Another One Bites The Dust Is A Badass Jam And Hopefully Not a Running Theme Around Here

Ennui. I have it. Of the blog variety that is.

I don't think I'm alone, I've noticed it going around the blogosphere a bit. We're writing less, we're looking less. It's the dog days of Summer rearing their ugly heads. I'm actually okay with it, but I'm not going to pretend that one day, soon, you're going to show up here and find brilliance in writing.

Oh you might, in a month or two, but probably not right now. No, right now the best you can hope for is that I'll show up, punch the clock, drink a Diet Coke, fiddle with a paperclip, send a text message, take my lunch, screw around for another hour, think about checking the mail and then call it a day.

And, that, my friends? Is total bullshit. You should really expect more from me. You should pull me aside and get all up in my face, wave your finger around near my nose and say, "Look, asshole, get your ass in gear. Whip yourself into shape and give us something! Anything! Christ, it's freaking sad around here. You are fucking lazy! I've seen more action from a half salted slug."

You'd be right to do it. But, the problem is that I'd probably just shrug and say, "You're right." and then wander off like a dejected 14-year old boy that was just turned down for date to the dance.

I'm still here. I'm still around. I'm just asking for some lenience for the rest of this month. Hang with me, be my friend, enable my sad ass. I'll write when I can, when it comes from within, but I just can't handle all the GAWDDAMN pressure already. Jeez, get up off me, you freak!

Good news.

BoomTube is still in full force and will now be broadcast live every weekend.

Wait. Did you catch that right? Freaking A right you just did! You can now spend your Friday nights, with me. Look, the world just lost Michael Jackson, right? It's my turn to give back and spread this awesomosity out in full force. It's Human Nature. And I promise, it will be Off The Wall.

Gah, will I just fucking stop already?

Friday nights, 9 PM Central, 8 PM Mountain, 7 PM Pacific, 10 PM Eastern - you got that? You can find BoomTube right here. And just to make that easy for you, I'll put a button on my sidebar that you can just click on to tune in. You'll be able to chat with us (and amongst yourselves) live during the broadcast and if you can't make it, well you can watch anytime your little heart desires.

That? Is not grody by any means people.

Some of you may notice that is the time slot directly before the greatness that is known as Skankelodeon. That's right. BoomTube is a warm up act. Which means two hours of freaking fantastic every Friday, just for you. Which I cannot find the URL for right at the moment, but I promise I'll have a button for that too.

You might get something a little grody from that show.

Whew, this is getting exhausting. But don't go yet because I've got one more for you.

As some of you may know, my husband is a retired House DJ with 14 years of experience under his belt. He took a hiatus from spinning and playing around the country to do a little thing called starting a family. But now that he's used to us and maybe even a little sick us, he's ready to get back at it. He's heavily influenced by 80's Synth Pop and the Chicago and San Francisco House scenes. I know because I edited the bio.

So we've taken care of your Saturday nights too and you can find him and his radio show, Droppin' The Boom here. (Scroll to the bottom for the full scoop.) Midnight Central. You do the math on the other time zones. I gave you the formula earlier. And you know I'll be giving y'all a button for that as well.

Woah, I just laid a hurtin' on your world, didn't I?

Boom Tube, Episode 2, Take It To The Hoop Ya'll

Here is this week's edition of BoomTube. And why, oh why do the stopped video stills make look like I've suffered serious head trauma? I know, don't be jealous of my beauty.

Today I take you to hobo hangout, so check it out:




So here are the "links below" that I promised in the video.

Thank you to A Jill Of All Trades for the naming of BoomTube.

And a huge thank you to the girls at Room 704. They showered me with love on their radio show last week. So make sure you check those beeshes out. And try and figure out what totes means for me, okay?

What has happened to my blog? Shut up, naysayer.

Because Sometimes My Email Is As Freaky A Place As My Mind

I'm all frisky this morning just like my five pound Yorkie Poo after she gets groomed. Probably because my hair is nearly the lightest shade of platinum I could muster without turning it blue (actually it was blue for a moment), and I'm back to my awesome bangs. I couldn't handle that side swept, get a hair cut already, bullshit I was sporting.

What I'm saying is my ass is wagging around like I just found a ball I totally forgot about under the couch and it's the coolest shit EVER!

Also, I came into some fantastic email love from Miss Yvonne and sometimes you realize you can touch someone's life even if the entire state of Oklahoma separates you from them. Check it:

Depeche Mode came on XM this morning on my way to work and it made me think of you, and then right after that Billie Idol's Dancing with Myself came on. For reals. I was air punching the shit out of my drive today. It was like you were there, except you weren't and I was by myself shoving my fist into the air and curling my lip and then the lawn guys at my office saw me and started laughing and I was all "fuck you, lawn guys! You don't even know how cool I am...I'm Miss Yvonne, assholes!" and then I did a double air punch just to spite them.

And, you know that touches me in a special place I call my heart. It's like feeding little hungry children and shaking hands with lepers. Only the kids are still hungry and there isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me touch those zombie freaks.

It's okay, lepers don't have feelings so don't get all crazy on me.

Inside of the little oasis that is known as my email is also an email exchange I had with the Dirty Pirate Hooker, in which I offer up some fantastic parenting advice she in no way actually asked for:

DPH: Omg, my kid is Hitler this morning. I refuse to sieg heil.

Me: Well you should, or she's probably going to rape you and throw you in the gas chamber and that would be all kinds of wrong.

DPH: I'd take a violent rape and gas chamber over her attitude today.

Me: Holy shit. What the fuck is the matter with you?

DPH: I don't know. I haven't had enough coffee yet.

Me: Well apparently. You're kid is a tool of the devil. Pretend like you don't even notice.

DPH: I wish I could video her rants in the morning and show her why I'm a drunk in 10 years.

Me: Can't you just get her up from bed at like 10:00 at night and show her that you're a drunk now?

Oh you said show her WHY! My bad.

And that is why I'm watching episodes of In Treatment lately. I need to brush up on listening/advice giving skills.

The moral of today's story. If you send me an email, it might just make it to my blog. Actually, more than likely it will. My life is a little on the slow side. And, if we're all not careful, our kids are going to get video of us looking like David Hasselhoff with a cheeseburger.

I'm Right There In The Dork Hole With You

Hold on for a minute while I dork out on you. If you know Jason and I in real life, then you know what amazing dorks we really are. We take dorking out to a new level. The really good news in my life is that my husband and I have souls that are wrapped firmly around the same tune. Our insides move to the same beat. We are dorks of a feather.

While we wait with anxious hearts for the new Depeche Mode to come out, ignoring that it has leaked all over the world, we planted ourselves firmly in the Joy Division camp.

We have a nearly nightly viewing of 'Control', where we sit and point out all the intricacies that only dorks would know. We discuss and debate. We toss about theories and suggestions.

In essence we are total freaking dorks. We own our dorktitude.

Last night, I watched and I talked. I pointed out what I'd not noticed before and what I had just read about to Jason. And then I looked at him and said, "I know, shut up, right?" He smiled and said, "No baby, I'm right there in the hole with you."

And indeed he is.

And indeed our son is as well.

Yes, we are the dorks who named our son after the lead singer of a band. A man who was weak and took his own life. That man was a poet though. And the tragic part about being such an artist and having the beauty of pain flow through your whole being is that how long can you truly live like that and deal with that? How lonely must that be?

Our almost two-year old asks for this song every day, over and over again. He sings it and he dances along to it.

Why?

Because he's got fucking dorks for parents.

Let me know if it does a thing for you.

I'm entirely captivated.

UPDATED: Also? I'm using the word 'nards' as much as possible today. It's getting weird. No one will join me.

My Radio And The Car Guy Thought I Was A Jerk

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure this is how this call went yesterday.


The rad thing about owning a Honda is that when your battery dies, you have to reset a code or you don't get the privilege of listening to your radio.

The rad thing about working in the Honda service department yesterday was talking to me.

They got to do it twice.

Me: Hey, uh yeah. So I have this car and it died. And now the radio is just looking at me like I'm a jerk.

Honda Guy 1: What?

Me: My radio, looks at me like I'm a jerk. Am I supposed to have some kind of code? You know, I had to jump start my car now the radio does not work!

HG1: Oh, well yeah, there's a sticker in your glove box with a code on it.

Me: That's negatory.

HG1: What?

Me: No sticker.

HG1: Well lady without that sticker I can't help you much now can I? Besides, we don't give codes over the phone.

I knew this was total bullshit and this guy was just annoyed.

HG1: Are you in your car now?

Me: No.

HG1: Can't really help you.

Me: Can't really like you.

He didn't care.

Yeah, so I go out to my extremely moody car that just looked at me like what now? Haven't we been through enough? And I flip open her glove box and she was all, "Really? We have to do this now?" And there is a freaking sticker with a number in there that I guess Jason couldn't find the last time he needed it.

So I called Honda back. They were stoked.

Me: Yeah, so it's cold, I'm sitting in my car. It's screaming at me for a code and I have this code so what do I do?

HG2: What?

Me: My CAR! It wants some kind of a code, I have a code, you tell me what to do with it?

HG2: You push it into the presets.

Me: Right and how do I do that?

HG2: YOU. PUSH. THE. BUTTONS. If it says six, you push six.

Me: Thanks Honda Guy, but here's the thing, there are like nines and eights. How do I make that magic happen?

HG2: What?

Me: Nines and EIGHTS! They come after seven and before ten. My presets go up to six.

HG2: Where did you get the code.

Me: I can't help but think if you were a robot this would be easier. From the sticker inside my car.

HG2: Oh, that's something else, I put that number into my smart box and it spits out a code.

Me: Is the smart box a robot?

HG2: No?

Me: Is it smarter than you or me?

HG2: Possibly.

Me: SEE! Robot. Watch out for that thing it's going to take over the world.

HG2: Uh... the code is blah blah blah.

Me: Okay, pushing it in and nothing.

HG2: Nothing?

Me: Okay, error message.

HG2: Lady, this isn't hard you just push the buttons.

Me: I can't push the buttons any differently. I push buttons all day long, these buttons hate me. Can you even imagine the devastation this is causing my very vulnerable psyche? I can't imagine that you and your smart box do.

HG2: Okay, yeah, I can't help you right now. You have to pull the fuse or the battery. If you want help with that, come on in.

Me: If I come in will you be happier and more robot like?

Click.

So it turns out that I just entered that code one more time and it worked. I wanted to call Honda Guy back to let him know.

Honda Guy didn't answer the phone.

UPDATED!!! Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

Here's the thing about yesterday? Yesterday was bitch. Yesterday was the kind of bitch that could make a girl face plant into a bag of mini candy bars and come up for air only to complain that there was not one single solitary drop of bacon grease to be found in that fucking bag.

Yesterday left me with two choices.

Get drunk
Eat a lot of shit.

This morning came really fucking early and found me feeling hollow - well except for the bacon covered peanut butter cup that I could be making up. But am I?

So this jerk face, ass wipe Tuesday also found me laying in bed, sobbing hysterically because I ended up watching one of those Dateline shows where they put actors in horrible situations and then watch mankind fail miserably at being anything close to human. And when they had the homeless actor, lay dead on the sidewalk and not one asshole stopped to help because he was homeless I decided I no longer wanted to be human.

The good thing that happened was when Sunday, Bloody Sunday came on the radio, for the first time in 3 years I smiled at the song. Mostly, because I had this entire Twittersation with someone that I'm just going to go ahead and put in the same category as knees that belong to bees, about how Bono is totally her imaginary husband and how Michael Hutchense makes your soul ache and bleed with his beauty. So when that song came on I smiled instead of feeling the pointy little bitch dagger that usually just turns itself inside my bruised and broken heart.

The thing about that song is that it's forever burned into my being and is simultaneously on my highlight and lowlight reels of life because when I hear it, when I feel it, all I can see is the night my husband swayed and danced with my now dead son around our tiny little living room while this video played behind him.

That's a total bite, isn't it? I know, fuck me and my sadness today. As a matter of fact?

Fuck you sadness.

But that wasn't about sadness right? It was about new found goodness.

Yesterday's big suck factor was mostly due to this really insanely stupid meeting we had with our financial planner that made me want to gouge out an eye, kick a shin and then just made me cry like a baby. And here's the thing about crying, I hate it and try to not do it.

This morning, I might have said something to Jason about how buying Depeche Mode tickets might not be our best plan of action and that left a big gaping hole in my belly. Then I stopped to get a Diet 7-up (which is my new crutch in life) and stood there, grinning like a jackass when the guy in front of me plopped to tall boys down on the counter and started to count his pennies to pay for them at 7:30 in the am.

Because hell? Life could be so much fucking worse, right? I waited patiently because no matter what, I wasn't doing that and I knew if I saw that guy laying on the sidewalk, with his can in hand, I wouldn't hesitate to call 911 and check his pulse. I'm a hella good person, I know it. And then? Then I reached in my pocket to pull out the dollar and some change I had to pay for my drink and all I pulled out in the first handful was a few pennies, a partial Kleenex and a mother fucking button.

I pulled out a button.

Like Charles Fucking Dickens was writing my bacon lacking life story.

Fuck you, little street urchin button!

I found my dollar and clutched the cold bottle as I walked into the cold air and got into my car. I looked at the car with the broken window next to me, smiled, again thinking, look, worse, right? Look at my pleasure over other's misfortune. Oh and maybe I should consider moving.

As I reversed my car, I turned up the volume and this is where I just wonder what the hell I've ever done because the haunting drum of Sunday, Bloody Sunday started tearing into my ear drums and I burst into tears.

So you know what? Fuck you, Wednesday. Fuck you hard.


Hold the Mah'fucking phone. My day just got better. I found THISSSSS!



Or even better? Huey Mah'fucking Lewis!



Thank you cracked.com

The Concert...

...Kicked a lot of butt.

It definitely kicked mine. I'm dragging today.

You get your money's worth when you see The Cure. After a little over 2 hours we actually had to head out to pick up our kidlets. Rumor has it they always play for 3+ hours.

The sound was great and even though Robert Smith's voice was giving him trouble he carried on like a trooper. The vibe was actually really mellow and the crowd watching was the absolute best.

We had a great time.