Redemption (almost)

Well, I have to say, everyone... EVERYONE has redeemed themselves today. Charlie, asd mentioned in the previous blog, redeemed himself. Kudos. It was a good night, as everyone worked and then partied. It was heartening to see. I got there a bit late, as I had to troubleshoot a damnable network problem, which I solved 5 minutes before quitting time. It appears my prayers to Joe Pesci aren't all in vain...

Anyway, everyone was working, and it was a nice community effort, so I now hold everyone that was there in esteem yet again. On a side note, Johnny T, the cat who moved to California, actually noted that he would have liked to be here for this, as he loved working with us. We always have a good time, and it doesn't matter how bad the work is, because it always makes a good story. Anyway, I'm off to sleep, more posts to come.

Bitch.

Batten down the hatches!

Wow. This weekend was fantastic. Allow me to fill ya'll in.

Friday

After getting off a long day of work, I hung around my place for the first time in a good long while. I didn't go anywhere, nor did I feel the need to go anywhere. Becca was in Ohio for the weekend, so I was just hanging around. Blaise called me up, and asked if I wanted to go drinking. Hah! Does the Pope shit in the woods? So I called up Keith, and he, Blaise, and myself went drinking. Lovely, with the sole exception of the heavy rain. We even have some new Blaise-isms, which I will post soon. Anyway, we got pleasantly drunk, and called it a night.

Saturday

Saturday morning, I am rudely assaulted by my cell phone. Assaulted truly is the only word for the volume of calls that were being recieved. I finally picked the damnable device up, only to find out it was the realtor. Now, the house I'm currently in is being put up for sale, and the realtor says she wants to have some people in today. Ok. "What time," I query. "Oh, about 11:45 am." Fuck. So I haul my ass out of bed, hung-over, and proceed to clean up the house, i.e. pick-up beer bottles, generally organize some shit, yadda yadda yadda. The realtor showed up 45 minutes early, so I just threw up my hands, put on some pants, and left. I went to my little brothers last soccer game, which they lost, but it was still a fun game to watch. I miss coaching the kids, but I just don't have the time anymore. Anyway, so I spent the rest of the day working on electronics and playing guitar. At aroun 8 pm, I hustled over to Windys, which is a local bar here in Harvard. The boys and I were scheduled to play there at around 9:30, so set-up time was valuable. Well... if ever there was a night where we rocked out with our cocks out, that, my friends, was it. We played very well, and we had a super time. They booked us to come back for Milk Days Friday, which is a big bar night. We're gonna kick some ass. During the fracas of the gig, however, I get a phone call from my buddy Jon Robb. He was very lucky he caught us between sets. Well, turns out my conversation with JR was very close to what Boyle's was, as it entailed something like this:

Nate: Hey, JR, whats up man?
JR: The River.
Nate: Fuck, when do you want me there?
JR: ASAP. Bring Danny.

Sunday

After a night of drinking, Danny and I rolled our asses out of bed, and cleaned up around the house, since I had more realtors coming. Then, it was off to Des Plaines. As we crossed the river, we could see things had gotten to a nasty stage, but weren't yet critical. Pulling on to the street was very surreal. Emergency Management Agency trucks hauling huge amounts of sand were driving up and down the block, dropping off bags for the scrambiling residents. People were preparing for a disaster on a magnitude not seen in nearly 20 years, and yet the air was strangley... celebratory. People were hauling stuff from basements, and piling sand bags, and playing football in their yards. One young couple was even dancing on the driveway. It was very... well, surreal. I'm not sure if it was some off coping mechanism, or if it was just some strange quirk of human nature. Either way, it was very interesting.

Anyway, Danny and I show up, and were put to work. We hauled sand bags, cleaned out the basement, and hauled more sandbags. Everyone worked really hard, which surprised the hell out of me. Usually, it's Greg, Danny and I hauling the slack. Ryan, I didn't mention you because this is the first time I've ever worked with you on a large-scale Bruce-ry, not because you're lazy. You've proven you're not. I know Greg and Danny are work-horses, as I've worked extensively with them before, but I was shocked by the effort put forth by one Mike Clinton. He hauled ass just like the big boys. Good job, my man! Hell, even Nick and... the little girl who's name I don't remember, they worked their asses off. 3rd graders, hauling sandbags. It's a beautiful thing. However, some people didn't haul their weight, mainly, Charlie. While I speculate that he was doing something "Semi-important", as we was wearing a polo shirt and khakis, when he came over, he could of at least offered to help, but I heard no such offer. Then, upon seeing us working, he said he was driving back to his place in order to change into work clothes. 15 to 20 minutes later, he shows up in the same clothes, talks on his cellphone for 15 minutes in his car, then gets out, and proceeds to do God Knows What. After being questioned about his lack of work clothes, his response? "Well, you guys are almost done, anyway." WTF? Fuck a goat, we're almost done! There were sandbags to be filled, hauled, and stacked, and this boy assumes we're "almost done."

Warning: Rant approaching!

What the hell is going on in this god-damned world, when people won't help people, man? I mean, what the fuck? Now, I know Charlie is going to get pissed off at this, and rightfully so, but fuck it! I'm madder than a deaf-mute playing bingo, getting bingo, and trying to yell out bingo, so why the hell shouldn't he be pissed off? Besides, the truth hurts sometimes. Anyway, where was I... ah yes... WHAT THE FUCK? God damnit, there was a small child, I shit you not, approaching the age of 6 or 7, who brought his Radio Flyer Wagon over the sand-pile for some sandbags. I threw two that we had bagged onto his wagon, and off he went. He then came back WITH A SHOVEL. I'll repeat that, because it bears repeating. He then came back WITH A SHOVEL. That's right folks, the scrawny 6 or 7 year-old was FILLING SAND BAGS. Not very well, I might add, but he was doing it, damnit, and he wasn't the only young one. There were several kids at the pile, all under the age of 12, who didn't know us from Adam, and were HELPING US FILL SAND BAGS. Now, you may ask, when did this wonderful community effort occur, around one or two pm? NO! Nearly 5 or 6 pm, well after Charlie, nozzle extrordinare, pronounced us "almost done." Not only that, but Charlie was still at the Robb house for much of this! Danny and I went down the street to help Craig, another buddy of ours who was very surprising in the work effort he put forth. We got his generator running, and all that shit, then went and shoveled more bags. Now, Danny had to go home for finals. We were all working our collective asses off, and so it would seem reasonable, that if Charlie refuses...REFUSES... to work, then he should at least give Danny a ride, probably about 25 minutes away. Now, those of you that know me, know I drive at least an hour and 15 to get to JR's place, so a 25 minute drive is nothing, but I'm busy sandbagging, so I tell Danny to get a ride from Chuck. Danny says he has already solicited a ride, and Charlie has refused based on the fact that he would have TO DRIVE BACK. < scratches head > What.. the... fuck... Damnit! Ooooooooooh! Anyway, I told Danny to tell Charlie to go fuck himself, and to take him home, since he's sitting around like he's on fuckin disability. Danny disappears, so I assume dCharlie has taken him home, which brings me at least a little relief to the rage issue. However, I discovered, only after Charlie has left for the evening I might add, that Charlie refused to drive him to his house in Wrigelyville, which would have been a 50 round minute trip, but instead would drive him to the train station. Now, I don't know if he went to Metra, or CTA, but either way, it is now longer than a hour ride for Danny, who needs to get home and study after breaking his back at JR's. Now, please understand, that I didn't write this entry the night of said incident because I was afraid I would not be able to hold my tounge, and I find it is still very hard to, although my feelings about it have become a bit cloudier, and the fire of passion has reduced itself to embers. But it still burns, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to stop ranting, lest I say something that I truly regret. Now, Charlie, if you have gotten this far, I commend you. Please know that you are one of my very good friends, and it hurts me very deeply when you don't come through for those that have taken care of you. So, basically, if you're offended by anything I've said here, just look at the situation and understand that you shouldn't be offended. You should be humbled. And please, don't do anything like that again, or we're going to have to sand-bag your car.

Now then, I'm all worked up. I have to go back to the office and work on some more problems, then it's back to Des Plaines tonight to start pulling night-shift duties. Should be fun.

Catch you on the flip side, daddio.

Hip to the dip

First off, I would like to say Happy Birthday to one of my heroes, the wonderful Mr. T!

Wednesday and Thursday went well, gig wise. Wednesday, Danny and I did an acoustic duo down at Lilly's, because no one else was interested in showing up. We actually had a really good time, and it was different enough to break the mold. We played some of the stuff we do with Exaggeration, only slower and groovier, and we let some other cats in the crowd come up and do a few, since we're pretty easy goin'. I also did a few originals. I played one of the tunes I wrote for Becca, just sorta in an off-handed way. "The girls," a group of regulars who are good friends of ours, really loved it, and made me play it again before the night was over. The best part was, after everything was packed up and I was walking to my car, I heard on of the girls singing the chorus as she walked down the street. Awesome!

Now, this is a rarity. Not because my songs are no good, but because I don't play most of the songs I write for anyone but me. I think there have been a grand total of 4 original songs that I've ever played for anyone else, almost always at their behest, although I did want to do a recording of "Belong", which I did at the luxurious Fisher Studios. But most of the songs I write... I dunno. I just don't play them for a variety of reasons. Most of the time because I'm afraid they're too simple. I listen to people like John Mayer, Harry Chapin, Jim Croce, Steve Goodman and others, and they're using these absolutely beautiful chords, with huge changes and flowing bridges, and here I am, plunking out my seven or eight chords, and singing my little songs. Hell, Chris Fisher, a buddy of mine, writes tunes that are really pretty hip, and while I may not LIKE all of them, I really respect his ability as a writer and a player. All these good writers/players make me feel so inadequate, that I just play the tunes for my own edification. Every now and then, a song leaks it's way out, but most of the time I don't feel comfortable playing them for other people, especially the person it was written for/about, although I was strangely serene when I was singing Becca her song. Huh. That could explain a lot. Ah well. Page 2.

As some of you know, I run an open jam in Roselle, at Pops Pub, with Mike and Matt. We had a lot of fun. We always have a good sized group of musicians who show up, and this time, we had two full bands, too. The only problem I have with full bands at an open jam, is most of them take too damn long to set-up. Anything more than 5 minutes worth of setup at an open jam is annoying and wasteful, if you ask me. I mean, the amplifiers are already set-up and ready to roll, everything is rigged and miked. Just get some volume checks and be on your way. Don't hook up every fuckin' pedal that fuckin' Boss made, test it, frown, and then rehook the pedal system up again or Nate might have to choke a bitch. Anyway, the bands were... alright. I mean, I don't mean to sound like I have a big head, but... well... we're better. *Ahem* Anway, the regular jammers got up, and we had one or two new guys come in. However, one guy came in really late, and I tried real hard to accomodate him, which meant we had to stay late, and keep the bar open, yadda yadda yadda. I also felt real bad that I could only have Jack Wilson up for one. Jack is an amazing guitar player, and usually likes to do solo stuff, but since he found out that Mike and I are jazzers, he likes to come up and throw jazz tunes at us. We did Monk's "Straight, No Chaser", and he was fantastic on it, as usual. I would have liked to have him stay up for a few more, but... oh well.

Looks like we're going to get hammered by some more terrible weather. Last night, as Mike and I were driving to the gig, I thanked all the gods in every pantheon possible that I had the forsight to Rain-X my windshield and back-glass. Rain-X, for those of you not in the know, is some of the most amazing stuff in the world. It's litterally a form of liquid wax that fills all the pores in your windshield, and just makes the water roll right off. It's awesome shit.

I'm off to get drunk, now.

I wish that I was this creative

Mark just sent me this link, and I really wish I was creative enough to come up with an idea like this. Check out the photos, the last one on the page in particular. It's hilarious.

I have created a monster...

and I think I'm proud. The situation of which I speak is my sister has started a blog. Thats right folks, now you can get two agitated Bellon's for the price of one! Lovely.

Finally, they have opened a Monkey College! It's about damn time! Millions of monkies go under-educated or uneducated every year, and I, for one, am just appalled by it. Might I suggest to some of my Simian brethren that they get some of the most important college nescessities.

Of course, I tease. The university is actually set up to train helper monkeys, which is hip with me. While I have never seen a helper money, I can only imagine that they are rockstars of disability aid. I mean, c'mon, monkeys, man. I know if I was disabled to the point where I could use a helper monkey, I would want one so bad... I couldn't wait to eat that monkey! But in all seriousness, this university is doing great things, and bless the people who give her money to keep the training program running. Page 2

Hello? McFly?
Well, after reading Keith's experience with McDonalds employee stupidity, it reminded me of several run-ins with the dumb masses.
So, I'm running off to a gig, about 2 months ago. Now, as those of you who have played with me know, I may be late to social functions, but I am early to gigs. Why? It's more professional to be there and set-up early, plus it gives me the ability to take my time, and drink my wine, but I digress. So, I'm running off to a gig, and being as I'm worried about getting there in an hour, I have no time to eat at home. That leaves McDonalds as basically the only fast-food option. No problem, I can eat pretty well off their dollar menu, so I get up there and order myself a Medium Fry, a McChicken, a Double Cheeseburger, and a Coke. I pay the chick at the window, and get my food. Look in the bag, I see frys and McChicken, and something else, alright, no problem. Off I go. I'm almost all the way to I-90, a 30 minute ride from my place, before I get down to the bottom of the bag, heartily anticipating the double cheeseburger. Instead, I pull out a McRib. What? Huh, well, not bad. Then I take a look at the sandwich. It's obviously a special order, with cheese and no onions (BLECH!). Now, I can understand if maybe it was a special order double cheese, or even another round sandwich, but the McRib is nowhere NEAR the shape, weight, smell, blah blah blah of a double cheese. What kind of waterhead... anyway, I understand I'm probably blowing it out of proportion, but I wanted my Double Cheeseburger, not some mutant McRib that doesn't even have onions on it. Whatever, basically I'm pissing in the wind. Who cares, right? Fuck it. Damn idiots. It's like the time the cashier at McDicks tried to convince me that I only handed her a $10 rather than a $20. Hah. Fuck off, lady. Just because your too stupid to either steal out of the register when I'm NOT right in front of you, or you can't tell the difference between 10 and 20 is not my fault. Gimme my damn Big Mac, bitch. Page 3.

Something just hit me. Now, it's not like this is a new realization, but for some reason, it has been reinforced and clarified at this moment. I realized Stevie Wonder kicks some serious ass! I don't mean, like, standard, "Wow, thats cool" ass-kicking. This is a full-blown, bowing at his feet, "Holy Mother of Fuck, you are amazing" kind of ass-kicking. It was his extended harmonica solo on "Isn't She Lovely?", a tune I've heard dozens of times, that did it for me. I guess I finally just listened to what he was playing, and tried to analyze his technique. He is a monster. Good God. Page 4.

I'll leave you with this... Bush and Ashcroft should be tried, convicted, and imprisoned, if not hanged, for their actions in the Middle East, and they can be, according to the link. Due to the fact that we haven't declared the people of Iraq exepmt from the Geneva Convention, that means that we violated their rights, according to the Convention. Now, a bill passed in 1996, known as the War Crimes Act, basically bans any American from violating the Geneva Convention, and the law applies to U.S. officials, as well. Punishments for violaters include the death penalty. It should include a spade, a bag of lye and a 9mm. *Ahem* But I'm not violent. However, I'm suggesting we find some people who ARE, and let them take care of it. Whatever.

Fuck 'em all, and let the morgue sort them out.

Wow

First things first, I just spent a bit reading another chaps blog.
http://tjsplace.blogspot.com/
It's written by the assistant manager of a strip-club named TJ's, and it's a very interesting read. Not only that, but Kevin, the writer of the blog, is very eloquent. He writes the way I wish I could write. It's not his choice of words... it's more the way that it reads. I'm not sure that makes sense, but thats what it is.

Anyway, enough of that. On to the mocking. Adding to the list of people who can kiss my ass is Gen, my sister. She's been on the list for years. Now, I love my sister, she's my sister, after all. She's also a friend of mine. Both those qualities but her very high on the ass-kissing list. < shrug > Thats just the way it works.

I was just practicing with the Tara Singer Jazz Trio last night. If there is anything more humbling than playing with a pianist with her masters in Jazz Performance, it would be playing with a drummer who is two years younger than me, and is a monster. Absolute monster. So, anyway, I am apparently the bass player now, which is very cool in my book. It also means I have to work a lot harder at being a rythmic-rock. While thats all very well and good, it creeps me out. I have this terrbile feeling that one day I'm going to just totally blow a tune, or something, and their both going to kick me out of the band. Not cool. I know my fears are unfounded, but they're present none-the-less.

Alright, I admit it. I downloaded Gunther and the Sunshine Girls' "Ding Dong Song." It got stuck in my head during my recent trip to Milwuakee for Seniors Week. In fact, I'm listening to it right now! "Ooooooh, you touch my tra-la-la. My ding-ding-dong." Yes, I admit, it's not a good song. Nor is it a sensical video. But it's catchy as fuck. I was stalking through the paintball field on Saturday singing it under my breath. And now I lower my head in shame.

I always thought if I ever did a blog, that I wouldn't know what to write about. Now it occurs to me that I have far too much to write about, and some of it must be filtered. It's also very odd to me that anyone would be interested in reading any of this. Huh. You people are all weird.

Well, I'm outta here. I'm really hoping to spend some time with Becca tonight, but we'll see if I have to go play down in Des Plaines. It's odd, the two things I really wanted was a steady gigging schedule, and a girl that I could fall for. Now I have both, and it's getting to be a balancing act, trying to keep them. The scary part is, I'm not sure which one I would give up if the other demanded it. I hope I don't ever have to make that decision, but I know I will have to some day. It still scares the hell out of me, though. Whelp, I guess I'll worry about that later.

Or not...

Who shot who in the what now?

Let the bitching and congratulating begin. First off, my buddy Keith Rose came up last night for a hard night of drinking... which is just what it was. I haven't gotten that drunk that quickly in quite awhile. I also ended the night by... visiting my friendly toliet, shall we say? However, the night was fun, and we had a damn good time. In fact, he may still be asleep on my couch right now, although most likely not at the time of posting.

Which, for some reason, brings another topic to my mind. Now I'm not sure if I'm just farting in the wind here, but I feel the need to explain and justify my use of the triple-period dealie (Whats it's real name may be, I don't know.) I use it for a sort of pause, whether it be dramatic or comedic. They should be read as if I was talking to you, and those are pauses, where I may be insterting some sort of facial expression for emphasis. So, if there was any doubt about what those things are used for, I hope I have expelled it. Page 2.

Consider this a warning to everyone in the world. I will most likely insult you on this page. There is a high chance that I will even mention you by name, and publicly ridicule you, giving them a verbal depantsing in front of the entire readership. Just as I have been publicly ridiculed by others, so shall you.
Deal with it.
If there is something that I have said here that you disagree with, or are angry about, or just want to comment on, do just that. Use the comments section to let me know if I've stepped over the line, or whatever. And please, PLEASE, don't take heavy offense to anything I say here. 99 times out of 100, if I'm posting something here, I'm just busting your chops. So don't get all uppity about it. Bitch.

And now for something completely different. It was nice seeing Johnny T over the weekend. For those of you who may not know, Johnny T is a good buddy of mine who left for California, about 6 months ago. He's working for Raytheon, and having a good time, from what I hear, which is cool. Anyway, so, as I've said, it was good to see him, we always have a good time together, but frankly, he can go screw himself. Why, you may ask, would I say that about such a good friend of mine?
Because he mocked my mustache.
Now I don't litterally mean that he can go fuck off, and I never want to see him again, yadda yadda yadda. He can just kiss the greasiest part of my ass, is all. Now, for those of you who may be out of the loop when it comes to my facial hair, you're not missing much. However, I am currently sporting what may be dubbed "The Hitler", I, however, prefer to call it "The Chaplin." Now, it's not only the mustachelet, there is also a small, inline goatee beneath it, so it's not like I just have the mustache. Most people don't even really notice it... but Johnny mocked it. Ergo, he can kiss my ass. Seeems simple enough.

Well, I'm going to stop writing now. I've got something really heavy weighing on my mind right now, and I would love to write about it. However, given the situations that have unfolded with previous comments, I'd rather not hork this guy off again by arguing in a public forum what should be a public matter, but probably won't be. So, rather than do all that, I'm going to go take out my anger on some lawn gnomes. They'll never see it coming...

Poor bastards...

I never know what kind of title is appropriate...

I mean, sure, there are some times, when the news is specific, that a title would have a good, solid purpose, informing the reasder of the context in which the information that follows is written. However, since my entries are nothing but the worst kind of mental offal, a title seems to limit my entries to the proposed topic. However, we all know this won't happen. Someone or something will set me off, and I'll begin ranting half-way through whatever salient point I was making at the time, thereby destroying my ethos, and causing Dom Deluise to choke on his soup. Lovely.

My Weekend: Friday

Well, I spent the weekend doing some very interesting activities. Friday, I was gigging with Exaggeration and Blue Shield at a bar in Boystown. It was... interesting, to say the least. However, Russ (lead guitar for Exaggeration) and I were standing outside the bar during a break, and a gay guy came up and started hitting on the both of us. Odd, yes, yet interesting. I'm very secure in my masculinity, or lack thereof, so I didn't feel threatened, but I think Russ was getting a bit squirmy, even though we were completely screwing with him. Drunk gay guys apparently miss a lot of innuendo and insults, but he was a nice guy, so we didn't "nail him to the wall," if you will. The gig was fun, in it's own way, but the P.A. system in the bar sucked more than most of the residents of Boystown. (Bah-ziing!) We also got stiffed for pay, which I blame the booking guy for, since we almost always seem to get seriously fucked when he is involved. What a douche-nozzle. Anyway, so we did the gig, which was all very well and good, and then we drove back to Matt and Dannys place, where I attempted to sleep. Apparently, I'm not allowed to sleep, as everyone kept screwing with me. Eventually I fell asleep, and people kept waking me up, so I finally pulled my knife on someone at the right time, and the fucking about stopped... which was good.

Saturday

Saturday arrived with me waking up late at Matt and Dannys place. Not late, as in 1 pm, late as in 8:45 am. Seeing as I was suppoused to be at Charlie's place at 9pm, and I was about 25 minutes away, plus traffic time, I was late. Which pissed me off. I hate being late, it just happens a lot, because everyone asks me to do everything and I feel the need to do everything for everyone. Anyway, so I made it to Charlie's place late, and picked up Charlie and Brian Johnson for some paintball madness, down in Joliet. Seeing as Charlie couldn't plan a fart after a taco dinner, he had to go back in and fetch directions, during which time I got some nice bonding time with Brian. Then, we sped off to the painballing place. Now, I don't mean sped off in the "Old Nate Bellon" definition, where I would be pulling 90-degree turns at 65 mph... but it was pretty close. We got there in good time, went in, and played some monster paintball. When it was just Brian, Charlie and I, it was a hell of a lot easier to setup some sort of fire-zone and all that. Although our communication wasn't the best, we still played very well together. As the only cat in our small group with a rental gun, I often played the role of bait, runner, or spotter, which is cool with me. In fact, on one of the forest fields, this worked out very well, and to our advantage. Charlie and I were both crawling on our bellies towards an enemy bunker postion, and there was all sorts of fire and movement going on. Well, I was laying in front, and spotting all sorts of movement about 100 ft from us, behind some brush. Everytime I would spot them and yell out position and movement, Charlie would pop up and nail the fuck out of them. It was awesome. I tell you, it may make me sound like a dork, but I live for that kind of shit. Maybe that explains why I like being a sideman bass-player better than being the lead guy... I dunno.

Anyway, so we played for a good long while. We finished up, and started the long drive home. After I dropped Charlie and Brian off, I drove straight out to my buddies place in Wicker Park... in full, muddy-ass camo, mind you. It was Kendall's graduation party, and I hadn't seen him or some of the other guys I know who associate with him in about a year. I also had a great surprise as Josh, one of the bass players I used to work with at MCC, showed up at the party. He dispelled the rumor that he had gotten married, and fed me some info. He's a cool guy. Anyway, there was a keg of Honey Brown there, which some of the people complained about, but they were still drinking it, so it must not have mattered TOO much. I enjoy Honey Brown, frankly. It's a good beer, and reasonably priced. Anyway, I drank... well, I did drink enough to give me a good buzz early on, and then I slowed down, as I knew I was going to have to leave sooner or later. Turns out that was around 11:30, as Johnny T and the crew were going to be at Lillys to watch Deuce play, and generally get drunk, which I'm down for. Deuce was good. I always enjoy their shows, and I'm good buddies with everyone in the band, which helps. I also hit Steve Blair up for some bass lessons, as he is a monster... of bass. A low-end warrior that can funk with the best of them. Oh yeah. Anyway, so everyone was there, and we had a hoot-hollerin good time. I helped Deuce pack up some shit, and then Matt, Mike and I hit the road to Shoeless Joes, to try and hit last call. We didn't make it, despite some nice speeding on my part. I got popped by Brian Johnson, and I ate breakfast and went to sleep at Hallagans. A very eventfull Saturday ended when the sun came up. Oy.

Sunday

I woke up Sunday at Hallagans house, and drove my ass home. Now is when I realize that I've driving far too much. Oh well. Got home, diddled a bit, and got ready for JR's graduation party. Now, I was waiting for Becca to show, and she was running a bit later than she told me she would, but no big sweat. I'm already known as "Nate the Late", so I wouldn't want to damage my reputation by showing up on time anywhere. So, when Becca showed up, we were off. The party was very nice, and it was good to be with everybody in a party atmosphere again. Becca liked my friends, and I think they liked her, or at least they said they did, which is almost as good. She's a sweet girl, and she was just a bit worried about what everyone thought of her, as she was s little shy. I told her that she was drinking, smoking, and dancing with us, so everyone had to at least respect her. Unlike Chalrlie and Leah, the motionless two. Whatever. It was really a pleasure to see Jon graduate from college, and I was very sorry I couldn't stay for the after party. Thats the price you pay, I suppouse.

On a related note, I would like to that those at the party that got up and danced. As a DJ, thats what really makes the job a lot more fun, as well as easier, and as a person who enjoyes parties, dancing is just a lot of fun. Who cares if you can't dance, or think you're going to look like an idiot? If you can't get up and be a doofus in front of your friends and (possible) significant other, I recommend running for President. Those guys always have a pretty hefty pole up their asses. Anyway, the following people need to remove the poles from their asses:
Charlie VanSlambrouck... that is all
Charlie should have been out on the dance floor shaking his thing more than once, but he wasn't. However, I will give him credit in as much as he did at least touch the dance floor, and jerk about in a manner uncanny. So I guess I shouldn't give him too much shit. Spirit awards go to Ryan Boyle and John Tetzlaff, for their dancing, as well as their participation in 3 Jon Robb Dancefloor Abductions! Well done, lads!
Awards also should go to "Ridunkulous" Mike Hanch, for dancing like a madman.

On another related-yet-unrelated note, chicks apparently dig guys that dance. I love it! It's a win-win situation. First off, you get to get up there and grind, bump, and dry-hump some fine lookin' young lady... and they love it! Most of them don't even care if you CAN dance, according to an anonymous sorce, they just care if you WILL dance. So as long as you're willing to make an ass out of yourself, or your name isn't Charlie or Craig, you're in the money, so to speak.

Well, back to work for me. I just realized how much I've been typing, and frankly, I'm frightened. The only thing that frightens me more than the pointless drivel that I'm spewing is anyone who would bother reading this splith. You must be some sort of sick voyuer, and you should ashamed of yourself.

But I'm having fun...

Oh lord...

I've only been blogging for one day, and already I have posted 3 times. I can see this being a horrible distraction for me at work when things get really slow. Well, at least when I'm in the office. Oh well, either the blog will be the end of me, or... well, no, it is very likely to be the end of me.

Anyway, work is really, dreadfully boring right now. I mean, even all the other "housekeeping" things I could do to keep myself busy are done. Gah.

Congratulations to Ryan Boyle on becoming an uncle...again. Adriana Lyn. What a lovely name.

Good news for all the ladies out there. Gals, you still confuse the hell out of me. It really doesn't even matter how we interact, you still all have the dubious honor of confusing the hell out of me. Now, there is no specific incident that necessarily stemmed this event, it's just a general feeling that I get when I'm trying to engage many women in conversation. Now, thats not to say all women confuse me, only most. Some women are more... manlike, I suppouse, in their conversationalist personalities. Which is good for me, being a man. It allows me to connect with them in an easier manner, and generally speaking, when I'm speaking with a guy/guy personality, I can be a lot looser with my speech, not having to constantly analyze everything for a secondary meaning. I can also use a lot more invective, firey or not, as well as sardonicisms and sarcasm. But, I guess thats just one of the main differences about women that makes them so... mystical.

Oh, speaking of women, APPARENTLY, my mother was worried that I was... well, going gay. < shrug > I found this out on Mothers Day, as Jon Robb, my mom and I were sitting on our side porch, getting schnocked on Mothers Day. I said something about Becca, whom to those out of the know, is my interest these days. Anyway, I said something about Becca, and my mother expressed relief that I wasn't... well, gay. Well, I guess relief isn't the proper word, either. We're a very open family, as far as life-style choices go, but it appeared she wouldn't be REALLY pleased if I was gay, but I'm sure she wouldn't hate me. JR stuck up for me and said the group itself didn't have any doubts. Whatever, I don't care. < shrug > I've got bigger fish to fry than worry about whether people think I'm gay or not.

I suppouse I should lay something down about Becca. She's a sweetheart, a beautiful, funny, sexy little redhead. Lord knows how the hell I convinced her to hook-up with me, but I would like to thank Rufies. (I tease, of course, I don't endorse the use of Rufies as they can make the drink taste funny. A large club is much better.) Anyway, she's koo. She's a classically-trained pianist, as well as a operatic soprano. She liked to play music, dance, work on cars, get drunk, and laugh at my stupid jokes, usually after getting drunk. I'm not sure what she's looking for as far as a relationship goes, and I'm not sure I can ask that question directly, but I figure I'll go along for the ride. Anything to spend time with her, man. But, I don't want to get all gushy on the first day of "bloggin". So I won't.

But seriously... fuck.

Humph, well...

I guess that worked. I use a browser called Opera to do almost all of my web surfing, except when I run into a lame-ass site that requires some sort of stupid bullshit to deal with their incredibly-complex-yet-useless javascripting. Blogger.com, unfortunatly, is one of those sites. *sigh* Oh well.

Well, this is to be my forum for... well, a typed version of my internal monolouge, I suppouse, with most of the cursing and sexual deviancy removed. So if anything here offends you... please don't ever introduce yourself to me, as I will most likely offend you faster than a bum chasing a quarter rolling down the street. If you're looking for something that most likely will not offend and most likely will entertain, check out Ryan Boyle's weblog.

Here there be monsters...

More Bullshit
So, as some of you may know, I am a musician (in the loosest sense of the term, I suppouse), and I work with various bands, etc. Well, every Thursday night, Mike Hallagan, Matt Arendt and I run an open jam in Roselle, which is all very hip. You get a lot of dynamite cats out there who really just wanna blow and have a good time. So, as Mike and I show, we come to the realization that the outdoor lights to the establishment aren't on, but it's still early, so we walk in. Gary, the soundguy for the establishment, tells us that some of the power is out to the bar. Apparently, they run a tri-phase system there, and they were down to 2 phases, both of which were browning out with the frequency of a cheap ham radio. Well, cool, Mike and I say, we'll stick around and see if the power comes back on. So, we get comped some drinks, which is nice, and we sit there and shoot the shit. Eventually, the regular jammers filter in, looking to play, and I have to sadly inform them one by one that we can't blow right now because the powers down. Most of them stick around and have a drink, as we all bullshit together. It was actually pretty hip, since there were some cats that came in there that I haven't seen for years. Then, God decided to torture us. As we sit there, a group of musicians who can't get up and play, we're foaming at the mouth. Just then, a group of hotties walks in. I mean, this was a gaggle of hot little numbers, man, and they were dressed to kill. Now, I'm a "taken" man, but that doesn't mean that I can't oggle... and oggle I did. As did everyone else. And here we are, sitting on a huge pile of talent, killer guitar players, nasty crusaders of the low end, and drummers that could get Andrew Cunan to shake his groove thang, and we can't play for these lovely ladies. To quote Razz, guitar player extrodinaire, "Oh, God, fuckin kill me now, man." Amen.

Oh, and as an aside, if you are reading this blog and looking for stories that have points or morals or any of that bullshit, I hate to say you're going to be headily disappointed. This is, as the title states, brain droppings and other goo. I don't have time to tell stories that go anywhere. Besides, what fun is it when I tell you what you're suppoused to glean out of the story? You might as well go to school to get that kind of horse shit shoved down your throat. But I'm not bitter.

What am I saying, yes I am.

Fuck

Well, I figured I'd jump on the bandwagon of "blogging" with this thing, and I had a nice long blog typed out for my first foray into the realm of digital voyerism, but the damn thing refused to publish, so here I am, typing out a smaller one, because I'm lazy. I mean, really lazy. Ah well, we'll see how all this shit flies.