2003 les paul standard. heritage cherry sunburst. mahogany solid body. rosewood fingerboard. trapezoid inlays. vintage-style tulip tuners. seymour duncans jb (bridge) & alnico ii pro (neck). innocence and mayhem. chaos and clarity.
the gibby has landed. june 2009
more addictive than alcohol or pussy
ok…am gonna try to get back soon.
after i spill off from this oddity.
love is…
you & your buddy carefully orchestrating yet another sneaky outing plan to surprise the wives only to have them know all the while what was coming
longing to listen to a sickeningly cheesy air supply love anthem on the drive to dinner
paying your pants off for a 3-course meal that seemed heavily inspired by a french cooking academy for weightwatchers
wanting to bowl at a time when a quarter of the population had the same insane desires
laughing at the lovers
searching frantically for a bench and settling for the floors of a jetty
wolfing down junk food after a fancy 3-course meal heavily inspired by the french cooking academy for weightwatchers
you & your buddy carefully orchestrating yet another sneaky outing plan to surprise the wives next year
Ok, after a couple of hint-drops from me wife, i’ll perhaps here admit that i talk too much of work. too too damn much. it is always the same isn’t it? work work work. crazy boss. endless work emails. work fucking work work fucking work. like an endless rash that there isn’t a prescription for; or that nightmare you’ve had since you were 5 that you thought would end at puberty, but continues on and on and you realise it’s gonna rob your mid-life slumber sanity all the way till 50. yes dear, i admit, i speak of work all the time. all through the time from when you pop into the car at sevenish pee-am, right through our journey home, over the customary unhealthy dinner, in between the adverts during the documentaries and right before i crush my last cigarette and bury myself beneath the sheets (no i hardly brush at night, which explains the recent decay in my inner molar; but that’s another story). ok so there. there i’ve said it. now that i’ve been man enough to admit that there are some lacerations in my otherwise perfect self, can i move on now? no more work rants, i promise. there, i’ve done it. thank you.
(pause) think (pause) now what do i write about?? hmmmm (pause)
now herein lies the sum of my blogfears. the inability to write something half-interesting that’ll match up to anybody’s half-interest, let alone mean anything. if it isn’t work (which i have paradoxically grown to detest and depend on at the same time) that i can write about, then what can i give? what my friend can i offer you that is not in anyway some fictional representation of my real life heinously chained to the mirror and the fucking razor blade? surely not last night’s chinese dinner outing with the family. noway negative nada. we’re not the bloody osbournes, and that chicken my dad was chewing did not in any way resemble a bat. and i doubt you’d also be interested in the movers coming over today to assess and calculate just how many boxes and pieces of furniture they’ll have to transport in about 2 months from now. but just for telling’s sake now that i’m on it, would you believe that it will take just 2 lorries to completely re-locate my surrounding physical habitat into the dusty cavern of a storeroom? you might not think it serious but this my friend is the chilling point of it all: 2 months more and my entire space and time which i have called home for 2 years, yes, 2 whole years of food, furniture & fucking (pardon my alliteration) will be shoehorned into recycled boxes and shipped into an alien storage room never to see the light of day for godknows how long! that’s sad. yes, i know; i can feel you feeling my pain. thanks. sob.
but looking on the lighter side, i suppose i could flex up a bit of happy vibes since i know that i’ve got some plans for the weekend. but just in case my wife is reading this, i’d like to say in advance that no, the plans do not involve you, so you can rest your anticipation and expectations aside. furthermore, you won’t be reading this cause you’re already in the arms of slumber and when you do read this (which is probably days from now), a week would have passed and you would have lived through the weekend that didn’t include you in the cool exciting weekendplan made by your cool exciting husband. so there. no explanations necessary.
and now, i really have to sleep. and non serviam! i will not brush.
I doubt anyone cares, but just for the record, the train is on vacation. Nope, it ain’t writers block (whatever that truly means) but a temporal shutdown. By shutdown, I mean a bout of depravity and creative extinction brought about by work overload, cranky eyelids, new dvds, strange books, tooth decay and yes, a new set of wheels.
My apologies.
Have they all got the bends?:
A university in Taiwan has opened a course to teach students how to appreciate and analyse porn movies.
The Mass Communication Department of Providence University opened the course this semester, reports United Daily News.
To pass the course, students must give a 15 minute presentation in which they analyse an audience’s psychological reaction to a porn clip from an academic perspective.
More: http://talkback.stomp.com.sg/forums/showthread.php?t=58849
…when the maverick tapped a hockey mom, the press said, “What the … truck bombs in Islamabad,
nyuk, nyuk! fucking genius.
Annual leaves getting chopped like chives, so much for a december’s rest.
Still jb’s on the list for thursday. Enlightenment beckons.
Midweek philosphy: Look back in anger.
Spending a precious Friday night in a bug-infested, semen-stained, jossstick-aired theatre in the heart of downtown chinatown, watching a japanese soft-porn flick with the wife has got to go down in the history book of things I’ve done but never should have done even for that old common ‘just for the experience’ excuse. And just for the record, I must declare that it wasn’t my idea to pry into the B-cup world of a disgruntled asian bitch who cannot adapt to a semi-pathetic male society who’s consistently enamored by her equally semi-pathetic bags of bounce. Now pardon my boldness, but if I’m paying 9 bucks for a flick that’s entitled Watermelon, I’d fully expect the producers to tit-slap the audience with a decent plot and an actress whose jugs would blow the mind off a coconut. Watermelon my ass! After some shallow analysis (don’t ask me why) I’m thinking that the title must’ve gotten lost in the japanese to english translation, and thus transforming the simple mango or harmless tangarine into the phenomenal dimensions of melonkind.
It’s in times like these when I remember again what my grandad used to say: These japs are fucking crazy.
Only fruits were found when the belly of the leopard was cut open.
Now & then we stumble on pieces & fragments, either too painful, grotesque or shockingly humorous that we cease being able to either comprehend or relate, let alone react to rationally. The best remedy (I’m sure you know this) is to just shut the fuck up and let the moment pass.
It’s one of those instances again:
The 5th beatle was really cramping their style.
Looks like the other Gods won…
(You don’t need Christ, Mr Pastor Sir. You need a fucking shrink!)
Bhutan and its treasure-chest tourism can go ta hell. This is definitely going down on the travel-destination list. As usual, one can always rely on southeastasian guru Sarip to sniff out these magical mystery hideaways. Ah, I can picture it already in my mind’s eye: golden sunshine sifting through the palm-trees… turquoise waters lapping at the shore… powder-soft sand battling with the breeze… plump andaman lobsters crackling on a grill… gallons of imported mexican beer flowing through a tap… shooting pool with Ron Jeremy… Jenna Jameson kissing my ass (literally)…
