Showing posts with label one-percenters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label one-percenters. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
you're my lover now
unintended lack of posting for the last week. extraordinarly busy for the bar, with new year's eve and then the weekend following, of course. busy enough that i was unable to find time to write and post the "Hot Water Cornbread's Best of 2008" entry that i wanted to. but say-la-vee and shit. either way, it wouldn't have been as good or as good-looking as the similar column by my friend Yak (please see: blog, un-magical realism).
in addition, i have been fighting off what i believe to be either sars or the norwegian poon flu. i'm so jacked on Emergen-C, B-12 and Theraflu, there's a chance that i am technically unconscious as i write this (vegas currently has the odds on this at 12:1). i may also be floating in a very real, very Jimi Hendrix way.
can you overdose on things that aren't technically medicine? god, i hope so. i would love to find out what the treatment is for turning orange and being jittery enough to be employed at home depot as a paint mixer. as long as it doesn't affect my writing, i think that front porch kolache stonewall fencepost will speed limit banana mime vanilla gay mayor gorilla diaper.
let's get to some updates.
Live Music Update:
this past friday, three of my favorite people and Chris Terrell put on a rock-n-roll music show up at the bar. band is called the Infamous Jaguar Shark (www.myspace.com/thejaguarsharkband), and they have played there on a few occasions, most notably my birthday last may, which you probably missed. these boys always trick me into doing too many shots of whiskey (please see: Beam, Jim or Cock, Fighting) to properly do my job, but i don't hate them for it.
the Jag Shark brought with them a new jersey punk band called The Measure, made up of two upstanding young men (Tim and Mike) and another dude (Fid) and a chick (Lauren), both of questionable upbringing and eroding morals. i invited the new j-sians (pronounced to rhyme with "asians") to stay at the house, seeing has how we have ample couch space and fully-operational bathroom facilities. i personally love having bands stay at the house. it gives me the opportunity to wake them up FAR too early in the morning by blasting Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough", which is one of the regular highlights of my waking life.
the Infamous Chris Terrell somehow managed to make his way to the house with them at 2 am, after chatting up the singer (Lauren, just to be clear, who is in truth a very quiet and demure, non-judgmental vegan) for most of the night. i was still at work when i found out about this development, leaving Sweet Tits to deal with him on her own, completely unarmed. this was an issue.
Chris Terrell is the kind of drunk that has been known to break an entire cabinet full of dishes. and not notice. Chris Terril is the kind of drunk to start a fight with good friends while he is naked in their yard. and now, Chris Terrell (according to published reports from trusted sources) is apparently the kind of drunk to attempt making sweet, sweet love on the vegan lead singer of a new j-sian punk outfit in the middle of my hallway. this would have been less of an issue if Sweet Tits had been given the opportunity to place a moisture barrier between them and the carpet, so as to avoid leaving a ring.
to give something akin to equal time: Chris Terrell denies that his bare ass was seen bobbing up and down, and denies that there was any attempt on his part to, shall we say, "drill for vegetable oil". Chris Terrell is full of shit. we also found, during the course of conversation the next day, that he was unaware (or at least unclear) of the fact that a platypus is indeed a real animal. not, as he put it, "like a unicorn or something".
for the record, Chris Terrell is the kind of drunk that i could blog about every day, and never run out of material.
good god, good gravy. i love you so much, baby.
The Children I Own Update:
Tiny Baby has been eating most things that he can get his hands on. the rest of it (such as makeup, peanut butter, deodorant, cheese sauce, or paint) he has been smearing on his face and clothing. this has been an unpopular career move for the Tiny Baby.
however, his upcoming quarterly performance evaluation will be slightly better than the last one, when he still found it to be fashionable and amusing to flush non-disposable items down the toilet.
if you are reading this, please be aware that we have our eye on you, Tiny Baby. don't think you are too small to be punched out Soda Popinski-style. you have wobbly legs and poor motor control. you would not last much more than two full rounds with either one of us, sir.
One-Percenters Update:
there was a surprising lack of One-Percenters this new year's eve. people were strangely well-behaved and house-trained. last year, the amateur nature of our customers became very apparent, as i was asked insightful questions like, "do you guys carry Miller Lite?" "not sure," i replied. "i'll have to check with the manager. we don't carry a lot of specialties and imports. it's called Miller Lite, you say?"
there is an excellent chance it was the first night out of mom's basement for this particular gentleman. and maybe he had once seen an ad for Miller Lite when she let him watch "the talky-picture box" that one time for his birthday. and maybe thoughts of that beautiful fizzy yellow beer had stayed in his dreams since that moment, as yearned for the opportunity to drink one, just once. and maybe after i was an asshole about whether or not we carried it, he realized his whole life was a sham, and he went home and shot his mom, for keeping him sheltered and naive throughout his entire adult life, before turning the gun on himself.
sometimes, it feels really good to make a difference.
Currently on the white board behind the bar: let's hear it for sign language!
for the record, if anyone reading this did not understand the Soda Popinski reference above, do me a solid and ask another one of your friends about it. asking me would make me feel reeeeeally old. but if you can't find a better source, you can always email me at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com. or with any other questions, for that matter.
i'm on it.
dave
in addition, i have been fighting off what i believe to be either sars or the norwegian poon flu. i'm so jacked on Emergen-C, B-12 and Theraflu, there's a chance that i am technically unconscious as i write this (vegas currently has the odds on this at 12:1). i may also be floating in a very real, very Jimi Hendrix way.
can you overdose on things that aren't technically medicine? god, i hope so. i would love to find out what the treatment is for turning orange and being jittery enough to be employed at home depot as a paint mixer. as long as it doesn't affect my writing, i think that front porch kolache stonewall fencepost will speed limit banana mime vanilla gay mayor gorilla diaper.
let's get to some updates.
Live Music Update:
this past friday, three of my favorite people and Chris Terrell put on a rock-n-roll music show up at the bar. band is called the Infamous Jaguar Shark (www.myspace.com/thejaguarsharkband), and they have played there on a few occasions, most notably my birthday last may, which you probably missed. these boys always trick me into doing too many shots of whiskey (please see: Beam, Jim or Cock, Fighting) to properly do my job, but i don't hate them for it.
the Jag Shark brought with them a new jersey punk band called The Measure, made up of two upstanding young men (Tim and Mike) and another dude (Fid) and a chick (Lauren), both of questionable upbringing and eroding morals. i invited the new j-sians (pronounced to rhyme with "asians") to stay at the house, seeing has how we have ample couch space and fully-operational bathroom facilities. i personally love having bands stay at the house. it gives me the opportunity to wake them up FAR too early in the morning by blasting Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough", which is one of the regular highlights of my waking life.
the Infamous Chris Terrell somehow managed to make his way to the house with them at 2 am, after chatting up the singer (Lauren, just to be clear, who is in truth a very quiet and demure, non-judgmental vegan) for most of the night. i was still at work when i found out about this development, leaving Sweet Tits to deal with him on her own, completely unarmed. this was an issue.
Chris Terrell is the kind of drunk that has been known to break an entire cabinet full of dishes. and not notice. Chris Terril is the kind of drunk to start a fight with good friends while he is naked in their yard. and now, Chris Terrell (according to published reports from trusted sources) is apparently the kind of drunk to attempt making sweet, sweet love on the vegan lead singer of a new j-sian punk outfit in the middle of my hallway. this would have been less of an issue if Sweet Tits had been given the opportunity to place a moisture barrier between them and the carpet, so as to avoid leaving a ring.
to give something akin to equal time: Chris Terrell denies that his bare ass was seen bobbing up and down, and denies that there was any attempt on his part to, shall we say, "drill for vegetable oil". Chris Terrell is full of shit. we also found, during the course of conversation the next day, that he was unaware (or at least unclear) of the fact that a platypus is indeed a real animal. not, as he put it, "like a unicorn or something".
for the record, Chris Terrell is the kind of drunk that i could blog about every day, and never run out of material.
good god, good gravy. i love you so much, baby.
The Children I Own Update:
Tiny Baby has been eating most things that he can get his hands on. the rest of it (such as makeup, peanut butter, deodorant, cheese sauce, or paint) he has been smearing on his face and clothing. this has been an unpopular career move for the Tiny Baby.
however, his upcoming quarterly performance evaluation will be slightly better than the last one, when he still found it to be fashionable and amusing to flush non-disposable items down the toilet.
if you are reading this, please be aware that we have our eye on you, Tiny Baby. don't think you are too small to be punched out Soda Popinski-style. you have wobbly legs and poor motor control. you would not last much more than two full rounds with either one of us, sir.
One-Percenters Update:
there was a surprising lack of One-Percenters this new year's eve. people were strangely well-behaved and house-trained. last year, the amateur nature of our customers became very apparent, as i was asked insightful questions like, "do you guys carry Miller Lite?" "not sure," i replied. "i'll have to check with the manager. we don't carry a lot of specialties and imports. it's called Miller Lite, you say?"
there is an excellent chance it was the first night out of mom's basement for this particular gentleman. and maybe he had once seen an ad for Miller Lite when she let him watch "the talky-picture box" that one time for his birthday. and maybe thoughts of that beautiful fizzy yellow beer had stayed in his dreams since that moment, as yearned for the opportunity to drink one, just once. and maybe after i was an asshole about whether or not we carried it, he realized his whole life was a sham, and he went home and shot his mom, for keeping him sheltered and naive throughout his entire adult life, before turning the gun on himself.
sometimes, it feels really good to make a difference.
Currently on the white board behind the bar: let's hear it for sign language!
for the record, if anyone reading this did not understand the Soda Popinski reference above, do me a solid and ask another one of your friends about it. asking me would make me feel reeeeeally old. but if you can't find a better source, you can always email me at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com. or with any other questions, for that matter.
i'm on it.
dave
Friday, December 19, 2008
you in reverse
(no homo).
sometimes at the bar, as with any job, you have to find ways to have fun with the guys (no homo). for awhile, it was Big Dumb Chris and i taking turns burning each other with canned air. our respective ladyfriends did not care for this game, particularly. mostly because it left glowing red welts on us that lasted for 3-4 weeks. at some point, the game eventually devolved into our own version of the cold war (please see: relations, U.S.-Soviet), where the two of us would not pass closer than within 10 feet of the other, our heads on swivels.
then, all of us moved on to knocking things out of each other's hands with hard downward slaps (no homo). this was a particularly fun game with things like wallets, cigarette packs, or waffle house leftovers. anything that splats or scatters is a good target. one piece of advice - this is not a good game to play with anyone that you are currently trying to have sex with. extremely counter-productive.
our current pastime is the "no homo" game. basically, it works as follows: any time you say something that could be even vaguely construed as homoerotic, you immediately follow it with the phrase "no homo". it's a pre-emptive verbal ban on a gay joke that could be made based on the previous statement. think of it as a cootie shot for the gay joke.
a tremendously easy game once you get the hang of it. after long, you will be intentionally saying overtly homoerotic things just for the chance to insert that at the end (no homo). and it extends to other things (no homo). for example, "i need to stop by the gas station and hit the pump (no auto)". or, "this mongolian beef is delicious (no asian)".
i don't care if it sounds lame. don't judge.
let's get to some updates.
Starbucks Cougar Update:
i realize that i did not introduce the Starbucks Cougar in my first post, and this should be remedied, as she plays a significant role in my life. namely, she is a mostly attractive, 40-something starbucks barista whose name i don't know, and who does not know mine. however, one day a couple of weeks ago, she happened to ask me about what i was working on at the time, so i know that she is "into my shit" as the kids say. i am mildly smitten.
sadly, i have nothing to report on the Starbucks Cougar. i have not been to the local 'bucks in the last two days, and she was unfortunately off the previous two times i visited. presumably, she misses me greatly. i tip quite handsomely.
One-Percenters Update:
well, they got me twice in the last week. curses! last saturday, the two ipods belonging to mike and me were stolen from the dj booth (please see: misdemeanor, class b). and then last night, one of our customers felt it appropriate to smash in the window on the driver's side of my vehicle.
oh, don't worry, nothing was stolen. thank god. it would have been really difficult to replace the package of diapers in the back or the 87 food wrappers, or the 4.7 pounds of various mixed cereals jammed into the seams of the back seat. it was broken just to break something (please see: vandalism and/or mischief, criminal). second time i've had a window broken there, and i'm pleased to say that it gets easier to deal with emotionally. i wasn't really surprised when it happened or even that angry about it now.
i didn't even bother filing a police report. they would never be able to catch the criminal masterminds behind this malicious act, despite the fact that they would probably stop all current investigations to focus all their resources and manpower to bringing the window-smasher to justice. i just don't want to put the city through all the drama and media attention that tends to accumulate with such a high-profile crime situation.
old patrick swayze's character Dalton really knew what he was doing, buying that old beater when he went to work at the Double Deuce (please see: House, Road).
Currently on the white board behind the bar: Maybe partying will help!
ok. going to help some fucktards catch a buzz. as always, contact me or send me something wacky at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com if you have a moment. and thank you for your comment, Big Dumb Chris. you represent 100% of my subscribed fan base as of my third posting. god bless you, sir.
i'm on it.
dave
sometimes at the bar, as with any job, you have to find ways to have fun with the guys (no homo). for awhile, it was Big Dumb Chris and i taking turns burning each other with canned air. our respective ladyfriends did not care for this game, particularly. mostly because it left glowing red welts on us that lasted for 3-4 weeks. at some point, the game eventually devolved into our own version of the cold war (please see: relations, U.S.-Soviet), where the two of us would not pass closer than within 10 feet of the other, our heads on swivels.
then, all of us moved on to knocking things out of each other's hands with hard downward slaps (no homo). this was a particularly fun game with things like wallets, cigarette packs, or waffle house leftovers. anything that splats or scatters is a good target. one piece of advice - this is not a good game to play with anyone that you are currently trying to have sex with. extremely counter-productive.
our current pastime is the "no homo" game. basically, it works as follows: any time you say something that could be even vaguely construed as homoerotic, you immediately follow it with the phrase "no homo". it's a pre-emptive verbal ban on a gay joke that could be made based on the previous statement. think of it as a cootie shot for the gay joke.
a tremendously easy game once you get the hang of it. after long, you will be intentionally saying overtly homoerotic things just for the chance to insert that at the end (no homo). and it extends to other things (no homo). for example, "i need to stop by the gas station and hit the pump (no auto)". or, "this mongolian beef is delicious (no asian)".
i don't care if it sounds lame. don't judge.
let's get to some updates.
Starbucks Cougar Update:
i realize that i did not introduce the Starbucks Cougar in my first post, and this should be remedied, as she plays a significant role in my life. namely, she is a mostly attractive, 40-something starbucks barista whose name i don't know, and who does not know mine. however, one day a couple of weeks ago, she happened to ask me about what i was working on at the time, so i know that she is "into my shit" as the kids say. i am mildly smitten.
sadly, i have nothing to report on the Starbucks Cougar. i have not been to the local 'bucks in the last two days, and she was unfortunately off the previous two times i visited. presumably, she misses me greatly. i tip quite handsomely.
One-Percenters Update:
well, they got me twice in the last week. curses! last saturday, the two ipods belonging to mike and me were stolen from the dj booth (please see: misdemeanor, class b). and then last night, one of our customers felt it appropriate to smash in the window on the driver's side of my vehicle.
oh, don't worry, nothing was stolen. thank god. it would have been really difficult to replace the package of diapers in the back or the 87 food wrappers, or the 4.7 pounds of various mixed cereals jammed into the seams of the back seat. it was broken just to break something (please see: vandalism and/or mischief, criminal). second time i've had a window broken there, and i'm pleased to say that it gets easier to deal with emotionally. i wasn't really surprised when it happened or even that angry about it now.
i didn't even bother filing a police report. they would never be able to catch the criminal masterminds behind this malicious act, despite the fact that they would probably stop all current investigations to focus all their resources and manpower to bringing the window-smasher to justice. i just don't want to put the city through all the drama and media attention that tends to accumulate with such a high-profile crime situation.
old patrick swayze's character Dalton really knew what he was doing, buying that old beater when he went to work at the Double Deuce (please see: House, Road).
Currently on the white board behind the bar: Maybe partying will help!
ok. going to help some fucktards catch a buzz. as always, contact me or send me something wacky at hotwatercornbreadblog@gmail.com if you have a moment. and thank you for your comment, Big Dumb Chris. you represent 100% of my subscribed fan base as of my third posting. god bless you, sir.
i'm on it.
dave
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