Stupid car depreciation falling off my list of things I can deduct. So much for being frugal about shit.

Worse thing is, the so-called “rebate” won’t even cover my whole tax bill. Boo-URNS.

I just sent this to most of my Facebook homies:



Are people even allowed to Rickroll themselves? Whatever, I don’t care. Beaker is my homeboy.

In my lameness at not joining my comrades, I trolled down Seamus O’blogroll to catch up, and if y’all aren’t reading Skot from Izzle Pfaff!, a pox on you because he’s freakin’ BRILLIANT. Immerse yourself in the beauty of his prose, will ya?

Some months ago, Budweiser had the astonishingly shitty idea of teaming up with Clamato to release this . . . beverage that they called “Chelada,” a perversion of a perfectly fine Southwest/Mexican drink tradition of leavening shitty lager with tomato juice, lime and salt in order to create a refreshing summer drink (I swear this is true). And when it came out, J. managed to sneak a can of it into my fridge as a joke; when I discovered the offending thing, I swore to him that I would make him drink it.

This was the night. I pulled out the giant can--24 deathless ounces--and squinted apprehensively at the label, which, yes, was still trumpeting the good sense of this collison of Budweiser and Clamato. With a coroner’s clinical eye, I examined the “nutritional information” boxlet, and encountered this terrifying fragment: “Contains shellfish/clams.” I clouted J. about the head and torso and wept at our fate.

I poured the stuff into a couple of glasses; pinkish and wan, it looked like poorly oxygenated blood, or perhaps a pleural effusion. It bore virtually no head whatsoever, the carbonation presumably overcome by the angry, imprisoned shellfish/clam zombies. Even pouring it was dispiriting, like watching suicides falling from tall buildings. We smelled our samples and were not encouraged: it was a hellishly chemical lime nose that seemed to grouchily throw punches at the only other olfactory note, which was a sickly tomatoesque sweetness. Finally, we took a sip.

This was possibly as close to the American tradition of St. Patrick’s Day that we got that evening. For one brief horrifying moment, J. and I drank an alcoholic beverage that was, for all intents and purposes, like drinking pure, unadulterated malignity. For a mere moment, we were as one with all of those douchebags out there in all of those Stygian Irish bars, drinking the undrinkable.

making want to sleep instead of meeting up with all the reporters so we can piss and moan about the man and drink our faces off.

I know that boy-cut panties are the shit-diggity—they’re my preferred cut, if you must know—but if you’re going to wear a white, high-collared bad 80s sweater AS A DRESS, rockin’ the white boy-cuts underneath defeats the purpose.

And don’t even get me started with that stupid wide gold belt with the black pumps.

[EDITED TO ADD: This comment is to the snooch we saw workin’ it after the gig, not Roger Clyne himself. He wouldn’t dare be so crass about his underwear choices.]

see more crazy cat pics

Anyone know what the fish are on bottom? Because they ugly.

All right, now Accounting’s just screwing with my head, because my check totally came in today. That’s not a BAD thing, per se, especially right this second, but there are in fact a few things in my world that need to be consistent, and my money is one of them.

As promised, here are the pictures from my drunken night with Roger Clyne, except, there won’t be too many pics of me because I look retarded in most of them. But everyone else is fair game!


Awwwww, my first Shiner of the evening.
At $5.50 a pop. Yeah, Joe’s on Weed might
be a great bar, but fuck those prices, man.
Also, whatever that thing is in the lefthand
corner, it’s not a scrote. I think.


You can’t see him real well, but this is the drummer from
opening act, Georgia. Great band, but I kept wondering if
the drummer had some sort of deformity that glued his head
to his right shoulder.


Hey, everybody! It’s Lenny and our ol’
pal Opie, wearing Buck Daddy t-shirts like
they planned it or something, which they
totally DID.


The picture I really wanted to use would’ve gotten me killed
by my seester, so here’s one of her with her pal. I think she
looks a little more like me in this shot—if I were blonde, anyway.


First shot of our man of the evening, looking very Johnny
Depp-ish in his, what is that, a porkpie hat? I don’t know.


Such a pretty, pretty man.


He’s singing to me, you know.


Lenny, his lovely wife and, buried under her
coat, their first baby boy, John Jackson --
or Jackson John. They haven’t quite decided,
but they’re going to call him “Jack” either way.


Requisite sexy flipping of the hair.


Sigh.


If you ever need proof that no
hairspray on this earth can make my
hair stay straight in humidity, here it is.
And I wonder why my head’s cocked so high?


Oh wait, that’s right: Because THIS a-hole kept
FARTING in front of us the whole time. Do yourselves
a favor: Memorize the back of his head and RUN if
he’s ever in front of you. You’ll thank me.

Right around now, Opie reappeared after a length of time that HE said he spent talking to “some chick” but Girlie put him in his place with the entry headline, and I started trying to take more band shots. That’s when my seester nabbed my camera and said, “I’ll do it.” I’m sure you’ll note quite quickly who the pro here is:


Yeah.


Steve!


Such gorgeous hands.


(blinks) WHOA.


Girlie and Lenny sing gleefully.


Little Holly and DDDenise (as in “designated driver,” pervs!),
the other part of our quartet. I covet Little Holly’s hair.


Don’t get what he’s having.


I ... have NO idea.

More post-show wrap-up later; need to finish another story.

Here’s the conversation I just had with the night editor about my BIG. F’IN. STORY:

Whose idea was it to hand me shots of Southern Comfort? Oooof.

But right now, I’m waiting for Girlie and Co. to pick me up for a night of drinking and merriment with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, so y’all will just have to wait (or figure it out if you’re in the NWI).

Y’all remember the Megan Meier nightmare, yes? Today, GMA had on the young woman who dealt the proverbial final blow to Megan: Lookit. Didn’t watch it live of course, but I caught the discussion over on Jezebel, like I do. And one of my fellow Jezzes (that’s what we call ourselves) brought up the point that Ashley, now that she can scarcely leave her own house because of death threats and has actually attempted suicide herself as a result of the backlash, is at 19 but a child herself and that perhaps life should go on for Ms. Grills.

(Let me point out that for the sake of brevity, I’m completely oversimplifying what she said; my fellow Jez did NOT condone what Ashley did. Rather, as someone who was deeply ill herself at that age, she was empathizing with being in such a dark place and that much of the time, 19 year-olds don’t know what the hell they’re doing.)

My armchair assessment after watching the interview was that yeah, Ashley’s life probably WAS shitty prior to Megan; if I had to wager a guess, she comes from poor-to-modest means and was bullied for it and all manner of crap. Then when uber-cunt Lori Drew hired her, she got access to something, be it a lifestyle (the Drews DID have money at one point) or a mother figure, that she wanted and thus would do anything to keep being a part of it. I’m sure there was all kinds of self-hatred going on there, too; you can see that just looking at her. The difference, however, at least to me, is that my fellow Jez turned her pain and self-hatred inward, hurting herself primarily and her family secondarily. Ashley didn’t.

I said it over there, and I’ll say it here: Maybe she doesn’t deserve to be harangued by the rest of the world for the rest of her life, because having to live with what she did is punishment enough. But it’s certainly a punishment well-deserved.

Someone can stick THAT up their ass real quick. Good Christ.

(A summary of the Bower-Mollin wedding)

So, the wedding to end all weddings, right? I don’t even know where to start other than to say it truly was a fantastic night, full of joy and love, great friends, designer couture and all the free booze you could handle (as long as the bartenders were at their posts—whut up with dat, Ben-ha-meen? Like, every time the band went on break, so did the barkeeps.) Ben wore the hell out of his ascot, suit and silverish pimp shoes, of course, but Ann?

How ‘bout I just show you:


Ok, she doesn’t have a head in this shot,
but you had to see the back of the gown first
to get just how gorgeous it was. (Standing
next to her is her son, Lathan, who cut quite
a dashing figure in his mini-tux.)

Not good enough? Then how ‘bout this:


This was taken after mucho drinkage,
and she STILL looks unbelievable.
I, on the other hand, had started wilting
at that point.

Lessee, what else? Oooo! Here’s a cool shot of the Hava Nagila that killed my feet and knees:


Ben’s momma and pop sang it.


My seester and I as she took a break from
all that shooting (and man, did she get some
awesome shots.) (And if you’re thinking we
don’t look that much alike, you’re correct. I
got all the Eastern European features, while she
got the pretty skin that tans.)


Thas righ, Reality TV sneetchez! That most certainly
IS Steven Rosengard of Project Runway Cycle 4.
That’s who designed Ann’s incredible dress and day-before
wedding ensemble, which was equally sharp. (The hot chick
is Girlie, who accompanied me.)


Joe Winters and me. Don’t he clean up nice?


After Girlie and I split the reception, our presence
was requested at a local benefit at the Hobar
American Legion, where we ran into this cat,
the infamous Randy Anderson ("Buck Daddy”
to his musical fans). Evidently Randy doesn’t
remember ever seeing me without my specs,
because he kept marveling at my eyes the whole time.

And so as not to give you the impression that the wedding was all about me even though I acted like it with all that prep and planning my outfit, here’s one of my favorite moments of the night:


Right after the three of them walked out to
the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Ben
yanked Lathan up and swung him around.

My other favorite moment was in the video of the wedding: The moment the judge told Ben to kiss his bride, the sheer elation on their faces was proof enough that they’re going to be a couple for the ages. You don’t see love like that often, and it’s always so breathtaking to see.

And then I started doing a little jig at the bar.

and as such Ima hit the couch for a nap on a dreary Sunday afternoon regardless of the fact that I probably picked up tetanus walking through the American Legion barefoot this morning. Full wedding day story TK, but here’s a teaser since I gave it such a build-up: