Zeepdoggie & The GringO

2008-05-28T07:11:00.009-05:00

Have you seen this idiot? This is just one of his interesting and thought-provoking articles, all about how the stereotypes of romantic comedies and sitcoms are real and how we can avoid them by just doing whatever he says. I decided to send this article to The Professor, along with a response from someone who thinks that men are not from Mars and women are not from Venus, and that we actually have a lot in common, and that stuff like this belongs in the dirt of a cattle ranch. And since I love sharing the personal and trivial with you all, you get a gander! Lucky you!

1) Done.
2) I have grilled, you know. Seriously, there are plans.
3) I am not big on fire in the house.
4) Check!
5) Took care of that bad boy earlier - I hope you got it!
6) Who's picking baby up?
7) No.
8) I do the laundry, and I do believe I have offered to iron your shirts; it's not my fault you like to look all sloppy.
9) If the bathroom is a wreck, it's not because of my stuff.
10) We don't, so check!
11) Not really big on the shared shower thing... Sorry.
12) I just want to point out the "her backrub" to "his backrub" ratio is easily ten to one here.
13) "We're going out tonight, honey, and you're driving!" Our relationship has a different dynamic that doesn't necessarily encourage my solo planning.
14) Our first date was in a bar, so we should go to bars one night a week? Our second date was watching TV at your place, so we're good there! Our third date involved Christmas...what the hell do we do with that?! Could the class you taught and that I took be considered one long date? Should I take a class you're teaching? This is getting impractical...
15) "Hello?"
"Hi, baby!"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm calling in the middle of the day to let you know that I am thinking about you!"
"I'm teaching my class, idiot!"
"Oh... So, I guess I shouldn't mention that I'm touching myself?"

Another little tidbit of note; did you notice on the bottom of the page, the first two articles?
# 10 Fatal Online Dating Errors That Men Make
# 14 Fatal Online Dating Errors That Women Make

First of all, fatal? These mistakes kill people?!? Listen to Douche Wingnut, folks! People are dying!

And notice the numbers. Our sensitive male claims that women make 40% more errors than men. Not that I'm arguing, but I would have expected a complementary list or something from Mr. Surrogate Period...

-Zeepdoggie

From Frankfurters to Fondue

2008-05-27T20:22:00.009-05:00

Yeah yeah, I know, I haven’t written in forever; I felt that, since I now have this fancy diploma that I should get a job where I actually have to use it. More on that later. I want to talks about something that I keep telling myself is trivial, but it keeps popping up as not as trivial as I think.

Have you ever heard of ancestry.com? Fun fact: it turns out that the site is run by Mormons (try this for fun, kids: take out the second “m”!), with the purpose of potential converts converting their dead relatives. Apparently, there is a tenet in their religion that allows them to do this. That’s kinda scary. What if you’re there, enjoying oneness with the universe, or you’re in Valhalla fighting the eternal battle and looking forward to this evening’s fornicating with ale wenches, or maybe you’re in the Catholic Heaven with the saints and halos and crap like that, when all of a sudden you get whisked out of there and find yourself in the Mormon Heaven? What if that sucks? I imagine it involves special underwear…

Anyhoo, The Professor has the super-whammy-dyne subscription to it, which allows her to look up ancestors in other countries and stuff. So one Sunday, hanging out at her place, I decide to give it a shot. I had been told that my family was German all the way back, after some point emigrating from Denmark. There were all these cool stories that the Zeepcousins and Zeepdaddy told me; my favorite is about how we were involved in the Third Crusades, in a leadership role, not just fodder for the Muslims.

Well, it turns out that they are all wrong. I’m Swiss. There is a direct line, from father to father, going back to the early 1500’s. And it’s most likely correct, since my family tends to pick some pretty oddball first names for sons. I am Swiss.

I am the first person to tell people that I am American; I was born here, I will most likely die here; I was willing to die for her when I served in her Navy, and I have a passport from this country. I always identify with the USA, and I root for our teams in the Olympic and world championships of the various sports. But there is a part of me, which is wholly American, to want to know where I “came from;” not the neighborhood I grew up in, but beyond that. And since Zeepmomma is British (Irish, Welsh and Scottish, so you just know there is some English in there somewhere – I saw Braveheart; I know what prima nocta is!) the side I most readily identified with was the German. It explained my desire for efficiency, my love of beer and sausage, as well as the desire to conquer France and my extreme xenophobia (aHaHaH! That’s a joke, son…).

But now, there’s this feeling that, since I am not German, I have lost a bit of my identity. It’s weird. Instead of being the big, strong belligerent nation, I am now neutral. Instead of a xenophobic invader, I am a welcoming banker. With chocolate in there, somewhere.

In the end, I am still me; still a bit belligerent, still willing to conquer French women, still anal about being efficient and on time - hey! The Swiss make good watches! I guess I have embraced a substance of my new heritage already!

-Zeepdoggie

School's Out!

2008-04-15T09:46:00.001-05:00

I am rapidly approaching the end of my student teaching. For fourteen weeks I’ve worked with kids and seen the whole range of adolescence expressed in my kiddy-boos. Yes, it’s been a lot of fun working with them, even Bucky and his crew of idiot misfits that have stayed behind after his transfer.

I’ll miss the students whose grades have improved over 30% from last semester. I’ll miss seventh period and it’s collection of characters. I’ll miss the mouthy little girl in the back row who gave me grief because that’s how she shows she cares. I’ll miss the little fucker who called me a dickhead: the only time he was right in class, not that I’ll tell him that. I’ll miss the kid who didn’t have a response after I asked him just how EXACTLY he was going to make something of himself other than to start buckling down and doing his work. I’ll miss Li’l Bubbly telling the newest troublemaker, “Don’t come in here with your hot mess; we got rid of Bucky, we’ll get rid of you, too!” I’ll miss teaching inner-city black kids about ice hockey, and giving them extra credit for giving me an interesting fact about the ‘Hawks whenever I wore a jersey.

I’ll really miss reading their papers and seeing them reach for something outside their experience, like when Star Shine talked about putting someone on a “pedal stool;” that effort got her an A.

I’ll miss them teaching me about learning.

Some things I’ll take away:
• There is always time to listen to a kid, no matter what;
• A white man calling his girlfriend “my boo” is ALWAYS funny to black folks;
• It’s all about effort;
• It’s really easy to overestimate your students and to underestimate your effect on them;
• Students will dam the Chicago River if you tell them it’s extra credit, but wouldn’t add a thimbleful of water if it’s an assignment;
• As much as I wish it weren’t true, motivation comes from within;
• It might not be a bad idea to rethink the high school set-up so that everybody, from student to janitor to administration, can see the relevance and importance of what is being taught.

For everything that has happened in the last fourteen weeks, I will never be able to thank my students, the best teachers I ever had, enough for what I learned.

-Zeepdoggie

Art Geek Does Sports, Nation Applauds

2008-03-31T13:59:00.003-05:00

I'm sitting in the stands, because who the hell stands if there are seats free right in front of them, thinking to myself: "a period is 20 minutes long? Wait, how many are there? Is hockey the one with three innings-sections-parts to it? Yeah, its gotta be.... Should I get a hot dog or an Italian beef?... Why do I know the name Tony Esposito?...Yeah I'll get the Italian beef."

It isn't that I hate hockey or don't like sports necessarily. I'm from Texas so hockey didn't come up as often in conversation as that golden calf we call "football." High school, college, professional, whatever level it was, if it was football, it was discussed. But not by me. I didn't play, didn't want to play, and didn't really care. I asked loudly "who's Tom Landry?" while in a grocery store, and I think about half the men there wanted to kick my ass on principle. I just went a different path in my interests is all. While my peers built up rosters and stats in their memories I pursued the subjects that interested me the most: academics, drawing, self love, reading and playing video games for example.

As I grew up I came to associate sports participants and fans with the moronic sacks of flesh that paraded around the halls of school to the confounding (to me anyways) adoration of the less imaginative. I just didn't get it. Until I moved to Chicago.

Something about this city is just infectious when it comes to sports. My first year here the Sox had their parade for winning the world series. I lived near Wrigley and witnessed the congestion caused by the mobs of blue clad fans. Memories of Michael Jordan commercials resurfaced to my mind. This is just a sports town. Despite my efforts to fight it, I was drawn in. I'll never remember the stats or the the full rosters but I recognize names. I actually knew most of the sports teams when the Hot Wheels (a die hard sports nut) quizzed me by city. I think I'm getting it. There is some kind of pride found in your team making it, some concerned support when they don't, and just the camaraderie of those who agree with you is surprisingly nice.

I've gone to baseball games, more every year. But I'd never, NEVER, been to a hockey game, and I took the chance to finally go to one. It was damn fun. I don't exactly understand why Tony Esposito was there since they retired his jersey in the early 80s, but I chanted with the rest. I may not have been as enthusiastic with the high fives and the ass patting going on around me (no means no Asshole), but any chance to make fun of funny sounding names and boo strangers from a safe distance (no throat slicing for me please) shouldn't be passed up.

CUBS!! Check. Sox. Check. Blackhawks. Check.

Next up: Bulls and Bears with maybe a smack of Fire added.

::GringO::

Cheap Seats

2008-03-20T08:29:00.005-05:00

Last night, The GringO, the World's Biggest Asshole and I went to watch the 'Hawks destroy the Caps 5-0. It was a special night for me, since it was Tony Esposito night, and anyone who knows me knows that I am a goalie at heart; Tony-O, in particular, has a very special place in my life. I got to see him play only once; I was eight and he shut out the Flyers (at the time, my dad's second most-hated team). That game made want to be a goalie so bad. Forget Savvie's two goals and two assists, or Behn Wilson's epic pummeling of Dave Brown; I walked out of there inspired by 28 shots attempted and 28 saves made.

We sat in the cheap seats: SRO all the way! We had a great time; excellent view of the ice, and got to hang out with Berserker Bill, kicker of throats and crusher of uvulae, and the Trouble brothers, Sean and Dave, who TWBA hit in the nuts with his folding chair during the first five minutes of the game. I guess nobody puts baby in the corner...

Cheaps are great. You pay ten bucks and you hang out with great fans who know the game and the team as well as you do; you drink beer and you scream as loud as you can; you hurl obscenities at the opposing team because, in the cheaps, that is what you do. My favorites:

"Ovechkin is a poor man's Pavel Bure!"- So spoke Dave and his sore testes.
"Ovechkin is Russian for 'foreskin!'" - I'm quite proud of that one!
"I don't care what happens on the ice, so long as someone KICKS HIM IN THE THROAT!" - Bill makes his mom proud with that one.

A truly fantastic evening. You should go; we could make asses of ourselves and just ride the wave of drunken, belligerent bliss that is an SRO hockey experience!

-Zeepdoggie

Working in some wrinkles

2008-03-12T07:40:00.003-05:00

Thanks to Viagra and Cialis, old folks homes are becoming hotbeds of iniquity. Right now, someone's grandma and grandpa are hoping the kids will just get the hell out of their rooms so that they can get to some righteous boning.

I imagine that doggy-style is the most popular position in the old folks home, what with the old ladies already bent double and everything. The old men must be thinking, “Thank God for osteoporosis!”

-Zeepdoggie

Thank You for Choosing Kite, You Sad Sad Man

2008-03-03T18:39:00.004-06:00

Last week I received my tax refund check, much to my delight. Large sums of money showing up in the mail for my personal benefit have a tendency to make me giddy for some strange reason. While throwing wads of cash here and there this past week I was reminded of my first refund check in Chicago. I had even written a journal entry about it, and that is what I'm sharing with you starting....now.

4-18-06

After a night of heavy drinking with Rolling Thunder I went to Hell today. A big boss is coming tomorrow so we had to stay until at least 10:30 recovering. In the midst of closing Irish McDrunky stopped by with Mike, a bartender from O'Neils, to flip me off and indicate through subtle sign language that I should join them for a drink.
What followed was various varieties of spirits. I was somewhat snookered but Irish was gone, as he had been drinking for roughly 8 hours. His stagger was impressive, his speech only half intelligible and restraint practically nonexistent. While walking to the Red Line a homeless man with one eye approached and Irish flatly said "I'm a Republican. I pretend that you don't even exist." I thought this particularly humorous, even if he relived it 5 times afterward.
On the train we sat and chatted a bit, then he got off at Belmont. This girl came in, hands shaking, gaunt faced with a blank wide-eyed expression as she openly looked at me. As we began to move she pulled out a packet of Kite tobacco with rolling papers. She proceeded to roll 5 cigarettes within 4 or 5 stops. I simply stared in amazement as I had never seen someone hand roll anything. She tucked the last one behind her ear as we pulled into her stop, and when she left she left the packet.
I'm trying to quit smoking and haven't bought any cigarettes for around a week and hadn't smoked any for 2 days. Feeling the craving I snatched what I saw as free tobacco on my way out of the train car. When I got home I checked my mail and praise God, my refund check had arrived!
Craving a celebratory portion of substance and not having alcohol I decided to hand roll my first cigarettes. However, on inspecting the pouch I found there were no more papers. What to do? I looked down at the counter and saw an empty package of gum. The empty pack had spewed out some slips of the white paper that is wrapped around the sticks of gum, outside the foil. I determined these white slips were good enough.
Having never rolled joints myself all I had to go on was mimicking the girl on the train and Johnny Depp interviews. I sprinkled some tobacco, folded over one side of the flap and tried to make a cigarette. Due to the paper's thickness and formally folded state the tube had angled sides instead of a clearly cylindrical form. I licked the sided of the remaining flap, trying to glue it down with my saliva, even though there was no adhesive strip on the paper like you would find on actual rolling papers. It barely worked but at least I had something. The sorriest looking cigarette ever.
I went outside to smoke it. I puffed on my hand fashioned monstrosity, noting the flavor of mentholated tobacco...and burning paper with just a hint of sophisticated watermelon (the gum flavor). The aftertaste was bitter and towards the end the smoke burned my throat and mouth.
Just stopping and actually thinking about what I was doing made me realize how sad and pathetic it really was. So I made one more then went to bed.

A Proud Moment

2008-02-08T19:47:00.000-06:00

The Whore, wait, no, THE FUCKING WHORE, contacted me via myspace. I was a ball of sinew, anxiety, rage, and indecisiveness. Should I talk to her and hear her out, like a big mature man? Should I unleash all the anger and pure black viscous hatred that has built up and congealed over the past two and a half years, tell her everthing I always wanted to? (see: I was hoping you were dead. You should lose your kids. You are a whore and a cunt. If I ever see you again I WILL spit in your face, and if I see your husband I will smash his face into a mass of pulp attached to a neck. You are evil....etc etc etc.)

But what would be the benefit of either exchange really? She wouldn't let me finish a rampage of hate, and I wouldn't be willing to hear a single damn apology she offered. If that makes me a bitter foolish man then so be it, and I feel the better for it. Instead this is the only exchange I allowed (read from bottom to top for correct order, but the first thing you read is the most important anyway):

I guessed as such but wanted to be certain. There are only three things I'm going to address:

1) I hope your kids are healthy and happy.

2) I have absolutely no interest in the well being of you or the rest of your family.

3) I have even less interest in hearing or reading what you have to say.

::The GringO::

2008-01-31T06:35:00.000-06:00

I had movie popcorn with butter and now my hand smells like I finger-banged the Land O' Lakes squaw.

::GringO::

There is a name to my pain...and it is Bucky

2008-01-28T18:29:00.000-06:00

Tell me if you heard this one: a student sits in class, and s/he is bored. The lesson is not challenging; it’s just more of the same rigmarole that s/he has heard time and again. So the student, bright, bored and frustrated, acts out: s/he makes rude comments; the student wanders from his/her seat; s/he challenges the teacher’s authority with verbal jabs and by ignoring the lesson.

Sound familiar? We’ve all seen these kids in our classrooms; hell, some of us were those kids. I know I was.

Now you know that kid? Well, I have that kid’s opposite.

There is a kid, whom I will call Bucky, who is just about as dumb a person as I have met. I pity the dumb as I also envy them; they may not know what’s going on around them, but they seem happy that way and that’s fine, at least for them. Bucky is so dumb that he fucks up spacing out. If they gave out grades for lunch, Bucky would have an incomplete. Bucky is one more piece of proof that intelligence and jaw muscularity are directly proportional. Bucky drives me insane with his inability to think beyond the seven seconds his brain is currently failing to cope with. Bucky is failing P. E. for the third straight year. Bucky is so frustratingly ignorant and rude that I feel that I deserve sainthood for not wearing his blood like sloppily fitted crimson gloves. I find myself hoping, daydreaming, that Bucky tries something violent after school, so I can throw him into a trashcan so that he can begin his work on the rest of his life.

But I can’t do that. I am Bucky’s teacher, and while everyone else has given up on him (I’m not saying they’re wrong for doing so, mind you), I cannot. So I told him to meet with me after school so that we can discuss this day’s outburst and try to find reason and peace in the class. He didn’t show, and that’s a good thing, because then I didn’t have to face a moral quandary.

Had Bucky shown up, I would have tried to tell him that he can still make something of himself, and that high school is the last chance he would have to do so. I would have said that college is still a possibility for him, that he could achieve what he wanted, but only if he put his nose to the grindstone and worked with me and his other teachers; he could graduate with a GPA worth remembering.

Since he didn’t show up, I didn’t have to worry about lying to the little moron. Except for the GPA bit. I doubt anyone would forget a student who could win the James Blutarsky Award for Academic Embarrassment.

I think that what bothers me so much about Bucky is that he is the contradiction to what I am taught about students. What I am taught as a teaching student is that, no matter what, you don’t give up. You keep trying, reaching, and someday you’ll get through once you apply the perfect pedagogy to the student that was nearly custom fit for her/him. What I am seeing is that, once the students give up, it is almost impossible to get them back. There is no real extrinsic motivation; it’s all internal, and it’s all self-generated. I didn’t put out that fire, so I have no idea how to rekindle it.

That, and I have little patience for undeserved arrogance.

-Zeepdoggie

A Grand Bon Mot or Deux

2008-01-15T11:07:00.000-06:00

While hanging with The GringO, a little nugget fell out of my mouth that lends yet more support to why we should have a podcast:

Z: What's he singing?
G: "We're only a lifetime away" (in a very ugly falsetto)
Z: Wow. Deep. but not as deep as the asshole those lyrics were farted out of.

"I tell ya, I can't think of a more humiliating and disgusting way to die than to be pierced by an interplanetary shit-sickle."

From whence that issued, many more as witty were spoken and forgotten. Admit it, you want to hear more.

-Zeepdoggie

Closing the Door on '07

2008-01-11T09:08:00.000-06:00

Things I saw randomly walking around Chicago last year:

A raptor of some kind taking a pigeon in mid-flight;
A businessman shitting himself on the corner of Madison and Wacker;
A bunch of guys pretending to be Elvis to raise money for cystic fibrosis;
One human finger;
More than twenty used condoms in the street;
A young lady getting finger-banged on a tour boat;
The largest pile of dog shit I had ever seen (you could’ve lost a toddler in it);
More human excrement than I would ever care to see;
Two people trying to push open a pull door immediately after watching someone fail in the attempt;
A street performer falling in the middle of his dance routine;
A huge stack of AOL Installer disks (I had forgotten those even existed!);
A Hipster boy, while trying to rearrange his package in those insanely skinny jeans, tearing a huge hole in the crotch of said ridiculous fashion trend, spilling his fake junk onto the sidewalk (I think it was a pair of socks);
A kid suffering splash damage from a horse taking a crap (he cried and cried and I laughed and laughed; seriously, Mom, what are you doing letting your kid get that close to a horse’s browneye?);
A woman in a fur coat shouting “I HAVE MACE!” to no one in particular;
Three rich white girls arguing about who was more “street;”
Burned clothes surrounding the eternal flame in Daley Plaza.

Wow, but I saw a lot of shit last year, often literally.

What did you spot?

-Zeepdoggie

Gayest Death Ever

2008-01-09T21:47:00.000-06:00

A Brief (1) Explanation of This Drawing

Having exhausted my supply of DVD’s I was able to stand watching yet again I knew I needed to do something to occupy my mind. Crosswords or Sudoku would require thought and effort to draw upon certain resources of my brain that I just did not feel like tapping. What to do then? Why not a drawing? Well, OK, a drawing, but what kind? I have made portraits for a long while and though laying out the muscle and skin wrapped around a skull, then altering the arrangement of said elements, is a challenge, after a while it becomes tiresome (2).

Thus, with such thoughts and feelings I decided a figure drawing would be a nice challenge. I prefer to draw female (3) figures, but as I do not possess a readily available and willing body of the feminine persuasion (4), my own masculine build would have to serve my needs. What kind of pose? How about walking with two objects being carried, one in each hand? (5)

The lighting was easy to arrange, the topless pose easily captured with a digital camera, and viewable as a drawing resource. I laid out the drawing in an outline only form. I stepped away, blinked, made a snarl-like face by raising the left side of my upper lip, thus also altering the position of my left nostril as well, while simultaneously raising my right eyebrow. This is the thought that produced such a facial expression: “Man, that looks gay.”(6)

Though I wanted to create a figure piece I knew this was one I would not want for myself. Then who would want it? Eureka! The CSM (7)! Why, I still owed him a drawing for the T.V. he gave me and a warming gift for his new apartment! This decided I went to work altering the body, making it even more intimidatingly testosterone injected than my own (8). I added a portion of lower body, also nude, complete with tasteful and subtle, yet accurate, genitalia (9). The body shaded in, I needed some type of head. But why make it a normal head?

Then it occurred to me that the end of this month has a holiday commonly called Halloween, an English bastardization of the German Hallowe’en (10). Death! Blood! Pumpkins! Wait, no, just death! How about having a cowl emerge from the shoulder, a throwback to the image of the Grim Reaper who is bedecked in a black robe? “The Gayest Death Ever” (11) was thus completed. I hope you enjoy it.

Practical Information

Created using charcoal (12) pencil on acid free sketch paper. It is a standard size suitable for cheap framing.

End Notes

This is not very brief actually. Quite long really, quite.
Just as this writing style is tiresome.
A term used to describe the gender of the species that bears children (with the exception of the Sea Horse, in which species the father has the babies).
Keeping someone against their will is apparently a crime.
Allow yourself to contemplate and decide for yourself what the objects are (though given the sexual preference of the intended recipient, I would nudge you toward a type of novelty phallus).
“Gay" is the current slang vernacular used to describe homosexuality. It can be used in several ways in a sentence, be it noun, verb, or adjective. Other forms are possible though not as commonly used as these.
CSM refers to the pseudonym assigned to this friend by Zeepdoggie.
A great Challenge I assure you. I was once assigned “hottest bod” while standing in a group of third graders (13).
Notice some slight indication of a dorsal vein, and pubic hair, the only kind this Death has oddly enough.
Absolutely true.
In light of this title perhaps the method would involve a severe act of sodomy using the tools of his trade (see (5)).
This is a substance commonly found beneath the topsoil of Earth. It is formed by the decomposition and of carbon-based plant life which is then buried and through time becomes compressed and is, atomically speaking, altered. It is worth note that coal is still used as a power source due to its combustibility which produces the energy to move turbines which provide power for electronic devices. The longer it has taken coal to form the cleaner it burns. Thus we find anthracite coal which in appearance and texture is similar to that of volcanic glass, though created in an entirely different process. If coal has been compressed long enough, with enough heat produced as well by said process, diamonds will form. Diamonds are the hardest of all natural minerals, as well as the most valuable (14).
Don’t ask.
If you read all of that, I will laugh at you (15).
See (10)

::GringO::

OGDC and the Kids Tenders

2007-12-25T17:06:00.000-06:00

Typically one would expect a holiday themed entry on the day of Christmas, but the problem inherent is that you limit the relevance of the writing. Though stories of twinkling lights, epiphanies, gluttony, family, love, and gravity defying mammals all make good fare for writing, I’m going to write about something which is different yet, I feel, equally worthy: perversion.

My Dad has significant hearing loss in both ears. To allow him to enjoy watching television we put on the closed captioning. As the action occurs we get blocks of black with white letters across the screen, sometimes accurate, sometimes giving you reason to wonder if child labor is used in this capacity in Texas (I believe in a child’s right to work damn it!). Yesterday, Christmas Eve, some family members and I caught a boxing championship on some network. Sadly, closed captioning isn’t used to cover sounds as well, so no “thwaps” or “pffts” or “coo coo cachou.’ They did relate the commentary of announcers and officials. “He went at him like an octopus!” was one such line. Shortly later, the following words were said, but more importantly, printed on the screen: “He likes it when a guy comes in hard!”

Seeing the words allowed me to take them out of context in my mind and, like any self respecting man of intelligence, twist them into an entirely different meaning. You may think this is only my own immature, or rather quite powerful, ability to pervert innocent statements. But it wasn’t just me! My whole family laughed. We are all talented and imaginative.

I was reminded of a few years ago when my sister and I discovered the joy of soundboards on the internet. We came across clips for a show which I will call “Oso in the Grande Depressed Casa” to avoid issues with libel and such. OGDC was a children’s program combining actors donning fluffy costumes, puppetry and cheap animation. When looking at the sound clips that were available, every part of my being that loves to laugh tingled and my perverse sense of humor ejaculated forth from my hand onto the mouse, into the computer, and out of the speakers. Phrases of pure perverted gold trickled and dripped from my brain and I created many deliciously decadent statements. “Its too big Oso, it’s too big! Mgghhh!”, “Let me lick it Oso let me lick it!”, “I’m coming, I’m COMING!” and maybe a few others I can’t quite remember.

Some would say this is repulsive. I say it is alluring. Others would say they detest such perversion. I say lay back, open up, take a deep breath and just get ready to take it. Like it or not many people have a sense of humor. This is one of the best parts of a human personality. We may get shit on, things may not go as planned, and you can get red dots in places you don’t want (hypothetically speaking of course). Be it saintly or satanic, anything can be funny. After all if you can’t enjoy a menu item at a movie tavern called “Kids Tenders”* you can’t enjoy life.

::GringO::

*Real menu item.

Christmas

2007-12-25T17:05:00.000-06:00

Seventeen weeks of planning, preparation, and perspiration

Seventeen weeks of second-guessing, double-checking, and

over-analyzing.

Seventeen weeks of worry, and hope, and laughs, and reading and writing and stress and

cramped muscles and headaches.

Seventeen weeks of running from the Blue Line to Lincoln Hall so as to never be late.

Seventeen weeks of driving GringO and The World’s Biggest Asshole mad

with my schemes and my fretting.

Seventeen weeks, waiting for this.

Plan A: 27 August 2007 – 23 December 2007

As the guy no one elected but is still the President would say, “Mission Accomplished.”

-Zeepdoggie

Mad ups to the Crunk Monk Mafia and to The GringO and TWBA for all their support. Without you...

New School...

2007-12-12T03:40:00.001-06:00

...new banner. Look at banner, person!

Old School...

2007-12-12T03:39:00.001-06:00

We kill everything. Even expectations.

Look What I Can Do!

2007-12-11T22:05:00.000-06:00

Several things I am oddly proud of:

I can grow a great goatee;
I somehow attract extremely talented artists into my circle of friends;
My ability to leave a skidmark after even the most vigorous, industrious flushes;
That I always have a nugget of information about obscure topics;
My death metal vocal stylings;
My encyclopedic knowledge of the psychologies and philosophies of comic book characters;
I have never completed any writings of James Joyce;
That I make people laugh with inappropriate comments;
That no one can insult me as well as I can;
My belches are both sonorous and have surprising longevity;
That I can enjoy with equal fervor Spice Girls and Slayer, especially one after the other;
I have expressive eyebrows.

So, whaddaya got?

-Zeepdoggie

Having sex with a pregnant woman bears a 50% chance of me nailing two chicas at once.

2007-12-10T22:58:00.000-06:00

-Zeepdoggie

thanks, cookie!

Mmm...boot leather

2007-12-05T10:44:00.001-06:00

I was working in Hell on Sunday when I did the unthinkable, the unrecoverable, the unforgivable, but yet still understandable, most feared act in all of customer service.

A rather bulky gentleman was looking through a table of shitty clothes that I had just folded, in the men's department, checking for sizes and such. I was annoyed so I walked over and said, to his back, "May I help you, sir?"
And he turned and stared at me. So I smiled and said, "Do you need any help, sir?" And he continued to stare. I stared back. Insert sound effect from Tom & Jerry of two piano keys corresponding to blinks.

And then I smelled what I was stepping in.

"I mean, ma'am?"

SHE continued to stare, and I felt her piggy little eyes boring into my back as I walked away.

When I revealed what I did to Wonder Woman, the coworker in closest proximity, she said, "Do you think you'll get fired?" And I thought about it. I have said some really bizarre and belligerent shit to both customers and staff while in my tenure at Hell, but I had yet to fully mistake someone's gender. At least, out loud.
So I answered, "Well, no, because I think that it's neither the worst thing I have ever said here and that I am most likely not alone in thinking that SHE'S a dude."

Two points in my defense: I have had gender differentiation issues before. I remember thinking that RuPaul was one hot cup of chocolate when he broke on the scene. I was twenty, what the fuck did I know? And the person SHE most resembled is this guy, from the back and the front:
I challenge anyone to be able to tell me a dude is not a dude when said individual looks like Mr. Color Commentary himself. SHE even had the haircut.

Thanks to the growing demographic of bull-dike lesbians shopping at the store, it will most likely happen again. And you know what? It will be just as funny then, too.

-Zeepdoggie

The Last Time..

2007-11-26T21:48:00.000-06:00

I saw a pussy, it was a black cat crossing my path.

::The GringO::

Deja Vu

2007-11-23T20:33:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches!

I had the same conversation with two very different people, The World's Biggest Asshole and my sister Pinky, in the last 48 hours. It went like this:

The World's Biggest Asshole/Pinky: “We know what Plan A stands for.”
Z: “Yup.”
“So what’s Plan B?”
“Boobs.”
“And Plan C?”
“Plan C stands for ‘crazy!’”

Enjoy today, for while we feast, it is genocide for the turkey.

-Zeepdoggie

Naughty Thoughts

2007-11-22T08:03:00.000-06:00

After a long hiatus from thinking dirty, I recently had several epiphanies concerning my most favored of subjects.

I can think of a lot of good reasons to date a teacher; the first on my mind is the potential pillow talk.

“The more you fool around, the longer we’ll be here.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you finish your work!”
“How does that make you feel?”
“You’ll just have to keep doing that until you get it perfected.”
“You’re behaving like an animal!”
“You did a great job!”
“Now, for extra credit…”

Well, it’s got to beat lawyers any day.

“Were you injured in an accident?”
“Prior bad acts are admissible in your case.”
“Objection!”

A little FYI for the ladies & guys with a penchant to fellate: with a cock in your mouth, your dirty talk sounds like “aaaoowwww,” like you’re romancing a sexy puppy.

It’s a good thing I like pale skin, cuz if I didn’t then my masturbating in front of the mirror would be creepy.

-Zeepdoggie

Radioheadache

2007-11-21T22:11:00.000-06:00

Radiohead sucks. Why should I be interested in the music and lyrics when Thom Yorke is clearly bored with them? Seriously, the guy sounds like he’s doing all this stuff because he’s been told he can’t go back to sleep until he’s finished recording.

(Scene: some recording studio in England. Weather forecast is misery with a chance of mildewed melancholy, winds from the sad at forty tears per hour)
“Thom? Thom. Thom!” (kicks couch)
zzznnnrrrraggRRAGAgSNORT! “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“Sing the song, mate!”
“What, again?”
“Yeah; it takes more than one song to make an album.”
“All right, but one take and then I’m going back to bed.”
“Fine. Put your pants* on, Thom.”
“Jesus Christ, but you are a needy bugger, yeah?”

I just don't get the appeal of slow, offbeat musical drudgery with groggily atonal whining serving as 'singing.' Maybe I'm too American to understand. Or maybe I like to look at the sky instead of my shoelaces; maybe I live in my space instead of on MySpace; maybe I like to be entertained and not bored, especially if I am paying for it; maybe I don't confuse emotional disorders with genius; maybe I think life can actually be a lot of fun every once in a while, and that music can, and sometimes should, reflect that.

Or maybe they really do suck and a lot of people are deluding themselves for reasons that I cannot understand.

I like to give my readers options.

-Zeepdoggie

*Yes, I do know what ‘pants’ are in England.

Use the Force, Zeep

2007-11-17T08:10:00.000-06:00

The Light Side

The ‘Hawks are doing well.
My pull box at Dark Tower has produced nothing but amazing comic books.

Whedon and Cassaday’s X-Men story continues to be the best I’ve read (here’s a sample, but be cautious; this may make you like comics!), the new Thor and Atom are great, and Mouse Guard is simply stunning. If you don't like comics, check out Mouse Guard.

Speaking of Joss Whedon, he will have a new show soon once the networks and other idiots give the writers what they deserve. While reality TV may seem like a good idea, that’s just because most shows aren’t written by Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, or Joss Whedon.
Both women I am pursuing are showing enough interest in me to keep me interested.
I know Kung Faux.
I am still working on the boats, and I am still loving it. I am the Deck Monkey!
My co-teachings/observations are going great, confirming that all the bullshit I have put up with from UIC’s Council on Teacher Education has so far been worth it.
I’ve made some friends that I really hope to have for the rest of my life. Crunk Monk Mafia holla!

I have spent more time with my old friends recently than I have in the previous months, so the friends front is going very well.

The Dark Side

I need to get serious about grocery shopping.
I’ve reawakened my coffee addiction.
Since both women are showing interest, I cannot just move on one.

This might not be a bad thing, since it will force me to do the friendship first thing, which I wanted to do anyway. And it's probably best to wait until the end of the semester. But now I walk a keen edge, and my balance isn't all that good…

The Bears are sucking like a Thai whore with a fifty spit-taped to her forehead.
CTE’s bullshit is still bullshit.
I still work in Hell.

The boats won't go year 'round, and since I need the cash to woo the ladies and pay bills and whatnot, I must take more hours in Hell in order to make ends meet.

The dark side will always be defeated by the light side, because bad is dumb. Shitty paraphrase, I know, but fuck it, I am in a good mood for once; let me enjoy it while it lasts.

-Zeepdoggie

two posts in one day! how lucky are you? very lucky, indeed. if only gringo would get off of his dead ass and write something. -z.

Pictures, With Words

2007-11-17T07:40:00.000-06:00

In case you didn’t know, the World’s Biggest Asshole has a blog now. Yup, he’s decided that inflicting his thoughts on those of us who have proven too stupid to run away just isn’t satisfying anymore; he’s going to force his bizarre mindset and reality onto the general population as well. Luckily, there is a carrot that comes with that stick; he is going to give us beautiful images on a fairly oftenish basis. So far there’s been at least an image per entry. His photos are like pizza; even when they’re bad, they’re still good.

Something I learned from his blog is that now he drinks tea. It reminded me of something. The last line says it all. Jesus fucking Christ.

-Zeepdoggie

The Plan B Pill is the "Oh shit!" handlebar of casual sex.

2007-11-15T22:03:00.000-06:00

I Blew Out My Sequitr Sequencer

2007-11-14T10:18:00.000-06:00

I have no problem with my source of food being ugly. I wouldn’t kiss a pig, but I’d slather it in applesauce.

The first person to eat shellfish was starving.

What the fuck is wrong with a man who leaves his love when she needs him most?

“You’ll find her when you’re not looking.” I have heard this several times from several, very different women. This statement alone just proves how little women know about men, and just how differently our brains have been programmed to function. We are always looking, ladies. Always; on the train, at work, after work, in bars, in cars, with green eggs and ham. We look, we hunt, we stalk, we seek, and we track you. I can think of only two periods in my life where I wasn’t looking, and that is quite a low number amongst my peers. And only women would think that passivity is the way to solve a problem. Advice to ladies: don’t say that to a guy; don’t sit around and wait for a goddamned thing, because the only thing that is sure to come is death.

One of the best things to see is a total stranger realize that s/he has just shit his/her pants.

A cure for my sporadic insomnia: I had a brief but good conversation with Professor Hottie after class, and I slept like a baby last night. She really is pretty.

The GringO and I are working on a book. Interested? Let us know and maybe we’ll put some of it up on the bloggy-blog-thing. We will be selling it, since it’s not free, and you can’t live off of what you can kill in Chicago.

A reason it is awesome to be a guy: the world is your urinal.

If you don’t know who Taylor Mali is, just know that every English teacher in America thinks of him as their Superman. Check him out.

Professional wrestling is as gay as three guys wearing chaps blowing four guys wearing fairy wings.

Speaking of gay: the coolest thing I saw this Halloween was a couple dressed as Quicksilver and The Flash. It is most definitely my favorite couple-themed costume set EVER.

I really like the shoes I wore yesterday. They’re comfy and they make my feet look like dinner rolls. My shoes look like the shoes Bill Watterson draws.

-Zeepdoggie

I think it might be good to date a woman who's about to die.

2007-11-10T00:10:00.000-06:00

The Roulette Wheel of My Brain

2007-11-07T08:09:00.000-06:00

Some of the thoughts I remember just before falling asleep last night:

I doubt the writer’s strike will affect “Smallville,” since it is written by retarded chimps kept on a perpetual high of marijuana and Pixie Stix, which as we all know are no longer afforded membership in the WGA unless they are working with, for, or are, Judd Apatow.

What’s funnier, a fart or a burp? I say a fart, until it is possible for people to shit themselves while burping.

The English word “army” has its root in a word similar to the German “Armen,” which means “the poor.”

Favorite “Futurama” quote I was able to sneak in while greeting in Hell: “If for any reason you're unhappy with our service, I hate you.”

The Blue Line, between Western and Austin stops, rocks and shakes like it’s being raped by Godzilla after a four-hour binge of Viagra and trucker speed.

-Zeepdoggie

The Need for a Mic, Part I

2007-11-06T22:03:00.000-06:00

While hanging out after work with The GringO's new crush Gun-Mol, the following conversation took place:

Mol: Yeah, I don't mind posing nude for you, but it would make me uncomfortable.
G: What would make you uncomfortable?
M: Well, working with you after you've seen me naked would be weird.
Z: Shit, Mol, it's not like you'd be the first coworker he's seen naked. I think there's a membership card and a special discount at Hell or something for y'all now.

Yeah, while the food and beer cost me $45, the opportunity to flirt with my new favorite waitress Mary Katherine and render The GringO speechless was worth so much more.

Give her credit, she took it like a champ. A wide-eyed, punch-drunk champ, but a champ none the less.

-Zeepdoggie

In the Arms of Morpheus

2007-11-03T20:14:00.000-05:00

I was unable to sleep for seven days. A week, from one Tuesday to the next, with less than fourteen total hours of sleep; why is what you are probably wondering. Well, it’s a simple word with an insane number of connotations.

Death.

Just as my eyes would close, I would speculate about the end of life, which I cannot avoid and live in utter and total fear of. As a man who believes in God (I will go no further, because what else I believe in is none of your damned business), I have faith in an afterlife, a place with all the answers to my questions, and a sense of peace that I have felt on Earth in only a few spare moments.

But for the last week, I have wondered if I may be wrong. What if it’s just pain and then nothing? That thought is so terrifying that I am shaking, nearly crying, just thinking about it.

And it is totally, completely unavoidable. I will find out if I am right or wrong.

I would rather live forever. “But Zeep, what about all the loved ones who will die around you?” Well, I will miss them, but I am pretty good at making friends, so I suppose I will have new ones to love. It sounds cold, but it’s not like I will get a chance to find out if I am right or not.

I will not live forever. I will die.

My brother Bob passed away when he was 35, three years after he cleaned up from years of cocaine abuse. With a natural arrhythmia to his heart, the abuse caught up with him and he died. I am the same age as my brother when he sobered up. Like others who have lost siblings, death has a sense of immediacy with me. When grandparents die, they are fulfilling their role. They’re supposed to die; they’re old and therefore the perfect first lesson in mortality. But siblings are supposed to be as immortal as trees. They aren’t supposed to die until you’re going to die.

When you lose a brother or sister, your whole timetable on death gets skewed to a much earlier wake-up call.

There were other reasons for me not sleeping: I usually have a bout of insomnia at least twice a year, but not to this extreme; I am feeling really lonely and currently have teetering prospects for a date, and I am wondering if I should even bother since student teaching is just around the corner; my body is trying to get used to the weather and the blankets on the bed. But it’s the fear of nothing that keeps me up.

I’ve been taking Tylenol PM, which is definitely doing the trick. I am trying not to become dependent upon it, but the certainty that I will sleep, and have some really awesome dreams, is too much for me to stop just yet. It keeps the ghosts in the closet, which is all I want right now.

Well, a milkshake and a backrub would be nice, too.

-Zeepdoggie

NyQuyil cannot defeat the terror of death.

2007-10-28T23:35:00.001-05:00

Not a Kitty, but a ...

2007-10-24T01:09:00.000-05:00

While discussing Act II Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, I referred to Romeo as “a pussy.” This upset a woman in my class, and she told me so during our break. She began to tell me all about the strengths of the pussy and how I was wrong to use it like I did, and that I was degrading women.

I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.

I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.

So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.

I am such a fucking pussy.

-Zeepdoggie

Worst. Hero. Ever.

2007-10-23T09:26:00.000-05:00

I have the lamest superpower. Well, maybe not the lamest. I'm not Squirrel Girl, after all. But my power sucks, nonetheless.

I have the ability to subconsciously detect and woo virgin women. This power can extend to women who have never been in a "serious" relationship before, but it mostly applies to physical virginity. We date, fall in love, take care of business, and then she leaves me.

My hero name could be StarterMan, the guy you use to get ready for the real world. Or the Deflowerer, but that doesn't roll off the tongue very well.

Seriously, how many folks do you know that have a 70% virgin-non virgin ratio? I found two over 24. It's gotten to the point where if I find someone cute and interesting, chances are that there's a hymen involved.

It's like I have a V-Chip, but not the device Republicans and lazy parents love.

Is there a BBS or chatroom, a bathroom stall maybe, out there with my face and contact info, saying, "For a first time, call..."?

I would have no problem with having this power if only the stereotype that I had believed in for so long was true. It is the one about how a woman wants to marry the guy she first falls in love and has sex with. Clearly, looking at my track record, it only happens once in seven tries. And she still leaves.

Sweet Jesus, I don't want to find out if it's one in eight. Or nine. If I get to ten, I'm becoming a priest.

-Zeepdoggie

Yes, they really did come up with Squirrel Girl. My faith in comics is more often challenged than my faith in God.

-Z.

Cheers, Geeks!

2007-10-14T21:48:00.000-05:00

A few random tidbits while out at the bar with several of my classmates:

“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”

B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”

B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”

“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”

Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”

We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.

-Zeepdoggie

Breaking 1 and 2

2007-10-13T00:25:00.000-05:00

One month ago, I was in bad shape. The world was looking more than usually fucked up. I had no place in it, I had no love for it; I was seriously considering if I should even be in it. All the things that I loved and enjoyed, like writing and school, were turning from deep and challenging to hollow and difficult. I didn’t know who to talk to about it, so I kept my mouth shut about it.

To get out of this funk, I got a new job. It’s a great job, and I love it. I work with really cool, diverse people who I can see becoming my friends; the work itself is autistic-monkey easy; and I am finally interacting with the public in a way that that is not inrusive or rude, like in Hell. A great change happening at a great time.

But it wasn’t enough. I was still off.

Then I got punched.

I was at Lizzie McNeil’s, an Irish pub on the River, and I was hanging with a few of my new co-workers and friends of theirs. I had come initially because it was my first invite to an after-work thing, and I was excited to participate. I was also going because a woman I met on the boats asked what I was doing that night, and said she would meet me there. Smiles all around!

At the pub there is a birthday celebration going on. As per standard, I buy the birthday boy a drink and wish him many happy returns. He is gleeful and gives me a hug. He is very, very drunk.

I have my one drink, and decide to see what is on the jukebox. Since I have only four drinks a month, I have more money to spend on jukeboxes at bars, which is a benefit that I did not expect but enjoy greatly. The juke’s got the new Dropkick Murphy’s album (at this time, it was “The Warrior’s Code”), which I had not heard but wanted to. If you don’t know about the Murphys, you should. Boston Irish Celtic Punk; what could go wrong? So I select three songs, and wait for the wonderful noise.

The second song has barely begun before Birthday Boy screams, “What is that shit?” I yell back, “It’s the Dropkick Murphys!” And he says, “That music fuckin’ sucks, man!” And I say, “Well, it’s punk, so it’ll be over in two minutes. You got two minutes worth of ‘ignore the music’ in you, don’tcha?” He rumbles for five more minutes (three minutes after the songs are over, by the by) about how punk and Irish music both suck. Guess he didn’t read the signs on the walls, above the door, or in the bathroom. I ignore him and enjoy my tunes.

Three hours later, as I am talking to the woman who I spoke to on the boat (totally gonna nail her, it was obvious to everybody there), I see one of my coworkers arguing with Birthday Boy. Another coworker and I go over to break it up. It turns out that Birthday Boy was insulted by the way my buddy wanted to shake his hand, and called him a faggot and an idiot. So I said, “Look pal, clearly the party is over for you and us. So we’ll just go to our corner of the bar, you go to your corner, and never shall our paths meet, okay?” He looks at me in the eyes (by the way he was staring, I must’ve had, like, twenty-three of them) and yells, “Fuck you and your stupid fuckin’ Irish music!” drunk finger providing syllabic punctuation all the way. I say, “Dude, do you even know where you are right now? For your sake, I’d shut up with the Irish bashing.” As I turn away, it happens. Thank God for it.

He punches me in the back of my head.

If you have never been hit, allow me to let you in on a secret; it feels like the shittiest day you’ve ever had. All the rainy days you’ve been dumped just after getting fired from your job have nothing on getting punched. It really, really sucks.

But then, the cobwebs clear, and that euphoria you feel about that day being over and GODDAMMIT YOU ARE STILL HERE! just charges right through you, and it makes you more alive than you ever felt before, including the best fucking of your entire life.

I turn and punch him, and he falls just like a sack of shit should.

Of course, the bouncer grabs me and takes me outside. I don’t resist, I just go. We get outside, and I say, “I’m sorry, but he hit me twice. I know I shouldn’t have hit him back. If you have to call the cops, I understand. I f you want me to go, just let me go inside and get my stuff and say goodbye to my people.” The bouncer looks at me and says, “Dude, don’t worry. We got you out here so we can mop up that sloppy fuck and get him out of there. You can go back in as soon as he leaves.”

The second bouncer comes outside and says that the guy is out cold, and his buddies are saying that I hit him in the face. I am not bragging at this point, because it is nothing to brag about. What follows is a statement of fact and nothing more: I have hit a lot of faces. Punching a face has a distinctive feel to it, like how you can tell corduroy from velvet. It didn’t feel like a face when I hit him; felt more like a neck or upper chest.

The bouncers get the guy and his friends out of the bar, and let me back in. A cute waitress is wiping up his blood. Maybe I did hit him in the face. So I go and wipe up the rest. Hey it’s my mess.

They called me “Drop Punch Murphy” for the rest of the night. And that woman did totally want to sleep with me, but she had a big ring on her left third finger, and Zeepdoggie doesn’t wreck a home unless he lives in it, so I put her in a cab and sent her to her hotel.

But not getting laid didn’t even register. I got in a fight.

I got in a fight.

-Zeepdoggie

Tidbits

2007-10-06T11:06:00.000-05:00

Hey everybody! I have a few quick bites about what is in store for you, my loyal readers, in the coming days.

Future art teachers have no idea how many classes they have to teach in a day in high school. Zeepdoggie's prediction: none.
Two future teachers did not know that FDR was crippled; one of them will be teaching history. Most of the students in this class I am enrolled in did not know how long FDR was in office.
When did 'diverse classrooms' come to mean 'no white kids?'
Something I did not really know until Thursday: for the current crop of 18-22 year-olds, it is very dangerous and frightening to have a strong opinion about anything.
Remember that line in "Fight Club," where Ed says that it's really hard to start a fight with a total stranger?

I am also in the process of figuring out how to set up a .pdf download for you all. I have a longer form story that I'd like to share with you. Push comes to shove, I'll just email it to those that are interested. But we haven't given up hope yet... Bullshit, of course we have. That's why there's no fear, right?

Peace and chicken grease,

-Zeepdoggie

Update

2007-10-02T22:18:00.001-05:00

A huge entry from The GringO is on the way. Seriously, it's worth the wait. Until then, enjoy his special, homey rage brought to you by alcohol and bureaucracy.

MGMT.

Monday I encountered one of the most ridiculous policies ever. EVER.

It was Crippy's birthday and we stopped at a liquor store to buy some Jack and diet coke (gotta watch the figure right?). Due to my general level of poverty I don't usually provide all of the booze for occasions, so when I get to its kind of a big deal. I grabbed my liquid refreshments and stepped up to the counter, and this gem of an exchange ensued:

Liquor Lady: "Could I see some I.D. please?"

Me: "Of course." I pull out my wallet with my state identification card in a laminated sleeve.

Liquor Lady: "I need a license please."
Me: I raise my right eyebrow and lower the left and say "...so, you need to see it outside of the wallet?"

Liquor Lady: "No I need an actual driver's license not a State I.D."

Me: "What?"

Liquor Lady: "Its on these little signs right here..." as she points to a 5"x3" card at the register.

Me: "But I'm 21. Actually, I'm 23 so...."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to you unless you have a license."

Me: "So I guess I'll just get my friend out of his car to buy it then."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to either of you because you both have to have a license."

Me: "Wait, so, I can't buy alcohol unless I can drive?"

Liquor Lady: "Uh...."

Me: "Well great, so you basically want me to drink and drive, nice." I walked away.

Liquor Lady: "I don't encourage drinking and driving...."

End scene

So I may come off a little prickish, a little short in the temper, but that is why I mentioned my rare opportunity for buying drinks. It is important to me. Then I sat there feeling embarrassed and stupid because I couldn't buy drinks. The thing is that in my mind if you have a valid photo I.D. proving you are of age, why does it matter if it is a driver's license or not? I really do think it is extremely idiotic that you can't buy alcohol there unless you can drive away with it. Its like saying you can't buy bullets unless you have a gun...or...yeah.

Maybe I should just get a license, but I'd have to go to the damned Thompson Center downtown and wait in line to take the written test and get my photo taken and I generally have other things I would rather do on my day off. Like staple my fingers together, shave with broken glass, eat rancid milk (you know, because its moved to a chewable form after a while) or smear myself in honey and kick grizzly bears in the nuts.

::The GringO::

Today, and how it was...

2007-10-01T21:53:00.000-05:00

...bad:

I was awakened by another phone call for the student Steven Durell from his concerned schoolmasters; so concerned are they that they refuse to change the contact number for young Mr. Durell, who I can tell has a bright future in being a total drain on society, despite my repeated calls to inform them of the faulty intelligence. Perhaps the faulty intelligence is not with the information, but with those who utilize said information. Seriously, if anyone knows this taint's parents, let them know that he is not attending any classes, and that I think that is probably in his teachers' best interests. Get that boy a shirt with his name on it, cuz he's gonna need it.
I got a letter saying I will not be receiving one of my grants, since the school lost my online FAFSA application, forcing me to reapply, making me ineligible due to the time constraints of funding the grant.
I had to disclose to my professor why my placement at Clemente for observations would be a bad thing. Nothing like telling your professor that you feel that you couldn’t get any kind of work done knowing that at any moment you might just bump into the last woman you loved, and are probably still not totally over.
My rent got raised after a two-hour long conversation with my landlord that got pretty heated pretty quickly, and didn’t die down until I was able to convince him that, should he raise the rent I may just die of malnourishment. After the scurvy incident, it’s a pretty fair card to play.
I headed to UIC to print up class material, and the printers in the main lab for the East campus still cannot print from any one of the twelve Macs on the floor. The IT dude tells me I should use a PC. I yell, “Don’t tell me what to do, Poindexter! I don’t want to use a fucking PC, I want to use a Mac! There have been problems with the fucking Macs since the beginning of the fucking semester! What the fuck good does it do to have all of you fucking nerds working here if you can’t get even one of these fucking Macs to print?” Security was called, but they arrived well after I left.
My hottie professor had to take today off because she wrenched her back. I knew this going into class, but it did not make it any easier to know that the one thing I can look forward to on Tuesdays isn’t going to happen. What happens when Zeepdoggie hopes for a surprise? He gets a disappointment.
The five dogs downstairs have done nothing but bark loudly since I got home three hours ago; nobody is home down there, so there's no one to tell them to shut the fuck up. Every time I do it, they just bark louder.

...good:

I got some new trade collections of some great comics in the mail, one of which, "Maintenance," I had never read before and it surprised me pleasantly.
For dessert at lunch, I had cookies and milk.
My rent did not get raised as much as was in the original plan.
The looks on the kids faces in the computer lab as I completely wigged out were more than worth the potential arrest.
I got to say "fuck" a lot in public in a loud voice, which is really its own reward.

A new motto: you win some, you lose many more.

-Zeepdoggie

Ding Dong...

2007-09-27T20:13:00.000-05:00

Bill Wirtz, owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the man who did more to ruin hockey in Chicago than Gordie Howe ever could, died yesterday. I can officially be a Blackhawks fan again. Unless his fat apple didn't fall too far off of the tree and his son is just as much of a money-grubbing fuckhole.

I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.

I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.

-Zeepdoggie

For Kelly: 17 September 1996-18 September 2007

2007-09-18T13:48:00.000-05:00

This morning, at 0104, the morning after her eleventh birthday, my puppy Kelly died. After getting a clean bill of health from the vet after her surgery, she died. She was with her Mommy, who is the best Mommy Kelly could ever have, for her last day, and I know she was happy on her birthday. She passed in her sleep, quietly, loved.

My baby is dead; my little puppy, who always took up tow-thirds of any bed she shared, is dead.

She loved to swim, but hated baths, or walking in puddles. She would chase snowflakes.

She loved squirrels; one time she caught one, and she licked it. I could hear the other squirrels teasing him, “Man, your mom’s a real bitch!” I saw a dead squirrel on the way home last night. Kelly has someone to chase, and, possibly, bathe.

Kelly-belly; Cowbell; The Princess; Kell, Huntress of the Wood; Kelly-puppy; The Tail that Wrecked Hartford; The Tongue of a Giant.

I know that eleven is a long time to have a dog. But for a dog like Kelly, it is not enough, nowhere even near enough.

I don’t think God knows what he’s in for, with both Kelly and Fritz up there with Him.

I want my puppy back.

-Zeepdoggie

Thinking Just Slows Down the Tongue

2007-09-16T23:19:00.000-05:00

Some direct quotes from the past week:

"I can't stand it when people don't even bother to listen to you. I just want to smack them over the head with, like, a gopher. Becuase it would be ironic."

"I call this one "boa," this one 'constrictor,'" I said while pointing at my left then right bicep respectively.

"Its like a carnival in my pants and all the rides are broken."

Not only do I think a lot faster than I speak which results in my mumbling, even when I am intelligible, I still don't make any sense as the majority of my ramblings is merely word vomit. Meh.

::Gringo::

Peda-philia

2007-09-13T13:19:00.000-05:00

I just had lunch with The World’s Biggest Asshole, and now I am feeling quite queasy, so I am not going to class today, which is all right, I guess. I’m taking two good pedagogy courses right now. They are the last steps to student teaching, and are required for this semester; today’s is the least fun of the two, mainly because the professor for the one on Tuesday is quite attractive, and Tuesdays are the days where I have maybe four hours of sleep before I have to work from 0600-1230, and then attend class. By that point, my internal editor is just gone, and I pretty much say whatever falls out of my mouth. I'm sure that I'll write about Tuesdays a lot more as the semester goes on.

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; I enjoy pedagogy. It makes me feel good that there are very intelligent people out there thinking about bettering the education process; how we teach is one of the more important considerations a society can debate. I like subjects that give me a chance to think, argue and grow; educational theory classes do that more than any others.

I should go to class; attendance is important, and I have some questions concerning the week's readings. But I have a funny feeling my questions won't get answered, and this is why.

I have been lucky enough to have some of the people writing this stuff come and talk to, and in one case teach, my classes. I always get excited, because here is the person who wrote this stuff, and I have questions and issues with it. If there is anyone who can resolve this stuff it is the author/architect/designer, right? It’s like bumping into God on the street and getting the chance to ask, “Paris Hilton; what did we do to deserve that?”

On Monday, one of the people responsible for a new method of teaching held a session of “process drama” (a fancier way of saying role playing) for the two sections of the English pedagogy class. We acted out a scene that was supposed to generate in us an interest in a particular book (The Summer of My German Soldier, for those who care), as well as stimulate the class into a thought-provoking mood. I went along, and really tried to get into it, but fell short simply because for me role playing isn’t any fun unless it is totally unreal and I’m slaying dragons with a laser sword, or some shit along those lines. Basically, the high school student in me found it dull and a little dumb; it didn’t do what it was supposed to do. That, and I had some issues concerning the whole process, and I was eager to ask my questions.

We finally got around to a Q&A session. She said that she had been defending this topic for twelve years now and was sure we had some questions about it. Great! My hand was the first one up, and I asked my question. She said, “Okay, let’s think about that,” and started showing some charts on the projector that had nothing to do with my question, but they had everything to do with the article she wrote that I read the week previous.

She then says, “But that’s not answering your question,” to which I replied, “No.” She then says, “Okay, let’s consider the stance I took,” and breaks out more things to show on the overhead projector. I am getting a rereading of what I read by the author, like I’m at a bookstore for an appearance or something. This material is something I already understood. My question isn’t based on ignorance of the material, but that I didn’t agree with some of the ideas being introduced. Ignoring my question and retelling me what I already know is not going to help me. I am not your fucking prompt; I am not pretending to be a part of the crowd to give you an excuse to shuck your jive to the masses. Answer my question!

She then asked if that answered my question, and I again said no, it had not. And she asked me what I meant by my question; so I tried to break it down to simpler terms, and she seemed to get it. She then tried to explain some of the background of my question to the class in case they weren’t aware (and they should be, since they have all taken THE SAME ED PSYCH CLASSES I HAVE), and finally said that she didn’t consider that particular thing when she was crafting this method, nor that she knew much about it, and that I should read someone else’s writing in the subject.

So, what did I learn? I learned that you can defend something for twelve years and still be stumped by a smartass in a classroom; that I think differently than every single one of my classmates AND the two professors teaching the course; I don’t like being the intro to your presentation, especially if it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I was asking or saying; that the pros whose job is to defend this stuff don’t really do their homework; and that passing the buck is a total dick move if you’re a teacher.

To make it elemental, I learned that pedagogy has much in common with politics; no one wants to explain what they mean, they just want you to believe it. I still love it, and like most things I love, I will have to come up with my own answers for the questions it will generate.

-Zeepdoggie

2007-09-11T21:01:00.000-05:00

Oh. My. God.

Seriously, I got nothing.

-Zeepdoggie

There's Good, and Then Other Stuff

2007-09-11T16:13:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, I have a new job. I needed to fill the void left by the library job, and my coworker at Hell, named Smurfy, suggested I become a deckhand on a tour boat.

It is the closest I have ever come to my dream of “no work AND pay.” Even at the most extremely busiest part of my day, which really isn’t very busy at all, it is still a joy to be there. Everyone I have worked with so far has been so cool; I haven’t been in this laid back of an environment since I used to get really, really high a number of years ago. It is a great place to work, and no, I will not tell you how to apply because I want this all to myself, dammit! If it weren’t seasonal, I would consider doing it for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to Hell. When you have one job that is awesome, and the other one is, well, hellish, it is really, really difficult to perform at the bad job. And since I need the crap job to fill in for when the good one ends, it adds this sense of helpless imprisonment. I feel like a POW; I know there is a better place for me out there, but I am fucking trapped in this hot box, my only escape being in the bonding with my fellow walking dead. Di-di mao!

And Cob is not doing anything to make it better. Hopefully, GringO will chime in on this a little bit, since it affected him much more than me. We have three registers per counter; I am sure you can imagine the layout of three registers on a rectangular counter, so I won’t go into detail. Well, when the need arises for a third register to be opened, Cob states that it must be at a different counter (we have three counters with registers). Why, do you ask? Because she thinks that, should there be a close proximity of workers to each other, they will talk to each other. So there must be an empty register between the two ringers, otherwise they might get to conversing, and possibly enjoy the work environment, and hence ruin her plan of subjugation through abysmal morale. When a customer asked me about the situation, which to him looked odd, I explained. HE said, “She must be some kind of bitch.” If I had nodded any harder, I may have broken my neck.

What Cob doesn’t understand is that the work is not the reward, no matter what you’re doing (unless it’s fucking your rich spouse; that’s a two-fer bonus!). The rewards of the job are the relationships developed while performing the work. I don’t keep working at Hell because I like lying to people to convince them to buy something they probably don’t need at nigh-prohibitory prices; I do it because I can hang out with GringO, Wheels, Rolling Thunder, Smurfy, Mel, Don, Toots McDego and all the other cool cats I work with. Even at the new job, where the work is quite easy and also a lot of fun, it’s the conversations with my coworkers that make it so great.

Cob thinks that people getting along and enjoying themselves at work will get in the way of productivity. What she doesn’t get is that unhappy people don’t work. Morale is an essential function of crew performance. In the Navy, one of the chief concerns of the captain was crew morale; when it began to head south, he’d make a point to try and improve it. Good leaders care about their crew, and a happy crew will follow a captain like that into the mouths of hell. Cob, with the social awareness of an autistic sloth, doesn’t get that; she probably can’t. She also probably can’t get laid, which is most likely the real root of all of our woes in Hell.

-Zeepdoggie

Too Much?

2007-09-10T16:07:00.000-05:00

Go fuck yourself. And you know what? Go beyond that and fist yourself, up to the elbow. No lube. Maybe a little spittle to get things moving; otherwise, just shit and blood.

Sorry, that was a little graphic.

::GringO::

Sneaky Petes

2007-09-07T10:53:00.001-05:00

This is for my fantasy football logo; we are the Nantucket Sneaky Petes. Mad props to The GringO for that name.

You Can't Take the Skies From Me

2007-09-02T11:14:00.001-05:00

You scored as Serenity (Firefly), You like to live your own way and
don't enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different.
Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.

88%

81%

75%

56%

50%

44%

31%

25%

19%

Which sci-fi crew would you best fit in with? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Well, duh. Of course I belong with these rogues. After all, I have an affinity to accurately and nigh-continuously split infinitives, and I reckon I could master the space-westernese. Chinese would be tough, but from what people I know that speak Chinese tell me, the crew didn't speak much Chinese anyway.

Thanks be to The Big Man for this particular meme. Try it your own self and let us know where you belong, since none of us are clearly at home on this mudball. We belong amongst the stars.

-Zeepdoggie

The Princess Comes First

2007-08-30T13:48:00.000-05:00

Fuck Cob, my boss in Hell. The Princess is in stitches, and I am responsible for making sure they don’t rip out, and that she gets her meds according to her doc’s prescription. Every eight hours, no matter what. So when I called on Wednesday to let Cob know that I wouldn’t be in on Sunday, she said, “Oh, and Monday is Labor Day? Hmm…”

She thinks I am making this up to get a day off? She’s calling me a liar? I am the guy who took on extra hours for the floor sets. I am the guy who gives up going to church when I want to so that she can have an opener on Sunday, when I would much rather work on Saturday. I came to work directly after my uncle’s memorial service.

She thinks I am making up that my puppy is in pain?

Think I am lying now, you frigid bitch?

If it weren’t for the fact that the good job is seasonal, I would have quit today.

I suppose, that for a bitch who has no problem bullying people into situations that are bad for them but good to her, intimating someone being a liar is no big deal. After all, if you have no honor, how can you understand the damage you do when you insult someone who does possess a sense of rightness and self respect? If she did any of the things she does for the betterment of society, I would just deal with it. But retail does not better society; it damages it. It inflicts wounds on people that don’t heal.

Perhaps, since she has done nothing else with her life besides this, she cannot understand those of us who do. We who grow are as confusing and as mysterious to her as faith is to an atheist.

If it weren’t for the fact that she is an unlovable twat, I could almost pity her. But pity has never been my strong suit, so she can go suck a crooked dick and take the diseased wad right in the eye.

It's okay, puppy; Daddy's not going anywhere.

-Zeepdoggie

Excelsior!

2007-08-25T10:58:00.000-05:00

I am a comic book geek. “Total fanboy” is a term I long ago embraced. I can’t begin to count the amount of time I have spent on comics: buying, reading, discussing, daydreaming. Some of you charming readers may know of my obsession. You have been there during the countless debates on the best character in the Marvel Universe. You’ve heard me bitch about how various creators must be purposely trying to destroy the comic industry. You’ve seen the collection I have amassed. And, if I have known you for more than two weeks, I have probably tried to get you hooked on one comic or another; hopefully, I have succeeded.

Mostly, I read Marvel. I love their characters, and the “superhero soap opera” never gets old for me. They were the first to do it, and, mostly, the best at it. My only beef with Marvel is that it almost entirely takes place in New York, Manhattan specifically. That is because the original creators were born, and lived and worked, in NYC. With that in mind, I decided to add some links to comic book creators living and working here in the greatest city in the world.

You cannot mention comic creators in Chicago and not think Alex Ross. He brought photorealism to comics, and there is no one who does it better. If you haven’t read Marvels or Kingdom Come, go out and get them ASAFP. Alex Ross changed the way I looked at comics forever. He’s also responsible for Earth X, which is the best Marvel story ever told, period.

Here is Mike Norton. I really like his style; he reminds me of those cool Saturday morning cartoons, like The Real Ghostbusters and Gargoyles. He reminds me of Ringo, which is a good thing.

Next is Skottie Young. I love his style; to my eye, he is like a bizarre combo of Marc Silvestri and Bill Watterson. I would love to script a story for Skottie; something dark and funny and harsh. He’s done some top shelf books; do yourself a favor and pick them up. I hated New X-Men until Skottie started drawing it. His Human Torch is (pun alert) fucking hot!
I will have links for these guys from here on in, so go ahead and check up on them from time to time.

Until recently, I didn’t know there was a podcast for comic books. It turns out there are several, with two really good ones coming out of the Windy City. If you decide to check them out, I recommend “Around Comics,” which is recorded at Dark Tower Comics, 4835 N. Western in Chicago. Chris, Sal and Tom remind me of those guys who were fun to talk comics with; they have deep knowledge of all things superhero, as well as the great graphic literature outside of the world of spandex. And they are hilarious. Another bonus for AC is that Skottie has been on it a few times, so you can hear what he thinks about stuff. "Word Balloon" is another good one, with great one-on-one interviews with comic creators and other folks in the entertainment industry. There’s a podcast called "iFanboy," but they dissed my hometown in their recent podcast. Fuck them in the ear ; you boys hear me coming?

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because of the last post. For the last twenty-two years or so, I wanted to work on a comic book. Not having the artistic talent of my uncle or my shit-headed brother, I have focused on writing, which is either plotting or scripting a comic. I am going to try and plot and script a comic, which I will of course keep you updated on. It would be unfair and wrong to not mention another party responsible for my new drive. I must give thanks to several conversations with The World's Biggest Asshole; too many times has he said that I should try and get my stuff published, and I hemmed and hawed about it. It's funny; I am always pushing him about personal shit, and he's always pushing me on professional shit. We're more married than me and my ex-wife ever were...

Don’t worry, you’ll still get plenty of my humiliating stories and endless ranting bitch-fests which you have come to expect from me. But this is going to be something really fun and exciting to explore, and I think you, as a reader, deserve to read more than the bad shit happening to me.

Oh, and I have no idea where the fuck The GringO has been. He refuses to give me more than one joke’s worth of material at a time.

I went fucking nutso with the hyperlink today...

-Zeepdoggie

Someday No More

2007-08-22T20:45:00.000-05:00

My Uncle Danny died recently, and I haven’t really dealt with his death yet. So I am going to force myself to do it. He was an exceptional artist, and he had the most intricate sense of detail. He did this drawing for my mum of a ram; Zeepmomma is into the horoscope stuff (despite all of my lectures concerning astronomy and stellar distances and blah blah blah I am a killjoy), and she is an Aries. I once tried to count all the lines in the horns of the ram; after three days, I stopped at one thousand. Oh, and the picture is drawn on a piece of 8”X10” paper.

He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.

Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.

He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.

My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.

Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.

Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.

-Zeepdoggie

The Final Solution

2007-08-21T19:25:00.000-05:00

By now, you have either had the opportunity to listen to my top ten, or you have completely ignored it. Either way, you’re finding out today what the best song I have ever heard is.

The criteria were diverse and strictly followed. The research was long, arduous, and many, many times, very tedious. But no expense is spared for a song that I will bear in my heart as my most favorite song, EVER.

The winner is here.

“Orion” is by far my favorite. It is a masterpiece, and symphonic in nature. It starts out with a growling intro, which gives us the measure and beat of the first movement, a good mid-tempo to get the blood up.

Soon the second movement, introduced with a rhythm break and staccato guitar, comes in thundering, with a fast stop-start riff, and a recapitulation of the first movement’s primary riff.

The third movement follows a trio (or is it scherzo? I could never tell them apart), with Cliff’s bass playing a soft melody, the guitars floating over it slowly with bluesy bends and one of Kirk’s most understated, controlled, and best performances (more on his solos later). The three-part harmonization between the two guitars and the bass on the same line is so tight and so smooth it is amazing that the producer was able to keep their voices distinct; had he not, we would have missed out on Cliff’s amazing bass lines that run under the guitar work in the third movement. It is in this song, and especially the third movement, that shows us how much of a genius the world lost when Cliff died in 1986.

It is fitting that it is Cliff’s incredible solo, so essential to the mood of the third movement and the best I have ever heard recorded for bass, that takes us to the bridge between the third and fourth movement: Kirk’s solo. Not enough can be said of Kirk’s performance during this piece, but this solo is everything that he is capable of. It is the signature solo of his career.

The song ends with its fourth movement being a recapitulation of the second movement’s riff, with a much faster drum performance by Lars, his fills coming frenetically, and just when you think he will be unable to get back on beat, he cracks his snare right on the four count.

This song is great for any and every event in my life, big or small. It fits any mood I may be in, either by enhancing it or changing it. It is the best song I have ever heard. If you have never heard it before, give it a listen; if you have, hear it again. It may surprise, but it does not disappoint.

So what’s yours?

-Zeepdoggie

Now Who's Wrong?

2007-08-12T06:37:00.000-05:00

Geneva Convention relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950
PART II

GENERAL PROTECTION OF POPULATIONS

AGAINST CERTAIN CONSEQUENCES OF WAR

Article 16

The wounded and sick, as well as the infirm, and expectant mothers, shall be the object of particular protection and respect.

As far as military considerations allow, each Party to the conflict shall facilitate the steps taken to search for the killed and wounded, to assist the shipwrecked and other persons exposed to grave danger, and to protect them against pillage and ill-treatment.

Article 18

Civilian hospitals organized to give care to the wounded and sick, the infirm and maternity cases, may in no circumstances be the object of attack, but shall at all times be respected and protected by the Parties to the conflict.

Article 19

The protection to which civilian hospitals are entitled shall not cease unless they are used to commit, outside their humanitarian duties, acts harmful to the enemy. Protection may, however, cease only after due warning has been given, naming, in all appropriate cases, a reasonable time limit, and after such warning has remained unheeded.

The fact that sick or wounded members of the armed forces are nursed in these hospitals, or the presence of small arms and ammunition taken from such combatants which have not yet been handed to the proper service, shall not be considered to be acts harmful to the enemy.

Article 21

Convoys of vehicles or hospital trains on land or specially provided vessels on sea, conveying wounded and sick civilians, the infirm and maternity cases, shall be respected and protected in the same manner as the hospitals provided for in Article 18, and shall be marked, with the consent of the State, by the display of the distinctive emblem provided for in Article 38 of the Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field of August 12, 1949.

This is not what anyone would call a "political" blog. This is for the co-worker who argued with me about how the US continues to violate laws that it helped draft and has enforced with violence in the past.

Fuck you. What is your excuse for being wrong this time?

-Zeepdoggie

Seven Hundred Fifty-Six asterix

2007-08-11T12:07:00.000-05:00

I watched some of Barry Bond’s press conference last night (I know I’m late, but, in my defense, I cannot stand baseball), and I could only think of two things:

Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.

The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”

Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?

-Zeepdoggie

Bah-dum-dum-ching!

2007-08-10T20:15:00.000-05:00

You know what people really can't drive?

Quadruple amputees.

True story.

::The GringO::

A Request from Management

2007-08-09T14:52:00.000-05:00

To my dear readers,
You know that I love and appreciate you all. One thing you may not know is that I really enjoy reading the comments. It's the best part of the blogging thingy. I work on crafting an entry, and you tell me how it soared or sank. I love that bit.

But I would like to ask that, should you post, please put a name in there. It doesn't have to be your real name. It's not like my parents actually named me Zeepdoggie; and while The GringO is pale enough to warrant the title, it is an honorific only.

I don't like anonymous posts; they are hard to respond to, since I don't know how to address you. At least with some callsign I can easily refer to you in a response.

I ask, please, no anonymous posts. Since they are moderated, anonymous posts will not be allowed unless: I can tell who you are by what you say; it is too good of a comment to let die on the Interweb.

Peace and chicken grease,

-Zeepdoggie

The Penultimate Entry

2007-08-08T14:16:00.000-05:00

With everything that's been going on (school, family stuff, money concerns, porn getting boring), you would think that I forgot about The Project, where I try to determine what the best song I ever heard is. While it is true that I have been quite busy, I have been sticking to The Project with a devotion that holy men should have to their parishioners, or politicians to democracy.

So I have, at last, figured out what is the best song I have ever heard. My favorite song of my life, up to this point, and most likely for the rest of it.

In the beginning, I figured it would be an instrumental of some sort. Lyrics tend to steer you towards a feeling or thought, and I wanted a song that was everything to me: happy, sad, energetic, angry, contemplative. It would have to be a song that I could listen to after I got a new job; after the first kiss from a new woman in my life; and, of course, it would have to work after I was fired from that job and the bitch left me.

That puts Mozart out of the running right there. His genius is in the creation of mood; if Wolfie wanted you to cry, you'd cry; he could make you laugh, hate, grow tense, even fall in love, in his compositions. While his power is great, it doesn't serve the need I have.

So, that left about one hundred twenty instrumental compositions to go through. Not easy.

I do want to point out one anomaly: "Lateralus" by Tool. It is, far and away, my favorite Tool song, and the best song with lyrics that I have heard. It soothes me when I am troubled, and energizes me when I am tired. When first dating M, I listened to it constantly, as if Maynard was telling me what to do in order for this thing to work out. It did, for a time. It works in just about every situation that I have listened to it, and it certainly lives up to the top criterion of being all things to me.

But it has lyrics. It is the honorable mention in the group, and worthy of great praise. Check it out, if you haven't. If you're a math geek, you'll love the hidden Fibonacci sequences in the song.

Back to task. I got it down to ten, and here they are:

Symph. no. 7 im Emaj, 2nd Movement - Hans Bruckner (he made cathedrals of sound, and this is the best example)
Midnight - Jimi Hendrix (it may have been mostly improvised, but without Jimi, every guitar solo that i love wouldn't exist)
Miami Vice Theme - Jan Hammer (sure, you laugh, but you know it's a JAM, baby!)
Orion - Metallica (the song that proves that Metallica once had talent and can compose, not write, a truly epic piece)
Lemminkainen's Return Op. 22 No. 4 - Jean Sibelius (this was the composer whose music led to the founding of a nation; no one else in music can make that claim)
Treadstone Assassins - John Powell (music score is the real child of "classical" music; it must evoke a mood, complement the images being seen, stand on its own without being distracting, and do this in less than three minutes: and i love it when a composer marries more than one genre, here it's groove rock, great string composition, and a thumpin' bass beat)
Medulla Oblongata - The Dust Brothers (another soundtrack entry, and a great one: first, it's the only album with The Dust Brothers on their own; it's for my favorite movie of all time; and it just fucking grooves, man! that bass line! those bells!)
Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G, BWV 1007: I. Prélude - Yo-Yo Ma (the most recognized cellist ever playing a challenging piece so flawlessly you forget you're listening to anything, the whole world swims and you're in it, totally; it's like beauty singing)
Battle Without Honor or Humanity - Tomoyasu Hotei (what a groove this is; nothing more to say)
Amazing Grace - Massed Pipes and Drums of Caledonia (every time i hear this song, i weep; it's the sound of hope in the face of defeat; it's a mother's cry whose son has gone to peace for following his dream; it is perseverance and holiness and strength; it is Scotland)

"So , which one is it, Zeepdoggie? The suspense is killing us!" is what you would be shouting, were we in some park rally. Well, first, I want you all to have a chance to check out the top ten before I reveal my number one. I do this for two reasons: so that you can groove to some awesome tuneage; and then you can all either agree with me or call me an idiot, not because I usually am and calling me that is like reflex for you all, but because you've heard the evidence and have weighed it accordingly. That, and I would like to hear some guesses from you all as to what is my number one.

I am a worse tease than Cara Tomkins. "Tell me I'm pretty! Oooh, you're hard! I am so excited! Oh, you've touched my boobies...now I go home."
Some wounds never heal...

-Zeepdoggie

In Seven Days...

2007-08-07T23:39:00.000-05:00

I lost my job, which was created for me, at the library. My DSL went down. My relationship ended, in case you couldn't tell by the comment. My uncle went into a coma. My DSL was fixed. COLLEGE is claiming that I owe them money, even though they owe me money. I went for a bike ride in the deserted streets of downtown Chicago, and watched the sunrise in a new favorite spot. I got a new job. My uncle died.

I think I have a right to be a little negative.

Thanks to the anonymous poster who said my blog is "interesting." On the behalf of The GringO, I will take that as a compliment. Next time, let us know who you are, so we can say, "Thanks for kudos, ______!" Then you'd be on the web, which is just like being famous, except without the recognition or money.

-zeepdoggie

Down to One

2007-07-31T21:18:00.000-05:00

I lost the job with the library. I can understand that my availability isn’t enough; I am only available three days a week. There was a possible compromise, and it had been discussed previously (“discussed” being defined as “you said it, but we decided your ideas are poo-poo pants before you walked in here”), but they would rather not continue with me in the library. There is a “new direction” the temporary directors want to take the program, and it is not compatible with how I think the program should go. They want to “challenge the children” with tasks and activities, “to better serve the needs of the children.”

Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.

Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.

Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.

The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.

-Zeepdoggie

An Addendum

2007-07-25T18:45:00.000-05:00

An addendum to the previous blog: someone asked me if anyone at the library had access to my blog, and I said that one or two people might know about it. It was pointed out that this might hurt my chances of getting my job back. My response was thus:

Fuck it.

I don’t write this blog for a job, or to satisfy other people. It is done, solely, to satisfy me. I am not going to censor what I write in case it may upset someone who reads it. I write it to get stuff out of me that is better off not spinning around in my head, but exposed in some way. I can’t afford the therapy that someone said I needed; but I can afford this. Better out than in, as Shrek said.

This blog is my practice pad, my counselor’s couch, my stage and my shield. It is my connection to my friends and a way to let those who want to know what is up. But it is mine, and if it bugs you, then there’s more than just a passing reason for it.

I stand behind, before, and beside anything I have ever written here, because it had a validity and truth to it when I wrote it. May my feelings change? Of course they might. But that doesn’t invalidate them. Think on what Emerson said about consistency of thought:
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (read the rest after for some really good stuff; and what is before it isn’t so bad, either.)

If this blog costs me a job, then it was a job I was bitching about, and therefore losing it might be seen as a blessing. The library thing was satisfying. But if the program is going to change into something that serves the library more than it serves my kids, then they can go to hell.

-Zeepdoggie

I'm Working Something Out

2007-07-24T16:21:00.000-05:00

Fuck the library. Fuck the new boss. Fuck the old boss for being so cool and setting me up for disappointment. Fuck passive aggression and cowardice; just tell me if I have a job or not. Fuck the first job I had a positive emotional attachment to. Fuck working with women. Fuck working for women. Fuck my former co-workers. Better yet, don't. May the men avoid them as though their twats had teeth. Fuck them for wanting to fuck over MY kids. Fuck the people who think lying to kids is better than being honest with them. Fuck them for not listening to kids. Fuck that community, overripe with stagnation; a perfect example of a cold death universe; frozen in social entropy; the town that time forgot. Fuck my kids for being so great that I will miss them every day I am not working with them.

Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.

Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.

Fuck hope.

-Fuck Zeepdoggie

Random Musings from Hell

2007-07-12T10:47:00.001-05:00

On Sunday, during the floorset, I suffered what I think is a unique injury. While doing a rather complicated push-up involving an escalator and a steel bar, I do believe I strained my taint.

People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.

I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.

-Zeepdoggie

A Possible Beginning

2007-07-11T21:34:00.000-05:00

“This isn’t over; don’t think it is. It won’t end until I’m drinking from your heart.”
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.

-Zeepdoggie

2007-07-10T22:03:00.000-05:00

I am so tired, I can't feel my teeth. I did a floor set at Hell, which was fun, but it has to be done when the store is closed. We worked from 1800-0300, and I didn't get home until 0430, and barely fell asleep at five. I haven't actually recovered yet; I played hooky, didn't go to class, and basically sat around, tuning some little things on Sylvie, researching a new bike for the winter, and fighting hard to not take a nap or fall asleep. Now, I am at the point where I am overtired. I keep missing the shift key, which makes me want to go at this all e. e. cummings style. no caps, just let the writing flow.

i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.

a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.

this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.

i just want to quit.

-zeepdoggie

What Train?

2007-07-05T20:02:00.000-05:00

Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.

The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.

The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…

The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”

What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.

Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?

I love it when a blog gets away from me.

-Zeepdoggie

A Line in the Sand

2007-06-21T07:43:00.000-05:00

Hello, World! How are you? I bet you’re awfully sexy, even the ladies under the burkhas! Hey, I’m an American (that’s pronounced ‘Mur-kin,’ right, W?) and if the hot dog proves anything, it’s that we in this nation love mystery meat; if ever there was an equivalent in women’s fashion, it’s the burkha!

The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.

The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.

Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.

I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”

Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.

BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.

-Zeepdoggie

What was that again?

2007-06-20T22:26:00.000-05:00

I was going to blog about something, but I forgot what. I was on the train, and I thought of something, and I said to myself, “That is a great blog subject! I can really expand on that, go on and riff about that for a while!” I sat on the train, thinking of tangents, and the fun in exploring them.

But now, I sit here, and I have forgotten what the subject was. I can remember being excited about writing about it, but not what was worth all the excitement. That’s weird…

If I remember, I’ll write about it, I promise.

Sorry about the letdown. Maybe next time.

-Zeepdoggie

Where the hell am I?

2007-06-07T19:47:00.001-05:00

Hello, everybody. It has been quite a while since I have posted, and I have several reasons for that. The first is that the last semester was awkward; I never found that nice, steady rhythm of work and learning that I fall into. So I was all manner of discombobulated and uncomfortable; writing about uncomfortable stuff is usually gold for me, but I can't write when I am not feeling any kind of flow.
Another reason I didn't write was because of something a lot more disturbing to me. Writing wasn't fun. It had lost its charm and energy that I usually associate with it. I don't think school had anything to do with it, since I wrote something creative for a class that was well received and I really liked a lot. But the act and art of writing just fell out of me, and I don't like that. The two stories I had been working on, one that had been in my head since I was fifteen and the other that I was working on with GringO, lost any joy in their respective creative processes, and as such I lost a lot of ground with them. It feels less like writer's block and more like "print is dead." Since writing creatively is my main source of stress relief, I am not happy about this. Any cures for ennui?

But I will be posting soon about my continuing search for the greatest song I have heard, and another post about my participation in Bike the Drive '07. If anybody has any suggestions as to topics or memes or anything, let me know. I could use the help.

Oh, and something I would like to share, overheard by me: "Let's '86 the pussy-spank, shall we?" Thinking about that one will cause an embolism.

Job Desciption

2007-03-19T18:51:00.000-05:00

The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:

"I'm going to focus on ringing."

She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.

Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.

I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.

"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"

Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.

::GringO::

052

2007-02-21T07:08:00.000-06:00

Today is my birthday! Yay! My mum woke me at 0442 to let me know just what was going on at that time 32 years ago. She doesn’t skimp on the details, either. I don’t think bacon and eggs will go down so smoothly now. Best stick with cereal. Cheerios, since they don't turn the milk any weird colors.

So, thirty-two… For those that can, what do/did you dig about thirty-two? It’s a cool number, all rounded and soft-looking. Cool facts about 32 are also welcome.

I’m feeling pretty good so far. 31 was bad; you’ve read some of the crap that got posted last year, you know about it. But it’s not 31 anymore! I am one better than Baskin-Robbins!

My birthday is the only day of the year where I try to think of myself in a 100% positive light. I don't feel selfish for buying myself something; I don't reflect on all the bad shit that has happened, is happening, or will potentially happen; and I try to forget all the times I was a jerk. It's a reminder of the possibility that we all start with of being good people. On my birthday, I bring that to the front of my brain.

“So what are you doing for your birthday?” I am going to my German class, then coming home. I’ll have lunch with the world’s greatest photographer, then go to work with the kiddies. After that, it’s off to Borders for my birthday shopping spree and free dessert! Then home to put the finishing touches on any homework assignments, make a phone call or two, grab one of my new books and hit the sheets.

Yeah, I know how to party.

There will be a celebration later; the Cock-Sucking Mohican is hosting a party for D and me, since our birthdays are a day (well, two years and a day) apart. It will be a good time. Hey, you wanna come?

-Zeepdoggie

For Your Consideration

2007-02-19T19:38:00.000-06:00

Since I find Maggie Gyllenhaal exceptionally beautiful, does that mean that I would settle for Jake?
My brother Zeepjoey has as much self respect as a crack whore. On second thought, maybe less; at least a crack whore has a job.
It always bothers me when talentless hacks are famous. I have no talents; where are my millions?
Some people are famous now because there wasn't a whole lot going on at the time that they came out. I call this "the Van Morrison Effect." Zeepmomma says I could've called it "the Steve and Edie Effect," but I don't know who the fuck they are. I would probably prefer them to Van, however.
Do winos still drink wine exclusively? if they don't, shouldn't we call them something else?
Music is a faith; karaoke is a cult.
The Beatles are like walking hand in hand in the park on a lovely spring day. The Rolling Stones are like drunkenly fucking in an alley during a full moon.
There need to be more midget cover bands. I can see it now: Weetallica; 3'11"; Lovin' Teaspoonful. I could go on and on...
I really must stop with the crushes on my professors.
I really hope 32 doesn't suck.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T07:32:00.002-06:00

I want your sweat
Staining my skin
Marking my sin.

I want to be drenched
In your
-warm
-soft
-wet
rain.

Make my heart
Bruise against my bones.

Deafen me with your moans.
Burn me in your embrace.
Suffocate me deep inside you.
Kill me, just a little.

Make me a fallen angel;
Rend my back;
Scar me;
Tear out my wings.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy VD! Part 1

2007-02-12T20:16:00.000-06:00

In the spirit of the holiday, and GringO’s inspiring story of doc-on-patient love, I have decided to share a story of medical intrigue and supreme embarrassment on my part. Plus, my balls have the starring role, which I know you all love! In a more figurative sense, of course.

This was just under two years back. I was going to the VA doc to get my annual check-up, to be sure that I was still the specimen of physical perfection that I am known to be. Every man out there knows about the joys of the hernia check, but once you get to a certain age, there comes along a new torture: the testicular cancer check. When this was first demonstrated to me by a Navy doc, I thought, shit, I’ve could’ve been using that as an excuse all that time! “No ma, I’m palpating the region and checking for abnormal growth!” There was plenty of normal growth already!

So doc is palpating the region, I’ve turned my head and coughed, and he says that he’s going to go ahead and check for anything abnormal. He asks if I’ve been checking myself regularly. I say, “Doc, you could time a soufflé with my checks!”
It is then that he stops palpating and says, “Hello…”
When a doc has his balls in your hands, you’re hoping for silence, or at least some medical jargon, not a greeting. So I say, “Uh, hi?”
He then says, “I found something!”
I come to on the examining table, and he’s looking at me and he says, “Yeah, I probably could’ve put that better…”
Why God, do I always get the doc with a sense of humor?
So he tells me he found something, and that I should go to dermatology.

I go to my dermatology appointment, and they tell me to strip. You all know me; I am so very shy. JK, LOL!!

The doc walks in, and it’s this incredibly gorgeous intern from UIC. She’s tall, brunette, slightly Asian…she reminded me of Asia Carrera. Yeah, definitely not a bad thing. And she says she needs to examine me, and check and see what it is on my schnuts. So I lift up the gown, and she does the cruelest thing ever done to me by a woman I haven’t slept with.

She drops to her knees, grabs my thunder, and then, in order to let light into her view, she tosses her head sharply to the right, flicking her hair out of the way.

For the women that don’t know, to a guy that is the signal for, “I am going to suck your cock, and I want you to watch.”

The rest of the examination was very, very difficult for me. When she finished, I wanted to stop her and say, “About your bedside manner…”

It turned out to be nothing more than an infected ingrown hair, and a lancing took care of it. A lancing performed by a very unsexy doc with short hair, and balls of his own. No hair flip there, thank God.

-Zeepdoggie

'Tis the Season

2007-02-09T07:49:00.000-06:00

Retail during the holidays. Yay.

All of our customers have one thing on their minds: size. Size of bags, boxes, and other stuff.
“You could fit four small children in this bag. Sounds good for Christmas!”
Customer: “Are your boxes big?”
Me: “Oh, yeah! Our boxes are really deep!”

And as we all know, selling is all about sexy!

Hot Wheels, to attractive female customer and whether she should buy an ivory coat:
“It depends on the person. It depends on, uh…well, how dirty you get.” (smiles lecherously).

Watching a customer walk away, with the Cock-Sucking Mohican:
“Her legs are thinner than my dick. Which is pretty thin for a leg but pretty thick for…hey, where are you going?

“My breath is kicking like a drowning whore.”

“No exchanges in Hell. This isn’t Wall Street!”

There’s your random blather concerning the holidays in Hell. Are you happy now?

::GringO::

The Underworld Series

2007-02-08T07:38:00.000-06:00

Heart Burn

2007-02-03T02:55:00.000-06:00

Just recently, Wendy posted a blog that really hit home with me. You should read it, because it deals with a phenomenon that we all know, and that I fear and enjoy just a little bit.

I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.

And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.

Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…

But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.

And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?

But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.

It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.

It also reminds me that you have to wake up.

-Zeepdoggie

Milk Fed Lies

2007-01-27T09:25:00.000-06:00

::GringO::

Google Is My Bitch

2007-01-24T19:57:00.000-06:00

This is too cool. I am way too psyched about this.

1. Enter the world's greatest photographer into the Google searchbar. Quotation marks are not required.

2. Look at who's site is NUMBER ONE ON THE LIST!

3. Know that the only reason why it is so is because I made it so!

It's amazing to me to think about it, but apparently I possess the power to fuck with the internet. I am a god of electrons!

Now that I am a god, when do I get to start smiting shit? Cuz I have a list here, all ready to go...

"I fuck you!" in a German nihilistic voice, "I fuck you, internet!"

I'm going to smile about this all week...

-Zeepdoggie

You Scurvy Zeepdogg, You!

2007-01-24T19:47:00.000-06:00

Just so we are clear, we are now seven years into the 21st century. I wanted everyone to clear out of whatever haze they may be in and know this for what I am about to say.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that my energy was really low. I was lethargic and sluggish, some mornings I was incapable of getting out of bed. Now, for those in the know, Zeepdoggie is a pretty energetic li’l monkey. I like to move it-move it, as we say here in Z-town. And I am a morning person, much to the chagrin of anyone who has ever slept over.

Then I started to get these aches in my joints and muscles. Not just sore aches, but really dull pains that would last for hours. It would hurt to type, or to hold a book. A little bit after that, I started to get pains in my mouth and my gums were bleeding a lot.

When blood is gushing out of my mouth without the presence of a fist, Zeepdoggie hightails it to the doc, toot sweet.

So I go to the health center at College, and wait for a while and see the doc. I tell him what’s going on, and he looks at me, and asks me if I’ve lost weight. I said that I didn’t know, since I don’t own a scale (sometimes it’s awesome not living with a woman); he says I look like I have, so I get weighed.

The last time I checked my weight, I was at 167, which is a little underweight for a man my age, but I don’t mind, since America just got fatter around me. I am at 145. I’m roughly 25 lbs underweight.

Doc looks at me and says, “You have scurvy.”
I replied, in the only way I know how, “Yar?”
He informs me that one in three college students on our campus are malnourished, usually from poor diet choices or simple lack of food (I figured I was down to about five meals a week at this point). My symptoms are in line with scurvy, which he says he sees, “all the time.”

So he tells me to get a lot of vitamin C, since my scurvy is pretty advanced. He says I should be concerned, since scurvy will kill you dead, without fail. He gave me some vitamin C tablets and some homeopathic remedies and sent me on my way.

I still am not fully recovered, because scurvy wipes you out pretty good, but I am feeling much better; my energy is up, and I no longer feel the need to shout “Avast!” and have a parrot poop on my shoulder. It’s embarrassing to have a disease that was essentially cured by the 19th century, but in a way I am proud of it. I mean, how many people do you know with scurvy? See… And now I feel like a real old salt sailor, thanks to my ailment. It’s like now I’ve earned the right to say, “Yar!” since I am a scurvy dog!

-Scurvdoggie

For more info, click here. It could save your life. Or you could just eat an orange every once in awhile.

What I Can vs. Who I Am

2007-01-22T09:46:00.000-06:00

I can be a jerk. I can be an asshole. I can do horrible things. I can say things and can do things that upset and frustrate people. I can be rude and selfish. I can tell lies to get myself out of trouble. I can be crude and crass and can be very opinionated. I can yell and scream and pout to get my way. I have hurt people’s feelings, and will likely do so in the future.

But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.

If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.

And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.

For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy Birthday GringO!

2007-01-19T09:38:00.000-06:00

Happy Birthday, GringO! He’s twenty-three, everybody! Can you believe it? All growed up, just about. And what do we have to show for it? Well, there are pics from his birthday bash! I only have two, because other folks had cameras, notably Wheels, who will hopefully share the images they have of that night with me so I can share them with you. Here are the pics that I have. Actually, the other pic is too dark, so I guess I just have the one. Aren't we cute?

But what I do have to share with you are some random quotes that came up that night that I feel I should share with you all.
And away we go!

“Everybody’s face looks Asian from far away…”

“I’m bringing my flask to work!”
“Your what?!”
“My FLASK!”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘Flash,’ like your Flash costume.”

“I am not an asshole; I am a dick, because dicks fuck pussies and assholes. If they didn’t, the world would be covered in shit.”

“He called me a Jeffersonian!”
“aHaH!”

“So, Nietzsche…”
"Yeah…those wacky Germans!”

After that, it all got really drunk.

Happy birthday, GringO! Did you get what you wanted?

-Zeepdoggie

Thirty One What?

2007-01-15T23:24:00.000-06:00

Thirty-one. 31. Einunddreißig. What can be said about this number?

• It’s an ugly number. I mean, just look at it. No consistent form, no flow, it even sounds wrong. Go ahead and say it. Uck.

• It’s prime.

• Seven of the months end with it.

• It’s been the second-worst year of my life, which is almost over. Not that 32 is looking to brighten up anytime soon, but thirty didn’t look good from two months away, and that was a banner year for ol’ Zeepdoggie.

• Baskin Robbins has 31 flavors.

• Halloween is on the 31st of October.

Anyone else know anything about 31?

-Zeepdoggie

No Child Left Behind-The Football Version

2007-01-11T22:04:00.000-06:00

1. All teams must make the state playoffs and all MUST win the championship. If a team does not win the championship, they will be on probation until they are the champions, and coaches will be held accountable.

If after two years they have not won the championship their footballs and equipment will be taken away UNTIL they do win the championship.

2. All kids will be expected to have the same football skills at the same time even if they do not have the same conditions or opportunities to practice on their own.
NO exceptions will be made for lack of interest in football, a desire to perform athletically, or genetic abilities or disabilities of themselves or their parents.

3. ALL KIDS WILL PLAY FOOTBALL AT A PROFICIENT LEVEL!

4. Talented players will be asked to workout on their own, without instruction. This is because the coaches will be using all their instructional time with the athletes who aren't interested in football, have limited athletic ability or whose parents don't like football.

5. Games will be played year round, but statistics will only be kept in the 4th, 8th, and 11th game.

6. It will create a New Age of Sports where every school is expected to have the same level of talent and all teams will reach the same minimum goals.

If no child gets ahead, then no child gets left behind.

7. If parents do not like this new law, they are encouraged to vote for vouchers and support private schools that can screen out the non-athletes and prevent their children from having to go to school with bad football players.

You know, if someone explained it like this to W., he might actually see the problems with NCLB.

-Zeepdoggie

My Dishes

2007-01-09T18:32:00.000-06:00

Lately I have not been able to muster up the drive to wash dirty dishes. Possibly it is due to this idea that slithers around in the back of my mind: what is the point?

You can try to clean dishes so well. Soak, scour, rinse, dry, polish, everything it takes to make them ready for the next meal even though afterward your hands are chapped, cracked and bleeding. Then comes the inherent problem. The next meal just makes the dishes dirty again.

If you don't wash the dishes they pile up. Some bits harden and cling to the dishes, solid and almost a part of the dish. Sometimes the dishes become stained from use, besmirched by a powerful and thick hue in the meal. As they stay there, untouched, unwashed, bacteria cultures, organic elements decay and rot, creating a foul odor about your dishes.

What is the alternative? Disposable plates? But then your old dishes still stay dirty and what you have now is not really yours. It does not require responsibility and ownership for one's dishes. Out of the package, used for a single meal, then thrown away.

Maybe we need someone to wash our dishes for us if we cannot do it ourselves. Someone who does not mind cleaning up after the last snack, meal or feast. This would be ideal if we could find that person and actually allow them to wash our dishes. But ultimately it would be an unfulfillable and one sided arrangement. All giving on one side, consuming and discarding, with only receiving on the other, endlessly cleaning up another person's mess.

I think the answer is to look for someone who's dishes you would not mind cleaning, in exchange for them washing yours. Though my dishes are now still sitting in the sink, untouched by me, I can only hope that one day they will be clean again.

::GringO::

So Sad, and So Tempting...

2006-12-29T20:51:00.000-06:00

By my birthday, I may just want one of these.

Oh God, how I hope not...

-Zeepdoggie

Fuckin' Mozart...

2006-12-29T20:38:00.000-06:00

So what do I do with the greatest musical talent to ever live? I have his concerti on the iPod, and I am getting to hear them now, and they are perfect. Simply perfect; not a bad note, nothing out of place; tones where there should be tones, silences where there should be silences, not one goddamned thing unnecessary or missing. And you know that the conductor and the orchestra step it up a notch or three when they’re playing Mozart, so I am getting virtuoso level performances from the fourth chair trombone…

So what do I do about old Wolfy? Do I just quit now and claim whatever he writes as the best I’ve ever heard? In a word, no; and here’s why.

First of all, he was so good, that if he wanted to make you cry, you would cry. Mozart makes you feel what he wants you to feel. And that sucks for the purpose of The Project. I want to feel something beyond the purpose of the composition, something that works no matter what mood I am in. And since WA Mozart changes my mood to suit his themes, I can’t consider anything he’s written as the greatest song I have ever heard.

Also, he underutilizes the cello, my favorite instrument in the orchestra. Now Shostakovich, there’s a composer who knows how to work a cello…

While Wolfy will make the top 25, no contest, he won’t take home top honors, which, were he alive and all the rumors about his fantastic ego be true and he actually read my pap, would just piss him off.

-Zeepdoggie

Sharing the Joy of the Holidays! Part I

2006-12-28T23:18:00.000-06:00

GringO and I have decided to share out Christmas stories with you all. I hope that his is longer, because mine is really short. You ready?

I couldn’t go to the Christmas Eve festivities of my family because I had to get to the Zeep family compound by 1400 in order to meet the RDV of 1600 at Zeepspunky’s house. She is my oldest and shortest sister, except in attitude; there she is the biggest member of the family, and I oh so love her for it!
Anyway, the job wouldn’t let me get out any earlier than 1600, so you see the conflict in the plan. I called my folks and told them to go without me.

So I worked until closing in Hell with Wheels. I went home and read for a little bit, tried to call some folks and didn’t get through, and went to sleep.

Christmas Day I went to the parental abode, did laundry and went home.

And that was Christmas.

-Zeepdoggie

2006-12-24T23:58:00.000-06:00

the Project: Progress...

2006-12-22T20:53:00.000-06:00

The Project is progressing nicely. I am about 300 songs deep, with roughly one in five earning more than one star. I decided that I would not rate songs until I had it narrowed down to a top 100. With roughly 7000 songs, it's going to take a while.

But like I said, it's going well. It's been a lot of fun, since I am listening not only with an agenda but also with no mind as to the relevance of my choice to my mood or situation. I am listening just to listen. It's also exciting to me to be answering one of the questions that I have always asked myself; it's geeky, I know, but I love to listen to music. Music is God's voice to me.

-Zeepdoggie

Stealing Their Hearts

2006-12-20T18:38:00.000-06:00

I have figured out a new way I can meet the ladies. It’s quite clever; well, for me, at least. Its going to take me acquiring a new skill, which will be fun for me because:
1) I will be learning;
B) it might just get me some aksheeawwuhn (say it out loud to get it)!

When I see a pretty woman on the street, or on the bus/train/at work, etc. I will pick her pocket. I will wait until the proper moment and approach her and say, “Miss, I believe you dropped this.” The sudden discovery of a disaster averted plus the act of chivalry will make her more open than me just walking up and saying something exceptionally witty, like, “Nice shoes; wanna screw?” Hey, it would be witty for me! Consider the source, people!

So as I hand her back her wallet or pocketbook, I will laugh a little, and spin a tale for her about how my great uncle met my great aunt in the same way, and what a great couple they are. I will offer to take her for a cup of coffee; after all, it’s the least I could do for her since she gave me the opportunity to be a hero.

At this point, I’m not sure if I should steal her cash before I return her stuff to her, because then I could potentially get a date and not actually have to pay for it; and if she says no, then hey, twenty bucks! Smells kinda like a win-win to me!

It sounds like a winner to me! What do you all think?

-Zeepdoggie

Finals Finale!

2006-12-16T18:51:00.000-06:00

Hello, my beloved readers! I have grand news! The semester is over! Yay! You know what that means, right? You guessed it! It means I have more opportunities to write to you, my lovey-doveys! Look at how excited you are, peeing your pants and everything!

Now some of you missed me, I am sure, and some of you could care less as to what has happened to me. To those of the former, I say, as I hold a finger tenderly to your trembling lips, "Hold your tongue, my pet. I am here, now...for you." To those of the latter, I say, "AHAAHAHAHAHA! I AM BACK, BITCHES! BORN TO IRRITATE YOU, LIKE POISON OAK FOR YOUR DWINDLING CRANIUM! AS YOU SUFFER, I GUFFAW PURE LAFFS!"

Ahem...

So I would like to apologize for completely disappearing off of the Erf to the following people: Ren (I am so your bitch) and the happy household who lives only to serve her; Tim, who I swear I will call back soon; Tom and all the other dudes I game online with; and that nice young lady who somehow got my email address and sends me naked pictures (I swear I am not making this up; sometimes God does throw a little sunshine Zeepdoggie's way); Rolling Thunder and all the other cronies who toil with me in Hell and also read this pap. To all of you, I will soon say, "Hiya!" Except for Ren, to whom I will say, "Please forgive me, O fecund goddess of acerbic wit!"

So finals went off without a hitch. I did not ask out any of my professors or TA's, as I had hoped to. Cowardice is a potent little mood-killer. But I had a lot of fun hanging out with the Dimmer Twins of Cloud and Willi, two young lads in my Deutschklasse, and with Cake-Free Katie, who is not emo, but quite bright, and MO and K and Z, who will be forming with me a writing guild where we will share our ideas and works and see if they can't put a little shine on the shit I sling to the paper that I dare call "writing."

And then there is The Project, which is coming along. There will be a post about that soon enough, hold yer horses.

So what is up with you, sunshine? Let me hear ya!

-Zeepdoggie

Project: 1st Snag

2006-12-12T21:24:00.000-06:00

Less than 24 hours into The Project, and I have been bit in the ass with the steely jaws of a cartoonish bear trap of a problem. It's a simple question to ask, but tricky as hell to answer:

In what order do I listen to the songs?

If I do it by band, then the band's particular style will become a baseline for my ear and mind, affecting the judgment of other bands and songs. Obviously, listening by album or genre will have the same effect.

I'll have to do it by song. But how the hell am I going to keep track of the songs? Especially since some of them appear more than once from the same artist, i.e. a live track vs. a studio track.

This is going to be very, very tough.

But thank Jobs for that handy feature of being able to rate songs right on the ol' iPod. Once I listen to a song, i will rate it with one star. Any song I think is very good or better, I will give two stars. This will help to slowly narrow down the possibilities, bottlenecking the selections.

It's good the semester's ending.

-Zeepdoggie

The Project

2006-12-11T13:25:00.000-06:00

I have a new project. It’s ambitious, and most likely it’s unrealistic, but I’m going to do it anyway. This is a project I have wanted to do for years, for a long, long time; before I thought of writing a book, before I debated being a sailor, I wanted to take this on. But I didn’t have the tools; the technology, the selections, the opportunity.

But they’re all here now; I have the proper tools, and I have the material and I have the drive.

I am going to descry the greatest song I have ever heard.

Not the greatest song of all time, but the greatest song of all time for me.

The iPod has roughly twenty days worth of music. I’m going to have to listen to everything at least twice. And then there’s the considerations of technical ability, composition, lyrical content, and that ever important “vibe.”

Twenty days. Twenty days. 20. Zwanzig. Vingt. Twintig. είκοσι. Shit...

Aw, hell. It’s not like I haven’t bitten off more than I could chew before. It usually gives me gas, but I'll finish the meal.

-Zeepdoggie

Mike Ness and the Story of My Day

2006-12-05T18:45:00.000-06:00

So, who here has heard of Social Distortion? C'mon, put yer hands up!

Now put 'em down! What's the matter with you, putting your hands up when you're sitting at the computer? You look like a crazy person!

So I'm listening to "White Light, White Heat, White Trash" on my way home from work. I'm feeling a little conflicted. Mom's out of the hospital and I have a brandy-new, shiny grand-nephew. But I'm still feeling down, because it's the holidays and I don't take to the lonelies well whenever it's just another boring day on the calendar. But this is the time of year where it just sucks. I've actually not spent a Christmas alone (as in without a girlfriend/wife/significant other) since I've been dating. For those not in the know, that is a long goddamned time. This year, the streak will, in all likelihood, be broken. I am not jazzed about that. My sub needs to dock. Sailors need liberty in some port other than home.

Have I pushed the metaphor far enough? Good.

So, yeah, and I got into a conversation at work that ended with me quoting Tyler Durden, so you know that must have been a very cheerful way to leave the jobsite. The conversation before that was about divorce, and it went downhill from there.

I put on SoD, because, hey, why not? Is it going to get worse? It could, I know, but SoD won't be the ones responsible, and I'm leaving the job after my second bad day at work (which sucks because it's Tuesday), so I just decide to listen to some really depressing lyrics sung to a nice upbeat punk vibe.

I'm listening to "Down on the World Again" and I am so right there with Ness, man.

Well, I feel so alone in this crowd, my thoughts of despair
Are getting loud
I'm disrespected
And I'm down on the world again
Love and tolerance have abandoned me and I feel the gloom hovering over me
I'm resentful
And I'm down on the world again

Fuck the world; all of humanity is nothing more than the skidmarks in the geological-time toilet bowl; the experiment is over and mankind just won't do what all the other useless species had the decency to do and just die off already! Burn the whole thing down to the core. Not "Feelin' Groovy," that's for sure.

I get on the train, sit down in all of my foulness and angst and whatever else you want to call it just don't call it emo, and across from me is this cute little baby. And he starts talking to me in that individual baby-speak that you can't understand unless you spend a full month straight with the little bugger, but he's laughing and talking to me. I talk back, mostly saying "Really?" and "Yeah!" just encouraging him to keep going. And he has a cool hat, and he shows it to me, and he loves his Scooby-Doo blanket ( and I ask, who wouldn't?) and he is just so damned adorable that I completely forget about me and am so jazzed on his coolness that I'm still smiling about it.

As I get off the train, I listen to the song that's now playing.

The sins
Of the world
And it's cold on the streets
And you're all alone
And the tears
They start to fall
When it all comes down
Hear the angels sing

Thanks, little dude, for helping me hear the angels sing.

-Zeepdoggie

Welcome Aboard, Jake!

2006-12-04T23:28:00.000-06:00

Jacob Ryan Federici, the latest member of Zeepdoggie's growing crew of grandnephews and-nieces, has joined the ranks. Pipe him aboard, and let the spoiling begin!

Seriously though, Jake Ryan? My niece's obsession with 80's movies has gotten out of control. Besides, think of how much cooler that baby would be in high school if Mom and Dad went with the most famous character in that movie.

ROLL CALL

"Evans, Josh..."
"Here."
Federici...Long Duk Dong!?"
"...sigh..."

I guess it could've been worse. I remember her being really into "Top Gun." Maverick Iceman Federici would've been okay, but imagine if she went the RIO route: that's right, folks, Goose Slider Federici.
That would be totally hott! No wait; it would be HOTTT!

-Zeepdoggie

And Jake, that Great Uncle Zeepdoggie to you! Love ya, bubba!

Don't Ever Ask That Question

2006-11-28T08:07:00.000-06:00

So, Zeepmomma is in the hospital, again. This time the docs are 95% sure it's pneumonia. Good for them; something they can diagnose and treat. But it's a pretty bad case, and since they still don't know exactly why she lost use of her legs for a few days, they are taking her case as "exceptional."
This is what I get for asking, "What next?"
They aren't sure when she'll be home, since this is her fifth bout with pneumonia in four years. I remember trying to explain to her that she has all of these lung-related issues, and that there is most likely a link to her smoking for roughly fifty years of her life. She thinks it's coincidence. Yeah, just like all those times she'd come home to me, eyebrows smoldering, holding a scorched screwdriver in one very twitchy hand, giggling idiotically and big burn marks on the wall above the socket and me being able to hold a lightbulb in my mouth and make it glow are just coincidences.
But her being in a hosopital affords me many opportunities to flirt with nurses, doctors, orderlies and candy-stripers; life hands me a lemon, I'll see if it can get me laid.

-Zeepdoggie

It's all their fault!

2006-11-14T20:46:00.000-06:00

Zeepmomma is in the hospital. On Sunday she tried to get up from the couch, and her legs couldn’t support her. She couldn’t walk. So they took her to the ER, where they then took her to Elmhurst Hospital (yes, that is quite far from where she and Zeepdaddy live, but that’s where the doc is, so there is where she goes), where they have done an MRI and blood work and some motor tests to determine that they don’t know what the hell is wrong.

She had a stroke last year, so it might be that. But her blood work shows some kind of issue that might suggest diabetes. Still, in the hospital three days now and the all they can do is the MD equivalent of shuffling their feet and saying, “I dunno…”

She’s in high spirits, and her legs can move. She took some steps today with her physical therapist (put a space in there and “therapist” becomes “the rapist”…I just noticed that…English can be kinda funny, can’t it?), so there is good stuff coming along. We played a joke on my sister that I’ll share with you all later, which made her laugh. She said it was “the highlight of the year.”

I’m like a lot of folks out there. When I feel lazy and irresponsible, I blame my folks for my troubles. “If they did a better job raising me, then I would (or not) have done/said/been that way about…” You get the picture. But, if that’s the case, if we are going to give up responsibility of our decisions to our parents, then we should most definitely give a big, screaming, TRL-style shout-out for all the cool shit we did!

Thanks Mum & Dad, for:
o All that creative mischief I pulled in which almost no one got hurt (sorry again about the arm, Scotty-2-Hotty)!
o All those lovely ladies that I convinced I was good enough for sex! Actually, double thanks for that!
o Every time I did something smart! Both of them!
o For the insane work ethic, which I also curse you for!
o For teaching me that funny hurts!
Und so weiter!

So, that’s my thing. If you blame your folks, thank them too. Because, if they fucked you up so badly, then there’s no way you can take credit for all that cool shit you pulled, you suck-ass, namby-pamby, irresponsible jerk-off!

I’m out like the Kansas ass flash pants.

-Zeepdoggie

Point: I Want to be a Ninja!

2006-11-08T20:05:00.000-06:00

I want to be a ninja. How cool would that be? I’d get to run around in black PJ’s hiding my face, and assassinating evil shogun and ruthless samurai. I’d have those cool climbing claws for my hands and feet, and I would be able to scale the walls like a pre-Venom black-costumed Spider-Man!

Ninja are all about stealth. If a ninja were after you, you wouldn’t know it until five minutes after you’re dead.

And the ninja didn’t live by some silly warrior’s code. They did the dirty work. You think that your daimyo is going over-the–top with the taxes? Call a ninja. Your rival in the Imperial court is getting a little uppity? Call a ninja. In fact, any of the scenarios broached by AC/DC in the song “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” would totally apply for hiring a ninja.

My number one concern with being a ninja is the Inverse Ninja Law. I have to be mindful of how many ninja are with me when I go out ninjing. I don’t know about you, but being a killing machine is much more satisfying than being cannon fodder.

And the swords! Oh, man the katana so kicks the ass of any cutlass or other sword out there. Making a katana is more of a religious rite than a tool-making process. And the folds! It was a super strong blade that you could use as a bridge, if you had to cross a very short, very deep river, or crevasse, or something.

Ninja have no catch phrases. No avasting or ahoying for a ninja. And you know what they say about a life at sea…

Ninja bathe, pirates don’t. Women throw themselves at the silent, clean-smelling ninja. Pirates pay for sex, at least with women; if they want it for free, well, that's what cabin boys are for.

Who the hell would wear the frilly shirt from "Seinfeld" by choice? And shoes with buckles? What's wrong, matey? Shoelaces kicking your ass? Oh, yeah, nice patch. Bet that comes in handy when you're trying to determine distance...oh, wait, you can't do that with ONE EYE!

So, the comfy outfits, the stealthy nature, the kick-ass swords, the soap and the nookie all add up to a ninja being the real ultimate power.

-Zeepdoggie

Counter-Point: A Pirate's Life for Me!

2006-11-08T20:02:00.000-06:00

I want to be a pirate. As a pirate you are outside of the law in that you don't care about it. You also don't have to rely on anyone else for means of support. Need money? Take it. Wanna drink some alcohol? Take it. Want a cheaply acquired DVD collection? Hell, I stole this computer I'm using. Piracy is the way!

Unlike the silent cowardly tactics of ninjas pirates will give you the courtesy of a monologue and there is no mistaking a cannon ball trailing a tail of smoke hitting you in the stomach and taking you overboard into the briny depths. Ninjas are the silent yet deadly farts in elevators of crime while Pirates are the raucous raspberries of tomfoolery and mirth. Providing a little pizazz to spice up your untimely demise, Pirates put the "balls" in ballistics.

Ninjas are the goth-kids-hiding-in-basements of the criminal world with their ridiculous all black pajamas rule whereas Pirates are the glamorous leather boot, frilly yet stylish shirt wearing rock stars. This helps for the ladies. Ninjas are bound to attract women who like the strong silent type and probably want commitment and babies and all that dither. Pirates appeal to the rich heiresses of nobility who are in for some adventure or just some simple slumming. No need to buy them gifts, put up with emotions, or meet the parents, no responsibility. Nail and bail, that's the Pirate way. In other words, complete freedom!

How many ninjas do you know? None if they are real ninjas. In this world of relative anonymity Pirates have catchy names and go down in history and live on as legends unlike countless ninjas who have left about as much personal renown as as stray dog. With their quirky phrases, outlandish behavior and awe inspiring fighting tactics, pirates get the most fun out of life.

-Sneaky Pete

::GringO::