Tuesday, March 31, 2009

When can i move out?

No seriously, when do you think, blog?

I'm not like a teenager having a bad day or anything. In fact, I'm pretty comfortable at home and it's a pretty good day and I wouldn't want to move out today at all. I'm literally just wondering. Yea, I cleaned my room last night. And by cleaned I mean started to organize the piles. If I had my own place all of my clothes would magically be in their proper drawers, they'd fold themselves, and I'd have some sort of mystical new device that collects 'dirty clothes'. Pfftt, yea, right.

Sure I'll admit it would still be a mess. And I could probably only afford a shithole. And no, not like a shitty apartment, I mean probably a shitty closet-sized room that doubles as a bathroom/kitchen connected to another room that doubles as a bedroom/living room. In Germantown.

Hmmm, Germantown I could find some cheap stuff. Walk to work. Grow in the community of my darker skinned brethren. But I think I'd need to not have car payments. And school loans. And insurance. And bills. And holy damn this is awesome! I found Mastodon doing a cover of Metallica's 'Orion.'


That will make your day. Wow, this is badass. Anyhow moving out is totally my next step. I'm so close. I figure I'll move out and get a real start on my life. Start saving children from drugs, starting charities for all sorts of support groups, curing diseases, and buying more than one kind of beer at a time. Really maturing and shit.

It's not long now before I'm drinking beer under the first floor tenent's porch in my own house. I'll be chillin it in no time. Then everyone can visit me. And I can make my own rules. Seeya soon new house. 2011 here we come!!!!!!!

Monday, March 30, 2009

Jersey Jargon

I couldn't remember what I wanted to post about. So I'll jump right into something educational.

Flyers Jerseys.

Buying a Flyers jersey is alot like becoming a major sports scout nowadays. There's a science, a flair, a history, and touch of luck involved anytime you pick out the old orange and black 100% double knit polyester sweater with Water repellent Bead Away™ X-trafil fabric. You have to live with your decision and you can play it safe and wait until a veteran star center appears or you can jump the gun and beat everyone to a fine promising young lad you can call your own. Or you can get a real flop.

I'm not going to get into 'old' jerseys vs 'new' NHL jerseys. At first I hated these new jerseys but they've kinda grown on me. What we really need to do is find out what you want to say about yourself:

The Amonte: Though not quite as bad as the 'Dopita' the Amonte screams out "I happened to be flying into Philadelphia to visit some relatives and they took me to my first live hockey game. I recognized the name Tony Amonte (from such star-studded films as Youngbloods and Sudden Death) and I went and paid over $200 for this utter trash.
Remember his hit in the Brawl Game vs Ottowa? Yea, it was a beauty. Remember anything else from his career as a Flyer? No one else does either.
He is a possible future Hall of Famer. He is a pretty good-looking guy. But that's about it. He always was a temporary rental -- an old player way past his prime looking for some gold with the orange and black. And that's why i found his jersey on Ebay for under $80.
See also: Oates, Ragnersson, Coffey, Vaclav Prospal

The Kim Johnnson: Do you have a disease or a disorder that prevents you from closing your mouth? Do you experience lockjaw frequently? Do you often times feel the need to suck in more air than anyone else around you?

Then Kim Johnnson is for you.

See also: Carter cry face, Coast-to-Coast goal

The Kapanen: Sami Kapanen was a good, solid player. The fact that he played on 2nd and 3rd lines and alot of Penalty Kill made him harder to notice to non-hockey fans. Sami Kaps-types aren't the ones scoring goals or showing up on the scorebaord so they don't attract as many douche bags and front-runners.
They're good to decent role players who will have occasional great games and he-who-wears-their-jersey literally bathes in glory and shits on everyone else around them when their unsung hero becomes the 'sung hero'
Dan Aikens wore the Sami jersey in our club--literally. I've never seen someone want to fight Shawn Horcoff more than Dan when he tried to fight Sami Kaps. We almost got kicked out of the bar. And anytime Sami scored the bar would explode in a roar and non-Flyers fans would fear for their lives.
See also: Darci Tucker hit, Sami Bammi, Lego Shaped head

The Ex-Flyer
: It's bound to happen when you role the dice. Spot an exceptionally gifted youngster you think could blossom into the future stardom of the franchise? Just hope you don't get burned too early or you end up with a decent player who left the Orange and Black early and in about 10 years from now they'll be known as 'whatever-team-they-re-on-nows' and not 'Flyers'

--A) The Umbergs: Hey Meghan, Umberger is thge man. Oh god, that's some sick goal scoring in the postseason! Now I love the guy and frankly, I would love to see you in a #20 as your first Flyers jersey but we can't keep the trio of him, Richards, and Carter. One of these young guns is going to go for bigger money somewhere.
Ooops, it's R.J.!
I still love the jersey though. Don't be ashamed. (Pffftt)
See Also: Mouthpiece chewer, Unexcited arm-pump

--B.)The Eags: Tom Fox. You wanted someone badass. You wanted someone fearless. You wanted someone who was an agitator and who, when he shaved his head, looked like a Nazi. You wanted someone who craved opposition blood and someone I liked as a young, fast tough guy with potential. You wanted someone young with a lot of chance for upswing and maybe even goal potential! And you got all that in more with Ben Eager!

It's a damn shame you didn't want someone who was going to stay a Flyer longer than the rest of that year.

See Also: Billy Tibbits, Rapist, Intimidating a Wtiness

The Briere: Don't believe the hype. Don't ever believe the hype. The Briere is easy to spot. Usually there's an 'S' somewhere in their name you could easily replace with a dollar sign ($). I can't find one in Briere'$ name but no difference. They're the big name with the big paycheck and the average output.
Ask Chris Czech. Chris, is your Jersey weighing you down? Because it sure looks like it's weighing Danny B the fuck down. Here's a joke for everyone: How do you make $6.5 Million invisible? A: Put it on skates on a line between Jeff Carter and Scotty Hartnell.
Actually the Briere isn't a bad player. They're usually just an 'overrated' player. When they come to a team the jerseys fly off the shelves like wildfire. They're everywhere and while some are true hockey fans, a good chunk of The Briere don't know an icing from their ass.
See also: The Briere Bunch, Pulling your groin, cocaine

The Knubs: The Knubs is alot like the anti-Briere. Where the Briere is usually overrated the Knubs is highly underrated. He's usually the key cog in a team's top line and the player who's jersey you see the least. He doesn't score the most goals. He doesn't have many--no wait--any highlight reel material. But he's solid through and through. He knows his role on the team and he plays selflessly and at 110% at all times. Another Knubs would be Kimmo Timo--and I know the Z-man has one of them. You don't hear their names alot--but they're clutch to victory and obviously anyone wearing one is a true fan who understands the game.
Kudos to Meghan for her recovery from the Umbergs in picking up this one. I really like Knubs and hopefully Meghan has shaken her jersey curse because I want this veteran to stay.
Nothing's better than someone plain and normal and regular like Mike Knuble potting 30 goals and don't forget that overtime goal against Washington I was there for in Game 4 I believe. What a man. And to think--this guy smokes more than anyone else on the team combined.
See Also: Bricks of Marijuana, Garbage goals

The Dopita: These are rare. Extremely rare. If you ever actually see a Dopita, walk up to her and say hello to Jiri's mom.
Buying a Dopita is like saying "believe the hype! Believe the hype!" Then scoring 4 goals in your first game in the NHL and scoring 7 more over the course of a 55-game season and being more invisible than a Briere with groin problems.
I've actually spent my entire life looking for a Dopita. I won't stop until I find one.
See Also: Optical Illusion, Fake, Fiction

The Rathje: Notice the slight giantism? Notice he's dressed and in uniform and working for his paycheck? This is actually the only photographic evidence of Mike Rathje earning money as a Philadelphia Flyer (2 years - $3.5 Million).
If you like being on "Injured Reserve" and collecting a paycheck but not having to 'show up for work' or 'be mentioned ever again' The Rathje is for you.
It fits all lifestyles but really curtails to those of us who are large, lumbering, and slow. And yes, we all still remember the game in Nashville he single-handedly gave the game away. That's funny, it was his last game. 'Back' problems.
'Stay the fuck back home and we'll just mail you your check' problems.
See Also: (new) Hatcher, (new) Forsberg

The Vintage: You see alot of these and lately they've almost been becoming the 'in thing'. The older the actual jersey the more of the actual man the owner is. I still have my Hextall from when I was about 13. It's 2 sizes too small and 2 sizes too badass for any of these pansy goalies today.
Vintage jerseys are great because they're guys we already know and guys we already love. They are awesome players that spark a rich history of Flyer hockey and badass-ery.
But buying one now is the safest pick you can make. It's not like the guy who retired as a Hall-of-Famer 15 years ago is going to start playing bad. It's not like he's going to get traded soon. No one's going to make fun of you for your pick--but where's the fun in buying one after it's all said and done?
Unless you're a Jersey Curse. They are real.
People who buy a players jersey and then BAM! you turn around and they have a season-ending injury, they go into the worst slump of their career (until you burn the jersey in our backyard, dad, and the very next night Chase Utley hits his first homer in like 30 games), or out of nowhere he gets traded (see: The Ben Eager and The Umbergs. See: Tom and Meghan stay away from me or any of my favorite players) These people are real and very scary individuals. I don't wish a Jersey Curse on my worst enemy.
But for the rest of us a new The Vintage is some weak sauce is what it is. WWRHD? What would Ron Hextall Do? I'll tell you what he'd do-- after he cross checked some faggot from behind and slashed Wayne Gretky in his mouth he'd go and buy his own jersey in the past--when he was 8 years old. Then he'd think of buying a Giroux
See Also: Parent, Clarke, Lindbergh, Schultz

The Your-Last-Name: Who's gay again, I forget? Oh right. You. This is the best way to remind the world. If you get your nickname or you were a marine who fought in Iraq and the Flyers recognized you and already made it for you and presented it to you during intermission-- I guess it's ok.
It's actually hilarious if you get something rude like a "#88 CONCUSSD" or a "#69 BJs4CASH" or a "#99 GAMBLE"
What pisses me off is the really fat guys who get "#1 MITZBURN" or the little 10-year old "#00 RYAN". It's like c'mon, are you afraid to pick a player's jersey because you already bought a Dopita? Are you the guy selling your Amonte jersey on Ebay? I couldn't very well buy another Richards jersey so I have my own "#18 CANNON" jersey I sport to every game. Not my nickname mind you, the nickname of someone very badass. Someone very much our team leader and very much a beautiful pick by me wich brings us to....
See Also: Ok for Jersey Curses, SMOKIN4 #20, HOLOCAUST #69

The Richards: The diamond in the rough. You have to get these early otherwise you start to blend in with The Briere's. All jersey's should come time stamped and approved so we know the jersey geniuses from the jokers.
If you're anything like me (which you're probably not), you bought your Mike Richards jersey his rookie year. You could see the fire in his eyes. You felt the game changing momentum in his absolute brutal hits. You knew this kid had a God damned Cannon from day 1 when he scored that goal agaisnt the Rangers in his first NHL game. The Richards is a true fan who hopped on the right horse at the right time and he is going to keep riding his horse into the Stanley Cup years and on into retirement.
Richards is my boy, and you all know it so back off. I called it early on enough and now I'm just basking in the glow. And yes, while I did have an old style jersey Richards it disappeared in the Wachovia Parking lot in what will be referred to as "not an incident" and we'll leave it at that. Ahem.
But yea, anyone can score a The Richards. Just keep your eyes open and gamble early. I lucked out, as Cannon has matured, been named Captain, has upped his offensive game, and sort of, kind of, signed a 12-year deal. Hell, I'm starting to look at this Giroux kid if Alex Z-man doesn't get his jersey soon...
See Also: Captain Cannon, Cannon'd, Shorthanded Cyborg

So really the choice is up to you. There are hundreds of ways for you to end up looking like a douche bag, a clown, a joker, a bully, a badass, a follower, a lover of 4-goal-and-done careers, and more. It all starts with the jersey and these are just a few insights into what you're saying about yourself when the boys in Orange and Black take to the ice to seek Vengeance Now. So keep your head up and your eyes peeled. And if you ever, ever, ever, see that Dopita -- call me.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

21 Factilicious Facts

It was a facebook fad a few months ago or so and I thought about it but never actually did it. Too much like work. So I'll do it here in the world of blog--where work is carefree and actually fun for everyone!

I play bass sober better than I play bass high

--2. I was a child genius prodigy that aced every standardized test, took college-course testing (and did phenomenal), and received bling-bling in all sorts of scholarships and awards in gradeschool.

--3. I stopped getting smarter and smarter and probably stayed about the same once I turned 13 (and discovered beer)

--4. I was in the speech and debate club, film club, and Italian club freshman year HS

--5. I wore headgear to first grade. The next year I wore braces. Then I wore a retainer.

--6. My 2 favorite things in life--music and hockey-- didn't have any part in my childhood: My dad randomly got me a hockey stick for Christmas at age 13 (Koho, all wood). And around then I finally listened to and bought my first CD (Third Eye Blind - Self-titled)

--7. I punched a black kid named Marcus on Souder St growing up but then a bunch of other black kids punched me and I cried while Dan Huhn held back Winston (Brett's dog).

--8. I've never seen Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, or The Sound of Music

--9. I used to go archery shooting alot as a kid, as my uncle owns an archery and gun shop.

--10. I watched my grandmother die in the hospital and I happened to be listening to Metallica - My Friend of Misery. That bassline still gives me a really weird feeling.

--11. My oldest stuffed animal is Leo the Lop(-eared rabbit). I got him at age 2. Still have him.

--12. I got caught laughing in class when my teacher was lecturing about the Holocaust. I was in the front seat and when he turned at me and yelled "YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY 6 MILLION JEWS DIED?!?!" I couldn't help but think how ridiculous it was to laugh right then. And I couldn't stop laughing (but not at the Holocaust itself)

--13. I shampoo like once every 9 days.

--14. I watch a minimum of 75 Flyers games a season (out of 82)

--15. I wasn't allowed to watch the Simpson's growing up. I'm still not allowed.

--16. Joe Satriani - The Chords of Life was playing when I went for a walk one December night about 7 years back and my life totally changed. I had a spiritual experience I still can't explain. I haven't been afraid of dying since.

--17. My first Men's League Championship party at my house is where I definitely destroyed the most brain cells in one sitting in my entire life. The Men's League Championship T-shirt is still one of my most prized possessions

--18. I feel a calling to live by the sea and learn to surf.

--19. I have probably actually done less homework and more last-minute bullshit projects than anyone you know who says "Yea, I like totally didn't study alot or do any of my homework." Honestly.

--20. Whenever a teacher or adult yelled at me when I was little I used to just stare at the space between their eyebrows and see if I could see unibrow traces and act like I was making eye-contact.

--21. I fall in love all the time.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Rantin' n Ravin'

Jamming is like ranting, right?

Well if Phish can turn a 10 minute song into a 32 minute jam (what a concert that must have been), then I should surely be able to rant for 32 minutes while I listen to it. For the first time.

And yes, listening to a song for the first time is different than listening to it for the 30th, 100th, and even 1,000th time. It's fresh and it's new and it's so much overload at once. You can't possibly enjoy it all on the first listen, but everywhere you look there's something new-- a hot bass-burst here, a splash where you didn't expect one there, some sour notes tickling the palette here, an array of blue and green sad chords washing over soul. It's all exciting and exotic.

And that's almost like anything for the first time. You know the first time you drive somewhere you're looking at all the scenery and noticing the condition of the roads and the way the street signs look, the house architecture of the area, all sorts of stuff. Day after day that same road gets more and more phazed out. Phazed out until you're driving along and you don't even notice the road. You can't even see the trees on the side of the road. You'd recognize it but you wouldn't be able to tell yourself the color of a house you passed 20 seconds ago. It's weird.

The same thing happens with your house, your work office, your own face in the mirror, just about everything. It takes new circumstances to bring something old back to life.

I still remember how new my house on Large St looked the day we left it. I had grown up and lived in that house 14 (I think) years and that day it was a stranger. Those little cracks in the ceiling in the living room looked shoddy. The spray paint markings on the cinder block wall looked ghetto. My room looked really small without my bed and my posters and my bureau. The windows looked kind of smudged. I don't really know, it all just looked less big and less like I remembered it.

Wow, decent jam, little lull in the middle. To be expected when guys are going all out for 3 hours and they pick a 32 minute song as their 3rd and final song in the encore. Jamming's weird. I miss it most when I can't do it. Like I really wanna get down and jam with a drummer and a guitarist right now. But I'm at Meghan's right now typing on her piece of shit keyboard with the sticky letter 'E'. If you proofread this and I'm missing any E's-- it's all the keyboard. SOMEone in here forgot to tell me Desperate Housewives was on from 9-10 and she really wanted to watch it and I really didn't and I also really didn't want to walk back home. Who knows, a hot piece of ass like me could get raped or followed home in this neighborhood.

But in fairness to her I do make her watch alot of hockey highlights. And not 30 seconds-out-of-the-whole-day-ESPN-hockey highlights. NHL network NHL on the Fly 8 minute a game highlights. That stuff is fun. In fact, I want to watch them now. Richards totally laid out Talbot today. Those Penguins are utter garbage. I wish we could play them every day. It's total war on ice. It's blood for blood, and it spills out on the redline. It's razor sharp revenge, and it carves a path across the crease.

Man, I want to lace up a pair right now. I want to go flying down the ice and hit a guy with his head down. Because I know he's a dickhead. He's that guy who cross checks the smalles guy on your team. He's that jerk who jabs at your goalie when he's skating by. He's that cockwad who's team is up 10-0 and he takes the puck from behind his own net and skates it up through everyone making insane dekes, scores on your goalie and then fist pumps in celebration. And I'm going to lay him the fuck out.

God I love it. Justice. Hockey justice. Sure, I'm the judge, jury, and executioner in my own hockey world, but I'd like to think I get it right most of the time. Whatever.

Yea, the song ended a couple minutes ago, not the best Phish jam evr, but decent, and mad props for going the distance. I'm finishing up while Megsy watches garbage Desperate Gaywives. I just realized what I looked like at Best Buy today when I bought: The Universe (5 Disc DVD) ((as seen on the History Channel)) Sony Studio Headphones Phish: Live in Durham, NH 1993 paid for in anything-but-crisp $5 bills.

Pothead <-----

But in all fairness, that's some wicked sweet stuff. Ok, show's over. Also of note, new name for the bass came to me last night between sips of my first Mad Dog 20-20. I texted it to myself, and in retrospect, it was before my phone screen freaked out and now displays things in 'fuzzy plaid', the hot new design from T-Mob's. Woodson J Groovebuckle. Nice.

Eh, what are ya gonna do?
"There's nothing we can do."

Friday, March 20, 2009


I should post tonight.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Unmolest America

Q: What's the best part about sex with twenty six year olds?
A: Easy, there's twenty of them.

Easily one of my favorite jokes of all time. So great. It's all in the creepy delivery, too. But it got me thinking-- child molesters are pretty nuts. I mean, in all fairness fully-grown fully-hot women are hot where as snot-nosed under-developed annoying kids are, well.... not. I don't get it. But enough about child molesters, they get enough attention. They have their own laws, their own stereotypes, their own internet watchdog lookout web sites and their own series of infomercials and movies. Christ, they have their own super-cool members only club NAMBLA.

They get all the hype. All the talk. But what about a more dangerous group out there. What about old people molesters?

Think about it. There's a market for old people porn. Why wouldn't there be old people molesters? Kids, kids, kids -- that's all the media cares about. But think about it: the kids grow up. They'll figure this stuff out. These kids can grow up and beat up child molesters if they really want. Old people just keep getting older. What can they gonna do? --Just grow older and die.

The ones that like the men are the Grandpa Grabbers. The Saggy Sack Stalkers, the Hairy-Ear Hawks. The ones that like the women are the Granny Gropers. The Droopy Droolers, the Wrinkle Rubbers.

These are the sick, twisted people who visit old people homes for "charity". Yea, charity my ass. Or rather poor old Ethel's ass. A pinch here, a rub here. "Here, let me give you a sponge bath." These are the kind of crimes going on unpunished in society everyday. You want someone fondling your granddad's balls? I didn't think so.

These people are at large and they are dangerous. They wake up early--oh, so early--and get right to work. First stop: the mall, 6 am.

Wait, you mean before the mall even opens? You're god damned right. It's like one giant peep show. Old guys in sweatbands and way-too-high shorts stretching and jogging around-- bang. Head on over to Perkins for some breakfast and oggle some droopy breasts-- bang. Have you some coffee and actual pick up the local paper and read it while complaining about liberals and President Reagan to the dirty old man on your right -- bang. That's what they're talking about.

These guys are halfway done molesting by the time the rest of the world is even waking up. Then it's time to head to Bob Evans 3:45 pm dinner and home again to shower before the ultimate in old people orgies--a crazy uninhibited night of godlessness and old-person harlotry. Thursday's 8 pm Bingo.

It's a wonder we even have any old people left. They're out there in the open, unprotected, unnoticed by the masses. And yet every day countless are being taken from us, some even sold into sex slavery. It's time we did something for them. It's time we took a stand. Write to your local senator and ask that we finally put an end to this sickness that runs red through our streets. Put these Granny Gropers in their place. Make an example out of every Old-Guy-Ball-Fondler. Get these sicko's out of our beloved old people's lives.

And it's up to you at home, too. See an unmarked van circling the VFW parking lot? Notice alot of 'weird people' volunteering at old people's homes? See some slickster in a suit buying your granny Ginger-Ale and rum at the Bingo? Some young girl wearing revealing clothes and helping your granddad figure out how 'his internet clicks on'?

Say something. It's up to us to keep them pure.

It's up to us to Unmolest America.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Important Life Issues

Did Gandhi ever look at porn?
Was Hitler in the school play in grade school?
Did Jesus not do his homework?
How many times did Lincoln say the word "fuck"?
Can God sneeze?

I don't know why more of our time in America isn't spent researching these pressing issues. I mean, think about it....

Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Sound of Wood

My bass is delectable. My bass is delicious. My Warwick Double $ is a splendid little piece of hardware. I bought said 'hot piece' about a month ago for a cool K and change and I haven't regretted it one bit.

For those of you who don't know what bass is -- bass is the sound of thump. Bass is the feeling of groove. Bass is all that controls the rhythm and sway of soul. It's in all of us. The groove. The funk. That feeling you get when you're drunk and you're dancing (I did it for over an hour at Bones last night--thank you very much). That taste in your mouth when something is too spicy but you keep on shoveling forkfull after forkfull into your mouth. That smirk you get and you know you got it and you want to flaunt it? That's 'it'. It's everywhere. It's that glue that holds it all together. Bass is that magic salt that sets the world on fire. It's liquid sour--but that good sour that you can't put down. Hell, it's liquid molten magma. It's dirty filthy quickness--and you want to bathe in it. It is constantly shifting and changing and dancing and shaking. It's the fire that pumps endlessly from the heart.

Anyhows, bass is an integral part of everyone's everyday life--i likes to thinks. And my bass is wicked sweetness. I was going to try and name it when I got it but it names itself. Like bass itself it's constantly shifting and gyrating and grooving. The name changes from use to use and I've called it a veritable sea of hot dirty names. Here are just a few:

Woodson L Jammer
Randolph J Woodeski
K. Wood McHotstop
Woodle McGeegood
George Woodington
John G Wood (raped and murdered my wife)
Flickem McWoodtrop
Woody J Groover
Woodin Harding
P Wankoff Woodenheimer
Good Wood McShould
Helios Woodstein

You've probably noticed a pattern. And that pattern is 'wood'. That bass is carved from exotic woods and intricately carved into the growling perpetual beast it is today. The damn instrument came with an instruction guide and a brochure. Best of all was the bass case and the booklet that read: "Warwick: The Sound of Wood"

Wood indeed. When I 'get down' I can feel the weight of wood in my hands. I can taste that filthy woodgrain in my mouth. I can play something and know the essence of wood is flowing out into my amplifier. The wood pervades everything about it. It's something natural. Something primal. I can feel my bass growing and swaying and turning like some crazed wooded creature. And that it is. It is wood. It is shifting, burning, filthy, delicious, resourceful, shining, grainy, healthy wood.

God bless that bass. And God bless the funk for which this blog is named. What other instrument can you smack and expect pure poetry?

Aaaahhhhhh bass.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Steve Vai - Voodoo Acid

I've listened to this song 12 times (according to my ipod) in the last 48 hours. This song is insane. It makes me realize I need to do acid / already did acid by proxy. Give this song a check out and if you don't like it... I hate you.

I didn't even know what I was doing
Didn't even know what I was saying
I felt my face and it was inside out
Well I could hear the blood rushing through my brain
And I could see tiny lights shootin' from my veins
And little voices in a swarm

Throat is like a fireplace
Tongue is like a razor blade
Illuminated before me
Looks to me like little honey bees

Wednesday, March 11, 2009


Characterizationalism. The act of comparing ourselves and our everyday lives and mechanisms to characters we see in movies and in TV shows. We just compare ourselves non-stop. We watch a Jackie Chan movie and we go "hey, that Chan guy has my determination and ingenuity," or "hey, the villain here expresses things about myself I dislike. And dislike greatly for that matter," or how about "wow, she's hot and she's blond and I appreciate her aesthetic value, but she in no way shares any characteristics with me, and thus, I could care less about her hot ass."

Maybe we don't say it out loud like that but I'm thinking that's what makes us love and hate the characters we--well--love and hate. I love Jack Bauer's badassedness because I love those ever-so-small but still there badassedness traits. I hate guys like the King Longshanks in Braveheart because he's a coward and he won't fight William Wallace himself (kind of like how I hated when I watched that Jim Carey movie '23' and I woke up in the middle of the night and I had to pee but I was afraid to go to the bathroom so I waited and waited and waited and eventually fell back asleep.) ((Also his son was gay.))

Maybe this is all really obvious detective work here. Maybe this is something profound. Maybe not. Either way I'm seeing parts of myself everywhere. And trust me, we LOVE to see ourselves (ie -- facebook photos, time to see if we were tagged in any.) But maybe movies, TV shows, and stories let us see ourselves and see our potential. Let us see our options. We can look see what is possible -- not probable. Either way---- I want to be that stoner from 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall.' That's who I want to be from this day forward.

I want to be a God-awful surf instructor in Hawaii.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

and i hate all of you

I hate locks. I hate padlocks, master locks, shelf locks, gizmo locks, who-dad locks, wrestling locks, and socialist locks.

The only kind of locks I don't hate are curly, golden locks. Thank Scotts-too-Harts and J-too-Carts tonight for a pair apiece. And thank Asham for a ridiculous fight near the end. There's just something I love about 3rd period violence. Something in the taste of fistfights I can't resist. A subtle magnetism about one man's meaty paw mashing another man square in the kisser. I can't explain what it is but something about ice hockey violence is just as good, if not wayyyy better than ice hockey victory.

And I fucking hate locks.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Lock Pick Skills + 10

You know how in video games and in spy movies how lock-pick skills always really seem to come in handy and seem cool? I'm teaching myself to pick locks today I've decided. Youtube probably has tons of videos posted. And to think, some ex-cons will be making a difference in my life today. It almost brings a tear to my eye.

Plus, who knows if I'll be locked in a prison with hundreds of paper clips and no guards around to watch me. I just don't know. And for my safety and the safety of my friends and family I better just be prepared.

Wish me luck.

I'm trying it on my LaSalle HS locker lock. Then I'm using it on an A & E rusty old padlock I stole today. Before you know it I'll be breaking into women's houses left and right. And I think from now on I should teach myself a bad-ass or strange-ass hobby once a week.

To keep things fresh.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Trade City

NHL Trade deadline today. Seeing as how sports is a religion in my life and hockey my God, yes, I did check various hockey blog and rumor pages at 20 minute intervals. And in case you ever happen to really need to know the skinny on hockey pages:


All of that checking, guiding Meghan step-by-step over the phone, pissing off my dad at work, and texting was sooooo not worth it. Flyers got rid of Upshall and got Dan Carcillo. Upshall is like blazing speed and heart. Carcillo is like blazing fisticuffs and hopefully, but not necessarily-- heart. I don't like their deals today but get back to me in a couple of weeks. If he's scrappy enough and hits-everything-that-moves enough, I think I could handle this. We'll see.

If he keeps punching people like this in the face he can be a Flyer by my book.

But it got me thinking about sports players and how much it would suck to get traded to another city. And I'll admit it, it's a raw deal for Upshall who alot of people liked. The millions of dollars he makes probably help it. But then there are situations where millions of dollars don't help it. Situations where money isn't an issue at all. You have bled, you have fought, you have suffered defeat, you have tasted in the deliciousness of glory in one town. You have had your jersey stitched and numbered for over a decade in one team color. You have made countless sacks and caught countless interceptions (21 and 34 respectively), you have done countless charities, you have laid out your body countless times, you have given your entire being--mind, body, and soul to one organization, to one team, to one city. In doing so, you have given yourself to each and every fan out there who grew up watching you.

And then they just dump you.

Brian Dawkins, you are my hero. And what Jeffrey Lurie, Joe Banner, Andy Reid, and everyone else in the Eagles organization did to you was a joke. I'll spend another day on Dawk -- he deserves one all himself-- but for today, screw you Eagles ownership. You're a disgrace. Please leave this town. Please leave football in general. Some people put their hearts into sports, not dollars and cents. I do hope you die, and I know you will (I do have fears that you're immortal and you're blood-sucking ways do make scientists think you're vampiric in nature), and that day Philadelphia will hopefully throw a parade (did you catch the double meaning there?). I can't go on or I'll never stop. I'll let the people speak for me. Here are just a few of the many altercations to our good friend's wikipedia page. Today alone:

Jeffrey Lurie

--Lurie bought the Philadelphia Eagles on May 6, 1994 from then owner Norman Braman (also Jewish) for $195 million
--Since becoming owner of the Eagles, Lurie has been ripping the hearts out of the Philadelphia fans. Being named NFL "Owner of the Year" by The Sporting News in 1995 and by Pro Football Insider in 2000 was the biggest joke.
--He is also responsible for helping push through the deal to build a new, $512 million, 68,500-seat football stadium, now called Lincoln Financial Field, and not signing any players to help his team win the Super Bowl because he can not sell any more seats in this stadium.
--Providing All-Pro Donovan McNabb with little or no receiving help, Lurie hopes for the best as McNabb is asked to carry the Eagles and the hopes of an entire city on his back. However, despite zero Superbowl wins, Lurie is able to do just enough to keep the Eagles in contention every year which apparently means something to him.
--He hired Joe Banner who eats babies and burns down orphanages in his spare time. He also traded Jesus for Greg Lewis in the 2001 season.
--He is a member of eight different NFL committees, making him one of the most inactive owners. As the Eagles' owner Lurie has subscribed to the "do nothing and hope for the best," school of thought.
--Jeffrey is the reasons Jews start with the letter J
--Jeffrey Lurie was the 2nd gunman on the grassy nole Lurie earned a B.A. from Clark University,
--Jeffrey Lurie gained his magical powers by killing a baby and drinking its blood in front of the devil himself.
--Please note the number of championships this owner has won. ---> 0

and my personal favorite

----Jeffrey Lurie Sprung Willy Free Prior to entering business, Lurie served as an adjunct assistant professor of social policy at Boston University. He once ate his weight in goldfish...not the crackers the actual fish.

So there you have it, Lurie. The fans have spoken. And I think they appreciate what you've done. Go to hell.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

So THIS is what blogging feels like

So this is what blogging feels like? Not bad. Pretty white. And blank. And big. Little bit of arm room in here. Some room to 'kick it' as the kids say. Hmmm, it needs something. Some music first.

Grand Funk Railroad - Feelin' Alright

Much better. As you can tell I'm feeling funky today. Hence the blog name.I think I'll copy and paste my favorite poem, too. I'm not really up-to-date on what 'the kids' are doing in these things nowadays.

The Flow
It can’t stop, won’t stop, never lets you go.
It’s liquid molten magma funk.
It grabs your jazz and it swings your things,
The sound won’t turn off, it keeps on burning.
It’s icy cool exterior with a fusion flow and
it’s alive inside and down with the jive.
A tune white-hot, that’s impossible to stop,
it flames your heart, it keeps getting hotter.
It drips out beneath bass string boogie and
seduces the slender saxophone solo. Just
slip your feet into the groove of the beat
and the sky goes awash in a tumb’lin sea.
It’s down, it’s up, it’s swimming in your soul.
It’s a jagged, jaded, jilted jam.
It’s deliciously sweet, off-time rhyme and
nothing of this earth could ever hold it back.
You’re dancing; you’re on fire
You’re motion lyrical poetry
It’s got you good and—
—then the music stops.
~Nick Capozzi

Oh, did I mention my favorite poem is by me? There are plenty more of these absolute gems at www.nicksworks.com , my perpetual work-in-progress. Slash not-work-in-progress. Well I posted. I don't think I'm going to even tell anyone about this blog. That way, by the time I'm famous or in jail or a big youtube star in the future people will have countless entries to delve into my past and entertain themselves for several months straight through.