Sunday, May 30, 2010
History's true innovators donned beards: Kenny Rogers, Fidel Castro, Bluto, some of Blue Oyster Cult
I have a problem with commitment. I waffle on a great deal of things in life, and I'm going to conduct an exercise in commitment. I have committed myself to abstaining from shaving for 100 days. I'm not sure why I settled on 100, it just sounds official I suppose. I'm not working right now, and school doesn't resume till the summers over, so my beard won't affect my life. I've always wanted a beard any self-respecting lumberjack would grow. I'm not a lumberjack, but they're the manliest section of society I can think of, and I want a beard they'd approve of. Plus, men with beards look smarter, like they enjoy Steely Dan or can finish crossword puzzles. Two things I'm entirely incapable of. So with that, I say let the summer of hirsute love commence.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I have a friend who used to be an intense drinker. He'd drink himself into fights, blackouts, one time he drank himself into the delusion of a boxing match in which his opponent was someone who he had really pissed off. I never hung out with him much, as his main hobby was drinking and mine just wasn't. One time he asked me to hang out with him on a weeknight, which was odd. I arrived at his house and he told me he wanted to go to the base of Sunrise Mountain. To listen to classic rock radio and watch the sprawling Las Vegas valley shimmer and hum, stirring and shaking the loose change out of the pockets of midwesterners. So I sat there with him, not knowing most of the songs. If the Beatles are the brains of the body of classic rock, your roadhouse bar staples ala Taking Care Of Business, Journey's entire recorded catalogue, Boston, etc.. is the butthole. I tried to persuade him to turn the dial, to no avail. He implored me to sing with him. The Journey song that goes "When the lights, go down, in the city"...came on, he really got worked up over that one. So I hummed along to placate him. I was a hostage to not only my friend, but to Rob Halford, Steve Perry, and the leader singer of REO Speedwagon that night. Maybe that's a Vegas drunk ritual I was unaware of. I surely hope someone is being subjected to Foregner, or Styx in the shadow of the Mormon temple right now.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Dear Vegas, I'm leaving you. Not right this second, or next week. But inevitably, I'm leaving you. Why? Well, I kept thinking you'd change. Host better bands that aren't Huey Lewis and the News. Establish a hospitable environment for independent coffee houses. You are the guy that all my single, bitter friends said you were. And they said you would never change and that yours was to be a life of shrimp cocktails and Wayne Newton. I said , no you're wrong. He'll change. He's in a transitional phase. But I realized that you loved all you can eat, all day buffets too much and we had just drifted apart. So I'm leaving you for someone else. Their name is the Pacific Northwest, Portland or Seattle depending on some variables, tentatively sometime in 2011-12. They promised me I wouldn't have to drive a car if I lived with them and that Bumbershoot is like having Coachella in your own town. That your writing skills just blossom from the endless rain then you take on a Kerouac-ian, Plath dour tone overtime, but hey, everything is green. I'm leaving you my Ben Stiller show dvds, and one of our copies of Clerks (not the one signed by Dante and Randall, though). You can have any of the cds, just no Wilco, REM or Tom Waits. I love you and always will. You used to be Busgy's town and transitioned into Paris Hilton's town. But you'll always be my town. Sing it Crowe..."I'm leaving Las Vegas"........
Friday, May 21, 2010
The first time I was dumped was when I was 13 and it was at the State Fair. Not my first choice of setting, but you don't really have a choice is matters like these. She did it while a Guns N Roses song was playing. Immediately following a ride on the tilt-a-whirl with her, so I was nauseous and had Axl and company singing about Mr. Brownstone in the background. She said "Luke, I'm dumping you.? I said I don't get it. I really didn't. I was a first timer. She reiterated, and so did I. So she all but took out a chalk board and a chart to illustrate how these things work. I said hmmmm. At that point, I prayed and asked my two patron saints, John Hughes and Cameron Crowe what I should do? They both agreed unanimously that I should spend the next few days sitting across the street from her house for varying periods of time. Which I did. Up until her Dad sent her out to tell me that if I didn't stop coming by that he was going to get the fuzz involved. I thought that was a bit uncalled for. In the movies, you get the girl by bringing a boom box, presumably a pocket full of double d batteries for that huge boom box, and a copy of Peter Gabriel's So. You skip Sledgehammer and Big Time because there's no room for songs like those in a situation like this, and go right to In Your Eyes or Red Rain. If time permits, throw in Don't Give Up with Kate Bush. Me? I left the boom box at home and got threatened with possible incarceration.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
I never really did drugs to a habitual point, I dabbled. And as I got older, the 1/8 Jewish blood in me really pushed its way to the forefront of my brain. Where most people just let the drugs take control of their brain like a taxi driver trying t0 get that next fare in with no regard for speed limits or the elderly, my brain really just wanted to contemplate grocery lists and if i had any direction at all in life. Or would I get swept up in a drug bust and to go to jail? And if so who would it be? The fuzz? FBI or CIA or KGB, maybe Gestapo? My trips were less Tom Petty and more Cannibal Corpse with a hint of Seinfeld. Anymore, the only drug I do is caffeine. Mind you, I wouldn't blow a guy for a cup of coffee like the more dedicated junky might. But at this point, 3 shots of espresso is as close as I'm getting to cocaine.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Men love being naked at inappropriate times. Streaking is a fine depiction of this. I go to the gym and see so much old man balls and butt cheeks that look like a flesh toned cousin to a drape of pizza dough hanging from a geriatrics back that I know a sense of nude entitlement instills itself in men when they hit a certain age. The gym locker room feeds into this. Shave your goods in front of the unsuspecting ? Why not? Balance your checkbook with legs wide open. Sure. I only go into the locker room under situations where my bladder is under sever duress and it's absolutely necessary as I know what awaits me when I go in there. Men have nothing on a nude woman. Men look like God was about to hit his lunch hour and just had to throw something together to meet his Creator Quota. I suppose when you hit 70 you're not concerned as to whether or not the sight of your sagging yam bags is burning my retinas. But really, all I want is to wash my hands and not see a World War 2 veterans kibbles and bits. Is that so wrong?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
I used to write love letters for other guys to girls I could never have. Girls that made a face that is indicative of the smelling of exotic cheeses or a rugby team fresh off the playing field when I'd come around. I liked that I facilitated pubescent love and that I did so with the sentiments I picked up from watching Days Of Our Lives with my mom.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Hello kiddies. Thank you for reading. And please thank your parents for teaching you how to read. Please tell your friends if you find this enjoyable. My name is Luke. Many people say they like Lucas much more than my name. I say I'm sorry to hear that. That's all for now.