Monday, March 16, 2009

Very very short version of Monday (everything I can possibly remember).

Any names and places told of in this event have been changed.

Not to protect the innocent, I could give a fuck about them.

I just don't remember jack shit about this.


At approximately 5:00 pm, I arrived home. At once, the attack began. Surrounded by these barbarians as I was, I had little defense. They had organized, and dragged me from my vehicle.

As they hoisted me aloft and triumphantly marched back into the house, I managed to grab someone’s beer, making my journey somewhat more tolerable.

Once inside, the extent of the alcoholism taking place was made clear.

I immediately joined in the fray.

First on the agenda was two-ball.

Born of drunken stupor, it is best played in the state of excessive inebriation which we had achieved only moments  before.

Upon the conclusion of this tournament, it was time to go to the Instant Replay for yet more irresponsible consumption.

Thoughtfully, we included the giant stuffed dog in our plans for merry-making.

Upon the entrance of our unruly lot, the owners of the establishment were at once displeased.

We were asked to leave.

We were TOLD to leave.

Which we did, if but for a brief moment…

We were FORCED to leave.

This time it was final, as we made our way back to the house, on foot, whooping and hollering into the night.

Having arrived at the conclusion that it was, after all, the stuffed dog that had impeded our previous intentions at the drinking establishment, we sacrificed him in bloody retribution.

Now that most of the living room lay not only in shambles, but now also coated with a thick layer of styrofoam stuffing, it was deemed necessary to clean.

This was best accomplished by emptying 2 gallons of laundry detergent onto the living floor.

Much fun was had as our downstairs became an indoor slip-and-slide, complete with it’s own “splash-mountain” (aka the kitchen).

We broke some poor girls, and then I woke up the next day...

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Franken-Gear!!!

Over the years, I have owned and amassed a rather enormous and horrifying amount of guitars, amplifiers, and related effluvia, with varying degrees of success. There exists, in a forgotten corner of the Overhouse basement, a graveyard of sorts, where abandoned experiments, plans gone awry, and fevered dreams of sonic mastery writhe nightmarishly in the shadows....

I shall lead you on a carnival-sideshow-like tour of grotesqueness through this moldering archive. How many installments this shall be, I cannot say, as the the growth of my collection of specimens outpacing my cataloguing of them remains quite likely, indeed!

Episode One:
Icarus Takes Flight


Like the brave and foolhardy avian-clad legend of yore, I desired more than to merely gaze upon the bosom of our warm, life-giving Sol. It is my favorite planet, because 'tis so very big.
 
Rudimentary knowledge of the mechanics of flight dissuaded me from the conventional approach of tying swan feathers to my arms (also, I am very lazy), so my approach to touch this fiery orb was more or less metaphorical. My Earthbound substitute? What else, but a Flying V! 

Purchased from the original Overgirl's younger brother, for something like 50 bucks (so meager a sum for ascent to the heavens!), it immediately became, somewhat unfortunately, my number one stage guitar. It came to me quite stripped, really just a couple of blocks bolted together. I set upon infusing it with whatever miscellaneous hardware I had laying around. It was, shall we say, cosmetically modified, but essentially sound. I dubbed her Goldie, and proceeded to carve her name below the bridge, but couldn't remember how to make a cursive G, so she became Oldie. Apparently a decrepit Kramer; lord knows what it originally had on it.  Some finer details:


Very possibly a Kramer. I vaguely recall the K being scratched off first, so for a time it was Ramer. Ancient Grovers kept her well in tune.


Shockingly nice neck, though I am a sucker for over-varnished maple. Never needed to touch the truss; action always low despite best efforts of crude trem bridge...


Ripped hard and loud with some hi-line Seymour-Duncan something-bucker. I do not recall what is under the piles of electrical tape, nor do I care to find out.


Apparently, it is made of actual wood. Something strange was once bolted to it's lower side. Possibly a knee rest? It sucks trying to play a V sitting down.


Functional and attractive speed-holes add aerodynamic stability while at speed. Nails above "chug" inscription serve as convenient places to cut picking hand.


Hole at upper left is actually a bullet hole, there are several on it. She grew up in a bad neighborhood, I guess. I dug out one of the slugs; looked like a .22. Also some birdshot in the back from when I shot her with a 20 gauge (from like, 80 yards, so no biggie). Our relationship was...    strained...


It is true, I do heart milk!

She is not a beautiful object to behold, but earned much praise with her, um, personality. Her future is not certain, but like the Phoenix, Oldie shall some day rise from her ashes anew...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

How the West Was Won

I dedicate this post to the loving memory of my old bedroom at the Overhouse, and to promises of future joy in my new room.

I've always been a fan of the roommate shuffle. Anybody who's lived with roommates for a while has probably thought a little about what life is like on the other side of the wall, or bathroom, or efficiency dinette with built-in mini fridge, or whatever living arrangement keeps all your junk away from the other people's junk. We've had a couple rotations of colorful characters sweep through this stately manse, but it's been rare (actually this is the first) that I've ever traded with anyone other than getting out of the bunk-beds with my brother. My old digs (West SIDE!) were decent, if a little cramped. Shelves built into the walls, great natural lighting, good heat flow, and a spiffy hallway-ish entrance that gave time to get decent when the Enemy would burst in on me when I had, um, company. But when I got the Queen size bed, things changed. Sure, it helped with the aforementioned "company", but seriously, it became a somewhat medium sized closet. Also? There wasn't a closet. So when Duddy moved out (sniff), Aaron snagged his, and I bolted for Aaron's. HA! Movin' on Up!    ...To the East Side! Now my old room has been turned into a studio booth, and I'm left with only memories. I will say that having a door directly facing Aaron's is pretty killer. I don't need an alarm clock anymore (we work at the same time/place), and I can make a quicker retreat after any unspeakable practical jokes committed under his bed. Or in his dresser (sorry). But some things I thought to brighten my life seem a little colder now. Clinical. Thicker walls mean less noise, sure, but it's harder to keep up on my roommates' sex lives now. And I'm certain they're saddened by lack of news from my romantic interests. Having a closet keeps my room clean(er), but it just doesn't feel like home without clothes ankle deep on the floor. 
Le sigh....

Monday, July 14, 2008

The Nerd-Pod

This past weekend, it would seem, was a momentous occasion in nerd history. Future nerd historians shall look upon this innocent age (specifically, July 11th), speculate on what nerds thought and felt, and will be filled with joy and wonderment; sharing the excitement of their nerd ancestry with celebration. As the last remaining human without an iPhone, I realize that my line is ending, and with it goes hope for history of my own kind. They say that history books are always written by the winning side, and so it goes for nerd-dom. Frankly, I used to believe that I myself had strong nerdling tendencies. I mean, I think I actually own a 20-sided die. But years of reluctance toward the ever expanding technological requirements for acceptable nerdliving have left me impotent in a nerdworld that no longer sees use even for things as patently nerdy as sliderules, Construx, and my sweet vintage top-loader NES. Ever onward, however, I shall fight this encroachment. Though I suffer indignities by the score, I shall only relent when at last gasping breath I must...    Look, you bastards, I've got a blog AND a Myspace page now. Happy?