will be the "me" in everybody's head for a full year.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 08:48 | 11 comments

Ahhh, much better. 24 nerds X 4 days X partying till 6 = happy Sheppie. More to come, of course, although you'll have to read many a website to get all the dish. Too many stories to be told.

This sort of gathering always leaves me depressed, because of the fact that all these great friends are so distant. Sure I talk to 'em every day, but there's a lot more laughter and sharing to be had in person. However, I'm not sad now because this gathering was like roleplaying nitro to me... I'm eager to apply what I've learned to my game.

I can't believe I spent 8 months in D&D mode, playing out my character but not actively directing any plots. Then I gradually came to care enough about the game to pay attention in hunts and worry about my character's relationships with others... now I'm chompin' at the bit to take this game by the short'n'curlies. Special thanks to PWC Shatuga for the lessons, though there was not a clicker in attendance who I didn't learn something from.

Late last night, at 11:54PM on Sunday, the last day of the event, I clanned with another attendee. It's wonderful that we were all too busy hanging out and being real-life friends for a few days to play Clan Lord until the last five minutes of the weekend.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:37 | 4 comments

GENERIC FILLER POST

Summaries of some linked blogs:

A Clan Lord Journal- I am more than one woman. I sometimes have kids, and I sometimes buy lingerie on ebay, and I often do musical things. I play Clan Lord, and if i talk about anything besides the game, I get mad at myself.

HWC Sleipnir's Diary- I play a knight in Clan Lord. In real life, I live in New Zealand, teach math, play in a band, and go sailing. Mostly sailing.

Nosuch.org- I'm a whiteboy in NYC. I play Clan Lord, but not as much as I bitch about it. I'm also a kinkster, and I want to tell you allll about it.

Lipstick and Lesbians- I'm a dyke who works at Avon, and I've got the most fucked up family life you'll ever hear. I don't play Clan Lord, but I know all the dirt about Shepherd IRL.

Kira's Diary- I play Clan Lord and go to an eastern college. Last night, there was a lot of nakedness and drunkenness, but I can't tell you about it.

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:28 | 13 comments

"Allison's leaving?" I asked my boss, "Oh no! If I'm the girliest one in this department, that means trouble!"

"Yeah," said my boss, "Without Allison it'll be four testosterone laden guys... and you."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:00 | 2 comments

I wrote this huge post about the slump I've been in lately... it was all about the psychic toll of playing an unpopular character plus dealing with psycho clickers plus facing homophobia in-game plus the difficulties of expressing one's true personality through text... and of course Nutscrape tanked just as I was about to hit the post button.

So, in its place, I'll leave you with this thought:

Everybody you see, every person in every place on every day, is carrying around inside them a couple of pounds of shit.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:22 | 4 comments

Well, sorry to disappoint you, but there was no Tea with Slyph. Something about a broken nail. I know when I'm being blown off. It's the hair, isn't it? I knew it was the hair!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:41 | 4 comments

Johnny Payphone: So there's this sales guy here, Dan, he's the only one who looks and acts like your archetype sales guy.
Johnny Payphone: You know, Sales Hair, sharp suits, expensive watch...
Johnny Payphone: Sooper-cheesy
Johnny Payphone: This guy goes down to Miami to pitch some sale... that night in the hotel he feels something biting on his toe
Johnny Payphone: He rips off the covers and sees a giant hairy spider! So of course he pounds it into goo.
Johnny Payphone: Just like Boris the Spider...
Johnny Payphone: Well, he goes running the next day, and when he took his shoe off, his big toe was all big and swollen and black&blue..
Johnny Payphone: He comes back home and goes to the doctor. He had to wait for the weekend to end, so this is like 3 days after the bite.
Johnny Payphone: The doctor takes a look at his big stanky swollen piggie, and starts going "mmm-hmmm, that's what I was afraid of.."
Never a good thing to hear your doctor say.
Emeritus22: aww man
Emeritus22: Did he lose it?!
Johnny Payphone: The Dr. lances the toe in three places. Two holes ooze out pus. The third oozes out this black chunky stuff, like caviar...
Johnny Payphone: Doc goes, "Just as I thought. See that black stuff?"
Emeritus22: AWWWW DUUUUUDE!!
Johnny Payphone: "Spider eggs."
Emeritus22: No Way!
Emeritus22: gonna. . .pass. . .out.
Johnny Payphone: ::claws at chest, whispering "dirty, dirty"::
Emeritus22: I seriously think I am going to puke
Johnny Payphone: That story just makes my toes curl
Emeritus22: What kind of a spider?
Johnny Payphone: He doesn't know. He atomized it.
Johnny Payphone: Instead of keeping it, dumbass
Emeritus22: This is a true story, and not an Urban Legend?
Johnny Payphone: I think I'd cut off my toe, I can't handle the thought of spiders growing inside of me.
Johnny Payphone: I could go over and look at the toe right now, I'm sure it's still nasty-looking.
Emeritus22: Oh My God
Emeritus22: I would take my leg off just below the knee
Emeritus22: How does the doc know he got all the eggs?
Johnny Payphone: Oh, they flayed his toe open and scraped it all out with one of those teeny sharp spoon thingies.
Johnny Payphone: I would _not_ stand for spiders to be erupting from my rotting flesh. I would make damn sure they got every egg, torching my toe if neccessary.
Johnny Payphone: AAAAAH! My sock just tickled my toe, made me jump.
Emeritus22: ha!
Emeritus22: Dude, I could have gone the rest of my life never having heard that story.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:44 | 0 comments

Today I saw some naked guy talking on a cell phone.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:40 | 18 comments

"When you get your cell phone bill, does it list the numbers you dialed?" Asked the Southern Liar. He is homeless this month, sleeping at his girlfriend's and carries her cell phone since he has no home to have a home phone in.

"Uhh, maybe," I said. "Sounds like somebody made some calls he shouldn't have."

"Yeah," he sighed.

Then I noticed he was wearing the same clothes as the day before.

Somebody's in trouble...
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 15:25 | 12 comments

Friday was even more welcome than most Fridays. It had been rainy all week, then all the sudden it was a sunny Friday, so you know I was out the door before my computer shut down at 5PM on Fri. I met up with Brooklyn Mick, his girlfriend Mortgage-Brokra, and the Playeress to go to Blues Fest. As the Mick put it, "If I were in Chicago and didn't go to Blues Fest, I'd be asking myself what the hell I was doing in this city."

Blues Fest was full of whiteys. Not a single brother to be found, except for on the stage or panhandling. Very odd, but not so surprising. Chicago government has a long history of systematically segregating black folk to the south side. No wonder they don't want to come to Honkyfest.

I caught Ike Turner at the show. It's funny how not many people know that this guy even plays music- all people know is that Ike hit Tina with his shoe. That's fine with me, the guy should go down in history as an asshole. You reap what you sow. I'm sure his concert woulda been something special for old Ike fans, but I would have rather seen a Tina Turner impersonator in a drag club.

As the sun set, Brooklyn Mick and Mortgage-Brokra decided to head home and cook dinner or something. The Playeress and I met up with Accountant-ra from work and headed to White Star, because hey, it's a discourtesy not to at least put in a cameo when you're on the list, right? Oh, I'm so city. Actually, it was my first time there, don't ask how I got on the list. Good thing, too, because the cover is $20.

This was my first experience in a "city" club. It's the sort of place where the staff is very cordial, "welcome, come on in, let me take your jacket, have a great time" but the clientele are mostly assholes. There was such an atmosphere of conspicous self-awareness- like everybody was only there to see and be seen. Snore. I enjoyed myself only due to my persistent ability to bring the party with me wherever I go. Music was good, dance floor didn't even have breathing room. They have these tables set out next to the dance floor that are reserved for bottle drinkers. Basically you sit down and buy a bottle of liquor at quadruple the price, like say Absolut for $170. The only reason you'd pay so much is if you ordered it all in drinks you'd be paying $300. This is why I usually fire up before I hit the bar and only have one or two drinks there- it's the 600% markup factor. So the tables were there to sit and conspicuously show that you're willing to pay $170 for a $17 bottle of vodka. Nice concept- as more and more people make money these days, you always need ridiculous luxury items to make people feel better about being that much richer. Check out the Robb Report sometime- it's all geared towards helping those who have more money than they could possibly spend in their lifetime. There are ads in the back of that magazine for islands, for the love of Mai!

I'm sure lots of people were looking with disdain at us, especially me. If you wanna be "city" you gotta dress all in black and it's gotta be expensive black. I, being unable to constrain my fashion sense within the bounds of one color, was of course much more flamboyant. I definitely wouldn't have gotten in if I'd just been out in the "pick me pick me" crowd outside. But I'm quite used to ignoring stares, and a bunch of snoots in a club are nothing compared to, say, trying to get through a metal detector at the airport with various below-the-neck piercings. People who too interested in others just don't have enough of themselves to satisfy them. I did attract the attention of a lady, though- as Accountant-ra and I ordered drinks at the bar. This colossal bitch (she was colossal in her bitchiness, she was of course as physically scrawny as all "city" women) grabs me, plants her hand on my chest, and shoves me backwards away from the bar. Then she elbows Accountant-ra in the gut and shoves her away too. Then she screams, "My seat!" and plops down on the stool next to where we were trying to get the bartender's attention. You know, I would have started with a "pardon me". Oh, well, instant asshole, just add cocaine. I would have had no qualms about cold-cocking her, as wimpy as I am, but I didn't feel like finding out what new strangleholds the bouncers had learned that night. I'll go to any length, including tolerating rudeness to a degree I've never seen, just to avoid getting in a fight in bar. It may be the state sport of Texas but I don't want to die of a broken bottle to the gut. Plus, would YOU risk these dashing good looks? ;)

Accompanied as I was by two beautiful women, it was interesting to observe the receiving end of the ol' singles scene. I usually do my drinkin' in places where people are either there to drink, to drink and dance, or to drink and bowl. My only experiences in bars where the primary intention of the patrons was to hook up was in college bars, where it always goes the same: The fellas get increasingly drunk, causing them to simultaneously lessen their chances with oafish behaviour and asshole attitudes while making more and more desparate attempts at the long-shot mack job. The ladies also get increasingly drunk, so as the night goes on their standards get lower and lower until somewhere in the middle the two match. Thus I was surprised, at White Star, how things differed.

Sure, there were drunk assholes trying to freak on the dance floor. This place had a screening process, but sometimes nice people just turn into losers when they drink. There were also couples sucking face all over the place, so much that I thought I might have stumbled into one of those touchy-feely clubs. Nah, it was just individual games of tonsil hockey. My companions didn't get approached until we took a break from the dance floor at a table.

The gentlemen who approached them just got nicer and nicer. Sure, they might have been trying to get some, but might as well be a man when you do it. They were considerate, attentive, polite, and respectful. When they caught the Playeress or Accountant-ra returning their sultry gazes, they would come over and introduce themselves, make sure that neither of the ladies was with me, and then buy us all a drink. Their conversation was directed at our group and not just the object of their attention. Just seeing those men behave redeemed the whole evening for me. Chivalry might be on life support but it's not dead, as Fraiser said in that episode where he picked up a hooker.

The bar closed at a disappointingly early hour (2:30 or 3, I think it was) and we headed back to Accountant-ra's pad with three friends we'd made. It would have been the perfect situation, had I been "on the prowl", as the two objects of my companion's attention were roommates, and the third was cute, friendly, and amazingly down-to-earth. Oh, well, you don't regret lost opportunities when you're madly in love. I took my cue and exited gracefully when everybody started hooking up or passing out. It was 5 AM, and here I was out on the street trying to catch a cab, looking for all the world like I was doing the "walk of shame"!!!

I hit it off pretty well with this one fella that the Playeress liked. We had some things in common, and I wouldn't mind hangin' out with him again. So I got to thinkin': If he goes and has this drunken hookup with my friend, that means I can't ever hang out with him without causing the Playeress undue embarassment! I think that's why I never did the random hookup thing. There's so much potential for friendship in those throwaway nights. However, the good news is, he's cooking dinner for her tonight. So this story has a happy ending after all, instead of closing with me stumbling home at five. Next week- High Tea with Slyph!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:37 | 1 comment

Crappy Contest II Results

Well, J'nder was the first to send me the answer. It's up to her to be honest, though. Turns out somebody brought this up on the NG back in Feb... at which point Perkusi discussed how she stumbled across it accidentally. She sent me the answer second, so she's the runner-up. J'nder, I'm told, reads the newsgroup (shudder) but I can't imagine somebody reading every post or even every thread. That would be sick. So I'll give her the opportunity to decide whether she wants or deserves the crappy prize. Boy, she's gonna be disappointed!

The sound of a hooded corpse dying is from that scene in A Fish Called Wanda where Kevin Kline eats a fish. Congratulations to J'nder, Perkusi, and Hawkthorn. Slyph and Alexis claimed to know the answer but didn't tell it to me. No crap for them! Next contest: Where the hell did thooms come from?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 13:40 | 15 comments

Gee, I haven't told many stories of late. Been ranting too much. So I'll give the public
what it wants: Shepherd by the shitload! I'll tell you about my weekend. I gotta do it
in parts, though, since I'm too lazy to belt it all out at once.

Friday night, I went out with Brooklyn Mick, Playeress, and a few of her friends. We
went to a show called "Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind". It's been running
for 13 years, and one of our group had first been 11 years ago at 15. This show was
like nothing I've ever seen. The shtick is: 30 plays in 60 minutes.

The venue is above a funeral home, and the entry corridor is full of portraits of
presidents as seen by various surrealists. It looks like the hall of ancestors in every
mansion in every old murder mystery. Down the hall was a little kitchen where they
had cookies and brownies. Then you go sit at a table in this large room and play
board games till the show begins.

The price is $5 plus the roll of a six-sided die. Entering the theater, you see thirty
numbers strung up on the ceiling. Your given a menu, and the idea is to yell out the
selection you want as soon as they call curtain on the previous play. They set the
timer for sixty minutes, but first: "If we sell out, we order out!" They were sold out, so
they ordered pizza.

Then, bam bam bam, thirty plays in sixty minutes. Some were funny, some were sad,
most were good. They got through 29 1/2 when the buzzer rang. Then, on Mondays
and Fridays, they roll a six-sider and the total is the number of plays they replace on
the menu. Fun stuff. Afterwards, a martini at a martini bar, and then chillin' till the sun
came up at the Playeress's pad.

Saturday, I had an invite to a deck party at the Office Girl's. Office Girl lives with two women in a huuuge apartment in a really cracky neighborhood. His place is two doors down from the Aragon, where I saw Fatboy Slim a month ago. The alley outside their bay window is where the hookers do their thang. Huge apartments have huge decks, and this was a deck party. As with most buildings in that neighborhood, it's like a fortress for up-and-comers, with a big security fence around it to protect its precious wannabe-yuppie contents.

Well, I poured a little too much vodka in my third Red Bull. The party started at four, so by 12:30 I was solidly fitshaced. I don't like to get drunk, I don't often get drunk, but lately I've been having two drinks and then losing all sense of judgement. Last weekend I had a few beers and decided to start drinking rum, which I'm very allergic to. I ended up puking all Sunday and broke out in a rash all over my body. This weekend, my lack of judgment told me it would be a good idea to step out for a breath of fresh air. I abandoned the Brooklyn Mick and his girlfriend, didn't even say goodbye to Office Girl (boy, will he be salty on Monday!) and stumbled out into the gritty streets.

Well, I coulda been taken for an easy mark, since I obviously wasn't walking straight. I was very lucky. Very lucky. Before I could get robbed or bashed, a car pulls up, and who should jump out but a coupla kids from my hometown! It was the Quaker Jew and Arachnid Kid and Ms. Green! Ms. Green had an internship in town, and the Quaker Jew was up visiting. They had run to the video store to rent "Big", and happened to drive past my drunk ass. The funny thing is, the only reason they recognized me is because I was wearing my FedEx jacket. I never wear it anymore, because I got sick of people assuming I worked at FedEx (go figure). But I tossed it on that night and it probably saved my life.

They took me back to their place and we chatted a bit. I skipped out after about 45 minutes because I had to crash. I left just in time, apparently, because soon Ms. Green's roommates and company returned, and they were messy drunk. Very messy drunk. Apparently there was some loss of bowel control. I'm glad I got out in time.

I had to go back the next day, though, and present myself sober. I'd hate for them to return to my hometown and say, "Yeah, that [Shepherd] has really gone downhill since he moved to Chicago! He was drunker than a poet on payday!". So another visit Sunday morning (the befouled rug had been disposed of, thank Pan), and there you have my weekend!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 17:18 | 13 comments

Crappy Contest Winner!

Congratulations! J'nder sent me the answer first! I'll just have to find out how she found out, and then I'll declare her the winner! Then I gotta ship this crap to England...
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:30 | 4 comments

Crappy Contest II

That's right kids! It's time for another crappy contest! The first person to email me the answer wins a prize even crappier than the one from the last contest!

Here it is: From what movie is the sound effect for a Hooded Corpse's death cry taken?

People who were told the answer, my sweetheart, and former GMs not eligible.

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 01:01 | 11 comments

Here's some wacky Ronnie movie posters, submitted by The Gintleman (a lurker):

His guns were the only law!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:33 | 0 comments

Ever since Vespa opened a store in downtown Chicago, having a scooter has become the latest bo-bo status symbol. This has embittered both vintage Vespa owners and the bo-bos who had kids, which are now yesterday's trendy status symbol.

I saw a guy take it to the next level. He was whizzing through Chicago rush-hour traffic with a cell phone in one hand. I guess the only question is, where can I get a copy of the X-rays once he embeds that thing in his skull?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 21:09 | 7 comments

These are just a few of many wacky old ads that Tom Tomorrow found while looking for stuff to use in his comics. Check them out, they're a laff! Then read Tom's comics and buy his books.

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:12 | 3 comments

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch-Be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-John McCrae
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:23 | 27 comments

When it comes to technology, I'm a trailing-edger. My friends (well, the male nerds mostly) suffer from Latest and Greatest Syndrome- if they don't have the absolute cutting edge of technology, they feel like they're getting shafted. One guy, for example, just replaced his year-old DVD player because it wasn't a "progressive scan DVD", and he just couldn't stand the unacceptable level of crispness on the old DVD. Then he takes that super-high resolution and watches movies like Godzilla (the sucky American CGI version) and Lost In Space The Movie.

I think I have my parents to blame. They were raised dirt poor and raised me to appreciate what I had. When other kids were playing their NES, I had an Atari. When Sega Genesis was the shit, I finally got an NES, cast off from some kid who'd moved on to the L&G. Then Genesis when it was Supernintendo, Supernintendo when it was Playstation, and now I've got a Playstation. I can't wait for the X-box and PS2 and all those time-suckers to come out- I've got my eye on a N64.

Video game systems are just a small example. I only play video games about 1 hour a week (not counting a certain computer game ;). A better example is in my movie-watching technology. I watch VHS tapes on a Zenith Panorama. My nerd friends refuse to join me- they can't stand the hiss, they can't see the picture. I feel sorry for them, unable to enjoy an experience unless it's the "best" it can be.

The Zenith Panorama isn't the biggest screen you can get. It sure was in 1986, and it's solid-state. Nowadays TVs are practically disposable- they weigh as much as an ice cream cone and last about as long to boot.

The main reason I'm a trailing-edger is money. Technology becomes outdated so fast these days that you can save yourself 90% by waiting a month or two. For the price of a DVD, I can buy at least 10 VHS movies, maybe 20. My land line costs a fraction of what a cell phone would, and even better, I don't have to answer it unless I'm home. I've got this GREAT retro PDA- it's a lined pad of paper, with a high-tech little spiral of wire holding it together. Never goes down, never runs out of juice, and if I lose it I can replace it for 59¢.

Another reason I don't go for the cutting edge, at least in media consumption, is that we're approaching the limits of human perception. I've got a decent stereo, probably cost me a couple hundred total, and you know what? Sounds just like a $2000 stereo. I know that the expensive ones are better, but I can't tell the difference and neither can the shmuck who paid $2K, though he'll never admit it.

The third reason is that I take comfort in older things. As time passes, material goods are crapified in order to make them more affortable for everybody. I like to surround myself with things built back when quality was a consideration, and I plan to purchase new things at a greater expense if it means they'll last longer than a month or two. I like dialing my rotary phone. It's reassuring. Plus, when I get a recording I just "stay on the line" and get a live person sooner than I would if I sat there like an idiot punching buttons. Spend a half hour entering your social, your account number, your zip code, etc etc and when you get a real person what's the first thing they ask? "Social, account number, zip code please..." My old coffee machine might be a little more effort, but there's no substitute for the sound of percolation. Mr. Coffee sounds like he's got diarrhea.

It's not that I reject all new technology. It's just that I don't switch over until I see a good reason to do so. Those disposable cell phones look pretty nice- it's impossible to dial in to them. They never ring in meetings, on the train, at the movies, at dinner. Maybe I'll get one of those. Also, I have a DVD player, since She's TiBook came with one. We buy a DVD if there's something on it that we'd really like to see.

So, if you're walking down the street in 2020, and you see a guy who doesn't have the new Cyberlegs™ Automated Walking Augmentation, nor the LoJack™ 24-HR Gargoyle Net Connection, and it looks like he's going to the movie theatre instead of just downloading the latest SQUID™ Fully-Interactive Experience, that'll probably be me. You can cast a little of your pity on me, if you like. Or don't. I'll be doing just fine without it.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:34 | 4 comments

A Chicago woman embezzled $250,000 from her employer, Andersen Consulting. In court, she pleaded that she was addicted to shopping, and she needed the money to pay off her debts to Marshall Fields and Neiman Marcus. Among the crap she had bought was a $7,000 belt buckle. The judge didn't buy her excuse.

Awww... too bad.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 08:51 | 12 comments

The Cussin' Game Beta now released.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 23:31 | 0 comments

Pictures Of Gabey

Awwww!



Awwwwwwwwwwww!



He's so sassy!

I tried to photograph Moses, but apparently devil-cats don't show up on film. Isn't Gabey so much more photogenic?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 19:07 | 13 comments

A Self-Defense Success Story

Some guy on the south side picked the wrong woman to try to rape this weekend. She bit his balls off. Strolled into the police station, plopped them down on the counter and said, "I'd like to file a report of sexual assault against the owner of these." The cops found him in the emergency room. It was too late to reattach.

Awwww.... too bad.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 15:01 | 4 comments

The Dish

Well, I finally got up the guts and wrote SWC Slyph, asking for beer time. I'm inclined to communicate very directly with people, so I tried to be as nonthreatening as possible and explain that I merely wanted to get together to plan the upcoming gathering as well as for the heck of it since there are only 3 clanners in Chicago that I know of. This was not a date, I said, which should go without saying but I just wanted to be clear. I can imagine the offers that she gets.

We spoke on the phone a few times. It's always interesting to talk to someone for the first time when you've known them for a year. Nobody ever meets your expectations. We seemed to get along alright, in that we're both goofy people. Initially we wanted to have High Tea, but by the time I got ahold of her on Sunday it was beer-thirty. She just moved into the city and was outside doin' work. We decided on the Goose Island Brewpub, because they have a stilton burger that's to die for.

I gotta tell you, I had a lot of mixed expectations. Of course I thought Slyph was clicked by a guy- I assume that of any female player. But an OOC email and then a phone conversation quickly dispelled that suspicion. A female sylvan clicked by a woman- who'da thunk it? ;)

So I assumed, naturally, that SWC would be the exact opposite of her character. After all, most people use CL to express the aspects of their personality that they're afraid to reveal IRL. I'm thinkin' she's gonna be some shy, mousy librarian-type who dreams of being a pushy, self-centered broad. Tiny, meek, geeky, quiet. That was my expectation based on what I know of CL clickers. Boy was I wrong.

She strolls in there like she owned the place and everyone in it. I was waiting at the bar, and I had no doubt in my mind that this was Slyph. I'd seen the pictures on RQHL but they didn't really do her justice. She was gorgeous. Dressed like she was heading to Puff Daddy's party afterwards- I felt like a wreck in my jeans 'n' t-shirt. She had on this long dress (turns out she made it), huge fabulous shoes, gigantic gaudy costume rings, hair like Gwen Stefani. "I'll bet you're Shepherd," she says. "Yeah," I replied. "I could tell, " she shot back, "you look like you spend too much time in front of a computer."

Well my skin color might be #ffffff but I'm not that much of a geek. And that 'yeah' was about the last thing I got to say the whole time. We got some beers, ordered our burgers, and I settled in for three hours of live, in-your-face, in-the-flesh Slyph.

She immediately surveyed, then degraded every other woman in the room. It was odd. She obviously had nothing to prove but it seemed like their outfits personally offended her. We'd be talking about some abstract concept resulting from the game, I'd be revealing some deeply personal opinion and she'd just interrupt with, "Oh my god, will you LOOK at her squeezed into that dress! She looks like a can of ready-bake croissants after you pop it!" I couldn't get a word in edgewise- it was all about which CL clickers were bitches (all of you apparently, especially 'thea), what SWC was into, what SWC was doing that weekend, what SWC thought we should all do in June.

If it had been a date, it would have been over. I'm not the type to put up with an obnoxious attitude just because I'm with a hot mama. However, we were there for a purpose, and it was definitely amusing to be in the presence of such a powerful personality. Beer is the great equalizer, and I'm not one to be so judgemental that I decline a free beer because of who it's coming from. ;)

Sure, she'll probably read this. I get the feeling, though, that she's not the type of person to give a shit what anybody thinks. We talked about our expectations: She had expected me to be a boring, dim-witted, religious type because of the character I play. "Boy, I really defied your expectations, didn't I?" I exclaimed. "No," she said, matter-of-fact, "you're just like I anticipated." Sigh.

In the end it was her who cut short our meeting. Oh, well, it was an interesting experience. I guess we just didn't click. Plus, she said, I laugh too loud.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:31 | 26 comments

I'm disappointed by the lack of submissions from ROWYFO readers to The Roommate. What, you've all had nothing but wonderful, pleasant roommate experiences? Noone has ever done something truly evil, or had something evil done to them? Not even had a friend that did? I don't believe it. Get off your lazy asses and share that pain! Be sure to write theroommatesroommate@yahoo.com rather than put it in a discussion post and ruin it for all of us.

P.S. You don't even have to get off your lazy asses to do it.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 13:13 | 10 comments

It occurs to me that not everyone out there has had the opportunity to visit White Castle. You can't miss it. For one, the burgers are teeny-tiny, and you're supposed to get a ten-sack or so. The teeny-tiny meat patties even have holes in them, to "let the flavor through". Secondly, they take Visa, so you could conceivably walk outta there with 100 burgers even if you're out of cash.

But most of all, they have Chicken Rings. That's right, chicken. Rings.

There's only one part of the chicken that I can think of that is a ring...
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 16:43 | 14 comments

HWC Sleipy: Oooooo..... I was thinking of coming out to Chicago, too.
Shepherd: Noooo... it's your life's purpose to avoid this place, remember?
HWC Sleipy: Well.. yes... but to meet you and Slyph I think I would visit even Chicago.
HWC Sleipy: I might learn something
HWC Sleipy: Would I be able to sleep on your floor for a night?
Shepherd: You wouldn't be the first drunk, stinky, violent mathematician to pass out on our floor.
HWC Sleipy: How about the first drunk obnoxious vomit-stained musician?
Shepherd:: Those are a dime a dozen 'round here.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 22:42 | 15 comments

BLOG OWNER WRAPS PRIZE FOR GUESS-THE-DEAD-PRICK CONTEST

CHICAGO-Fans of the worldwide publication "Rock Out With Your Flock Out" were shocked today to learn that Shepherd, known in some circles as Johnny Payphone, had applied a festive outer covering to the prize that he will hand to the winner of the Guess The Dead Prick Contest. The contest, run some months ago, involved a picture of a grave and clues about the individual buried there. Scandal erupted when two emails arrived with the answer- one arriving first, then the other arriving with an earlier postmark. "How will the prize be distributed?" was the question on everybody's lips on this windy, sunny morning as Shepherd met the press.

"The prize will require artistic skill to use," assured Shepherd, "And both [Guess The Dead Prick winners] Shamhat and Azriel can participate in its use." As the crowd sighed with relief, he added, "However, one of them will be stuck with the result. I propose a contest, with the loser gaining possession of the item." When asked what sort of contest he had in mind, he rattled off a variety of suggestions- a drinkin' contest, a shot-matchin' contest, a keg-standin' contest, and others.

Shepherd plans to unveil the prize to Shamhat in person.

-AP News wire
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 16:17 | 9 comments

I was at my parents' house, and I decided to put on a little techno.

"Sounds like the record's stuck," said Mom.

"Oh, yeah! THAT's what old people say when they hear techno! Thanks, mom, I had forgotten!"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:14 | 19 comments

My Babies, Part IV

When me and my parents moved into the house they currently live in, an ol' tomcat started hanging around. We kids named him Gulliver Morris Specklenose, because he looked like Morris, had a speckly nose, and traveled a lot. He was one of these cats where Tuesday he was Scruffles at the Johnson's house, Fridays he was Firefur at the Jacobs' house, and so on. But he seemed to like our place the best, because our dogs were the wimpiest. One of our neighbors said that the farmer who lived in their house before them had tried to neuter Gully himself, with half success. We thought that explained why Gully wasn't the smartest of cats. He wouldn't run away from our dog Toby, instead he would just flop down and let Toby chew on him until his fur was soaked in dog drool. Gully himself also drooled, a lot. If you petted him he'd start to purr and drip drip drip... if you let him sleep in your bed you'd wake up in a puddle. He was (and is) the best cat I've ever known, because all he wanted was to be held and petted. No sassiness in that cat.

Well, one day two years ago a neighbor from across the gully came by for a rare visit. "Oh my god," he said when Gully strolled up, "Is that...? Where'd you get that cat?"

"Oh, he just sort of showed up one day," said my mom. The neighbor's jaw was on the floor.

"That cat was a full grown Tom who hung around our place when we moved in," said the neighbor. "That was 18 years ago."

It's two years later, and Gully's still droolin' around. He's missing a fang, and his ears are notched from his many fights, and you can tell he never wants to go outside (even though he's not litterbox trained) but he's still purrin' on the lap of one of my family members at any given time. He's been "Unka Gully" to at least four cats and two dogs, some of which have been born and died since we've had him. I keep mentally preparing myself for the news of his passing, but that darn cat just keeps comin' back.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:57 | 3 comments

My babies, part III

Gabey is a fryer. Mosey is a stewer. Every time they're bad, I remind them of this. /action licks lips.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:45 | 2 comments

Kitty Terms:

Nicknames:

Gabriel:
Gabe
Gabey
Baby Gabey
Gabin
Purr Monster

Moses:
Mose
Mosey
Stinky
Shitty
Mean Mister
Mean Mister Pisser
Goddamn Fuckin' Piece of Shit Cat (Used only when claws are embedded in my flesh)

She:
Him's Mama (Gabey only)
Squeezemistress

Shepherd:
Him's Papa (Mosey only)
The Foodmaster

Terminology:

The Rips- When they go crazy and run around the house like demons.
Got His Motor Runnin'- Purring
Headbuttin's- Kitty expression of love
Leg-lickin's- Gabey expression of love when you get out of the shower. Sometimes leglickins will cause Gabey to be overwhelmed and he'll try to take a big bite.
The Food Room- Where the cats are fed. Used in the old movie-intermission song: "Let's all go to the food room, let's all go to the food room, let's all go to the fooood rooooom, and grab ourselves a snack!"
Mister Misty- The kitties' worst enemy- a spray bottle. Mister Misty used to squirt a stream, but the cats were willing to take a few squirts in order to continue being bad for a few more seconds. Eventually only aiming at either end would work. Now Mister Misty lays down a suppressing mist that no cat can withstand. Gabey broke the first Mister Misty, in an act that noone could deny was retribution.
Mister Hisser- Second only to Mister Misty on the Kitties' Most Hated list. Mister Hisser is an air pump. He makes a sound that Gabe and Mose do not like. Mister Hisser lives in the living room closet and only hisses when it's time for the kitties to get out of the living room. Sometimes you just want a little corner of your house to be hair-free, you know?
Mama's Tongue- The wire brush. Gabey loves Mama's Tongue. Mosey doesn't.
Meaty Treaties- Food that comes in a can. Gabey's smart enough to know what's in the can, I often find them knocked out of the cabinet and covered in bite-dents.
Litter Paws- Do cats always come for lovins when they've just been to the litter box? You can always tell by the litter paws.
Dingleberries- Cat-dags.
Sparkly- Gabey has these little krinkle-balls called Sparklies. He plays with them until he loses them. If it is around, he is playing with it. If it's not around, he's laying in front of the fridge or the dresser or whereever else he lost it. We can find them by watching the cat, but sometime's it's best to leave them lost. We all need quiet time sometimes.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:11 | 4 comments

My Babies, part I

She and I aren't just boyfriend and girlfriend. Those terms are too vague to explain our relationship. Plus, it sounds like we're in middle school, and I passed a note to Her that said "Do you like me? Check one Yes No Maybe" and she checked 'yes'.

However, marriage isn't the route for us. I'd explain further but this post and the resulting discussion is about kitties, and not about marriage as an outdated social institution. We can debate that later.

We are Catparents. We've made a commitment to each other for the lifetime of our two cats, who are brothers and have never been apart since birth for more than the occasional few days when the naughty one gets himself lost or stuck somewhere. More on that later. We adopted them from a no-kill (giving birth to them wasn't an option at the time) and we each gave our respective kitten our last name. Their first names are Gabriel and Moses, or Gabey and Mosey.

Strangers can't seem to tell them apart, although one has significantly longer hair than the other. They are bicolor seal ragdolls, or at least that's their dominant breed, since we have no way of knowing their parentage. These two cats are a perfect example of Mendellian genetics: one has all the dominant genes, and one has all the recessive genes.

Gabriel is the perfect cat. His lines are show-quality. He's loving, soft and fuzzy, and playful. He likes everybody. He got the ragdoll gene, too, which means you can pick him up any which way and he doesn't mind. He likes to ride about the house over our shoulders like a stole. He's also the troublemaker. It's hard to stay mad at him, because he's the cutest damn thing that ever purred on the planet (parental bias here). Gabriel belongs to She, since She is a dog person and has never had cats but Gabey is a cat even a dog person could love. She loves to give him squeezin's and he loves to get them.

Moses is my cat. Moses is a cat only a catperson could love. He got all the recessive genes- his coloring is sporatic, his hair is different lengths in patches on his body, and he has lots of problems. While Gabey's eyes are an emerald green, sparkling with life, Mosey's eyes are a babyshit yellow, dull and frightened. Moses doesn't like to be held. He doesn't like to be petted, except by me. He's afraid of everybody.

The first time I took them to the vet, the vet tossed a big ol' doggie-vitamin on the table to test their reaction speed. As Mose recoiled in horror from the pill, Gabey pounced on it and ate it. The vet said he'd never in all his years seen a cat eat a tasteless, quarter-sized dog vitamin. Gabey once busted out a screen and jumped out a second floor window because our neighbor was grilling hamburgers. Moses can't even eat treats you give him because he can't coordinate his eyes and nose with his mouth. When I give them treats, I pitch one into the next room, for Gabey to track down and kill, and then I drop one for Mose to gum at until he's fortunate to have some of it tumble down his throat. Mosey can't even groom himself right, so I'm constantly cutting off dreads. He refuses to be brushed, while Gabey loves it of course, since he's beautiful and he knows it.

Gabey can easily jump to the top of the fridge. He moves with a grace only a cat can achieve, like something out of "Crouching Gabey, Hidden Dragon". He likes to do things like leap from the ground, up through the loop in my chair between the arm and the back, alight briefly on my mouse-arm and spring upward and onward to greater heights. Moses tries to jump up on my lap, but two feet is a bit much for him to handle so he usually just ends up digging his claws through my pants into my most sensitive of places and dangling there, struggling, as I scream in agony. Involuntary genital piercing is not something I would recommend- it's hard to stop the bleeding and you can't exactly stick a band-aid there.

One time we took Mose to get all of his dreads shaved off by a professional. When I arrived to pick him up, they had done the front half, leaving him with big fluffy pants, before giving up. I had to have him sedated by the vet, they told me. The next time I called to have him groomed they said, "Sure! Bring him on in! What's the cat's name? Moses? (pause) Ohhhhhh, sorry, Moses isn't allowed to come back." Does anybody else out there have cats that are blacklisted from all the groomers in town? I hope there are others that share my pain.

Gabey is a fetishkitten. He loves krinklies, as do many cats. He also looooooves water. I've heard this is not so rare among cats. When we go into the bathroom, he's there, hoping we'll take a shower. He plays in the tub when we're not using it, and when we do shower he sits down at the shallow end and bats at the water. He likes to be wet but not soaked, so he usually only stays in the shower for a little while. And if something is both wet AND krinkly, hoo boy! Better watch out. We'll wet a plastic bag and lay it on the floor, and he'll sit on it with his nicitating membranes closed in an expression of pure bliss.

I could talk about my cats until non-cat-owners beg for mercy. I'll try to throw some pictures in here. Since it's my blog, and lots of my readers love kitties too, I think I'll continue to talk about my cats for as long as I like. I love them, they're definitely our surrogate children, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:47 | 11 comments

Fatboy Slim is Fucking in Chicago

I wanted to have my wits about me for this show. As fun as it is to lose yourself in music, various substances have various effects on both consciousness and memory, and I wanted to be awake for the whole show and remember every detail. So, to aid me in this, of course I turned to Red Bull. I downed two with my dinner, and stuck the rest in my pockets. Some backpacks, by the way, have a little Red Bull pocket on the strap. Gotta get me one of those.

If I walk to the corner of Damen and Ravenswood, I can see the sign for the Aragon. It's about a mile. But I as you walk east, the neighborhood gets more and more cracky, and I would rather take the train than walk the distance in the dark. Even with my Red Bull-endowed super powers.

I was all doled up, of course. I was planning to wear a clubby shirt, but at the last moment decided to don my beautiful red polyester cowboy shirt, the one with the mother-of-pearl snaps and two royal flushes embroidered on the chest. You know, the type with bendy arrows for pockets. It turned out to be a good choice.

Hop off the train and the line to get into the Aragon stretched to the end of the block. I had bought my tickets from TicketBastard, willing even to stoop so low and make an undesirable dealing to ensure my entrance. Strolling to the end of the block, I saw that the line turned the corner and extended another half-block in that direction. I finished my third Red Bull in line with the other Red-Bull drinkin' fiends and stepped inside.

They patted us all down, even going so far as to look in everybody's cigarette boxes. They didn't mind my wallet chain, though, which is fortunate because they always did in Dayton. Of course they found my last Red Bull, so I guzzled it and headed up to the ballroom, where Scanty Sandwich was already spinning.

I had never been in the Aragon Ballroom. It's beautiful. The balconies look like a Spanish village, complete with a simulated night sky overhead, where the stars even wink on and off. The place is huge. You can imagine the scene- the DJ on a platform in the middle with two turntables, and hundreds of dancers bouncing on every side.

Scanty Sandwich was a dork. That's a good thing, though. If you've been watching my tray, you know that I'm a big fan of dork bands. He was just your average white guy spinnin' records and he didn't act pretentious at all. Pretty rare, if you've ever met any DJs ;) He surprised the crowd, I think, with beats a little chunkier than expected from the opener for the opener.

Now, you must understand something about me. I tend not to dance, because I can't. However, I have been diagnosed as being born with funk in my trunk. I can't help it. If the music is right, I'll dance despite all of my objections. It's not a conscious thing- more like the state of my subconscious is shakin' booty, so when I'm reduced to my raw being by either music or joy or substance I become a living expression of inner boogie.

I was handed three beers that night. Maybe it was the shirt, but I doubt it. I think it's just the sense of family that party kids have. Say what you want about their big pants and their Methylenedioxy-N-Methylamphetamine, but they are a friendly bunch. While there's some degree of snottiness among DJs, and increasing numbers of punk kids who think they're party kids, the pure group was created in the name of acceptance and harmony. Part of this is no doubt due to the effects of Ecstacy, but lots of 'em take the route I took that night and try to reach the same state that Vitamin E creates without a pill. I know I succeeded.

So anyway I met lots of fun folks and a few of 'em bought me beer. This was on the dance floor, remember. So I'm drinkin' my first beer when Scanty surprised us by hittin' a groove, and I started dancing despite myself, spilling beer all over the place. I swear, I should receive SSI for being born with funk in my trunk.

Darren Emerson took over without nary an interruption in the songs. He was your typical pouty, angsty eurotrash type. He spun a thumpin' record, though, and my spastic convulsions continued. He played some of Daft Punk's stuff, heavily modified of course. He even finished his set with an old Underworld tune.

Then, late at night, when I thought I could dance no more, on came the man. The guy I was a fan of before I knew I was a fan of. I had two of his ablums already when I bought what I thougth was my first Fatboy Slim record. I had been following his progression as an artist without even knowing it.

Years of fandom had not prepared me. He opened his set with a bass note that lasted at least a full minute. It shook us all down to the core and left us jaws agape and bones turned to jelly. Then, for the next few hours, he proceeded to whip the crowd into a frenzy. I danced until my clothes were fully soaked. Forget pilates- try dancing for six hours straight. I made sure to hydrate, too, because I'm a safe clubber. I swear I drank five beers and just as much water and didn't urinate a drop.

Norman (Fatboy) would also write stuff on his album slipcovers and hold it up to the camera so that it would be projected on the requisite giant screen. It was interesting to see that his handwriting really looks like the writing he puts on his album covers.

He sampled "Blue Monday". He sampled that song that goes, "Finally, it's happened to me". He also sampled many unreleased tunes, such as a Beck song that hasn't come out yet. He tweaked his beats to levels of chunkiness that I've never heard. Obviously no words that I could use could describe the experience accurately.

What was most impressive was that he created such a mood of elation throughout the entire crowd. I didn't see a single person who wasn't having the time of their lives. I know that we couldn't ALL have been rolling. He ended with "Praise You", and I knew he meant it to us.

Beer and Red Bull having long since worn off, I left riding on a cloud of pure joy. I guess that's why I've never gotten hooked on any substance I've used- I know that there are many ways to get high, and most of them don't involve putting something in your body. My new favorite drug is live Fatboy Slim. The CDs can be my methodone until I can get my next fix.

Headed down to the near southwest side for a late-nite with some kids I met at the show. Some of them were very into the scene, and it was interesting to hear them dissect the performance with such knowledge. We grabbed a Philly cheesesteak at Clark and Belmont first, because my host said they were better than in Philly. I'd believe it, given this cheesesteak.

Chilled at the late-nite for a bit until the birds started a-chirpin'. When I'm with my buddies, the birds a-chirpin' means it's time to go for brekfiss, but when I'm out on my own it means it's time to head home. I fell asleep in the cab but he was an honest guy, even woke me up when we got there rather than letting me sleep with the meter running. Stumbled inside, shed my soaking skin and crashed. It was 5:30. Lucky for me, I didn't wear too much makeup that night or I'd be looking like The Crow after all that sweating. Maybe I should have- despite all of my accessories, someone said to me "It's really great that you would be cool enough to come to this kind of show," as if wearing a ridiculous cowboy shirt meant that I was really a cowboy. I assured him that no, I wasn't really a cowboy, my parents aren't related. ;)

Best show I've ever been to? Hard to say. It doesn't really compare well with concerts. It was definitely the best DJ experience I've ever had. I would have given anything to see him battle Armand Van Helden (who did some of the Blondie remixes, if you've heard them) back in 1999. You could tell that Norman loved what he did. He always had a big smile on his face. He looked just like the rest of us- like there was no place on earth we'd rather be.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 19:25 | 52 comments

Direct mailers will try anything to get your attention. I've got a trash can by my mailbox, and every day I toss out 10 or so envelopes that say "urgent", "dated material enclosed", "important documents enclosed" and so on. They'll try printing on the envelope in a font that looks like handwriting. Heck, I've even gotten them with a penny in a clear window, just to get you to open the envelope. Yeah right. Who reads this crap? Actually, my old dumbshit roommate (the one in the comics) used to give me all of my junk mail, including those full-color coupons on newsprint paper, despite the fact that I told him to pitch it unless it was addressed to me. He always gave me this look like I was crazy when I told him I wasn't interested in my junk mail.

I saw a new tactic today. She ordered a trial subscription, two issues free with no obligation. Then, a coupla weeks after the last one came, we got a letter from a collection agency. At least it looked like a letter from a collection agency. Read the small print, and it was just an offer. They sent us a threatening letter requesting the full amount for a year's subscription, hoping we'd be dumb enough to pay off a debt we didn't incur for a magazine we didn't want. The sad thing is, the only reason we have direct mail (and infomercials, and spam email, and telemarketing) is that there's always one plonker out there who falls for it, so marketing considers it worthwhile to spam us all in hopes of squeezing some money from the numbskulls.

Professionally, I've always thought that the way to increase sales is to increase the quality of the product and the relationship between the product and the customer. When I look for a bank, I couldn't give a rat's ass if they have free pleather checkbook cases, or a shiny pen with every new checking account. Do they charge me to talk to a live person? Are they nice? Do they act like my money is their money, or my money? It's all about the relationship. That's the only way small business can ever beat big business.

There's a pet store on my block. Down the street, there's a SuperMegaHyperGlobalPetz. The mega-pet mart is shiny and huge, with everything you could imagine (catnip wine for cats? You gotta be kidding!). SuperMegaHyperGlobalPetz is cheap, because their volume. They're open 16 hours a day. The sullen staff of teens who work the register turns over every few weeks.

The pet store is dirty and stinky. They have very limited selection. It's only open when the old fella can be in there. He knows more about pet birds than anyone in Chicago, I'd bet. I can only buy one brand of cat food. They only take cash. It's more expensive.

The pet store has been there since 1861. The proprietor is the 5th-generation owner, father to son.

Which one do you think I shop at?

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 22:14 | 27 comments

Going Up...

Here are the smells as you climb the stairs to my apartment:

First floor
Right side- Mexican cooking. Mmmmmm!
Left side- I never smell the left side, I'm always sniffing at the keyhole on the right ;)

Second floor
Right side- Way Too Much Incense Lady. It smells like she's running a perfume counter in there.
Left side- Marijuana smoke. But to his credit, it always smells like really good stuff.

Third floor

Right side- No smell.
Left side- My place. It smells like candles, unless I'm cooking, in which case it smells like southern food. Other pleasant smells if the cat litter needs to be changed.

Going Down

A coupla weeks ago someone jumped out of the Tribune Building. It was a 46-year-old Ad executive who had been with the company 20 years. He kinda got ripped off, thought, because he jumped out of a 16th floor window only to splat on the roof of a 5th-floor setback. Still, eleven stories is enough to get the job done.

First of all, I don't really understand suicide. I contemplated it when I was a mopey angsty middle-schooler but that was too long ago for me to remember why. But why is it that suicidal people always either kill themselves or kill a bunch of people then themselves? Why don't they ever burn out in a blaze of glory? You know, go to the fanciest restaurant in town and run up a $10,000 tab. Throw a cream pie at the president. Hijack a hovercraft and drive it through the city like Jackie Chan did. I guess it's a Catch 22- suicidal people aren't much in the mood for fun, but then again, they're suicidal because they're not having any fun.

I assume the jumper chose that window because it was his office window. Sixteenth floor seems about right for 20 years of service. Plus, if he'd had a choice of windows, he surely would have aimed for the street where he'd make a nice little Jackson Pollock painting for all to see. Or do suicidal people still care about traumatizing others?

This story kept sticking in my head, and I couldn't figure out why. There are plenty suicide stories in the paper, heck, a guy I grew up with and lived next to in my college dorm just shot himself because he was AWOL from the marines. Then it occured to me- this was this guy's office window. He'd worked since he left college to get to that floor. He probably thought he was on top of the world when he finally got the 16th floor office with the window view of downtown Chicago. If he was anything like me, he probably looked out that window at the city every day and marveled at what the human species is capable of.

Then, as things went downhill, he probably started looking at the window a different way. Maybe one day he checked to see if it could be opened. Maybe he rapped at the glass to guess its strength. Maybe it sat in the back of his mind for months, or maybe every day he stood with his back to the office door and dared himself to take the first running step.

When he went in to work on the last day of his life, did he survey his landing zone? Did he know he was going up in the elevator but taking the express route down? Did he wear his favorite clothes that special day, or did he skip shaving and put on his rattiest clothes so as not to mess up his good ones?

Or, did something happen that day that sent his life straight to hell? Maybe those damn accountants on 18 found out about his embezzling. Maybe this quarter's fiscal sales were down even though they rolled out a whole new campaign. Heck, you never know- he could have gotten bad news over a phone call or an email. His wife was leaving, his stocks bombed, he was being audited. Who knows?

Whatever his reasons or his method, he'd had a relationship with that window. Odds are he'd had that office for at least a year. Every day, for most of his waking hours, the window was hanging there like a painting of the world. One day he just stepped into the painting.

Maybe, when he leapt, he didn't notice that he was falling. Maybe he felt like he was flying, up, up, soaring over the buildings and into the great blue sky. Maybe he flew to his childhood home, into the arms of his mother. Maybe he flew to a place where Debra Jacobson had never left him in 10th grade and they were still at the spring formal, dancing with her breath on his neck.

Maybe all he was looking for was the end to all the pain. I hope he found it.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 23:06 | 8 comments

!!!!!

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 07:48 | 6 comments

I miss Some Girl. She hasn't commented in a while. Perhaps my other readers could insult me a bit, just to make me feel better?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 17:06 | 4 comments

BOOT 'N' RALLY!

My alma mater had a chapter of the fraternity Delta Kappa Epsilon. I'm guessing the letters, we just called 'em "Dekes". Pictured at right is their President, "Dirty Bird" Harlan. Supposedly this frat was founded during Prohibition as a secret drinkin' club. Now, I don't drink (beer ain't drinkin'), and believe it or not I don't like to get drunk, but I do endorse the social consumption of alcohol. The Dekes took social alcohol consumption to its horrible yet inevitable conclusion.

What's the big drawback to a drinkin' party? Everybody getting so drunk that they vomit and then pass out, of course. How to overcome this obstacle? The Boot 'n' Rally.

I sadly suspect that the Boot 'n' Rally was not a local phenomenon. In fact, I think several frats had them. However, most frats distribute their efforts between date rape, drinking, and drug use. The Dekes had no distractions- you joined to drink, and drink you did.

Supplies for a Boot 'n' Rally:

-Several large 50-gallon trash cans with trash bags
-Each person's choice of either a "fohty" (40-oz bottle of malt likker, usually an 89-cent brand like King Cobra) or a 2-liter with the top cut off.
-Duct tape
-A suitable number of kegs. Popular brands of beer are Natty Lite, The Beast, or Icehouse.

Place the cans strategically in the open spaces of the frathouse. Drink your fohty or your 2-liter of beer. When everybody's fitshaced to the point where a normal party would fizzle out, the Boot 'n' Rally begins.

The partiers gather around the cans. The goal is to "Boot"- violently eject the contents of your stomach into the trash cans- and then "Rally"- continue to drink though you're already displaying the onset of alcohol poisoning.

What genius! What effort! These guys could party into the wee hours when other fratboys were chokin' on their own vomit. They've taken a consequence of hard drinkin' and made it the goal of the party! Oh, what's the duct tape for? Well, once you've booted and rallied a bit, it's kinda hard to keep your drink in hand. However, if you duct tape the 2-liter or fohty to your hand, you can sling it around a bit, even forget about it and let it go, and you'll still have booting material ready and available.

I used to hear of these parties, even see flyers from them, but I never believed that people would actually party with the intention of puking till their eyes turned red*. Until one day I was browsing my university's web page and noticed that the frat had a page. I clicked on the link and was taken to a page with many, many high-quality digital images of their latest Boot 'n' Rally. While I'd normally be inclined to just put the picture up, this one squicks even I and so I'll give you the option of clicking the link. Upon request I can provide more- including some examples of duct-tape drink-affixing techniques.

Click here for a "Boot" that was followed by a "Rally"

*Ah, the badge of pride among hard-drinkin' fratboys. A session of intense booting can sometimes rupture blood vessels in the eye, making one or both eyes fill with blood and turn the whites a deep red. I've never seen this anywhere but on a college campus, America's Adult Day Care.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:09 | 15 comments

I was playing Trivial Pursuit at Belle's 30th birthday party this weekend. She said she had owned the set since she was 7. She was the birthday girl, so we let her whup us.

One of the questions: "What did JFK consider the greatest blunder of his presidency?"

I guessed. "Uhh, putting the top down?"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 22:17 | 3 comments

If you've ever lived in a situation with a shared laundry room, you know the rules. As soon as the dryer stops, their stuff goes on top, your stuff goes in. Use all of the machines at once if you can. Steal detergent. Let them clean the lint traps. You gotta be ruthless to get your laundry done in a shared laundry room.

Sometimes you're sitting there, with two loads of wet laundry and two dryers that are somewhere in their rock-tumberesque drying cycle. You pace back and forth, look in the giveaway box, read the detergent, and as soon as the dryer stops ZAP! Their stuff on top, your stuff in.

I'm actually not this type of laundry doer. I'm the clean-yer-lint-trap, add-quarters-to-yer-load-if-needed type. (A folder. Do folders bother you?*). So here's what I like to do if I know the owner of the other washer loads will soon be there to check and see if the dryers are done.

Just pop a few more quarters in. At least a half-hour's worth. As long as the dryer doesn't have a timer knob, they'll never be able to tell how long is left. So they'll be judging their wait based on how long it's been since they left, which means they're thinkin' it'll stop any minute now and it's MINE!

The goal is to pop in enough quarters so that the waiting laundrydoer resorts to stopping some stranger's dryer with time left on the dial and pulling a laundry room cuckoo's egg. Goal: Get 'em to pace for at least a half an hour.

--------------
*If the dryer's done, and it doesn't look like a load of... well... 'delicates', then I'll fold 'em on the folding tables. But sometimes there's delicates in there. Would you rather have your clothes folded by a stranger/neighbor, dumped unceremoniously in a pile by a stranger, or do you just expect for the whole world to wait for your lazy ass?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 01:41 | 33 comments

Ooh, this is going well! I'll start another one.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:33 | 22 comments

The Cussing Game

Guadalupe, She, and I made this up while driving from Chicago to Minneapolis to visit Belle for her 30th birthday. Here's how it goes:

The first person starts with a single cuss word. Each subsequent turn, a word or words must be added to the existing cuss-stream in such a manner that the resulting cuss-stream is a viable one. For example:

1: Gosh!
2: Gosh-darn!
3: Gosh-darn it to heck!
4: Gosh-darn it all to frickenfracken heck!

Note that words can be added at any point in the sentence, and punctuation changed, but the original words can't be altered. The round is over when someone fails to repeat the cuss-stream accurately, or produces one that makes no sense, like "Gosh heck darn!".

Vulgarity is not required, as creative cussing often avoids vulgarity, but it is certainly welcomed. I will begin the first round, in the comments.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:49 | 21 comments

It was a weekend. Who knew?

 

posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:14 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Well, it's official. I'm the worst photographer that could ever be. I mean, I couldn't even get that shot of a damn dry-cleaners right! Who can't photograph a dry-cleaners? It's not like they bitch about their lattes, like models, or drool and crawl off, like babies and puppies, or catch on fire because of the lights, like babies and puppies.

Then, I've got this picture at left. That's the best out of the twenty or so I took. Can you believe it? First I tried indoors, but only natural sunlight brings out the fabulous cobalt highlights in my spectacular hair. So I figured I'd go outside, but look at the result- I'm squinty, half of my face is in shadow, and you can't even see my sensational 'do.

Bleagh. I think I'll go back to the one where I'm making a butt out of my gut.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:20 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Nekkidity

The recent mention of a "naked party" on another blog brought back a flood of memories from my college days of yore. Now, I went to a hippie college, where folks were inclined to drop trou at the slightest suggestion. However, before you envy my licentous past, bear in mind that one's willingness to get nekkid is usually inversely proportionate to the degree that you would want to see them nekkid. In fact, I'm convinced that some of those dreadlocked hippies WERE nekkid, and that their dirt- and patchouli-encrusted skin had merely assumed the earth-tone colors of the cordorouy clothing that their peers wear as some sort of social camogflauge. There was one guy, "Dirty Tom", who was definitely nekkid more than he was clothed. I'll tell some Dirty Tom stories sometime.

At any rate, one day my friend The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair asked me to do a favor. This gal was the type who regularly got a high-colonic enema in order to cleanse her vegan small intestines to the degree that a regular colonic cleans your large intestine. She begged me to take over her gig, because she was leaving that day for San Francisco. What the hey, I thought, it'll be interesting. Her job? Art model.

So, I did the gig, and it wasn't bad at all. In fact, it was the highest-paid student job on campus. Plus, you got a 5-minute break every 15 minutes- who could ask for a more cushy job? While I'm no nude Adonis by far, I could tell the art students were relieved to not have to draw the same wrinkly old men for the 50th time. At least with me they didn't have to draw so many wrinkle-lines. So I kept the job for a year, doing maybe two four-hour gigs a week.

Now, it's very nerve-wracking to be nekkid in front of 30 people. However, it was no big deal to them at all, so after about 5 minutes I was wondering why we wear clothes at all. The greatest benefit I reaped from the job is complete comfort with nudity- having 30 people stare at you for four hours will rid you of any shyness, even if you only do it once. Nowadays, I'm happy to get nekkid in any socially appropriate situation- but NOT in any situation. Just because I'm comfortable nekkid doesn't mean others will be. So I actually find very few social situations in which it is appropriate... art gigs and nekkid parties, mainly. Haven't gone to much of either since school. Oh, and once on a scavenger hunt where each team got bonus points for every nekkid member. I'm no nudist, I don't get any kick out of being nekkid or exhibitionism... I'm just comfortable with it. I would do it in a play.

The most common question that fellas ask is if I ever had any issues of... arousal. Well, what do you think? Think you'd be hot'n'horny if 30 people with clothes on were staring at you nekkid? Trust me, it was never a problem.

An interesting thing about being an art model is the fact that your body is being drawn by people of various skill levels... sometimes I would end up with a four-foot torso and two-foot-long legs. Sometimes they would draw my tats and piercings and sometimes they would omit them. My favorite were the guys who wanted to be comic book artists, they would embellish with rippling muscles on a massive frame... believe me, it was a stretch. Other people would be brutally honest- these were usually the best artists.

Now, there are increasing limitations on where you can get nekkid in the US. I wouldn't do it at Mardi Gras, or even at a nude beach for that matter. Too many damn perverts with cameras tryin' to put your picture on the internet. You would think that the internet would lead to greater laxation of America's bizarre hangup about nudity. But it's probably going to work in the opposite direction, once everybody figures out that you can't be nekkid in public without your picture showing up the next week on your boss's computer... or on Comedy Central after 9pm, for that matter.

What is with Americans and nudity? Can you believe you can be arrested for not having any clothes on? That just seems so weird- although the most common application of that law is probably a good thing. But it just seems that other countries aren't so slobberingly obsessed with the slightest glimpse of butt-cheek. Here in America, you can have all the violence you want in a film, people getting blasted all apart, and it'll get a PG-13 rating. Show a nekkid woman, and it'll get an R. Show a nekkid man, and it'll get an NC-17 rating and most theaters will refuse to show the movie. What the hell is up with that?

I remember some old fogey telling me once that as a child he used to go to the train station to watch the women step up onto the trains... and reveal their shapely ankles. Since much of sexual appeal is allure, we're always more obsessed with what is forbidden... and our culture's "sex is dirty, so save it for someone you love" attitude doesn't help. No wonder we've got so many sex crimes in this country.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:54 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Recent Examples of Customer Service
Which might explain why I don't complain about Delta Tao's

90-YR OLD WOMAN: Excuse me, does this cost $2?
MANAGER OF CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPT: No way, lady! I'm not gonna sell that to you for $2! Jeez, you want me to get fired?

---

SHEPHERD: I'm concerned that this policy isn't conducive to building a long-term relationship between your company and its tenants [statement taken from company web page].
OFFICE MANAGER OF THE PROPERTY MANAGEMENT COMPANY THAT OWNS THE BUILDING I LIVE IN: Well, DUH! That's why it's called RENTING! You can go RENT somewhere else!

---

SHEPHERD: Ooh, the 'Red Pepper Sandwich'! That sounds good... what's on it?
CHEF: What do I look like, a fuckin' chef? Do you want it or not?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 23:24 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Awwww, [Shepherd]!!! Do you have to keep calling it 'poop juice'?!?!?!" Moaned She and Guadalupe in protest. I was telling them about the debate raging on my blog.

"Okay, okay," I replied, "How about '10% Poop Juice From Concentrate'?"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:26 | Discuss via Blogvoices

The Most Controversial Topic Of All

That's it! My readers have left me no choice. This blog was supposed to be about ME, dammit! About MY opinions and MY thoughts, free from criticism or dissent! But it seems that the readers can fill 20 posts with an argument about a single sentence from one of my posts. It has come to this.

We've established a good forum for discussion here. We get to share our thoughts and ideas while simultaneously insulting the other participants in the most vulgar ways we can come up with. Sometimes the odd reader comes along and takes us seriously, but the joke's on them.

Since y'all like to argue so much, and sense the scope alone of my ego seems to ignite my readers, I've decided to lay it on the table. If we can handle a topic as important as the social interactions of video game players, we can handle The Most Controversial Topic Of All: Does the toilet seat stay up or down?

Here's my view:

I've never understood why the toilet seat was any different from the car seat. When you get in the car, you adjust the seat to your needs. I know that some car owners get bitchy when someone drives their car and doesn't put the seat back how it was, but fuck them. If that's the worst thing that happens to them all day then they're lucky.

Despite the obvious solution, the toilet seat status seems to be taken as a sign of the true authority of a mixed-gender household. A house with three women and one fella is probably going to keep the seat down. Heck, they probably make the fella sit when he pees. Likewise, the seat at a frathouse probably never goes down, except maybe to rest your head on after you have given your sacrifice to the porcelain god. Unless you're at a "Boot'n'Rally".

My friend KC claims that the U-shaped seat need never be lifted, and that the gap between the buttock-tines is the 'dribble zone' so men can pee standing up and women can avoid the inevitable last few drops. But there many things about KC that would prevent him from being in a living situation with a woman. ;)

One argument that women have given me is that they'll fall in if it's ever lifted. Now, I sit down to do my doody quite often, and I've never been in such a rush that I've fallen into the pot. Come to think of it, I pretty much look before I put my bare ass anywhere. Don't you?

There are many products that are centered around this issue, such as man-training alarms that beep if the seat's left up. Does the name Pavlov ring a bell? Also you can get a quaint little sign that says "We aim to please. You aim too, please."

There, I've said it. I think that, unless you're a guest in a single-gender household, the seat should be adjusted by the individual user. The enraged masses may now begin the fray.

Oh yeah. In my house? We keep the lid down. We've lost too much damn jewelry, makeup, books, and anything else that would fit by knocking it accidentally into the poop-juice. And, as funny as it is, it's not really sanitary to leave the lid up and watch as the cat tries to jump onto what it thinks is the step to the sink.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 02:25 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Did this blog get mentioned on the newsgroup, er somethin'? I've had all kinds of people come up to me and share their opinion on my healer rant. No BK, yet, thankfully. At least people can separate IC from OOC.

It's wonderful to have Slyph as part of the discussion, even though I never intended it to be about her at all. Three posts down, I was trying to whine (ironically) about the attitude of entitlement, without getting into specifics of the current drama, since certain themes run through them again and again- like Tarf and HGM's pissing contests. My problem is that instead of pissing at others, I piss it away, and have trouble seeing why others don't do the same.

For example: There are characters in CL who I've only interacted with IC, and they hate Shepherd. Now, this usually means they're really someone else that I know OOC, but sometimes it's just somebody who happens to be on the other side of the story than I. However, no matter the intensity of that character's dislike for my character, no matter how foul the words we've exchanged, I still fully intend to buy the clicker a beer if I'm ever presented the chance.

I must say that it feels funny to know that there are people in CL who read my blog but don't know Shepherd. I guess I expected it to always happen the other way around. Oh, well, it IS on the web, after all. I try to balance my rants between CL and RL so that my meatspace friends who read this won't feel totally left out.

Those rants, by the way, should be treated the same as characters in the game. No matter how offensive they are (and I try so hard), you still shouldn't take 'em too seriously. Y'all know that I don't consider myself to have the final answer on any of these topics. The discussion usually ends with us agreeing to disagree, or finding some common ground. These are good things.

But if I'm pro-swiss-cheese-hole-reduction and you're anti-swiss-cheese-hole-reduction (a serious international issue between the USFDA and swiss cheese makers at the moment, but you can substitute any controversial topic), please PLEASE don't let it impede our cooperative beer pitcher consumption. I realize that this is America and that my wacky views are far from the norm. This is something city folks often forget, the fact that most of this country is rural and therefore tend to be more socially conservative (if I may make a blanket statement). I believe in this representative constitutional republic that I live in, regardless of my criticisms of its plutocratic tendencies. Therefore we all have the responsibility to get along so long as we are provided a medium in which to express our disagreement. I prefer this blog and others. Some prefer the NG. Others prefer to shoot at each other, usually over disagreements about NASCAR drivers or crack distribution territories. I hope our discussions never get to that point.

Postscript- What has CL taught me? Well, I used to fantasize about a pure democracy. CL demonstrated to me exactly why the Founders of This Nation built a representative democracy, and installed an electoral college. CL is pure democracy, and when things happen like the DM muscling Lilit out of the RQ it becomes crystal-clear that pure democracy is mob rule. Usually that mob contains the lowest common denominator. And by "lowest", I don't just mean dwarves. ;)
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:13 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Grave Robbin', part III

This one has an interesting twist. The 400-lb military headstone of WWII veteran "Chester P. Balicki" truned up in a parking lot here in Illinois on April Fool's Day. The ol' stolen tombstone prank, right? Wrong.

Chester P. Balicki's grave already has a tombstone. And there's evidence that it's been there since his death in 1971. Even if it had been replaced for some reason, the original would have been destroyed. Ruling out the possibility that it belongs to another Chester P. Balicki, born and died on the same dates, who had the same rank in the army, I can only figure:

-The gravestone maker made two for some reason, but one wasn't destroyed for some reason, and it was kept hidden for 30 years. For some reason.
-It was stolen off the grave and replaced with no record being noted. Unfortunately the article didn't say what kind of evidence they had that the one on the grave has been there since Chester was buried.
-Somebody spent a bunch of money to duplicate the stone, and then left it in a mall parking lot as an April Fool's joke. Since that's not really funny enough to justify a couple thou for the prank, maybe it was an art statement.
-It's the same marker, from the future, sent back to the mall parking lot in a quantum anomaly.

Any other theories? Too bad it's not a duplicate body.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:31 | Discuss via Blogvoices

When you're driving through the city, do you lock your doors? You know, to keep people from jumping in your car, tossing you out, and stealing it?

Have you ever locked your doors after seeing an individual or group of people? Not that you think those particular people will carjack you, but they remind you of the need to lock your doors?

Do you instinctively buckle your seatbelt, even if you're just moving the car from the street to the driveway, or to let someone out?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, do you still buckle up and lock the doors when you ride in a cab? Why not?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 22:45 | Discuss via Blogvoices

This is a dry-cleaner's at the Diversey stop, where I get off the train to go visit Bill. Now, I know Conny and Alex are just dating, and anything more binding (ber?) is far off (Conny's poor mother!)... but I just want them to know that this place will be there if they need it.

Around the window it lists all of the things they can clean. It says "Laundry Shirts / Leather Wedding Gowns"

Now THAT's a wedding I wanna go to!

[Awww, maaaaan! It took me months to take this picture, and the damn thing didn't even turn out. But if you click on the picture and enlarge it you can barely see...]
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 21:03 | Discuss via Blogvoices

I bought an elote today, the first one buttered up by the first vendor to hit the streets. Spring is officially here!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 12:44 | Discuss via Blogvoices

The Scion barely noticed as he was ditched by Bill and Shepherd on the way into RedNo5. He'd struck out at Big Wig, even though one of his toadies had found a woman whose birthday was also today, and introduced them. But she spent the rest of the time there talking to those non-hunks Bill and Shepherd, and they weren't even putting the moves on her! Life's so unfair- he had all the best pickup lines and coy glances, and she goes and has a conversation about cosmology, of all things, with two nerds! What's up with that!?!?!

Never fear. At RedNo5, he met two gals who had been working the door at Big Wig. They shouted drunken misunderstandings at each other, and when the bar closed a 4 he went back with them to their place.

They decided when they got home to call their coke dealer. [Dealers love getting calls at 4am... but hey, it's a hazard of the profession] The Scion was feeling pretty fitshaced, what with all the birthday drinks and the keif and whatever else he'd had. Only his sheer determination to get laid had brought him this far.

But the girl who was 'his' and her friend didn't want to party until the coke got there. They kept saying "5:00" then "5:30" and then The Scion stumbled off into his "friend's" bedroom to crash. "I'll just take off all of my clothes," he thought, "and when she wants to fuck she'll come wake me up." These were his actual thoughts, relayed to me in all seriousness when he told me this story.

The Scion was awakened by not-so-gentle prodding when the sun was shining. "Get up," a man's voice said, "[the girl] and I want to go to bed." He blinked and looked up at some scruffy guy he'd never seen before. "Who the fuck are you?" he said. The guy replied, "I'm her ex-boyfriend... are you naked under there?" "Uh... yeah," said The Scion.

He struggled on his clothes and went back into the living room to find the two girls eagerly consuming a huge pile of cocaine. They invited him to join them but he just wanted to go home. The girl convinced her ex to drive him home. They got in the car, but the guy just drove until he saw an available cab and kicked him out of the car, tossing a twenty out the window at him.

"And then," said The Scion, smugly sure of what a great time he had, "I shook my fist at him as he drove off, like yeah, I'm gonna kick your ass next time."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 12:19 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Conny found out some interesting facts about 'sex-reassignment surgery', as well as offered her perspective, which I found intriguing. I'll comment here since she has no discuss feature.

First off, she found the tv show "rather disturbing". This seems to be the case whenever you blur the line between the sexes. I mean, this is Conny we're talking about, her URL is "tease.de". She's into BDSM, or at least some of those letters. She's already breaking the boundaries of accepted sexual behavior, but even to her the funky stuff that surgeons can do with the human body is disturbing.

Bear in mind that I'm talking about sexes, here, and not genders. Gender-bending is something we all do, from someone like me who disregards the roles entirely (to the best of my ability considering how deeply ingrained they are) to your average fratboy, who always seem to cross-dress for halloween. But sex, that's something that comes from our flesh and thus we consider it to be wrought in stone... which of course it is not. Thus Conny's post o' the day.

My take on sex-reassignment is this: I'm all for body-modification for the right reasons. It's up to you to figure out if your reasons are right, or not. I demand the right to modify my own body however I like, and I think everyone should be able to... but the danger is always that they are doing it to please someone else (like many breast enhancements done on women.... the local shock-jock-asshole radio DJ's last year offered a boob job as a father's day contest), or doing it because they think it is what they want when they haven't really thought it through. But considering the psychological testing required if you want to have your surgery paid for, I'd assume that anyone who actually changes their sex is at the point where they know what they're doing.

The only part of Conny's post I objected to was this:

::[The woman who wanted to become a man] took hormones to start growing a beard (come on,
even if I'd want to be a man (which I don't), why not only take the
pleasant parts and skip the annoying ones? That's like
requesting menstruation as a transsexual woman)

Obviously you've never grown a beard ;) I consider this a benefit of my sex, and I love being a man. I would never have a sex change. I love being able to change my appearance drastically. I've worn every facial hairstyle possible: I've had lamb chops, an amish beard, a full beard, a handlebar mustache, heck, even a Hitler mustache once when I shaved my beard and played with different styles on the way down. The only one I haven't tried (yet) is the antebellum sideburns-that-turn-into-a-mustache. Sure, shaving every day is a bit of a hassle, but not as much as doing the dishes. It should also be noted that I like women who've never shaved their legs, prefer it when She doesn't shave, and don't mind kissing a scruffy fella. I guess I'm in touch with my mammalness ;).

By the way, there are certain tribal cultures where men slit their penis along the bottom in order to simulate menstruation. They then reopen the wound monthly. So you're not far off! :)

::from a "technical" point of view, you're much luckier if you're a man and want to become a woman.

Hmm. I'm going to take your word that from what the show said, it's easier to construct a psuedovagina out of a penis than to create a working penis from a vagina. Despite the fact that the female reproductive system is much more complicated (you should look up a marsupial's sometime! Er, I mean 'look up' as in research), the penis requires more mechanics to get it to function 'right'. What a MTF trannie gets is basically a hole that they can lube up and fuck with. Hormones can enlarge the labia to form semi-testicles and also enlarge the clitoris to the point where you've got a lil' peeper, but it's the whole erection thing that really creates a challenge. I mean, it doesn't even work all the time in the original!

:: Boob jobs are done every day and
it's always easier to cut something off as opposed to build it from
scratch.

Well, masectomies are done every day too. And most MTF trannies probably take hormones and grow their own breasts, then augment them if they're not satisfied. I consider it much more challenging, however, to make a woman that looks like a woman out of a man, than it is to make a man that looks like a man out of a woman.

What is more important to the sex-changee, to live as the other sex or to have functional genitalia? I would think that a woman who had a masectomy, bulked up her muscles, and grew a goatee would be able to pass anytime as a man, even if he looked like a sort of girlish man. My friend Belle's dom is a FTM trannie who sometimes gets called "ma'am". He likes to object, in mock disgust, "What, I look like a woman!?!?!"

Meanwhile, if you're a big ol' boy, breasts of any size aren't going to make you look like anything but a transvestite. There's nothing that can be done to remove a lantern jaw. The hottest drag queen I've ever seen, who was pre-op, had "had her hips done" in order to give her a more girlish figure. Now THAT's an invasive procedure!

I think the penis is overrated as a key component in sex. Penetration is not a requirement for fucking. Ever been fucked by a glance, or a caress, across the table in a smoky romantic restaurant? Even restricted to the sweaty-in-bed realm, someone who can't think of any way to fuck except "I'll put my peeper in your dooder" is a sorry sexual partner. The only reason we tend to think so is because men are so obsessed with their shlongs. So, while it might be helpful in terms of self-image for a FTM to have a functional penis, I'm sure they can still get busy with any number of substitutes. Thus I would argue that a woman who wants to become a man is much better off, due to the (relative to MTF) ease of living their new lives, than a man who wants to be a woman.

A much more fascinating subject than gender dysplasia, in my mind, is intersex. The human species has five sexes, three of which are usually dealt with either at birth or at puberty, where the intersexed individual is jimmied up to be a male or a female. Sometimes it's done without the parents' knowledge, even.

While I'm all for consensual body modification, to do so without an individual's consent is an atrocity to me. From babies with pierced ears all the way to the genital mutilation that is frowned upon by Americans when performed on girls in Africa, yet encouraged when performed on males in America. My parents had a fucking piece of my penis chopped off when I was born for NO REASON other than the fact that 3000 years ago some old guy did it to prove he was a badass and since then people have made up stupid excuses to cover up the fact that it's nothing more than a symbol of faith in one's religion. Heck, my parents are atheist... I asked them why they did it, and they said "That's just what was done." I'm not pissed at my parents but I'm sure as hell pissed that I was born into a culture that accepts infant genital mutilation. So I can imagine the pain it must cause in intersexed individuals, especially since half the time the doctors guess wrong and the person is raised female when they're really male, or vice versa.

People who have a sex change, at least, are pursuing something they want. What about the rest of us who had it done to us without our consent?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:34 | Discuss via Blogvoices

My cousin Howard used to have this job as a park ranger down in Alabammy. Aside from the sporadic duties of helping park guests, opening and closing the park etc., he had two jobs to do:

The first was to carry a pistol-grip shotgun and shoot any armadillo he saw.

The second was this:

On the park grounds was the remains of a town that had been built by settlers, who quickly all died from some plague or another. There was an old schoolhouse and a couple of houses still standing, but it wasn't much of a tourist attraction because who wants to go see a place where a whole town died of a horrible disease?

At any rate, whenever it rained, the coffins from all the plague victims would float up out of the ground. This park was right off the coast and probably only a few feet above sea level. Since a town full of colonial plague victims is rarely buried with great care the first time around, we're talking shoddy pine boxes, holey and spilling their contents. Howard's job was to re-bury them, the whole town, before the next family came for a picnic. ("Mommy! Lookie what Mr. Scruffles brought us from the woods! Whatever it is, he sure thinks it's tasty!")

Whelp, that's the way life is sometimes. When the sun's shinin', it's nothing but shootin' armadillas all day long. But when it rains, ya gotta get out there and make sure those bodies stay buried.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:55 | Discuss via Blogvoices

I love cemetaries. I'd have to say they're my favorite place in any given city. And I don't love them for the reason you probably think I love them, since I'm no mopey, Robert-Smith-lovin', roses-are-black-violets-are-black-boo-hoo-hoo Henry-and-June-wannabe goth.

In a perfect world, I guess, it would be the parks I love. But parks are full of trash, bums, gangs, screaming kids, and dogshit, in descending order of desirability. Don't even get me started on dogs in the city. But in a cemetary there are no bums, no trash, no brats, and certainly no shit. And the gangs might hang out at night to prove their badassedness, but they're rarely there during the day. No reason to be.

So I like to go to parks and walk in the sun, take in the fresh air (usually flowers too!), and generally get as close to nature as I can without hopping on a train. I like to marvel at the intricate sculpture (usually in the form of spooky, mossy angels) and chuckle at the graves of rich men whose families erected giant marble phalli to prove who had the most money at death and therefore the biggest cock (see earlier post). They're especially funny when you realize that not a damn bit of that cash is useful to the guy now. I like to find names on the stones that are the names on the streets. Also, all that wide-open space lets me see the skyline, which isn't visible from most of Chicago's canyon-like streets. Basically I like the feeling of peace- my sweetie and I go all the time. If I see any more than another freak couple doing the same thing, I start movin' on to the next cemetary.

The actual premise behind the cemetary is ridiculous, though. First off, as an atheist, the myth of an afterlife seems to me to be nothing more than a thinly veiled reluctance to accept one's mortality. It also comes in handy if you want to oppress a population, but need to keep them working hard with the promise of reward in the next life. But cemetaries aren't really for the afterlife, even though their popularity seems to be a result of such belief. Their stated purpose is one of remembrance- the tombstone serves as a memorial of the person who has died. This I like about cemetaries- presumably one day someone I know will die and I'll be able to go to their grave, remember how they enriched my life, and maybe tip a forty for my fallen homey.

But imagine for a moment you're trying to explain this to an alien archaeologist. Okay, so, when someone dies, we like to erect a monument that will last forever so that they may be forever remembered. Sounds great. We used to take up lots of space to do this, but now space is precious, and so the newly dead are usually remembered in the form of plaques lining the wall of some masoleum*. But get this- and this is where it starts to get freaky- when somebody dies, we pump their bodies full of plywood glue and dump them in a hole under the stone! First, we preserve the body- not so that it won't decay, because it will- just so that it won't decay as quickly. Then we put it in a box to further stave off decay. At this point the bereaved are usually reamed for every penny that the glue-pumper and box-nailer can get from them. We then hold a ceremony that doesn't celebrate the person's life, doesn't send 'em off with a bang, but rather we cry about OUR loss even if we come from a belief system that thinks they're in a better place. Then we dump the box in a hole underneath the memorial stone, and eventually you can go to a little park with thousands and thousands of slowly decaying corpses in expensive boxes buried in the dirt. Pukeatronic! Grodilicious!

Now, I did have a college buddy who died while skiing in the Alps. His funeral pissed me off. A whole buncha old fogies bullshitted about all these things he wasn't, and what a good christian he was. But I was wise enough to realize that the funeral was for the bereaved, and not the dead, so I didn't jump up and shout, "He didn't believe all this stuff! He was a TAOIST! Aren't all male college hippies?!?" Then they put him in the ground, and I haven't been back since because it's so far away. I'm comforted knowing the stone is there, but the thought that the smile that made me laugh so many times is now sown shut and slowly turning into a skeletal grin just disturbs me.

We used to have 'wakes', where all the folks who would attend the funeral today sat up with the dead overnight. You better believe that after a night of talking and remembering the dead, 'round three in the morning the truth started to come out and the real person was remembered. Nowadays you can do your viewing via drive-thru, something I really wish I was just being sarcastic about.

When I die, you better believe there's gonna be a party. I've already made the arrangements in the event of my untimely death (No killing Shepherd for party purposes! Some Girl, I'm looking in your direction!). No mopin' around allowed. I've lived a full life up until this point and I plan to continue doing so until the day I die. I have no major regrets and I've been very lucky. If I live to see 30 then there's no reason to feel sad. If I live any longer then I'm gettin' more than I deserve.

I would feel most comfortable knowing that the elements that made up the entirety of my being were returned to the environment from which they came, but there's only one way I'm gonna end up buried in the woods and it's not gonna be after a natural death. So it looks like cremation is the only acceptable alternative in this culture, but you KNOW they burn a pile o' bodies and just use the two Raisin' Bran scoops to fill each urn with two scoops of the "remains of the deceased" to hand back to the family. The method that appeals to me the most, right now, is the Indian practice of "Air Burial": They loft their dead on platforms high into the air and let the vultures pick them apart. Something about going up on that platform and just dissimilating into the air really appeals to me. Then you can carve my name into a rock, if you want, but I'd prefer a tree to be planted, ideally fed with my remains. Sure, the tree won't last as long, anybody who thinks their stone or their name will be remembered forever is foolin' themselves. Even people who change the world fade into anonymity eventually.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person I know who has accepted mortality, but wants to keep on living as long as possible. Usually it's one or the other.

Maybe one of my loyal readers, who seem to equate age with wisdom (tee hee), can tell me one good reason for preserving a corpse. Hopefully people won't get as upset by my critique of American attitudes toward the end of life as they did when I critiqued our attitude towards the beginning of life. I'm not about to debate the existence of an afterlife in the 'discuss' section of this post, so put down your flamin' pens. And maybe someone with the unfortunate luck of knowing more folks who have died can tell me what they liked and disliked about the whole process.

*Some towns in Italy have gotten more creative than stacking the bodies up higher in a masoleum. They'll bury you in the town cemetary, but since it's so old and crowded they only leave you there for 20 years. The argument is, who's gonna come to your grave after 20 years? Then you get dug up and tossed in the mass grave. How efficient.

We Have A Winnah!

Actually, we have two winnahs. You already know that both Shamhat and Azriel have correctly guessed the patron of the Scion, whose grave is in my neighborhood and pictured a few clicks below. It's.... ba ba ba baaaaaaa! George Mortimer Pullman! Pullman built an entire town in the late 1800's just to house the workers who made his famous Pullman railroad cars. When the workers tried to organize, he held out to the bitter end, since he knew that if a strike succeeded in his industry then all sorts of laborers would start getting crazy ideas (they did). In came the federal troops, to jail went union leader Eugene Debs, and thus the American labor movement was born. Of course, I've simplified it quite a bit for the purposes of this blog (I can see the Some Girl post now: "Duh! The American Labor movement obviously has its roots in the Workingmen's Party and United Tailoresses of the 1820's! It didn't just begin with the large-scale organization of trades and crafts in the 1890's, you gob-swallowing stinkpig!").

At any rate, I'll have to find another prize so I can send one to both winners. That is, if Azriel ever returns my congradulatory email.

I'll write some more stories sometime about the Scion. I got the dish as to what happened late-night after my adventure a few weeks ago.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 15:06 | Discuss via Blogvoices

April Fools?

China's in the news alot because somehow they got the crew from one of our spy planes. Whoops! Anyway, I keep hearing commentary by this China scholar named "Bates Gill". This has got to be a joke. I mean, the guy's mentioned all over the web due to his scholarly works, but c'mon- "Bates Gill"? That can't be someone's real name! It's gotta be an April Fool's joke.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:12 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"They told me I was putting the cart before the horse," Said Cliche Coworker, "I've slit my own throat. I mean, if I really did screw the pooch, I wish they'd either shit or get off the pot about it."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. It's not so bad," I tried to reassure him.

"It's a good thing I don't have a dog," sighed Cliche.

"Why, 'cause you'd screw the pooch?"

He didn't notice or choose to acknowledge the crack. "No," he said, "Because if I had a dog I'd kick it. I haven't gotten any appointments all week. I'm struggling just to keep my head above water here. I mean I really threw the baby out with the bathwater."

"Yeah, if it weren't for disappointment," I said, barely able to keep a straight face, "you wouldn't have any appointment."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:14 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Brat Chat Finale

Well, I think it's time to retire this tired issue. People who don't even read this blog are starting to come up to me and say, "SO, you think breeders are immoral, eh!?!?!"

Actually, considering the popular opinion regarding breeders and nonbreeders, this is a pretty funny statement to make. Hopefully, you will all understand that my beliefs regarding procreation are mine alone, and if you've got a problem with THAT belief then you're sure as hell gonna have a problem when we're drunk, beligerent, and arguing about more important issues. No doubt a few steps down the grapevine it's already become "Shepherd thinks all straight people should be involuntarily sterilized, preferably with a waffle iron" and I'll start getting anonymous BK any day. But as you can imagine, I'm not too concerned with my reputation among people who believe everything they hear second-hand when the source is readily available, right here, to straighten things out.

I really got a lot out of this discussion. Hopefully I've set the stage for further productive debates, as long as I can lay it out on the table without being too much of an asshole about it. So, having crippled blogvoices.com with our fiery discourse, I'll go back to inane rants and quotes from the fuckups in my life.

I'll leave you with a quote from the ever-wacky Ted Turner. Ted Turner is clinically insane, but since he's so rich we call him "eccentric" and let him continue to run his businesses. This quote is taken from the very same speech where good ol' Ted suggested removing adultery from the ten commandments (hmmm... wonder why) and made an ethnic joke involving the use of the pope as a 'polish mine detector'. This is the guy who is paying the US's dues to the UN, folks. Whatta charmer.

He said he regretted having five kids by the time he was 30:

"If I was doing it over again I wouldn't have done it, but I can't shoot
them now that they're here."

See, some breeders should be sterilized with a waffle iron. ;)
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:57 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Don't those things hurt your stomach? I had some this weekend and it fucked my stomach up!" said the Southern Liar. I was just pouring my second after-lunch Red Bull.

"Naw," I said, "I've never drank more than two at a time. How many did you have this weekend?"

"I was drinking them with vodka Saturday night. I had 15. Oh, and two rolls of Ecstacy."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 18:01 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Well, since HWC Sleipnir's diary has no chat feature, you're welcome to post responses arbitrarily on my blog. That's what I usually do with Conny's Tease. Just pick a post and reply.

He's right, some great conversations happenin' these days. CLJ's social-experimentation observations on gayness in CL, plus the wonderful advice from parents and nonparents alike here on the post below, and then who isn't fired up by Mr Nosuch's invigorating and thoughtful discussion of secure online credit card transactions? He's pushing the envelope, true, but that is the wild side of the web. Browser beware. Never know what dark and seedy sites may contain diatribes that bring to light aspects of yourself that you may not be willing to face... like secure online credit card transactions. And the shape of waffles.

Ah, come on, before you mail me some anthrax, I'm just givin' ya shit. ;) Obviously if there's an inane and pointless web journal out there, it's HWC Sleipy's, which usually consists of mere senile rantings by a crusty codger who thinks he's in a rock and roll band, but probably just remembers an episode of Matlock. His posts are usually truncated, either by him passing out at the keyboard, or drooling until it shorts. Usually both.

Actually, HWC took it fairly well that I published a RL picture of him. He works so hard to keep his privacy, you know, but I was so offended by his crudeness that it had to be done. He also takes great offense at my use of the phrase "Hooty hoo", which at first I thought was due to its meaning in whatever language they speak down in that backwards, primitive British colony. You know, how words like "fanny" and "nappy" mean different things in England. But he said that wasn't the case, so I don't know what his problem is. If it will help him to sleep better at night, I picked up that phrase from a big, fat drag queen who performs as one of the gals from Absolutely Fabulous. How's THAT for a Hooty Hooer? Now even my cats have picked it up. Whenever I bring home "meaty treaties", they leap for joy and yell "Meowty meow!". Then they do the "cabbage patch" dance a bit before wolfing down the yummies.

Obviously I'm not about to take offense to any references to my sexuality. I give and expect plenty of shit in my dialog. When he said that I couldn't have kids because I was, er, misdirecting my efforts, I laughed till it hurt. Now he describes me as having "Catholic" tendencies, and with a capital C, no less! Bwaa haaa haaa!!!! My own grandpappy said it best when he met She, whose family is Catholic: "I hear lots of Catholics are gettin' into heaven, but not too many priests are."

As for anyone else taking offense for me, please do not. One of the things that's going around Illinois these days is the debate over American Indian mascots. Usually (but not always), the tribe represented says they're proud to stand as a symbol of strength and bravery, but a lot of priveledged white cause-heads protest it, sometimes even protesting and yelling at the delegates from the tribe! Now, I'm not going to discuss that particular issue here, since all four years of my college education were spent in the midst of the "Redskins" controversy. I'm tired of it. But the point is, sometimes people are willing to make an issue where there is none. Please don't. James, please continue to make derogatory remarks about not only my sexuality, but preferably my race, my appearance, my intellect, and my copious, ape-like body hair. You're very good at it. I want to hear more.

Now, before I get myself shot, let's stop talking about Sausage as if it was confirmed that the character is gay. I only met him a few times and he struck me as if he "putts from the rough", so to speak. I mean, his name is SAUSAGE. However, it could have been an offhand comment, and since he's not here to defend himself like Papa has, it's not nice to spread rumors.

Papa, on the other hand, we can rip on all we like, 'cuz he will respond. What a great character. There's more fun to be had in the "is he or isn't he?" issue than there is in making flat-out thoom-queen jokes. Maybe that will be my thoom's quest, to discover the truth.

Back to the Brat Chat: James makes a great point with his NYC analogy. All of these comments regarding the joys of parenting may convince me to adopt a child, a decade down the line. But I will not breed, and so far noone has given me a reason why anyone should. Maybe, and this is what usually happens, one of my loyal readers will go off on their own blog about it.

Sorry you hate students so much, James. I never met a professor who taught for any reason other than to seduce nubile coeds with their philosophical bullshit, but it sounds like you would enjoy actually teaching somebody something. I was one of those useless fuckups in school, I went straight to college from high school and my parents paid for half. However, if I had looked for ONE JOB, even browsed the classifieds before choosing a major, I wouldn't have skipped all of my classes and gotten a useless major (Thesis: The Internet As A Medium For Sexual Equality). And I was a fuckup even for my hippie-dippie, pure-bullshit liberal arts classes. I took a class on the social significance of FURNITURE. It was a mandatory requirement for graduation. It's not too hard to bullshit your way to an A in a class like that. So my advice to any graduating high-schoolers out there: See if your parents will let you go out and look for a job. Work at a job for six months. Then you'll appreciate college (Day Care For Twentysomethings!) a whole lot more, and maybe you'll get something out of it. The only thing I got out of it was my sweetheart, and that alone keeps me from feeling like I wasted four years of my life.

P.S.- I took a new picture for this page, one in color that shows off my fabulous multicolor 'do, but it ended up being the exact same pose as Mr Nosuch's. I mean, we even looked the same (must have been bad lighting, or my bad side ;). So I'm gonna have to retake it. I'm trying to capture msyelf as happy, since you all thing I'm so angsty and full of ennui. I'll get a silly picture up there soon.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 10:38 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Brat Chat

"Post something to your blog," Mr. Nosuch tells me, "I'm so bored I'm reading the ones I only read out of morbid fascination." Okay, okay, I understand. Whenever you don't see a daily update on this page, it's because I'm out living real life, which is GOOD. In fact, how long has it been since YOU have seen the sun? :>

I promised I would speak my mind about chillin's, and without irony or sarcasm. I'll try, though as a Gen-Xer, I'm ill equipped to deal with the world without either. At any rate, my display of prejudice against those who choose to reproduce pissed off some of my friends, so I'll just lay it down right here without any sense of self-righteous childlessness and then you can pick it apart purely on the basis of what I think, rather than how rude I am in conveying it. So I begin:

I will never have kids. Whenever I say this, the usual response is "oh, wait till you're older". Perhaps, but I don't think so for two reasons: One is the reason people have kids. The other is that if I did have kids, I'd adopt, which is not having kids. I'll get to both of these things eventually.

I think it is immoral to reproduce. I really do. For one, I think it's immoral to create a life when there are so many unwanted children without families. For another, I think it's immoral to bring a child into the world that will be when they grow up. Right about the time when the world reaches population 15 billion, and people start dying as fast as they're being born, and the world's oil reserves run out, things are gonna get reeeeal interesting. But it's not going to be fun, especially since my reluctance to fuck over my neighbor for my own benefit will land me in the "have-not" category eventually, even though I'm a "have" at the moment. So Shepherd's Non-Reproduction Reason Number One is "Thou shalt not create a child when you can go and get one, and pick the options even." And I'd be perfectly happy to adopt a developmentally disabled child, since perfect white babies cost thousands on ebay. I worked for the world's largest deaf-owned and -administrated corporation, which made an active effort to hire people with all sorts of disabilities. It taught me that the disabled are not only people too, but are often more thankful for what they have than those of us with 10 fingers and 10 toes, so to speak.

Reason Number Two is "Though shalt not take on the responsibility of a human life when thou art barely responsible enough to take care of yourself". I'm one of those rare people who made a choice not to have kids, rather than casting my lot with the odds of nature. What is it Homer Simpson said? "Apu, you don't CHOOSE to have kids, they just happen!" Sure seemed to be the state of mind in Dayton, Ohio, where I used to live. But here in Chicago, only the richest of yuppies can afford kids. I haven't seen a child in months. The fact is, I have enough trouble taking care of my cats, and they can go for days without noticing I'm gone. Having children requires putting aside your life in order to satisfy the needs of another one, which is something I'm not too excited about doing. Of course, this means I have tremendous respect for anyone who made the conscious decision to have kids, and tremendous pity for anyone who obtained some accidentally.

Rule Number Three: Thou shalt make something of thy life the hard way. I think a lot of people, and I'm not pointing fingers here at all, have kids because they reach a point in their life where they need to feel they've done something worthwhile. The #1 reason to have kids is obviously accidentally. Number two is because it's just what you do- way too many people I know have ended up with more responsibility than they want because they were 28 before they figured out that having children wasn't required by law, but when they got married at 18 they thought it was just what was done. Reason number three, I think, is because people hit 30 and they look at their lives and realize that nothing they've done will last beyond their death. So they seek ways to acheive immortality, and one way to do that is to have a kid and then name it after yourself. Teach it to succeed where you have failed, usually stated as "don't make the mistakes I made." Like my dad. All of my life, my dad told me "One of you kids will grow up and be rich enough to buy me a Jaguar." So he and my mom saved, and got all three of us kids a good college education, and generally set us up for a comfortable, successful life. But my dad makes 100k (I know because he's a public employee and his salary is posted and I looked it up- they wouldn't dare tell me something like that), and he's surely got enough money to buy hisself a Jaguar, which is his life's dream. But he won't, because he was raised dirt, dirt, DIRT poor and just saves all his money and never spends it on himself. I've got the greatest parents on earth, I believe, but sometimes I wish they'd splurge a little, take a cruise, buy themselves something, do ANYTHING for themselves. Instead, they save it up for a rainy day. Wise enough, true, but I could die happy tomorrow, because I've lived my life to the fullest ever since the day I discovered that I was mortal. That doesn't mean I don't have a savings account, but it is the reason why I don't watch TV.
So, instead, I plan to get the feeling of lifetime accomplishment through my own work. Some super-humans can have kids and change the world for the better. I think people like Kim and Jeff and Terri and Rich want to have kids because they know they're good people and the world needs more people who were raised by good people (Reason Number Four). The individuals mentioned also happen to be the super-human types I mentioned. But I'm not. I focus my effort on my Plan, and kids take a whole lotta effort that would take away from that Plan. A personal flaw on my part? Perhaps, but at least I've made the decision not to have kids because I realize I'm incapable of raising them with the attention they deserve. If everybody made this choice, the world would be a better place.

Reason Number Three is depicted in the photos accompanying this post. Kids drain you. Sure, they give you the greatest joy a person could ever feel. I believe it. That level of caring, of nurturing, could never be reached between me and my cats. I will never see my child dressed in a silly costume in a school play, or graduate college, or even say "I love you daddy", which could probably make any father die happy. I'm just not willing to deal with the negatives of having kids. From the screaming and the pooping at birth, to the screaming and whining of early childhood, to the mopey unappreciativeness of teenagers, the whole deal just doesn't appeal to me. If I adopt, I'd prefer that it be someone at least 19- that's how long it took me to realize that I didn't know the answer to everything and that my parents were actually amazing people who sacrificed their lives to give me a good upbringing. If you have kids, you just can't go to movies or a restaurant or on an airplane without being loathed by everybody else. This factor is reinforced by the fact that parents become immune to the screaming of their own brats and they forget that everyone else isn't. Kids require you to lose your individuality, lose your sense of self-control, and generally focus all of your energy on handling your tiny humans, who naturally have tons more energy than you do.

So, in conclusion, I tip my hat to the parents of the world. I'll gladly try to make your life easier by taking on your children for a day. The irony of the whole situation is that I get along great with kids- I do lots of goofy things, they love me, I enjoy the good aspects of them. I look forward to being an uncle, but it's just not the thing for me. Ask me again in ten years, and maybe I'll say differently, but at least I've made a conscious choice now. After all, does the world really need a bunch of little Shepherds running around?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 03:21 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Heyyyyy.... "Azriel", a clan lord player (apparently), sent me the answer in an email dated 3/16... which arrived on 3/18. Shamhat's was dated 3/17. I guess the only thing to do is ask if Azriel is willing to reveal their identity enough to submit a mailing address for the crappy prize, and if not, I'll give it to Shamhat. Both get props for figuring out who the dead guy is.

The Less Things Change, The More They Remain The Same Dept.

Shamhat also sent me a news story about an Italian banker whose body was snatched, presumably for ransom, though the family has received no demands. "They should have taken precautions!" Shamhat said.

I hope they've learned their lesson.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 13:21 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Crappy Contest Winner!

Shamhat has won the Guess-The-Dead-Prick contest! I'll keep the answer a secret for the moment. The prize is also a secret, but mainly since it's hard to explain in the first place. The rest of you who solve it, as a consolation prize, might get your name mentioned on this blog.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 17:41 | Discuss via Blogvoices

I'm beginning to suspect that A Clan Lord Journal might be written by more than one person. The only evidence I have to that fact is this photo, which was taken and sent by the author(s). I think it is supposed to express their precise reaction to my pigeonholing them into a category that sorely underestimated their capacity to get it goin' on.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 01:33 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Retraction

It appears that I suggested that there was a correlation between age and restraint, specifically in terms of pure vulgarity and filth in one's writings.

I would like to apologize for anyone I might have offended by suggesting that merely punting out some larvae, or getting married and settling down and not having kids though you fuck like woodchucks, or even just living the life of some crusty Hemingway character in a rock'n'roll band; prohibits an individual from spewing the kind of offensive tripe that the imagination and substance abuse of youth grants myself.

In addition, I would like to make a few comments regarding HWC Sleipnir's rather offensive and frankly uncalled-for response to my earlier post indicating that you were all losers:

1) For your information, I HAVE tried the other end, with the same results, except there's less verbal communication that way. There must be a way for me to obtain a child, so that I may teach it to hate the things I hate and succeed where I'm a miserable failure!

2) You can keep your pedophilic chocolate- and water-sports stories to yourself! A blog is no place for kinky sex!

3) I was wondering myself just what "whack-ass pussy" was. If anybody has seen any, it'd be Mr. Nosuch.

4) Pasty? Do I look pasty?

BTW, I laughed until I cried. I lay down my king to you, at least until a few decades have allowed the spite and bile to fester in my gullet like so many baloney sandwiches crammed in the couch cushions.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 02:02 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Crappy Contest

Whoever guesses the name of the rich old corpse buried underneath all that shit pictured below gets a prize in the mail, from me to you. Of course, that might require furnishing a mailing address. Get a PO box, ya paranoid freak! If you know it and aren't willing to get the prize, please restrict yourself to taunting others about it without revealing the name.

The surname is actually on the grave, but it's a shitty picture (I downloaded it, I didn't take it). I've given you enough clues, however, and you should be able to figure it out based on your knowledge of American labor politics, especially near me.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:50 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Why is it that everybody seems to be so apologetic about their blogs? Every one I read seems to either have some disclaimer "These are my views and I sometimes use bad words" or apology "I didn't mean to offend anyone last post so I'm gonna backtrack like Ann Landers".

Well of COURSE they're your veiws! It's your diary! Of COURSE you'll offend someone- if your life was so boring that it didn't offend anyone, nobody would read your blog.

Well, I dance like noone's lookin' and I write like noone's readin'. I use terms like "faggot" and "nigga" and "glemglobber" but I never get any angry remarks. The worst disagreement I get is the occasional disbelief. Why? Is it because everyone who reads knows I'm a petulant youngster, and not held to the standards of restraint that alla these fogeys are? Of course, I have no idea how old the authors of most of the blogs I read are, but if ya got brats, you're old. If ya got brats and ya don't feel old, ya ain't had 'em long enough. ;) (As an ironic side note, brat-havin' can make you immune to gross things, so something that would offend me so much I would retch wouldn't phase a breeder).

Conny is my age, yet she's compelled to warn readers of her site that adult topics might be dealt with therein. Is she more considerate than me? Or do I know a little secret- that noone in the history of the web has ever clicked on "I disagree", "I'm not old enough", or "I'm easily offended, please direct me to a site approved by NetNanny"?

The whole point of a blog is to lay your life on the table, in all of its glory or shame, without the masks that protect it from the people in your daily life. Toning it down is counter-productive. Sweetening up your life to make it a more pleasurable read goes against the whole purpose. Then again, you can't polish a turd, ya web-surfin, outdoors-avoidin, pasty-faced geek!.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:46 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Early Friday evening, I stepped into what would turn out to be the most frightening cab ride of my life. This guy was going 55 in the city (he was able to because he got lucky, and hit all of the greens, yellows, and reds). When we got onto Lake Shore, we happened upon an accident... and were among the first to be let through, meaning the 4-lane highway belonged to my cabbie. He punched it like he was racin' for pink slips! But at least it was cheap as hell. I tipped moderate- I wanted to thank him for getting me there so fast, but I didn't want to encourage his driving style. I remember thinking, "My tip amount could affect lives!"

I was headed to my buddy Bill's place. Bill doesn't get a nickname because he's just a Bill, a guy, a regular joe. Down the street from Bill's place, a few blocks north of the Broadway/Clark/Diversey Canyon convergence, is a little cona' sto'. I approached.

An elderly white guy was standing outside of the door, doing a little dance of indecision.

Perhaps it says something about my lifestyle that I assumed he was fighting a craving. He looked like he wanted to go in real bad but knew he shouldn't. I figured he was going there for likker or lung cookies, but I was going there to satisfy a Red Bull addiction so it could have been anything. Eventually the craving won over (it always does) and he headed in right before me.

Later I saw him in the soup section, mulling over some Chicken Noodle.

I picked up Bill and we headed to Big Wig, a sort of hair-salon-styled lounge. We were to meet the Scion, and his posse of fellow floor traders on the stock exchange. These guys were hard partiers, Bill had warned me. Bill had spent his sophmore year at Duke with these guys, but now could only stand them in small doses. "One day I woke up in the next bed at a hotel and the Scion lit a fart," he had intoned with a sombre warning, "it caused a giant fireball. I didn't know you could really do that."

The Scion's great-grandfather is buried a few blocks from where I live and write my blog. His coffin is covered with tar paper and asphalt, sunk in a concrete block and covered with railroad ties and recovered with more concrete. Then they slapped this big obelisk on it. Seems grandpappy had called in the army to bust up a strike, and the family was afraid that some grudgeholders would dig 'im up and parade him about town. The Scion's dad is on the chair of the bank that bears his great-grandfather's name, and his parents had given him $3,000 to go out and have fun for his birthday.
Some tough old bastard had gone to his grave without giving in to strikers, and three generations later his descendant lived at home with his parents and partied off the blood of union organizers. A heavy moral birthright to bear, true, but this guy seemed to handle it pretty well.

We were met at the door of Big Wig by the Scion, who introduced us to his troupe of white, buff, spiky-haired guys wearing tight white turtlenecks. I was handed a drink and a cigarette with kief in the tip and the party was on.

These floor trader guys all looked the same. One had a ribbed white turtleneck, one had a knit one, etc etc. I was sure they considered themselves "to the extreme". They kept slapping each other all over, talking inches apart... you know, manly stuff. Immediately my gaydar is lit up all over the place. I'm like Dave in 2001... "My god... it's full of fags!" ;)

These guys were total assholes. I asked one what their plans were for late nite. "I just wanna git some pussy!" he said, grabbing his cockenballs. "Yeah, wack-ass pussy!"

Another was older, and bald. "Dude, I'm totally tired, but I couldn't miss his birthday," this one told me, "I'm 35 and I've been fucking a 19 year old for the last three weeks, I'm totally exhausted!"

Thanks for sharing, I thought.

We drank, the bartenders drank. It looked like they were having more fun than anyone else. The bar had hired some Ren-fest reject in a poet shirt to come and breathe fire. The best part never happened- I kept waiting for some drunk asshole to get a shot of 151 and spit it past his lighter, melting one of the bystanding plastic model-types.

We crammed into an SUV. As I jumped in the back with Bill and some Irish guy, I noted, "Gee, it's nice to be in the trunk without duct tape over your mouth, ain't it guys?"

We drove to another bar. The Irish guy stepped aside and everyone had the "I thought YOU knew him!" conversation. Nobody did.

In line for the bar, this other irish guy started yelling at him:

"I know that accent! Yer a bloody criker, that's what you are!"
"I am not a criker, ya fuckin' arse!"
"I'm from Dublin, and I know a criker when I hear one! And you're a fuckin' criker!"

Ah, the Irish, how they communicate so lovingly. What the hell is a criker?

At this point, Bill and I had had enough Fun With Jerks and bailed. In the cab, Bill asked for my honest opinion. Those guys, I said, needed to form a little daisy chain, suck each other off, and never leave the house again. I wonder what the cabbie thought when he heard that... eh, cabbies heard it all.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 20:28 | Discuss via Blogvoices

The most horrible, terrible, nasty thing happened to me the other day. It was the sort of thing I'd never tell anyone, except the whole world- why not?

I was driving down the street when I had to do that throat-clearing thing that I've always called "snogging". You know, you can't blow your nose, so you sniiiiiiff... well this one filled my mouth with something... chunky.

Well, of course I'm not going to swallow. There's alot of things I'll swallow ;) but phlegm I try to avoid. So I roll down the window to spit it out...

Now, I've never developed the manly art of spitting, even though I was raised in the south. I only spit when I absolutely have to, unlike many who do it to drive home a point, for sport, or in place of fightin' words. So I attempted to propel this goober out the window... and plopped a giant glemglobber right where the window comes out of the door.

At this point, I'm weaving down the road, I'm flailing around for a tissue, trying to keep the glemglobber from running down onto the door handle and then onto the floor. Of course, if I had tissues, I wouldna had to spit...

I finally found a piece of paper (a copy of my resume I think... no worries, I'll just submit it with a little bonus) and went to wipe it up... and there was a nose hair in the glemglobber.

I tell ya, I just about lost my lunch. I'm gagging now, just typing it. I've never been a big boogereater, and although my sinus passage is connected to my throat, I don't like to think about it. But here was vivid proof that some snot had indeed passed through my nose and out my mouth.

Oh, the horror, the horror!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 11:38 | Discuss via Blogvoices

If Mr. Nosuch can show his biscuits, at least I can show my picture.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 19:43 | Discuss via Blogvoices

I bought a bag of dirt. I can't find it.

I live in an apartment with five rooms, three closets, and two cats. A bag of dirt can't fall in between the cushions of a couch, or get accidentally thrown away. The cats didn't bat it under the fridge, and if they ate it I would have seen the remains. It's not in any of the closets or rooms. It's nowhere to be found.

Where could a bag of dirt go? At least it was cheap as... it was very inexpensive.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 08:58 | Discuss via Blogvoices

When I first moved to Chicago, I worked for a temp agency while doing my job search. One of my assignments was two days at Morgan Stanley Dean Whitter, the brokerage firm (whose chairmen make $13 million a year, about 625 times what I was making there).

It was just like "Working Girl" with Joan Cusak- young hotshot brokers-in-training shouted into their headsets, while the actual brokers would breeze in around 11, check their voicemail, make some calls, and be out by 2. My job was to sit at a desk and answer the phone... if anyone called, I would tell them the current value of their stock.

I was there for two days. The phone rang only once:

"Morgan Stanley Dean Whitter," I answered.

"Now just what, I say, what the hell is going on over there!?!?!?" shouted Foghorn Leghorn. I pictured a big fat guy in a white suit with a 10-gallon hat, huge belt buckle, and a bolo tie.

"I'm sorry sir, I-"

"Listen up, boy! I own half a million shares of Dell stock, and it's goin' to shit! I wanna know what the hell I'm paying YOU for!!!!!"

"I'm just-"

"What's ailin' you, boy?!?!? Are you right in the head?!?!? I got a lotta money invested in you!!! I want some answers, dammit!!!"

"I'm sure-"

"What's the matter, boy?!?! Don't they speak English in Chicago?!?! My personal fortune is disappearing like possum pie at an Oklahoma wake!!!! You better git right on that, boy, and don't make me call you agin!!!!!"

He hung up, and I went back to watching Bill Gates' personal wealth rise and fall by the millions.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:42 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Why is Noxie, OK so close to New Prue, OK? I smell a conspiracy!
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 07:22 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Drinking nasty things, part II:

When I was living in a dorm back in college, I used to have this wacky gag: I washed out a windex bottle, and refilled it with water and blue food coloring. Then I would be casually washing my window as guests wandered in, and while they chatted I would absentmindedly unscrew the squirtgun part and take a swig. Maybe swish it around in my mouth a bit. Ha ha, funny funny, shit a brick, right? At least I got some good double-takes.

A coupla weeks later, The Former Marxist charges into my room with some friends. "Watch this!" he exclaims, as he grabs- you guessed it- my regular bottle of non-water, extry-poisonous Windex. Ere I could protest, he unscrewed the cap and took a big swig.

Of course he spewed it all over the room. Then, when he stopped retching, he screamed at me, "You could've killed me!!!!"

"Me?!?" I said, "You're the one who just drank Windex!"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 08:21 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Our public parks are not just a place for gay men to have anonymous sex, they're also a place for teenage stoners to do their thing. That is why Crispy was in the middle of one on a hot summer day, with three friends and a bong.

Of course, smuggling the bong into the woods requires shoving it into a pocket or hiding it under your shirt, and so they wisely emptied it first. If you have never encountered bong water, it is a truly foul substance located on the periodic table in the "noble nasties" column, under ichor and pus but above raw sewage and the tangy smell of gangrene. Plus, anything that it touches will smell like bong forever, barring the use of special chemicals designed to remove it. Remember the Bog of Eternal Stench from "Labyrinth"? Brown, bubbly, and a stench that won't quit? Bong water.

So now Crispy's in the woods with an empty bong. Realizing they brought nothing to fill the bong with (thus negating its purpose), they were left with two options: Nasty creek water containing any number of bacterial, chemical, or nuclear contaminants... or Crispy's 64-oz "Sup-R-Bloat" cup of Coca-Cola from the Stop-N-Rob. Of course they chose the coke, poured it in, and proceeded to do what teenage stoners do best... actually, the only thing teenage stoners do at all. I believe Aldous Huxley called it "Tokin' rip-roarin' bongloads till yer high as a giraffe's ass!"

Now it's an hour or so later, and all four of them are thouroughly crispy. The sun's bearing down, the bongloads are in effect, and Crispy's got cottonmouth. He's really thirsty. They're miles from a Coke machine, a difficult thing to accomplish in this country. "So thirsty..." he thinks, "So thirsty..."

"Say, I wonder if that Coke's still any good?"

You can imagine the rest.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:03 | Discuss via Blogvoices

I couldn't resist. There she was, on the train, carrying a huuuuge clear bag containing about 30 stuffed animals. Someone with more tact would have been able to resist, but I could not.

"Saaaay, you must be really good at the quarter pitch!" I said. She glowered.

"If you can't guess my weight, do I win a prize?"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 14:38 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"My uncle used to work at a chicken manufacturing plant in Georgia," said the Southern Liar.

"Oh really? Chicken manufacturing?" Said I.

"Processing! I meant processing!"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:45 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"I got two years customa service experience," said The Job Applicant.

"Oh, really?" I said, "Tell me about what you did."

"Uhh... well... I worked two consecutive halloweens in a haunted house."

"And what did you do there?"

"I was a dead guy."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 08:03 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Guadalupe, you got boys hanging all over you. You got nothin' to complain about," I said. At the moment, she actually did.

"Yeah, but they're all fags!" she replied.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 23:13 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Oh, I ain't bisexual," said The Brooklynite, "If a nigga bitch be sweatin' me, I'll let her freak my clit, and ain't nothin' I like better than boomin on a nigga's prostate with a strap-on, but I'm definitely straight."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 07:48 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Y'all be careful when you leave," said Crispy, "I just put some ice out on the sidewalk."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 09:50 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Everytime I try to quit smoking, I see this giant pack of cigarettes," says Guadalupe.

She mimes being a cigarette, bending over the lip of the pack and talking with the filter.

"SMOKE ME!" she says in her best Jim-Carrey-as-The-Mask voice, "PUT MY BUTT IN YER MOUTH!!!!!"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 23:56 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Someone vandalized my car. Y'see, here in Chicago we have this quaint little tradition: While normally street parking is a first-come-first-serve deal, when it snows, you get to keep the space your car was in all winter! All you have to do is dump a big pile of garbage on the space and it's "yours". Even now, weeks after the last snowfall, the odd pile of ice collected in the gutters represents your mayor-endorsed right to the space that you "cleared" by having your car parked there. The streets are lined with old furniture, sawhorses, baby strollers, crates, piles of wood, and other detritous representing the true American spirit of "Screw Thy Neighbor" and "It's Mine! The World Owes It To Me!".

However, despite the mayor's approval, the Department of Sanitation disapproves of this practice and removes the piles of garbage daily. That's how I committed my "crime"- I parked in a spot that had been claimed, but the snow was gone so I couldn't tell it had been shoveled, and the city had removed the garbage signifying that it belonged to someone obviously more deserving than me. Oh, how I wish now that I had had the courtesy to use my psychic powers to determine if that particular 8 feet of asphalt was private property!

So the paragon of neighborly love who I had forced to park somewhere else on the block decided to smear my windsheild with dogshit, and put heaping piles of it on the roof and hood. However, this spelling-bee-champion didn't anticipate that the 0 degree weather would alter the consistency of the feces, resulting not in a big stinky mess for me but rather a 30-second game of turd hockey with a handy stick.

The situation still makes me chuckle. Some shmuck, fuming at my disrespect of their white-trash valet parking (which was really the result of the city cleaning up the trash they had dumped in their space), spent considerable time and effort up to their elbows in steaming, fresh dogshit in the middle of the night in freezing cold weather- only to have me brush it off as easily as one brushes off the snow. Then, as I drove off, I left the space open and garbage-free- which someone surely parked in a few minutes later and started the whole process over again.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:23 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Gabriel sure does smell good," She said, snuggling her pretty-kitty and sniffing his neck, "As long as you don't smell either end."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:31 | Discuss via Blogvoices

The Man Who Sleeps At Work was in trouble. Everyone had a cell phone now, which made him no longer seem cool or important. He had to think of something.

"Wait, wait, you have to take turns talking!" he said, holding a phone to each ear, "Hellooo! I can't listen to you both at once!"
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 07:48 | Discuss via Blogvoices

My mood brightened when I realized I had bought a full set of dishes while the old ones were dirty... but I quickly deflated when it occured to me that I would have to wash the new ones.
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 13:01 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Yeah, I've got a cell phone now," said The Rawkstar, "I'm so burge!"

"Aw, come on, I've met homeless people with cell phones, " I replied, "It's the latest version of the satellite dish on the mobile home."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 00:04 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Oh, jeez, this outfit cost me $400," said the Former Marxist, his student activist days long forgotten since he'd been making mad cash in the Loop, "How in the world do I wash it?"

I heard the sound of clothes rustling in the background.

"Oh, well. It's not like I do my own laundry."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 20:52 | Discuss via Blogvoices

"Guadalupe, you are such a carpet-muncher," Boi Du Jour exclaimed, as we were playing cards a few hours into Ought-One.
"Oh, sure, make fun of her because she's the only lesbian here," I said, "Boi, that is so last millenium."

Added Guadalupe, "Joo are jus' afraid of mah Guadalupeness."
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 21:31 | Discuss via Blogvoices

Would you like to play a game?
posted by Shepherd Godsseeker at 22:25 | Discuss via Blogvoices