I love movies.
Because of my Netflix membership I watch over 50 movies a month. (still single, ladies) Sometimes I decide to get up out of the hole my ass has made in the recliner, and head out into the light of the world and the dark of the cineplex. I love the Wilma: great atmosphere, popcorn, and beer.
I stopped in Monday to check out the new Wes Anderson (Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums) flick, Darjeeling Unlimited. I'm not a big fan of reviews before I see the movie, so all I will say is: "Great movie, darker then previous attempts".
I have rules. Movie watching etiquette, if you will. I expect the world to understand this and respect my simple requests. Most of these requests are ignored.
I choose a seat in the middle of the Wilma, 10 rows from the back, perfect. I have my huge-ass sized popcorn, gallon of Coke, and 2 Kokanees. I turn my cell phone off as I'm enjoying the previews. I'm now 1 of 6 people in the entire place. As the opening credits roll, in walks a man and woman arguing over the best place to sit. Wouldn't you know it, they chose the middle of the Wilma, 11 rows from the back, perfect. There is now 8 people in the theatre and they are sitting directly in front of me. They even say "Hi" and "Sorry" as they invade my little bubble. Not "Sorry, we will move anywhere else." or "Sorry we ruined your week." but, "Sorry, these are the only seats left." They have missed the first 13 minutes of the movie and she is already doing the "laugh at every joke and repeat the punchline" thing. I decide that I'm going to move. With Rage Against the Machine's "Know Your Enemy" playing in my head, I pack up my pile of movie-shit. Instead of going to the aisle like a civilized human, I take the B-line to the middle of the Wilma 13 rows from the back like the poo-flinging-ape that I am. Balancing on the backs of the chairs, I "cirque du soleil" my way around them and plop down one row ahead of them, barely able to contain my own laughter/hatred. Amazingly enough, they seem to have no problem with this and she continues to laugh as if she is watching the latest Wayons-Brothers-dick-n-fart-joke-piece-o-shit. I'm not known for shushing during movies, I'm not that guy, but you wouldn't know that by what came out of my face in the next 30 seconds. This wasn't a shush. It wasn't a shhhhh. It was a 3 syllable SHHHHHH-SHISH-SHAAWWW! I felt like Al Pacino in "Heat", Mel Gibson in "Mad Max 2", all wrapped up in a cock the size of James Woods' swollen member(Google that shit).
I tried to catch up with them on the sidewalk to say I was sorry, but they were busy having near-sex in the doorway of the futon shop.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
A Tale of Travis and Two Sisters
Just joking! That is just to get your attention.
I had a good weekend. Not the normal get drunk, play a couple of shows, watch netflix, wake up at 2, kind of weekend, but all of that and MORE! Someday kiddos, I'll tell you how Mommy and Daddy first met, but for now, just know that we love you and would NEVER leave you alone in a car during the summer, while Mommy and Daddy try our luck at some electronic games of chance! Get Daddy a beer...
On that note, do you know how hard it is to be 25 and get a Vasectomy? Not only is you family going to shit their pants, but everyone of your "friends", neighbors, and your friend's neighbors will explain how they would rather kick you in the "cash and prizes" then let you get "fixed". There are 3 people that are OK with your plan: Your true friends (ie Buddies), people that hate you, and your favorite bartender. Your buddies are your buddies and they will more then likely back your play. Your bartender thinks it's badass and you will be so much happier without all that "worry". People you hate feel that they have a responsibility to save the earth from any offspring that has a chance of being anything like you. Jealous?
I had a good weekend. Not the normal get drunk, play a couple of shows, watch netflix, wake up at 2, kind of weekend, but all of that and MORE! Someday kiddos, I'll tell you how Mommy and Daddy first met, but for now, just know that we love you and would NEVER leave you alone in a car during the summer, while Mommy and Daddy try our luck at some electronic games of chance! Get Daddy a beer...
On that note, do you know how hard it is to be 25 and get a Vasectomy? Not only is you family going to shit their pants, but everyone of your "friends", neighbors, and your friend's neighbors will explain how they would rather kick you in the "cash and prizes" then let you get "fixed". There are 3 people that are OK with your plan: Your true friends (ie Buddies), people that hate you, and your favorite bartender. Your buddies are your buddies and they will more then likely back your play. Your bartender thinks it's badass and you will be so much happier without all that "worry". People you hate feel that they have a responsibility to save the earth from any offspring that has a chance of being anything like you. Jealous?
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Coffee Shop Livin' Haikus
coffee, cream, sugar
I would rather be at home
coffee shop wifi
I can't afford 50-70 bucks a month to get fast Internet at home. My neighbor turns his WiFi signal off when he is not using it. Which means I have the option of Internet at 6-8 in the morning or 6-7 in the evening. Who can survive on 3 hours of Internet a day?!?! What is this, 5 years ago? So I come here...The Coffee Shop, Anywhereville, Northwest, USA.
sea of computers
laptops, ipods, cell phones: dead
where is an outlet
Like a $1000 clothesline accident, everyone's computer is plugged into a power outlet. Everyone is wearing headphones that are plugged into an MP3 player, which is plugged into the computer. Right hand on the mouse pad, left hand holding the cell phone up to the face. One wrong move and I yank someone's computer off the table jerking his face into his coffee, sending his phone out the window into the street, to be retrieved by the cute dog right in front of the pickup truck, with the driver that is putting a street address into his GPS while downloading the a Toby Keith song with his cell phone to the hard drive in the car stereo. Huge explosion. Slow motion shot of Bruce Willis emerging from the wreckage to claim his vengeance on whatever terrorist "John McClane" is unlucky enough to be dealing with.
really busy day
not enough tables for me
can I sit here?...................yes.
Sometimes it is inevitable. You have to sit at a big table by yourself. So, you spread all your shit around to make it look like you need the space, then kick your feet up on a chair. Somebody walks into shop and everyone looks up to see where this "person" is going to sit. It could be a completely harmless person, but no one, no one, wants to share a table. "Can I sit here?" First you look up like you weren't staring at them the whole time. Take your headphones of and look at them as if they have a harmless question about anything else.
"What did you say?"
"Can I sit here?"
"Oh Yeah, Sure!"
Then you proceed to move everything closer to you. Your bag, papers, electronic melange of shit, and your drink. You continue to clutch the drink as if the new guest is going to flip out and round house kick your drink directly onto the keyboard of your computer. Then he (it is never a she) finally sits down. Let the circus of awkwardness begin. Minutes ago your were casually looking around making eye contact with random people and doing little yoga moves in your chair. Now you are hunched over the keyboard staring only at the screen. When your phone vibrates, you move it below the table to check who it is, answering only to say, "I can't talk right now."
Anyway, hours have passed and I'm still here writing this blog, making the "thinking of the next to write" face at strangers. I'm pretty sure some asshole just unplugged my computer to plug his in.
I would rather be at home
coffee shop wifi
I can't afford 50-70 bucks a month to get fast Internet at home. My neighbor turns his WiFi signal off when he is not using it. Which means I have the option of Internet at 6-8 in the morning or 6-7 in the evening. Who can survive on 3 hours of Internet a day?!?! What is this, 5 years ago? So I come here...The Coffee Shop, Anywhereville, Northwest, USA.
sea of computers
laptops, ipods, cell phones: dead
where is an outlet
Like a $1000 clothesline accident, everyone's computer is plugged into a power outlet. Everyone is wearing headphones that are plugged into an MP3 player, which is plugged into the computer. Right hand on the mouse pad, left hand holding the cell phone up to the face. One wrong move and I yank someone's computer off the table jerking his face into his coffee, sending his phone out the window into the street, to be retrieved by the cute dog right in front of the pickup truck, with the driver that is putting a street address into his GPS while downloading the a Toby Keith song with his cell phone to the hard drive in the car stereo. Huge explosion. Slow motion shot of Bruce Willis emerging from the wreckage to claim his vengeance on whatever terrorist "John McClane" is unlucky enough to be dealing with.
really busy day
not enough tables for me
can I sit here?...................yes.
Sometimes it is inevitable. You have to sit at a big table by yourself. So, you spread all your shit around to make it look like you need the space, then kick your feet up on a chair. Somebody walks into shop and everyone looks up to see where this "person" is going to sit. It could be a completely harmless person, but no one, no one, wants to share a table. "Can I sit here?" First you look up like you weren't staring at them the whole time. Take your headphones of and look at them as if they have a harmless question about anything else.
"What did you say?"
"Can I sit here?"
"Oh Yeah, Sure!"
Then you proceed to move everything closer to you. Your bag, papers, electronic melange of shit, and your drink. You continue to clutch the drink as if the new guest is going to flip out and round house kick your drink directly onto the keyboard of your computer. Then he (it is never a she) finally sits down. Let the circus of awkwardness begin. Minutes ago your were casually looking around making eye contact with random people and doing little yoga moves in your chair. Now you are hunched over the keyboard staring only at the screen. When your phone vibrates, you move it below the table to check who it is, answering only to say, "I can't talk right now."
Anyway, hours have passed and I'm still here writing this blog, making the "thinking of the next to write" face at strangers. I'm pretty sure some asshole just unplugged my computer to plug his in.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
House Cleaning/Late Night with Walmart
I'm kindof a neat freak. I don't really like people to touch my stuff. It doesn't even need to be my stuff. If I organize or clean it, you are not allowed to touch it, unless I have given specific notice that it has been deemed unclean or unorganized. Hence, I'm single and live alone.
I love my dog. He is cute. He is my bestest little buddy. He sheds like a prom dress. I own a HEPA filter vacuum. I use it. 3 times a week. Problem solved. All the other problems can be solved with my good friends Windex, Dawn, Clorox, and Febreze. The dresser drawers of shirts are organized not only by color, but by frequency of wear. The jeans are hung in the closet with care. "Careful!" "Don't put that with the hooded sweatshirts!" "That is a zippered hooded sweatshirt!" "No, no, no, I'll do the dishes!" "Can't you shower at your place?" "Can't you see that fork is a little bigger then this fork?" "Don't you vacuum your bed?" Single.
So...
During my late night cleaning of the castle, I made a midnight run into the Wal. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hate big-corporate-rape-the-little-guy-business, but, there is something great about Walmart in the middle of the night. There is only a couple other people in the store. Two 19 year old college roommates in PJs, one guy with an elastic waisted leather jacket and a comb-over searching through the wall of batteries, the dude with the giant floor cleaner/waxer, a cashier staring at the "you know you want this useless shit" section of shit they put next to the till, and me....buying $26.67 of household cleaning supplies.
Picture this. Some dogshit Nickleback song is playing on the hanging TV sets, while the lighting is reminiscent of 2001 Space Odyssey. If Kubrick were filming me pushing the cart down an aisle, the frame would include the 60 different kinds of dish soap and the 60 year old man stocking happy-faced cans of Mountain Dew. "HAL?" "HAL?, Where are the air freshener sprays, HAL?" "Why are you trying to leave, Travis?, HAL wants you to look at the DVDs..." Then the hero shot of me having a nervous break down, the camera on a crane, panning out to discover me trapped in the middle of the paper-towel-toilet-paper-Kleenex-Brawny-Hitchcockesque-Hell...fade to a spinning smiley face, The End?, Roll Credits.
Now I'm done cleaning, until tomorrow. I'm now going to light a smokeless-clean-burning-macadamia-nut-watermelon candle, sit in my Resolve-fresh-Laz-y-Boy recliner, petting my recently Dirt-Devil-bagless-vacuumed dog, basking in the glory of the FiestaWear drying in the stainless steel lexan Ikea dish drying rack, while watching a 2-disc-special-edition-bonus-feature-multi-angled-widescreen-high-definition-uncut DVD of "The Royal Tenenbaums", with the director's commentary on.
Did I mentioned that I vacuum my dog?
I love my dog. He is cute. He is my bestest little buddy. He sheds like a prom dress. I own a HEPA filter vacuum. I use it. 3 times a week. Problem solved. All the other problems can be solved with my good friends Windex, Dawn, Clorox, and Febreze. The dresser drawers of shirts are organized not only by color, but by frequency of wear. The jeans are hung in the closet with care. "Careful!" "Don't put that with the hooded sweatshirts!" "That is a zippered hooded sweatshirt!" "No, no, no, I'll do the dishes!" "Can't you shower at your place?" "Can't you see that fork is a little bigger then this fork?" "Don't you vacuum your bed?" Single.
So...
During my late night cleaning of the castle, I made a midnight run into the Wal. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hate big-corporate-rape-the-little-guy-business, but, there is something great about Walmart in the middle of the night. There is only a couple other people in the store. Two 19 year old college roommates in PJs, one guy with an elastic waisted leather jacket and a comb-over searching through the wall of batteries, the dude with the giant floor cleaner/waxer, a cashier staring at the "you know you want this useless shit" section of shit they put next to the till, and me....buying $26.67 of household cleaning supplies.
Picture this. Some dogshit Nickleback song is playing on the hanging TV sets, while the lighting is reminiscent of 2001 Space Odyssey. If Kubrick were filming me pushing the cart down an aisle, the frame would include the 60 different kinds of dish soap and the 60 year old man stocking happy-faced cans of Mountain Dew. "HAL?" "HAL?, Where are the air freshener sprays, HAL?" "Why are you trying to leave, Travis?, HAL wants you to look at the DVDs..." Then the hero shot of me having a nervous break down, the camera on a crane, panning out to discover me trapped in the middle of the paper-towel-toilet-paper-Kleenex-Brawny-Hitchcockesque-Hell...fade to a spinning smiley face, The End?, Roll Credits.
Now I'm done cleaning, until tomorrow. I'm now going to light a smokeless-clean-burning-macadamia-nut-watermelon candle, sit in my Resolve-fresh-Laz-y-Boy recliner, petting my recently Dirt-Devil-bagless-vacuumed dog, basking in the glory of the FiestaWear drying in the stainless steel lexan Ikea dish drying rack, while watching a 2-disc-special-edition-bonus-feature-multi-angled-widescreen-high-definition-uncut DVD of "The Royal Tenenbaums", with the director's commentary on.
Did I mentioned that I vacuum my dog?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Friends, Dating, and Netflix
I have friends. Believe it or not, I have people in my life that hold me when I cry, call me to congratulate me, pick me up at the airport, pretend that they don't see the huge porn collection, help me find my car...
How do I know they are my friends?
-They defend me when I say "drunk" things to "not-drunk" people, with a courtesy laugh
-They don't call me before noon
-They don't keep score of who paid last
-They know I hate fishing
@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Went on a lunch date with a girl that I met at an Old Post show.
Meeting girls at the bar shows sucks. You have 2 twenty minute breaks to meet all the girls you have been trying to make eye contact with for the duration of the first set, then keep her attention from the 8 dudes that are actually talking to her. Then try to get a number and a date for that week during the 2nd break. Then you sit and hope that you don't have to watch them leave with some dude before the end of the night...
So, we meet during her work day at the Old Post. I woke up 30 minutes before the date and lied to her about getting up early, just to have something to talk about. I lied again and said that I hardly ever have a beer for lunch. The only reason I got caught was I asked for the "usual" from the waitress, which resulted in a PBR, a cup of coffee that smelled like St. Patties Day, and fish tacos. She told me stories of Greek life, Law School, and her hair color. I'm so un-erect by this that I'm interrupting her with anecdotes about playing music in bars, dropping out of school, and my facial hair "design".
I'm on fire. I'm saying some of the funniest things I have ever heard. People at the next table are high fiving me. No shit. I'm killing. She is looking at me like I took away Christmas. That is making me nervous, which makes me try even harder. At the end of the date she actually asked me, "You think you're funny, don't you?"
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
I love Netflix! I'm a 7 at-a-timer. I watch 40-50 DVDs a month. I have never been so happy.
How do I know they are my friends?
-They defend me when I say "drunk" things to "not-drunk" people, with a courtesy laugh
-They don't call me before noon
-They don't keep score of who paid last
-They know I hate fishing
@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Went on a lunch date with a girl that I met at an Old Post show.
Meeting girls at the bar shows sucks. You have 2 twenty minute breaks to meet all the girls you have been trying to make eye contact with for the duration of the first set, then keep her attention from the 8 dudes that are actually talking to her. Then try to get a number and a date for that week during the 2nd break. Then you sit and hope that you don't have to watch them leave with some dude before the end of the night...
So, we meet during her work day at the Old Post. I woke up 30 minutes before the date and lied to her about getting up early, just to have something to talk about. I lied again and said that I hardly ever have a beer for lunch. The only reason I got caught was I asked for the "usual" from the waitress, which resulted in a PBR, a cup of coffee that smelled like St. Patties Day, and fish tacos. She told me stories of Greek life, Law School, and her hair color. I'm so un-erect by this that I'm interrupting her with anecdotes about playing music in bars, dropping out of school, and my facial hair "design".
I'm on fire. I'm saying some of the funniest things I have ever heard. People at the next table are high fiving me. No shit. I'm killing. She is looking at me like I took away Christmas. That is making me nervous, which makes me try even harder. At the end of the date she actually asked me, "You think you're funny, don't you?"
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
I love Netflix! I'm a 7 at-a-timer. I watch 40-50 DVDs a month. I have never been so happy.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Neighbor Update!
Holy Shit...If you haven't read the "I'm an Asshole" blog yet, please read that first.
So I'm outside taking a piss with my dog. (it's good for our relationship) My "Artist" Neighbor (see earlier blog) is laying on his back in the middle of the alley. As I try to sneak off, his head pops up and sputters, "Dude! Come talk to me!" (I'm literally wearing some underwear, a down vest, and my "shoe socks", the wool socks with the leather bottoms) "Uh...what do you need?" I reply with a disappointed tone.
"I want you to see my new shit."
"Dude, it 3:30, I need to go back to bed." (I was also in the middle of dreaming about some chick at Taco Del Sol)
"Dude, I really want to show you this shit."
"OK."
As we enter the garage, I notice 5 things:
-the multiple colors of paint that have been THROWN everywhere
-the twin mattress that is nailed to the wall
-the upside down American flag with "POO HEAD" written on it
-a box of 100 or so clothes hangers, neatly arranged by color
-a laptop computer playing an episode of "Friends" (the box set is laying near)
He stops in front of a large piece of plywood that is covered in dripping blue spray paint, duct tape, and what appears to be hair. Without prompting, he explains how he digs through dumpsters behind some of the hair salons downtown to find the hair.
My mind is racing. I can't tell if I'm living next to Pollack or Dahmer.
He shows me some pictures of a show he had last year in Santa Cruz. Then, as he is shouting about how his studio is finally feeling comfortable, he sweeps 2 empty bottles of wine onto the cement floor. Glass is everywhere.
"I gotta go."
"Wait!" He hands me 7 dollars and some change. "I need beer."
"I'll be right back." I take the 5 dollar bill and bring him 5 PBRs.
If I'm lying, let me die right here.
He is now using a broom dipped in green house paint to "sweep" up the glass. He notices that he is also "sweeping/painting" his feet and is starting up his legs.
"I gotta go."
He wants a hug.
"I gotta go."
So I'm outside taking a piss with my dog. (it's good for our relationship) My "Artist" Neighbor (see earlier blog) is laying on his back in the middle of the alley. As I try to sneak off, his head pops up and sputters, "Dude! Come talk to me!" (I'm literally wearing some underwear, a down vest, and my "shoe socks", the wool socks with the leather bottoms) "Uh...what do you need?" I reply with a disappointed tone.
"I want you to see my new shit."
"Dude, it 3:30, I need to go back to bed." (I was also in the middle of dreaming about some chick at Taco Del Sol)
"Dude, I really want to show you this shit."
"OK."
As we enter the garage, I notice 5 things:
-the multiple colors of paint that have been THROWN everywhere
-the twin mattress that is nailed to the wall
-the upside down American flag with "POO HEAD" written on it
-a box of 100 or so clothes hangers, neatly arranged by color
-a laptop computer playing an episode of "Friends" (the box set is laying near)
He stops in front of a large piece of plywood that is covered in dripping blue spray paint, duct tape, and what appears to be hair. Without prompting, he explains how he digs through dumpsters behind some of the hair salons downtown to find the hair.
My mind is racing. I can't tell if I'm living next to Pollack or Dahmer.
He shows me some pictures of a show he had last year in Santa Cruz. Then, as he is shouting about how his studio is finally feeling comfortable, he sweeps 2 empty bottles of wine onto the cement floor. Glass is everywhere.
"I gotta go."
"Wait!" He hands me 7 dollars and some change. "I need beer."
"I'll be right back." I take the 5 dollar bill and bring him 5 PBRs.
If I'm lying, let me die right here.
He is now using a broom dipped in green house paint to "sweep" up the glass. He notices that he is also "sweeping/painting" his feet and is starting up his legs.
"I gotta go."
He wants a hug.
"I gotta go."
Monday, October 8, 2007
Working for the Weekend
I played 2 shows this weekend. The Sublime to the Surreal.
Friday:
Helena, my home town, had an enthusiastic crowd with a packed bar and lots of dancing. They loved it!
Yet, no one claps. For a entertainment starved community, it was weird to have no one show the band a little appreciation. People complain that no bands come to Helena. No no no no, they do, but they don't COME BACK. OK, that is enough of the whiny lil' musician bitch talk for now.
Saturday:
I was invited by David Boone to play a couple songs at his CD release party at the WILMA! I walked into the Wilma during soundcheck and realized just how big the room is! I was scared to death for Dave and when the line backed up around the corner I couldn't believe I ever doubted the idea. Playing in front of 1000 people is amazing, enough said.
Friday:
Helena, my home town, had an enthusiastic crowd with a packed bar and lots of dancing. They loved it!
Yet, no one claps. For a entertainment starved community, it was weird to have no one show the band a little appreciation. People complain that no bands come to Helena. No no no no, they do, but they don't COME BACK. OK, that is enough of the whiny lil' musician bitch talk for now.
Saturday:
I was invited by David Boone to play a couple songs at his CD release party at the WILMA! I walked into the Wilma during soundcheck and realized just how big the room is! I was scared to death for Dave and when the line backed up around the corner I couldn't believe I ever doubted the idea. Playing in front of 1000 people is amazing, enough said.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Best Friends Forever
I was just reminded of a story from my past that I enjoy alot. It is one of the only really mean things I have ever done.
On the first day of high school, freshman year, my friend Dave Budt walked up to me in the hallway and we were yelling about how awesome it was to be in high school. He put this hands in the air and motioned for a "high ten". I responded by missing the hand slap on purpose and hitting him in the face.
I totally high fived his face. I'm not sure why I did it and he was pissed, but it was worth it.
I'm an asshole
(Be warned...)
Apparently, sometimes I come across as a huge asshole. The funny part is....sometimes I really am a huge asshole.
My landlord is renting out her garage as an artist studio. That is really cool, I love that people provide a space away from home for artists to work. I have rented such spaces and it had a huge impact on my music and photography.
Here's where I become the lame "square" asshole. The dude that is renting the space is an "artist". He uses his space as a place for his buddies and him to get drunk. A place for his downtown sidewalk buddies to crash. A place for he and his buddies to listen to some sweet tunes. Then in his free time he works on his "art".
So the first week he is in the studio he introduces himself, "Hey! I'm Joe Artist, and I hear you're a drummer, I bet you got alot of nice shit in your house!" I'm not lying or exaggerating. My insides instantly turn black and red.
Next week: I have someone over to my house and I'm playing some music and 2 of his buddies knock on my door and ask me for: Beer, Cigarettes, and an extension cord. My insides turn into a mix of Patton and Sherman.
Next Day: "Dude, thanks for the beers last night, can you sell us a bottle of wine?
3 minutes later: "Corkscrew? Wine Glasses?" When I offered some paper cups, the friend responded, "I thought I saw some wine glasses in here last night." My insides turn into a campfire being pissed on, while burning a skunk, in a prison cell, where I'm trying to sleep off a hangover, after waking up next to a fat chick.
I would talk to my landlord. She would be really cool about it. I would be very adamant that I hate to be "that guy" and I don't want him to know that I'm "that guy". But, sometimes being an asshole also means you are kind of a pussy.
7 this morning: While outside. 28 degrees. Sweatpants, no shirt. Watching my dog take a shit. "Dude, I need some water."
"Huh?"
"Water."
"Huh? Wha?"
"Dude! Waaaaateeerr!"
I request something to put the water in, he hands me a lidless Gatorade bottle and an empty Steel Reserve can.
"Dude, my name's Joe Artist, do you live around here?"
"Dude, we have met, I'm Travis, I'm your neighbor..."
Jupiter slams in to Saturn while fingering Neptune.
"If you would just leave your door unlocked, I could just get the water myself."
Holy. Shit. My insides turn to dust and from the dust rises a geyser of menstrual blood and ejaculate that I'm riding on top of like Yogi Bear in Jellystone.
(I figure I'm the asshole here, because I would rather tell a shit load of random people about this than take care of the problem like an adult)
Apparently, sometimes I come across as a huge asshole. The funny part is....sometimes I really am a huge asshole.
My landlord is renting out her garage as an artist studio. That is really cool, I love that people provide a space away from home for artists to work. I have rented such spaces and it had a huge impact on my music and photography.
Here's where I become the lame "square" asshole. The dude that is renting the space is an "artist". He uses his space as a place for his buddies and him to get drunk. A place for his downtown sidewalk buddies to crash. A place for he and his buddies to listen to some sweet tunes. Then in his free time he works on his "art".
So the first week he is in the studio he introduces himself, "Hey! I'm Joe Artist, and I hear you're a drummer, I bet you got alot of nice shit in your house!" I'm not lying or exaggerating. My insides instantly turn black and red.
Next week: I have someone over to my house and I'm playing some music and 2 of his buddies knock on my door and ask me for: Beer, Cigarettes, and an extension cord. My insides turn into a mix of Patton and Sherman.
Next Day: "Dude, thanks for the beers last night, can you sell us a bottle of wine?
3 minutes later: "Corkscrew? Wine Glasses?" When I offered some paper cups, the friend responded, "I thought I saw some wine glasses in here last night." My insides turn into a campfire being pissed on, while burning a skunk, in a prison cell, where I'm trying to sleep off a hangover, after waking up next to a fat chick.
I would talk to my landlord. She would be really cool about it. I would be very adamant that I hate to be "that guy" and I don't want him to know that I'm "that guy". But, sometimes being an asshole also means you are kind of a pussy.
7 this morning: While outside. 28 degrees. Sweatpants, no shirt. Watching my dog take a shit. "Dude, I need some water."
"Huh?"
"Water."
"Huh? Wha?"
"Dude! Waaaaateeerr!"
I request something to put the water in, he hands me a lidless Gatorade bottle and an empty Steel Reserve can.
"Dude, my name's Joe Artist, do you live around here?"
"Dude, we have met, I'm Travis, I'm your neighbor..."
Jupiter slams in to Saturn while fingering Neptune.
"If you would just leave your door unlocked, I could just get the water myself."
Holy. Shit. My insides turn to dust and from the dust rises a geyser of menstrual blood and ejaculate that I'm riding on top of like Yogi Bear in Jellystone.
(I figure I'm the asshole here, because I would rather tell a shit load of random people about this than take care of the problem like an adult)
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