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.