Something Funny Someone Else Came Up With

Specifically, Big Fat Whale

Do the Zombie Dance!

Nothing like coming home from a nice vacation to find your good buddy is being held on $30,000 bail for "simulated weapons of mass destruction", by which, of course, is meant he had a radio in his back pack.

I'm sure the arrest had nothing to do with the fact that he and his friends were tyring to make an anti-materialistic statement by disrupting people's shopping experiences in trendy Nicollet Mall.

Sigh...it's good to be back in the "liberal" big city.

"Why I Love the Big City, No. 376,843" or "Like Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer (Only Less Homoerotic)"

Last monday night it was me an' Arturo's weekly trek to Bunker's for an evening of music, and on rare ocassion, pretty girls. Arturo's good people, and after he has long been the Val Kilmer to my Tom Cruise (or the Iceman to my Maverick, if you will), I decided it was time to switch up and play a supporting role by being his wing man.

So as he swoops into a decent-looking girl (it was pretty late in the evening by then), I made my move toward the corpulent friend in an attempt to engage her long enough to free the object of his desire. But as I turned to speak to her, I realized someone had already taken the wing-man position for me.

But it wasn't just any someone, it was National Football League Hall of Fame defensive end Carl Eller.

Yes, I had been usurped at the position of wing man by a Hall of Fame member of the Purple People Eaters.

It was even crazier than that time I found out that Alan Page was a male stripper.

An animation for our times

With all due credit to the brilliant Dr. Douglas James Shaw and his Clubhouse for Ladies and Gentlemen, a picture for our times:




Lack of internet skeelz prevents me from putting up the animation, but you can find it by this conveniently placed link right here.

Why I love my neighborhood

A short play, and by "play" I mean "exact transcript of what happened"

To set the scene, I have just returned from seeing the Combo at Bunker's, a monday night tradition of myself and strib cover-boy Artuto. Then there is a loud knock at the door...

(Offstage): "Open Up...Police!"

Gutter: "I'll go see who it actually is"

Woz: "Why do your friends think they're so funny?"

(Incomprehensible muttering)

Gutter: "Hey Woz, can you come down here?"

Woz: "Sure...what's the matter?"

Police: "Are you sure this is the only other person in here? No one else ran in here?"

Gutter: "No, it's just us"

(Police run off with big dog in what appears to be hot persuit of someone)


Let me tell you, this is very funny when you're drunk. Speaking of which, I apologize for all for the spelling and gerammer errors I can only assume I've made in this post.

The best thing an artist can often do is nothing

So driving home last night at 4 a.m. after watching Fear and Loathing, I was in an artistic and introspective mood. And as I struggled to stay awake and on the road, the Current was playing some weird Eurotrash techno that gave way to Beck and I caught myself doing this weird, arsty internal monologue about how I know Beck is a musical genius and all that, but his is the kind of music that leads one to insanity when they're in the altered state of mind that only sleep deprivation can bring on.

And for a minute I thought "Hey, that's pretty fucking eloquent. I should write that down. In fact, I should get back into creative writing. I haven't wirtten anything good for months now. This is the kind of shit I should be doing...you know, like jotting down wry observations of the madness of everyday life"

But then, as always, you wake up in the morning and realize it was just really, really hackneyed crap that every other person vainly trying to make their way in the world of creative work comes up with and it's never entertaining, no matter who writes it.

So I didn't write it down. You can thank me later.