You mean I'm gonna STAY this color???
I have a ticket to the Sleater-Kinney show next month. Many many many thanks to DCeiver for bringing this to my attention. Your kung fu is mighty. I let several other people know about the show, but apparently they'd all rather stay in Virginia listening to their Randy Travis cassettes than come to the big scary city and rock out with their cocks out. Fair enough.
As most of you know, I am recently returned from the state north of Louisiana and all the activities therein. Foremost amongst said activities was the Annual Imperial Crawfish Boil, which was delicious as always. It was also Roscoe the Furious Mick's christening in the cayenne-soaked ways of his swarthy semi-Latin uncle's people, Les Acadiens.
Please note the bitchin' kicks Roscoe is sportin', courtesy of his Uncle Chulius.
Something Jackie said during today's e-mail correspondence caused me to google my old roommate Brady, and what should I discover? His blog. Investigating a bit further and I find the blog coauthored by, among others, his loving wife Mary and his former lead singer John Murry. Since our time together, Brady has moved to Los Angeles, where apparently he spends a lot of time being rescued by transvestites. And John Murry has a daughter, so many congratulations and best wishes to him and his.
This is the part where Don Chulius gets a bit emo, so if you don't care to see me this way it's best you go back to looking for the porn you so desperately crave...
The combination of hanging out with the homies last weekend and finding my old roomie's blog today has given rise to my more melancholic humours. I'm thinking back to my days in Memphis where I had an appartment twice the size of the one I'm in now at half the rent, my lady friend was a hop skip and a jump away, and my best friends weren't at least a fourteen hour drive distant.
Don't get me wrong: I loves me the DC. Having spent my formative years in the Hole on the Border, any place with somewhat functional mass transit seems wondrous and magical to my bumpkin-like eyes. "I'm just a caveman..." and all that. I'm probably engaging in some level of romanticizing the past, I suppose. Memphis was a fun place to be most of the time and I miss it. But I don't miss it enough to give up the line of work I enjoy and wouldn't be able to pursue were I there. So, as Robert Plant said, "Nobody's fault but mine." Actually, some old bluesman probably said it first and Plant later stole it, if Zep's similar opa are any guide, but so it goes.
Alright, enough of that business.
Here: here's a link to some titties. And one for some guns.
There. I feel better.
Please excuse me while I go slaughter some Christians as "minnows" nible at my loins.
Babylon's burnin', y'all.
imageshack (is ghey)
As most of you know, I am recently returned from the state north of Louisiana and all the activities therein. Foremost amongst said activities was the Annual Imperial Crawfish Boil, which was delicious as always. It was also Roscoe the Furious Mick's christening in the cayenne-soaked ways of his swarthy semi-Latin uncle's people, Les Acadiens.
Please note the bitchin' kicks Roscoe is sportin', courtesy of his Uncle Chulius.
Something Jackie said during today's e-mail correspondence caused me to google my old roommate Brady, and what should I discover? His blog. Investigating a bit further and I find the blog coauthored by, among others, his loving wife Mary and his former lead singer John Murry. Since our time together, Brady has moved to Los Angeles, where apparently he spends a lot of time being rescued by transvestites. And John Murry has a daughter, so many congratulations and best wishes to him and his.
This is the part where Don Chulius gets a bit emo, so if you don't care to see me this way it's best you go back to looking for the porn you so desperately crave...
The combination of hanging out with the homies last weekend and finding my old roomie's blog today has given rise to my more melancholic humours. I'm thinking back to my days in Memphis where I had an appartment twice the size of the one I'm in now at half the rent, my lady friend was a hop skip and a jump away, and my best friends weren't at least a fourteen hour drive distant.
Don't get me wrong: I loves me the DC. Having spent my formative years in the Hole on the Border, any place with somewhat functional mass transit seems wondrous and magical to my bumpkin-like eyes. "I'm just a caveman..." and all that. I'm probably engaging in some level of romanticizing the past, I suppose. Memphis was a fun place to be most of the time and I miss it. But I don't miss it enough to give up the line of work I enjoy and wouldn't be able to pursue were I there. So, as Robert Plant said, "Nobody's fault but mine." Actually, some old bluesman probably said it first and Plant later stole it, if Zep's similar opa are any guide, but so it goes.
Alright, enough of that business.
Here: here's a link to some titties. And one for some guns.
There. I feel better.
Please excuse me while I go slaughter some Christians as "minnows" nible at my loins.
Babylon's burnin', y'all.
imageshack (is ghey)
