Tuddd's Muddd

OMG teh Chris Cornell

   

    Today I was listening to -- and enjoying the fuck out of -- Badmotorfinger on the 4 train to and from the Bronx, remembering how awesome Soundgarden was and how into them I was during the '90s.  At no point did Mr. Cornell's most recent collaboration with the esteemed Timbaland cross my mind during this listening experience; mostly I was just thinking things like "man, I totally forgot that 'Searching With My Good Eye Closed' is pretty much the best stoner rock song ever." Etc.

    I realize that it's not exactly a challenge to critique Chris Cornell's new sound, but it's really rare that anyone makes a career move this embarrassing.  Absolutely brutal. 

    Listen at your own risk.

    (for the record, the song doesn't actually reach historic levels of awfulness until the chorus.  But that chorus... just listen to it, my god.)

I must be losing weight

    If you're a fat fuck like me, you know that there are few things in life as infuriating as being called a "fat fuck."  Conversely, if you're not a fat fuck and you often find yourself in shouting matches with fat guys, you probably know that the best way to instantly transform a verbal argument into a fistfight is to call a fat guy a "fat fuck."  Basically, there's no comeback to that other than resorting to blatant racism, which only works if you're fighting a non-white guy (which rarely happens to me).

    As someone who has been in a lot of fights throughout the years, I'd have to say that 99% of the time my given opponent(s) has played the "fat fuck" trump card in the heat of battle, and who could blame 'em.

    So I've been in two near-fights over the last week.  The first was at Ray's at the corner of St. Marks.  Friends were in town for a bachelor party and we were attempting to sober up the guest of honor by cramming his gullet with pizza.  (Didn't work.)  Anyway, after a brief-yet-spirited discussion with some generic striped shirt douchebags, one of said douches felt inspired to wrap his arm around my shoulder, tapping me on the cheek and calling me a "faggot."  By this point, I had been drinking heavily for over twelve consecutive hours, so I was pretty combustible already, and I began threatening the guy to the point where he and his friends left the place immediately, before they even received their pizza. 

     The second occurred at Tuesday's Mike Ness show when a bunch of dickheads from Seattle (as they reminded everyone in their vicinity ad nauseum) and their tiny toughguy leader began basically just pushing people around because they felt like it.  Of course, by this point anyone in the room with half a brain had realized that just because Mike Ness is Social Distortion doesn't mean one has to behave like it's a Social D show.  (Ness solo shows are presented much more in the vein of Exile-era Stones than, say, Circle Jerks).  My breaking point came when Tiny Toughguy actually punched a girl in the face and then went to work on me with his elbows.  Predictably, shouting ensued, and also predictably nothing was solved by the shouting, other than Tiny Toughguy concluding (just as striped shirt douche had, as you'll note) that I'm a "faggot."  As for me, I wound up storming out before the encore lest Tiny Toughguy's gang of backwoods hick crony retards beat the living shit out of me. 

    Anyway, what I'm getting at is that at no point during either altercation did my adversary refer to me as a "fat fuck," which represents a watershed moment during this stage of my life.  Honestly, these incidents (or lack thereof) just may be the closest I've gotten to getting a compliment about my appearance by a non-family member in about nine years.  I'm practically blushing over here. 

Brooklyn 1, Tuddd 0

    Yesterday I had a bunch of clothing stolen from me.  Fuckin' sucks.  I left a hamper full of dirty clothes outside my car (which was parked outside my apartment) for too long (I guess) while I went back inside to retrieve my car keys.  Fucking moron. 

    I know, I know, "it's just stuff" and clothing can eventually be replaced in some form or another.  But adding to the suckiness is the fact that said stolen hamper contained practically every article of clothing in my "regular rotation," AKA pretty much everything I've worn over the last week and a half.  About five pairs of jeans, assorted button down shirts, and several prized tees (A Place to Bury Strangers, Blood on the Wall, Buzzcocks, GbV, and, perhaps worst of all, my Art Brut shirt emblazoned with the slogan MODERN ART MAKES ME WANT TO ROCK OUT.   Fuck!). 

    So, as a result, today I really don't feel like doing much of anything productive.  Unless, of course, sitting on my fat ass while fantasizing that I've somehow gained the ability to switch out the contents of the unknown perp's eye sockets with that of his ballsack from afar (that's telekinesis, Kyle!) is considered "productive." 

    One more thing: my previous post was more than a little disingenuous.  Although my recent move to Brooklyn has been time consuming, the move is far from the only reason I've stopped putting any actual thought into this blog (beyond puzzlingly advocating fair meal-related recompense for TV Commercial-land Howie Long).  Remember this post about the Raveonettes show at Bowery?  In it I used a link to this picture of Grimace saying "FUCK TIM" to describe the approximate shape of a girl I saw at said show.  Now, I have no idea how/why this happened, but over the past few weeks, said picture of Grimace has been getting a veritable shit-ton of hits, way more than anything I've written over the last couple of months.  Now, I didn't start this blog with the goal of generating a ton of hits or anything that pretentious, but Grimace saying "FUCK TIM?"  Come on.      

--

Black Keys tonight.  Mealz onward. 

Danica Patrick is a true hero....

...thanks to her soon women everywhere will be allowed to drive a car.

"Call me when you start drinking again..."

    The above quote may sound kind of dickish, but I can assure you that it is not-- I'm really not much fun when I'm not drunk.  Sober, I tend to blurt a lot of unfunny non-sequiturs and, in lieu of actual conversation (never my strong suit), I do stupid shit like brag about being really good at long division.  Hmm.  Come to think of it, I'm no treat when I'm drunk either though-- the only difference is that when I'm drunk I can actually convince myself that I'm a somewhat interesting person despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

    But yeah, although I'm going to try my hand at sobriety for awhile here, I'm pretty happy with the way I went out a couple weekends ago-- pissed my buddy's couch on a Thursday night, leaving a pair of wadded up/soaking boxers somewhere in his apartment, which were discovered by his horrified fiance several days later.  Then on Saturday night, I basically split a ball with a buddy, the gastronomic ramifications of which resulted in me shitting myself Sunday night.  No one ever accused me of being a "decent" human being.

    So I'm on a pretty absurd carb-minimal diet which really doesn't allow for alcohol.  Pluses: maybe I'll drop a few weight classes and go all the way from "morbidly obese" to "fat fuck."  More likely, I'll injure a knee in a freak just-simply-walking-down-the-street accident (trust me, this happens every time) and stop going to the gym, finally totally pissing away my laughable-if-it-wasn't-so-fucking-pathetic attempt at weight loss by eating a whole pizza by myself.  Seriously, I know exactly how this one ends, and it ain't pretty unless you consider a fat moron stoned out of his fat gourd and covered from head to toe in a vile combination of pizza sauce and his own bile "pretty."

    So yeah all self-indulgent whining aside, I'm feeling pretty shitty, and times like this call for extreme musical therapy.  Enter Pissed Jeans (this song is fucking awesome).

Download 02_boring_girls.m4a

Take it or leave it, but this guy makes a helluva point

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZkSv41yt0aw

Worse

    My landlords are fucking.  Very loudly. 

A True Southern Gentleman

Don't ask, don't tell/etc.

Hey, great, my car's on fire

    So, how're things?  How was your New Year's?  Got a little fucked up, did ya?  Same here.  I went to a party at my buddy's swanky apartment and blacked the fuck out, eventually passing out on his bed and (presumably) scaring the remainder of his guests off with my terrifying, deafening, sleep apnea-induced snoring. 

    Make any resolutions?  That's nice.  My plan is to never, ever, ever do cocaine ever again under any circumstances.  Ever.  We'll see how that one goes. 

    Anyway, the other day I rolled out of bed late and headed over towards "the office" (read: mom's dining room).  I was hungry so I took a quick detour down New York Ave towards Taco Bell, where I intended to subject myself to severe intestinal discomfort by way of their new Cheesy Bean and Rice Whatever.  As I headed northward, I noticed a familiar odor which instantly hearkened back to fuzzy memories of hot chocolate, gingerbread cookies and G.I. Joes: someone was apparently burning leaves!

    Since I grew up on a farm and now live in the basement of a multicultural suburban nightmare, I'm largely unfamiliar with the methods Johnny Homeowner utilizes to dispose of his leaves.  From what I can gather, folks most often bag them up themselves or pay for a landscaper to blow them up and take 'em away.  According to some cursory Googling performed by me about five seconds ago, burning one's leaves is usually frowned upon, and, if you're a total fucking moron, it can even be deadly.

    So imagine my surprise when I smelled burning leaves.  First off, it's been God knows how long since I've noticed that smell anywhere.  Secondly, whoever's doing said burning is likely breaking any number of local and state laws and also probably pissing off his neighbors something fierce.  (Won't someone think of the children!)

    Of course, you can probably tell where this story's going.  Besieged by childhood memories of frolicking in an Autumn wonderland, with the flavor of apple pie on the tip of my tongue, grinning like a retard, I had rendered myself completely oblivious to the harsh reality that my car was on fire.  Long story short, the landscapers had apparently blown so many leaves up into my engine that it was packed to the gills, effectively turning my car into a tinderbox on wheels.  Wheeeeee!   

Fuck this bullshit

    Well, I was hoping to put up some pics from Monday's Damo Suzuki show but for some strange reason my camera doesn't work.  Let me rephrase that: the camera works, but for some strange reason my computer doesn't "notice" when I plug the camera into the USB port.  Since my computer still seems to recognize my iPod it must be the USB cord itself, or, worse, the jack on the camera which connects to the USB cable.  FUCK!

    Also, my back is fucking killing me, which makes working outside unbearable.  Basically, I have some pretty bizarre back problems, but suffice it to say being a fat piece of shit isn't helping matters.  And losing weight is virtually impossible for me-- when I last went on a huge fucking crash diet in May and was working out several times a week, and kept diligently at it for months, I didn't lose a fucking pound. 

    Also, a friend of mine is getting married this weekend.  Normally, this would be cause for celebration -- I love weddings.  But said wedding is being held in the Worst Place I've Ever Been To, AKA post-Katrina New Orleans.  I was last in New Orleans a few months ago for a bachelor party, and the conditions are sub-third world down there.  And for a place that's so dangerous and lawless, it was completely impossible to find any decent drugs down there.  I got bunked on a $100 "eight ball" of what turned out to be powdered sugar, and my buddy paid about the same for a ziplock bag full of pixie sticks. 

    But, yeah, back to my physical condition.  I'm in so much pain that I'm back to not being able to stand up for any extended period of time (more than a half hour or so is impossible).  This means that unless I want to be in extreme fucking agony, I'm not going to be going to as many shows as I have as of late.  Which in turn means a lot more evenings alone, smoking absurd amounts of weed in my apartment.  Which in turn leads to increasing amounts of self-loathing.  Which leads to unhealthy eating, which makes me fatter, which fucks my back up even more. 

    Also, another friend of mine who's a Bush lovin' moron made some ridiculously stupid remarks when he was in town last weekend, which I said nothing about at the time, but which have really gotten under my skin during the intervening week.  Why is it that the people who are the most uneducated about politics and history still allow themselves to be led around blindly by party politics?  Truly, Fox News' most incredible accomplishment is making a large amount of total morons/white trash idiots believe that it's people like Streisand and Sean Penn who are more to blame for the world's ills than Dubya and his incompetent cronies.  Blah blah blah broken record/etc.      

   So, yeah, just a few minor annoyances adding up to a general shitty feeling overall.   And my back is still killing me.  So it goes.