Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this post, let me just say that it's quite annoying that I'm unable to title my own fucking blogs. And without further ado...
Yesterday, we (the band) dragged our gear out of the dank, cold basement, and drove to the Red Hot, which shares a pedestal with Puget Sound Pizza as one of two official Noi!se locations to eat food while drinking too much beer. Matt and I both had pints of Old Tacoma, and I grabbed a Cushman Kielbasa, which might be more lovingly referred to as a bite of Eastern Europe, covered in mustard and kraut. The big screen did its best to ruin the early lunch, polluting our ears with VH1's one hit wonders special. As Vannilla Ice and New Radicals crept through our ears and sucked out our souls, our bartender saved the day by shutting it off and popping in the Detroit Cobras. You know, kilebasa and beer is already good enough, but when it's kielbasa, beer, and Rachel Nagy in your head moving universes with her amazing hips while she cha-cha-cha's the afternoon away, things start to get perfect really fast.
Unfortunately, we had to leave the 'Basas and the Cobras behind (along with many empty pint glasses) and get to the afternoon's business of recording. I popped into the store next door and grabbed a sixer of PBR talls, and we were off.
Recording took for-fucking-ever. The last time we recorded, we did three songs in less time than one took, but it was still a good time. Maybe our songs are just becoming more complicated (which can happen, but is still kind of strange for a street rock band). The solo took me a few tries, and I still hate it, but everyone else seems content with it. After a long day, I was content to say fuck it and finish up by making out with as many cans of Blue Ribbon as possible. Oddly enough, I wasn't drunk when I got home, just tired. I racked out the early hour of eight, just as Starbuck came back during the end of Battlestar Galactica (season 3).
This morning I went to my initial physical therapy appointment for the right knee that's been grieving me so. It turns out to be pretty good news-it's not degenerative (yay), and it can be corrected with orthotics and magical black athletic tape (huzzah). I had planned on swimming or spinning on run days, just until I get my knee fixed up, but it looks like the pool isn't open for swimming (WHAT THE FUCK!!! :mad
in the morning, because dumbasses who never learned to swim need to do drown-proofing classes. Sometimes the Army really pisses me off.
Oh, and to add a blast of humor (no pun intended...okay, maybe it was) I went to urology for my vasectomy follow up sample (yes, THAT kind of sample), and you really haven't laughed until you've tried to get a forty year old guy in glasses with a moustache to explain to you the process for submitting a semen sample to the laboratory. Oh, how he danced around anything remotely sounding like stimulation or masturbation. I mean, come on guy, you could have at least said something like "manual stimulation". It's not like I'm just going to whip it out and think happy thoughts until the sample jumps itself into the cup.
I bet they have horrible, restrained, WASPy fap manuals in the lab, like Maxim or something just as dreadfully boring (maybe the Victoria's Secret catalogue)...I guess I'll find out in the next few days
And now, it's time to get my shit together for another exciting Army day tomorrow, and then relax on the couch and watch BSG with the missus.
Yesterday, we (the band) dragged our gear out of the dank, cold basement, and drove to the Red Hot, which shares a pedestal with Puget Sound Pizza as one of two official Noi!se locations to eat food while drinking too much beer. Matt and I both had pints of Old Tacoma, and I grabbed a Cushman Kielbasa, which might be more lovingly referred to as a bite of Eastern Europe, covered in mustard and kraut. The big screen did its best to ruin the early lunch, polluting our ears with VH1's one hit wonders special. As Vannilla Ice and New Radicals crept through our ears and sucked out our souls, our bartender saved the day by shutting it off and popping in the Detroit Cobras. You know, kilebasa and beer is already good enough, but when it's kielbasa, beer, and Rachel Nagy in your head moving universes with her amazing hips while she cha-cha-cha's the afternoon away, things start to get perfect really fast.
Unfortunately, we had to leave the 'Basas and the Cobras behind (along with many empty pint glasses) and get to the afternoon's business of recording. I popped into the store next door and grabbed a sixer of PBR talls, and we were off.
Recording took for-fucking-ever. The last time we recorded, we did three songs in less time than one took, but it was still a good time. Maybe our songs are just becoming more complicated (which can happen, but is still kind of strange for a street rock band). The solo took me a few tries, and I still hate it, but everyone else seems content with it. After a long day, I was content to say fuck it and finish up by making out with as many cans of Blue Ribbon as possible. Oddly enough, I wasn't drunk when I got home, just tired. I racked out the early hour of eight, just as Starbuck came back during the end of Battlestar Galactica (season 3).
This morning I went to my initial physical therapy appointment for the right knee that's been grieving me so. It turns out to be pretty good news-it's not degenerative (yay), and it can be corrected with orthotics and magical black athletic tape (huzzah). I had planned on swimming or spinning on run days, just until I get my knee fixed up, but it looks like the pool isn't open for swimming (WHAT THE FUCK!!! :mad
in the morning, because dumbasses who never learned to swim need to do drown-proofing classes. Sometimes the Army really pisses me off.
Oh, and to add a blast of humor (no pun intended...okay, maybe it was) I went to urology for my vasectomy follow up sample (yes, THAT kind of sample), and you really haven't laughed until you've tried to get a forty year old guy in glasses with a moustache to explain to you the process for submitting a semen sample to the laboratory. Oh, how he danced around anything remotely sounding like stimulation or masturbation. I mean, come on guy, you could have at least said something like "manual stimulation". It's not like I'm just going to whip it out and think happy thoughts until the sample jumps itself into the cup.
I bet they have horrible, restrained, WASPy fap manuals in the lab, like Maxim or something just as dreadfully boring (maybe the Victoria's Secret catalogue)...I guess I'll find out in the next few days
And now, it's time to get my shit together for another exciting Army day tomorrow, and then relax on the couch and watch BSG with the missus.
emersion74:
Geez man, type much?
abubadguy:
I've been off the keyboard for awhile. I've been moonlighting as a music writer for The Volcano, and the last piece I did was (in my opinion) unsat, so I figured this was a good way to keep my literary arsenal sharp 