Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
grand drive
ok! i wish i had a really clever intro to write here, but since nobody has come to expect cleverness or originality from me, i don't really want to go against the overwhelming mediocrity that HWC has become synonymous with.
below is the first episode of the HWC podcast. hopefully the first of many, with them becoming more and more frequent as the weeks go on. i would like to eventually include some interviews, more guests, etc. i hope you like it, but if not, i won't be surprised.
this episode is all grassroots and shit, featuring only myself and co-host Aaron, and of course, Sweet Tits in what will be an unfortunate and debilitating recurring role.
the embedded player kept effing up, so you get a link. be forewarned that the podcast will start immediately, so you may not want to have your speakers up to full volume or anything.
god rest your soul.
Podcast Update:
Hot Water Cornbread Podcast
currently on the white board behind the bar: Mad Cow Disease was already taken.
i'm on it.
dave
below is the first episode of the HWC podcast. hopefully the first of many, with them becoming more and more frequent as the weeks go on. i would like to eventually include some interviews, more guests, etc. i hope you like it, but if not, i won't be surprised.
this episode is all grassroots and shit, featuring only myself and co-host Aaron, and of course, Sweet Tits in what will be an unfortunate and debilitating recurring role.
the embedded player kept effing up, so you get a link. be forewarned that the podcast will start immediately, so you may not want to have your speakers up to full volume or anything.
god rest your soul.
Podcast Update:
Hot Water Cornbread Podcast
currently on the white board behind the bar: Mad Cow Disease was already taken.
i'm on it.
dave
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
big doe rehab
Sweet Tits is slowly becoming an expert on the blogosphere (is that the right word?) and its inner workings.
she reads all these other blogs about dead babies or babies with their organs born on the outside or by stay-at-home mothers that eat their babies or whatever. they are probably all much better written than this one. but they are also all incredibly boring.
a month or so ago, i was trying to come up with a topic to write on for the day, and Sweet Tits told me about something called "wordless wednesdays", which is apparently participated in by many popular, well-established bloggers. what "wordless wednesday" boils down to is a bunch of authors taking the day off and posting photos or something instead of actually writing a damn blog.
i would love to say that i am embracing my blog brothers and sisters and participating in "wordless wednesday". but the truth is that HWC is sicker than an anemic Cambodian hooker, and i really just don't feel like writing anything. but i do feel like drinking four pots of coffee, eating a lot of donuts and popcorn, and watching a shit-ton of HWC-approved youtube videos to lift my spirits while i am at work. behold:
barats and bereta - the best thing to come out of Gonzaga since John Stockton.
i can't describe how funny this first scene is to me. ridiculous.
do yourself a favor and just go to this dude's website.
found this on accident.
funnier than the television show, i say.
the reason i can never be a standup comedian:
live Mike Tyson's Punch Out - #347 on the list of things i wish i had thought of.
Currently on the white board behind the bar: Mucho worky.
that's all your time i'm taking up today. holla at ya boy!
i'm on it.
dave
she reads all these other blogs about dead babies or babies with their organs born on the outside or by stay-at-home mothers that eat their babies or whatever. they are probably all much better written than this one. but they are also all incredibly boring.
a month or so ago, i was trying to come up with a topic to write on for the day, and Sweet Tits told me about something called "wordless wednesdays", which is apparently participated in by many popular, well-established bloggers. what "wordless wednesday" boils down to is a bunch of authors taking the day off and posting photos or something instead of actually writing a damn blog.
i would love to say that i am embracing my blog brothers and sisters and participating in "wordless wednesday". but the truth is that HWC is sicker than an anemic Cambodian hooker, and i really just don't feel like writing anything. but i do feel like drinking four pots of coffee, eating a lot of donuts and popcorn, and watching a shit-ton of HWC-approved youtube videos to lift my spirits while i am at work. behold:
barats and bereta - the best thing to come out of Gonzaga since John Stockton.
i can't describe how funny this first scene is to me. ridiculous.
do yourself a favor and just go to this dude's website.
found this on accident.
funnier than the television show, i say.
the reason i can never be a standup comedian:
live Mike Tyson's Punch Out - #347 on the list of things i wish i had thought of.
Currently on the white board behind the bar: Mucho worky.
that's all your time i'm taking up today. holla at ya boy!
i'm on it.
dave
Sunday, February 8, 2009
the metamorphons
is HWC a dracula or a werewolf?
i spent about an hour debating this topic with the three members of The Sideshow Tragedy friday night, well after the bar had closed, the One-Percenters had been swept out into the night, and the money had all been counted.
Nathan and one of his friends/co-workers/hetero(?)-life-partners Jack have recently come up with a system of classification whereby everyone on the planet can be pigeonholed (no homo) into one of two categories; either draculas or werewolfs. this conversation undoubtedly came at the end of a night that consisted mostly of strong drink, marijuana cigarettes, and wee hours.
despite being one of the game's founders, it soon became clear that Nathan is now unfit to participate. his logic and reason have been crippled by reading french philosophy, his history of severe concussions, and his tertiary syphilis. his judgement is skewed to the point that he somehow saw fit to classify me as a dracula. when it should be clear to anyone who knows me that i'm a werewolf.
understand that HWC is not making any value judgements between the two by implying that being a dracula is somehow unsavory or undesirable. also understand that there is not technically an official set of empirical characteristics that one can use to define an individual as one or the other. the process is a nebulous and largely intuitive endeavor. as everyone knows, classifying someone as either a dracula or a werewolf is art, not science.
regardless, anyone should have their judgement questioned when they say that HWC is more this guy:
than this guy:
i'm just saying.
and no, that entire introduction was not just an excuse to post a Teen Wolf video. well, kind of.
let's get to some updates.
Open Letter Update:
this open letter is clearly overdue, but i feel it still needs to be written.
"dear Katy Perry,
you kissed a girl? and you liked it? no shit?
well, check this out - i fucked a girl. and let me tell you, Katy Perry, THAT wasn't too goddam shabby, either.
are you in a room with a window right now, Katy Perry? look out that window. ALL those people have kissed a girl, Katy Perry. so unless we are bringing something substantial to the table, why don't we hold off on the lame pseudo-lesbian pop songs? at least until you get past first base with that insecure college freshman chick that had one too many Smirnoff Ices and let you write that song about her.
Katy Perry, it pains me to say it, but you are not on it.
disdainfully yours, dave"
The Children I Own Update:
we took the oldest two of our resident freeloaders to see that bullshit movie Coraline, directed by some ass gasket named Henry Selick, and starring some people that, quite frankly, should have known better. and, to be honest, WE should have known better. on a couple of levels.
number one, we regrettably forgot to bring with us a half pint of whiskey, or at least Grand Marnier or some other tasty liqueur that we could add to our movie soda, which would have actually made it close to being worth the $14 we paid for it.
number two, i should have made the children sit in the row in front of us. that way, i could have gotten some grown-up action-fun from Sweet Tits while Coraline was learning a valuable lesson about sharing or brushing your teeth or crossing the street or whatever on the big screen.
number three, the movie was shot in claymation. yes, you read that correctly. claymation. are you fucking kidding me, director Henry Selick? claymation? forgive me for assuming that in the year 2009, my $7 movie ticket will get me into something more than what amounts to a two-hour-long California Raisins commercial. unless i am mistaken and my $7 movie ticket also paid for a trip back in time to 1984, when that was still cutting-edge.
if we had been able to see the movie in 3D like it was intended to be, perhaps it wouldn't have come across like a Gumby biopic. but we got unlucky that the theater's only 3D projector was being used to show that My Bloody Valentine movie. another future multiple Oscar-winner, i'm sure.
currently on the white board behind the bar: Hump the wizard.
Aaron Dudley and i recorded our first trial run podcast today, graciously and aptly recorded by good friend Clifton von Smeltzer, who is one of those guys that i've actually known for a lot longer than it feels like i have. i think we got some decent stuff, so i hope it will all come out ok in the edit. it's been awhile since i heard my own voice. i sound shockingly gay. maybe i was just picking up on Aaron's lilt. if you'd care to comment on my latent homosexuality or contribute to the draculas/werewolfs argument, please do so below, or email us at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com.
(just an aside to Anna T. - don't think that i don't know that you loved every syllable of this particular post.)
i'm on it.
dave
i spent about an hour debating this topic with the three members of The Sideshow Tragedy friday night, well after the bar had closed, the One-Percenters had been swept out into the night, and the money had all been counted.
Nathan and one of his friends/co-workers/hetero(?)-life-partners Jack have recently come up with a system of classification whereby everyone on the planet can be pigeonholed (no homo) into one of two categories; either draculas or werewolfs. this conversation undoubtedly came at the end of a night that consisted mostly of strong drink, marijuana cigarettes, and wee hours.
despite being one of the game's founders, it soon became clear that Nathan is now unfit to participate. his logic and reason have been crippled by reading french philosophy, his history of severe concussions, and his tertiary syphilis. his judgement is skewed to the point that he somehow saw fit to classify me as a dracula. when it should be clear to anyone who knows me that i'm a werewolf.
understand that HWC is not making any value judgements between the two by implying that being a dracula is somehow unsavory or undesirable. also understand that there is not technically an official set of empirical characteristics that one can use to define an individual as one or the other. the process is a nebulous and largely intuitive endeavor. as everyone knows, classifying someone as either a dracula or a werewolf is art, not science.
regardless, anyone should have their judgement questioned when they say that HWC is more this guy:
than this guy:
i'm just saying.
and no, that entire introduction was not just an excuse to post a Teen Wolf video. well, kind of.
let's get to some updates.
Open Letter Update:
this open letter is clearly overdue, but i feel it still needs to be written.
"dear Katy Perry,
you kissed a girl? and you liked it? no shit?
well, check this out - i fucked a girl. and let me tell you, Katy Perry, THAT wasn't too goddam shabby, either.
are you in a room with a window right now, Katy Perry? look out that window. ALL those people have kissed a girl, Katy Perry. so unless we are bringing something substantial to the table, why don't we hold off on the lame pseudo-lesbian pop songs? at least until you get past first base with that insecure college freshman chick that had one too many Smirnoff Ices and let you write that song about her.
Katy Perry, it pains me to say it, but you are not on it.
disdainfully yours, dave"
The Children I Own Update:
we took the oldest two of our resident freeloaders to see that bullshit movie Coraline, directed by some ass gasket named Henry Selick, and starring some people that, quite frankly, should have known better. and, to be honest, WE should have known better. on a couple of levels.
number one, we regrettably forgot to bring with us a half pint of whiskey, or at least Grand Marnier or some other tasty liqueur that we could add to our movie soda, which would have actually made it close to being worth the $14 we paid for it.
number two, i should have made the children sit in the row in front of us. that way, i could have gotten some grown-up action-fun from Sweet Tits while Coraline was learning a valuable lesson about sharing or brushing your teeth or crossing the street or whatever on the big screen.
number three, the movie was shot in claymation. yes, you read that correctly. claymation. are you fucking kidding me, director Henry Selick? claymation? forgive me for assuming that in the year 2009, my $7 movie ticket will get me into something more than what amounts to a two-hour-long California Raisins commercial. unless i am mistaken and my $7 movie ticket also paid for a trip back in time to 1984, when that was still cutting-edge.
if we had been able to see the movie in 3D like it was intended to be, perhaps it wouldn't have come across like a Gumby biopic. but we got unlucky that the theater's only 3D projector was being used to show that My Bloody Valentine movie. another future multiple Oscar-winner, i'm sure.
currently on the white board behind the bar: Hump the wizard.
Aaron Dudley and i recorded our first trial run podcast today, graciously and aptly recorded by good friend Clifton von Smeltzer, who is one of those guys that i've actually known for a lot longer than it feels like i have. i think we got some decent stuff, so i hope it will all come out ok in the edit. it's been awhile since i heard my own voice. i sound shockingly gay. maybe i was just picking up on Aaron's lilt. if you'd care to comment on my latent homosexuality or contribute to the draculas/werewolfs argument, please do so below, or email us at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com.
(just an aside to Anna T. - don't think that i don't know that you loved every syllable of this particular post.)
i'm on it.
dave
Thursday, February 5, 2009
float
goddam Brickbreaker.
have you played this fucking game? it comes standard on whatever version of the blackberry cellphone that the cingular nazis gave me. it may come on other phones as well, i don't have any clue.
what i do know, is that it is a horrible modern rip-off of the classic arcade game "Arkanoid". basically, you control this little paddle at the bottom of the screen, and you have to bounce this metallic ball around and bust up all these different blocks without letting the ball slip past your stupid little paddle and into digital oblivion.
something else i know is that i don't even enjoy the stupid game. it's boring and repetitive and frustrating, namely because the game exists in a universe that does not follow the same laws of physics that you and i are familiar with. the rules don't follow a set logic, as the ball frequently passes through the corners of bricks, the edge of the paddle, etc. utterly ridiculous.
the ONLY other thing i know regarding Brickbreaker, is that Sweet Tits consistently exerts her dominance over my fat ass at that game and that i will not stop playing until i can beat her. mark it, dude.
lets get to some updates.
Live Music Update:
my friend jesse became my hero for a day when he was able to book a performer that i had intended to go see at the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock. he goes by the name Reverend Deadeye, but after a thorough investigation, Hot Water Cornbread learned that his given name is Brent. i swear i'm not making that up.
the rev is the son of a couple of missionaries that spent a good portion of their lives in arizona with some of those desert indians that you hear so much about on the discovery channel or whatever. he got his start playing guitar at those old-timey big tent revivals, probably for a bunch of people dancing around with snakes and blabbering like they are speaking spanish pig latin.
apparently all the conservative practice paid off, because the show was really damn good. Reverend Brent played (all at once) an old-school resonator, a kick drum, a wash tub, a couple of cymbals, and (at times) a harmonica. to top it all off, he sang into a handmade microphone built out of an old Falstaff beer can. he played the really old-style gospel blues, like he was a white Blind Willie Johnson or something. tremendous.
he and his dog Hawk (as in the bird, not Hock as in at a pawn shop) stayed at the house after the show. it was very evident that he spends long hours on the road with his dog. i don't know if "socially awkward" is exactly the right phrase or not, but he certainly did not have much to say without being prompted with a direct question. i counted six times where he forgot what he was saying in the middle of a sentence when there was no interruption. i think he was just lost in another thought.
overall, a super nice dude. if you get a chance to see him play somewhere close to wherever the hell you live, you'll be sorry if you pass it up. his band page is myspace.com/reverenddeadeye if you want to check him out. if that seems like too much effort, you could just watch the video below.
currently on the white board behind the bar: I'm gonna period.
um, i guess that's all i have. i've been trying to finish this particular post for like two days. just no time, dudes. no time. emails? hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com. mahalo.
i'm on it.
dave
have you played this fucking game? it comes standard on whatever version of the blackberry cellphone that the cingular nazis gave me. it may come on other phones as well, i don't have any clue.
what i do know, is that it is a horrible modern rip-off of the classic arcade game "Arkanoid". basically, you control this little paddle at the bottom of the screen, and you have to bounce this metallic ball around and bust up all these different blocks without letting the ball slip past your stupid little paddle and into digital oblivion.
something else i know is that i don't even enjoy the stupid game. it's boring and repetitive and frustrating, namely because the game exists in a universe that does not follow the same laws of physics that you and i are familiar with. the rules don't follow a set logic, as the ball frequently passes through the corners of bricks, the edge of the paddle, etc. utterly ridiculous.
the ONLY other thing i know regarding Brickbreaker, is that Sweet Tits consistently exerts her dominance over my fat ass at that game and that i will not stop playing until i can beat her. mark it, dude.
lets get to some updates.
Live Music Update:
my friend jesse became my hero for a day when he was able to book a performer that i had intended to go see at the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock. he goes by the name Reverend Deadeye, but after a thorough investigation, Hot Water Cornbread learned that his given name is Brent. i swear i'm not making that up.
the rev is the son of a couple of missionaries that spent a good portion of their lives in arizona with some of those desert indians that you hear so much about on the discovery channel or whatever. he got his start playing guitar at those old-timey big tent revivals, probably for a bunch of people dancing around with snakes and blabbering like they are speaking spanish pig latin.
apparently all the conservative practice paid off, because the show was really damn good. Reverend Brent played (all at once) an old-school resonator, a kick drum, a wash tub, a couple of cymbals, and (at times) a harmonica. to top it all off, he sang into a handmade microphone built out of an old Falstaff beer can. he played the really old-style gospel blues, like he was a white Blind Willie Johnson or something. tremendous.
he and his dog Hawk (as in the bird, not Hock as in at a pawn shop) stayed at the house after the show. it was very evident that he spends long hours on the road with his dog. i don't know if "socially awkward" is exactly the right phrase or not, but he certainly did not have much to say without being prompted with a direct question. i counted six times where he forgot what he was saying in the middle of a sentence when there was no interruption. i think he was just lost in another thought.
overall, a super nice dude. if you get a chance to see him play somewhere close to wherever the hell you live, you'll be sorry if you pass it up. his band page is myspace.com/reverenddeadeye if you want to check him out. if that seems like too much effort, you could just watch the video below.
currently on the white board behind the bar: I'm gonna period.
um, i guess that's all i have. i've been trying to finish this particular post for like two days. just no time, dudes. no time. emails? hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com. mahalo.
i'm on it.
dave
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