Insert Clever Pot-Related Title Here

Butch is having particularly evocative dreams as he's sleeping here in the sunbeam. He's been like a log for an hour or so, as I've been farting around on the internet and playing Civilization III. About 15 minutes ago, he poked his head up and craned his neck at me. I stopped playing and looked at him. He held my gaze for about 4 seconds, and plopped back to sleep. And just before I started typing this paragraph, his legs started twitching. Then his head. Then he snorted and hissed at invisible demons as he opened his eyes. And asleep again before I could count to ten.

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You know that scene in the 1971 movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with the kids frolicking in the room full of candy flowers and a chocolate river and whatnot? That's how I feel when I go to the marijuana dispensary. I don't smoke too too much anymore, but I've been at least an occasional smoker for about 20 years. For the first nineteen of those years, I was doing it completely illegally - either in a total-ban state, like NJ or GA, or here in CA, but before I got a Medical Marijuana card. 

The entire ritual and experience of using pot has changed drastically since I've been doing it legally. The most obvious change is the fact that you never have to fret when you run low. As a kid, there was nothing worse than a dry time in the weed business. You take what you can get, and pay what you have to, if you're lucky enough to find something. You get scammed by fucking dickheads on Haight street selling oregano cut with grass clippings as "Primo Kind Buds, dude!" And the pot was treated as precious. You make sure every last tiny little speck of green is put to good use, because you just never know. I used to be like a goddamn weed accountant, scraping out the baggie and meticulously sweeping up the nearly-invisible crumbs. Accidentally knocking some loose herbs onto the carpet, where they are utterly un-recoverable, was a relative disaster. 

Now, I have a dispensary that I go to about once a month or so. They have a sign, and posted hours. They make no attempt to hide what they do, as they shouldn't. I can go there and, on a BAD day, choose from a dozen different strains and price ranges. On a good day, there are literally three or four dozen one-gallon containers full of different varieties of marijuana, at prices ranging from cheap as hell, but acceptable product, to mid-priced great weed, to extremely high-dollar exotics that I'd never even consider because of the price. And a dozen or more different edible creations, from cookies to brownies to lollipops. Yesterday, they had marijuana-infused chocolate-covered peanut-butter-filled pretzels. I almost ejaculated in my pants, but unfortunately had to pass, as I don't eat sugar and flour anymore.

I'm toying with the idea of quitting, though. It's about $20 a week (very rough guess) to keep both me and my roommate sufficiently stocked with weed, and that's not insignificant. I know, lots of people spend a LOT more money on their hobby, but twenty bucks is twenty bucks. And it definitely makes me just a hair duller, in a very specific way - I am absolutely useless as a writer after a hit or two of weed. I can converse and act perfectly well, but I can't focus my thoughts enough to put anything worthwhile on paper.

And no, I'm not always high when writing this blog, it just naturally sucks.

Your Oscar Night Recap

I used to LOVE the Oscars. For almost as long as I can remember, certainly as far back as the year "Pulp Fiction" was nominated, I've participated in pools or contests centered around the ceremony - who's going to win, who should win, etc. I even won a newspaper contest for most correct picks one year (I was one of the only entrants who picked Eminem to win best song for that rap-battle movie, which won me a steak dinner.) But my interest has waned as of late. I saw zero of the nominated movies this year. Last year, I saw one (Moneyball). The previous year, two (The Social Network and Black Swan.) I just don't care anymore.

It's gotten to the point that I barely watch movies anymore. I worked at a video store for about 6 years back in the late 90s and early 2000s. I watched movies all day, every day. I had free rein to play anything I wanted, as long as it could reasonably be considered appropriate for kids - no nudity, no hard swearing, that type of thing. It was nice, but even then, I was experiencing some kind of... tiredness of the format, maybe? During shifts, I'd find myself watching the same few dozen films over and over and over again. We had free access to take home and watch ANY movie in the store, with limiting conditions, and we had fully free access to pre-release promotional "screener" tapes of all the major releases. Almost exclusively, I'd take a couple home, and bring them back the next day, unviewed. Why? Just didn't want to watch 'em.

I think it's because there are so, so many distractions at home. There's always a computer to play with. Cats crawling all over me. A channel changer if I get bored. It's never as dark as a theater either, and the upstairs douchebag playing Dance Dance Revolution doesn't help. At a movie theater, assuming it's not full of dicks, which is a risky assumption, the distractions are nearly nonexistent.

I'm going to start going to the theater more often. The last time I saw a movie in a theater was "The 40-year-Old Virgin," all the way back in 2005. I think I've been afraid because I've been so fat for so long. But I've lost enough weight so far that it's fully practical to go to a theater, and I do miss it. I'm also one of those people who has no trouble going to a movie alone, although a companion is much preferred.

Anyway, last night's Oscars kinda sucked. Seth McFarlane as host went off moderately well. He had some fantastically uncomfortable but funny moments. He doesn't seem to care too much about offending people, and why not - he's a goddamn hundred-millionaire, he can do whatever he wants, and not worry about going hungry or homeless. He can sing and dance well enough. My favorite line from the night, which only Robert Downey, Jr. had the fucking stones to applaud :

Lawyers, Stop Being Dicks, Please

All of a sudden, it looks like it's going to be a gorgeous day. The sun is shining, but it's still morning-cold, kinda how I like it. It's not super-clear, but I can see cargo ships in the Pacific - no mean feat, since the beach is about 12 blocks away, and the ships are miles out to sea (or so I assume).

I'm pretty sure it's going to be a good day. I tend to have shitty weekends, but it's been a decent week.

Sometimes I just want to stab my brain right in the goddamn face. I can reason out any issue. I can put any situation into perspective, and say to myself, "Dude, any shitty feelings are just temporary. Just live your life, and don't mope like a 14-year-old Joy Division fan! You are improving yourself on a daily basis." But it's just not as easy as it should be. I'm smart, and I should be able to figure all this shit out, right? Fucking asshole brain.

*     *     *

Someone posted a comment on an older update yesterday. It was the one in which I got hit by a car. Here's the comment :

You're such a nice guy for not taking legal action against the driver. That car should have slowed down since he'll be turning on a blind spot. If ever you'll be bumped again by a car and the driver didn't offer any help; I would suggest you take note of the plate number of that car in case you've been hit and run. Also, call an officer to assist you. That way you can take legal action to what happened to you.

I almost took the comment at face value, as just someone commiserating with me. Then I hovered my mouse pointer over her name, and it revealed her website, a goddamn ambulance chasing law firm. I'm fully aware that blog comments are fertile planting grounds for advertising, but I get so few comments on these posts, that actually receiving one, only to see that horseshit, really pisses me right off. My response :

When I hover my cursor over your name, your ambulance chaser website is revealed. Fuckheads like you, encouraging lawsuits over bullshit, are what makes people despise lawyers. Go piss up a rope.

I'm going to leave your comment visible, and hope against all hope that you feel shame.

What are the odds that she'll feel shame? Do people like this even have feelings as we understand them?

No, Really, Safeway Is Trying To Kill Me

It's really quite funny. I have been shopping at the Ocean Beach Safeway, literally across the street from the west end of Golden Gate Park, for five or six years. Been there maybe a couple hundred times, with generally normal results. But I am in the middle of a strange streak of utterly stupid visits to the store.

First, I broke their stuff. Then, I had to go and make a scene. Now I think they just release the hounds as I approach.

As mentioned before, I like shopping in the very early morning. I've tended to be an early riser over the last few months anyway, and the store is usually deserted. I was up at about 4:40 this morning and at the store by 5. I pulled into an empty spot, got out, and grabbed a random cart that was floating around the lot. I turned the corner and approached the doors, and was greeted by a group of a half-dozen raccoons just chilling on the sidewalk in front of the doors. I could see a few people on the other side of the door, and I think they had the automatic doors locked in terror. Or maybe the raccoons weren't heavy enough to trip the door sensor.

Raccoons are not AT ALL uncommon in and around the park, but I very seldom see them buying their sundries at Safeway. A year or so ago, I was working a morning shift - 5 AM to 2 PM. Went outside to the car at about 4:30, and saw a family of cats playing around under a parked car. As I was sitting and waiting for the car to warm up, I watched them frolic. "Damn, those are some fat-ass street cats! And just a little weird-looking. Wait a minute... are those... skunks?" Fucking skunks, partying about 20 feet away. Before I got into the car, I had considered approaching them just because I love cats. I bet that would have gone well.

Anyway, this morning, it was raccoons, and I just stood with my cart, about 40 feet away, and watched. After a few minutes, they must've come to the conclusion that no food was forthcoming, and took a field trip to the dumpsters. When I made it inside, it was like Obama had visited. Everyone was atwitter. "Did you see the raccoons? Wow, what a day! Wild animals!" Etcetera, etcetera. I can certainly understand that - as a retail drone, anything that shakes up the day, but doesn't make your job any harder, is like finding a diamond in the toilet.

Off the Ledge

I'm feeling much better this morning. Thanks to the people I love for caring. Every so often, I have to vent my frustrations, just like you do.

Doesn't change the fact that my life ain't so funny.

I'm starting to very seriously consider giving up my super-dooper smart phone, or at least the expensive data plan, once our contract is up. I love it, but it's getting to be redundant. I use it for texting,word games, and pictures. And it's my alarm clock. Since we installed WiFi, I can use my laptop for every other useful function that the phone has, in a much more comfortable-to-use package. Mine is old and clunky, but have you seen what they can do with laptops these days? The ex has a MacBook Pro (or something), and it's indescribably cool. Thin as hell, and I don't think there is a single thing that our desktop can do that her laptop can't. Well, except that it's a Mac and games are sparse, but that's a programming issue, not a laptop vs. desktop issue. And right now, I could get a non-Mac laptop with similar capabilities or better for a relative pittance. I don't see myself ever buying a desktop computer for personal use ever again.

*     *     *

I think one of the cats is trolling me. Trudy is a known, inveterate floor-pisser. According to the vet, she does not have a urinary tract infection, which is often the cause. And I'm not going to lie - sometimes the cat boxes go a day without being cleaned. But she goddamn KNOWS when the boxes are clean - she pokes her head in, sniffs around, and uses the box correctly, when she so chooses. But she's been known to piss on the floor, in front of a box that was cleaned less than 30 minutes prior.

Well, this morning, as I was in bed coming to life, I heard the tell-tale floor-scratching that indicated she was trying fruitlessly to cover her piss-puddle. They cover their waste by scooping dirt or litter on top of it, and when she pisses on the floor, there's no litter, so she scratch scratch scratches at the floor in a vain attempt to hide it. It's a very distinct sound, her claws clacking on the bare wood floors over and over and over again. At 5 AM, I heard it, sighed, and resigned myself to cleaning it up. But when I got up a minute later, Trudy was right next to me, sound asleep. Not a drop of pee on the floor.

One of the other cats was trying to mess with my mind. It's the only logical explanation. I've wondered if maybe every third or fourth floor-piss is actually done by one of the other cats. Y'know, just to tweak my bum, or to get Trudy into trouble.

And then I remember that they're cats, and cats are stunningly stupid.

Cognitive Dissonance

I've mentioned before that I've lost a significant amount of weight recently. I still have quite a way to go, but one of the things I'm most looking forward to is wearing non-plain T-shirts. It kills me deep in my soul that I feel this way - I am the type of person who very actively shies away from attention. But goddammit, I miss my old concert shirts! I have maybe a couple dozen from back in (gulp) the late 80s and early 90s - shit that hipsters buy replicas of these days - old AC/DC, Aerosmith, Ramones, etc. I have a killer shirt from Poison's first national tour, circa 1987, that would probably make these guys cream in their corduroys.

Remember those places where you could buy sort-of-custom-made T-shirts on demand? Probably not, but I'm old, and I remember. The walls would be literally covered from floor to ceiling with designs like these. You'd go in, pick a color and size, and spend an hour browsing the cool designs looking for the best one. When you made your choice, the guy would actually iron the design onto your shirt right there! How fucking cool is that? I'd love to be able to wear this :

without wanting to blow my own fucking brains out. But that's just not possible in these trying times of high douchebaggery.

One More Hilarious Childhood Trauma

I'm finding it hard to write today, but for a different reason than the usual "writer's block." I'm agitated today, physically and mentally, and I'm not sure why. I have just a touch of extra energy or something, like I had too much coffee. My brain is all tingly behind my eyeballs, like there are sparks or something in there. My fingers, too, are all jumpy.

Weird, man. I'm not even high or anything, just bonkers.

Writing the last update was fun. It reminded me of something else that happened in second grade.

I went to Catholic school for twelve years. The lower grades, say Kindergarten through about 4th grade, were always required to supply holiday entertainment in the form of some kind of presentation. Easter Pageant, Christmas Extravaganza, whatever. One Christmas, I was randomly picked (we drew names from a hat, I think) to play Santa Claus in the Christmas pageant. As a fat kid, I was mortified, of course, but there was no recourse - the nuns would hear none of it. So I just sucked it up and did it.

I was pretty terrified, but I handled it well. I knew my lines, I didn't get flustered. The butterflies went away eventually, and I settled in. During the climactic scene, in which Santa is giving a speech about the true meaning of Christmas (or whatever), I took my cue to turn toward the crowd and raise my hands. As I did, my pants fell right down to my ankles. I guess my belly was holding the belt up, and when I raised my arms, it shifted, and boom, Underwear Cheech.

Utter pandemonium ensued, of course. I truly don't remember anything after that incident until about fifth grade, when I won the school spelling bee.

The Three Funniest Things I've Ever Seen In Person, In No Particular Order

1. When I was about twelve or thirteen, my parents took me and my friend Sean to Six Flags Great Adventure, a decent (as far as I can recall) amusement park. We had fun, I'm sure, but I don't remember much specific about the trip. We were leaving for the day, walking toward the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Sean saw some hot young thing bending over to tie her shoe or something. He said, "Whoa!" and turned to look. He kept walking and staring, as did I, for about five seconds, until "CLANG!" he walked face-first into a big-ass metal pole. His head was to the side, or he surely would have broken his nose, but in the moment, it was the height of comedy, and I about wet myself. My parents, being parents (and responsible for Sean's well-being) were less-amused.

2. In high school, I wasn't the fattest kid. Oh, I was a fat kid, don't you worry your pretty little head about that, just not the fattest kid. I don't remember his name, but he was very big, probably 350-400 pounds. One year, we had gym class together. Class was held in the basketball gym, which had retractable bleachers lining the sidelines. Before class one day, some random classmate and I were sitting on the bleachers, not interacting at all, just waiting for the rest of the class to finish changing into their gym clothes. Volleyball was scheduled for that day, as there were nets set up. Fattest Kid came out of the locker room, and for whatever reason, was doing karate-type moves - "Hiiii-YA!" with a karate chop or kick, that type of stuff. That was plenty amusing in itself. He saw the volleyball nets, and approached one. He started to do his karate moves toward the net, like it was a floppy sparring partner or something. He stood back and said "Hiiii-YA!", launched a kick at the net, tangled his foot in the bottom, did a couple of desperate one-leg hops, and plopped to the floor. I thought I was going to pass out with laughter. The other guy watching was laughing so hard he rolled down the bleachers a few steps. Fattest Kid picked himself up, brushed himself off, and went to sit in the corner like nothing had happened. Probably the best response.

3. My friend Doug and I used to write reviews of zines for his Zine World. People sent them to his mail drop, and the staff would review them. One day probably about fifteen years ago, we went to the mail drop and picked up a few days worth of deliveries. On the way home, we stopped at a donut shop. As we were eating, we read. He picked a random zine from his backpack. I forget the name, but it was poetry. Neither of us were big fans of poetry, but we can review it objectively. He opened the zine at random and started reading out loud. I can't say I remember the poem exactly, but it was a serious one, and went something like:

The beauty of life
Is soon to be gone
Replaced by death
Sandwich Sandwich Sandwich

I thought the donut guy was going to call the cops on us, we laughed so long and loud. It was a random passage from a random poem from a random zine, and it so fully represented what I hate about some poetry, that to this day, I can make myself laugh out loud by saying "Sandwich Sandwich Sandwich."

I Guess Safeway Hates Me

I'm a very easy-going guy, as a general rule. It's just coincidence that this happened so soon after my last incident at this particular Safeway.

I usually don't have access to the car on weekdays. Yesterday, however, Mrs. Arone took a well-deserved mental health day off, and therefore didn't take it to work. We were out of a few things, and I had three winning Scratcher lottery tickets to cash, received from various in-laws in my Christmas stocking last month. I grabbed the tickets and headed to the Safeway.

I probably had all the money I'd need for the groceries, but I decided to cash the tickets first, just in case. I headed over to the customer service counter, where the lottery stuff happens. The sign indicated that the CS counter was open from 9-5. It was about 11 A.M., but there was nobody manning it. Not a big deal, it happens all the time. I leaned against the counter and started to wait. There were a few employees around, not behind the counter, but milling about in the area, seemingly on break. Again, not a big deal. When employed, I've done retail work for the last 24 years (fuck a duck, I'm old), and I fully understand that employees on break are usually FORBIDDEN from doing work. I've absolutely seen someone at my old store fired for the exact offense. So I was OK with that.

So, I'm standing there at the counter. A minute. Two minutes. No help. I turned around, toward the sales floor, and made sure I was visible. I mean, I KNOW I was visible, as I am still fat as a whale and was wearing my brightest T-shirt. But I wanted to make sure. I was scanning the store, making eye contact with employees. Another couple of minutes, and some motherfucking three-piece suit with a Safeway nametag walked right by me without a word. District Manager? Who knows? I kept scanning, and saw a guy who I was sure was a manager of some sort - I've seen him around the store before, and he was in a more "business casual" uniform than Mr. Gucci. One step fancier than the cashiers. We made eye contact, and he turned away.

Very loudly, though not yelling, I said "You know, if the customer service counter is closed, that's fine, but it would be FANTASTIC if there were a sign or something letting me know!" Every head within 50 feet turned my way. Gucci, business casual, customers, and cashiers. There's a developmentally disabled guy there who is exclusively a bagger and price checker - he asked me if I needed help. Perfectly friendly-like, I responded, "That's why I'm here!" Nice that he was the only one who asked, but he then just stood there, and continued being retarded. The checkers continued checking, of course - that's what they were in the middle of doing. The workers on break were mumbling to each other. Gucci continued his phone call. Manager just stared.

"I don't mind waiting, but am I wasting my time standing here like a moron? Is anyone working the CS counter?"

Finally, the fat little manager (thinner than I am, honestly, but he was all red and shiny, like a tick about to pop) came ambling up, and asked "Do you need some help?"

In my inside voice, I responded "Like I said, I don't mind waiting, but it would be great if you guys could put up a sign that says 'Back in 5 Minutes' or something."

"Sometimes we have to leave the counter."

My blood pressure spiked. "Did you not hear me? The wait is not the issue. A completely desolate counter, with no indication of when or if you'll be back is the issue. Your boss completely ignoring me is another."

He mumbled something about being busy. "Me, too," I lied. Then, loud enough that Gucci could hear, "Guess I have to go to Fresh & Easy!" And I did.

I'll probably be back - I'm not one for making grand proclamations about never returning. As a cashier, I could never give half a fuck when people made that claim anyway. But I'll keep it to the graveyard shift. I'm usually the only asshole in the store at 4 A.M.

Collecting Dust

In yesterday's mail, I received a catalog about gold. The metal, gold. They want me to invest in gold. They might as well send me a catalog advertising fighter jets or diamond-encrusted soup spoons. I have approximately zero dollars to my name, and the odds that I will spend even a thin dime on gold is laughable. I guess I got the catalog because I used to collect coins. Never anything "valuable," of course, outside of an ounce of silver (like thirty bucks or so, right now). But I love to read, and subscribed to two or three coin magazines at one point. In fact, I'd bet a week's paycheck that I actually spent MORE on coin magazine subscriptions than on coins.

I'm pretty much completely over the collecting urge. Not just coins, but collecting anything at all seems like a huge fucking hassle. The two most important elements - spending cash and space - are two elements completely missing from my life. Back at my parents' house in New Jersey, I have about a half-dozen long boxes filled with comics that I collected as a teenager. I might as well have just taken all the cash I spent on them and burned it. Even if I weren't 3000 miles away, I bet I couldn't get a dime apiece for them from a comic store or on eBay. That adds up to a few hundred bucks, maybe, but I spent thousands. I had a minimum-wage job, but lived with Mom and Dad, paid no rent, paid for no food, just car insurance. The worst part was that I almost never read them - I looked at them as a potential investment. What an utter asshole.

My Mom was (maybe still is, I haven't visited in a while) a chronic collector. She loves the idea of collecting, but never seems to be able to settle on one collection. We had a spare room when I was growing up. She wanted to make it "hers." Over the course of a few years, the room went from rainbow-themed to clown-themed, to country-themed. Her rainbow collection led to some laughs - she was completely unaware of the significance of the Rainbow Flag in the LGBT community, and her first visit to San Francisco was fun. "So many people here like rainbows!" The country-style room was the worst, though, because it spread. Our entire house eventually looked like granny's attic - needlepoint on the walls imploring God to "Bless This Mess," sheaves of baby's breath blossoms all over the place, shit like that. She even went through a country music phase, though that was mercifully short. I remember it was right around the time of that song "Elvira." Shudder.

Honestly, if I had space, I'd collect cats. Real cats, not cat-related objects like another one of Mom's phases. To a point, of course, as I have a limit on how many boxes of animal shit I'm willing to have in my house, but I definitely enjoy the companionship. The maintenance can be relatively cheap - bargain food and litter can be had. It helps, however, if you don't mind having furniture so torn-up that it looks like the police were searching the cushions for drugs.

Raise the Roof!

In case anyone reading this is wondering, I did in fact make it through the Super Bowl in one piece. I begged off the big beer blast and went to my Sister-in-law's house. Whoop whoop, raise the roof, right? Meh. I'd much rather go to her place, with only a half-dozen people, all of whom I know and like very much, instead of pretending to enjoy a bunch of hipster doucheketeers and their Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Do other people like their in-laws? I do. I actually enjoy spending time with damn near every one of them, even the Christians, as they're the type of Christian that doesn't need to mention Jesus every 13 seconds. If TV comedians are to be believed, though, nobody likes their in-laws, so I must be doing something wrong. I need to start picking fights with them or something.

The game itself was entertaining - the Niners lost, which is a bummer, but they came back from a huge deficit to make it very interesting. None of us had a major rooting interest in the game, however, and the others seemed to be more interested in the ads, something I simply cannot understand. The fact that advertisers have somehow implanted into the American consciousness the idea that the COMMERCIALS they show during the biggest sporting event of the year are an event unto themselves is appalling.

There is no such thing as a "good" commercial. There are all types of ads - moving, funny, technically accomplished, whatever adjective you can think of. But I draw the line at "good." They are all specifically calculated to make me spend my money by manipulating my emotions, and I just can't have that. How anyone can watch this advertisement for Dodge without getting furious is beyond me. On the face of it, it's a very moving, if annoyingly religion-based, tribute to farmers. Now, farming is a truly noble profession, and I respect a farmer just as much as I respect a teacher or a firefighter. But all Dodge is doing is trying to trick me into buying a Dodge. See, they really CARE about farmers. And farmers need big strong trucks. And not just farmers, but all real men. Just look at all those bales of hay and loads of wood they're loading up into their Dodge Ram! Dodge trucks are clearly for very strong, dedicated, American MEN. If they could do it without having hell rain down on them, there is not one tiny doubt in my mind that they would overtly state that the local Ford assembly line is nothing but a buncha queers, or some other fucked up horseshit.

And yet, I can't help but admire how rugged those trucks look...

Gone Drinkin'

I'm going to a Super Bowl party this Sunday. I like football just fine, and I'm happy that the Niners are back in the game, but I've recently admitted to myself that I'm just not an NFL kinda guy. I've been a baseball fan all my life, and have been counting the days since the last out of the World Series. It helps that the Giants are world fucking champions again, but I've always looked forward to Spring Training, no matter what my team's prospects are for the coming season.

I'm much more interested in Sunday's party than in watching the actual game. Sure, I'll pay moderate attention to the TV, and I'll watch the funny new commercials, but I'll be paying much more attention to the type of shenanigans that two dozen drunken morons can get into. Mrs. Arone is out of town - not that it really matters, because we have mostly separate lives these days anyway, but I do feel more comfortable knowing that she'll be in a different state as I challenge the upper limits of my tolerance for alcohol consumption. It's been a few months since I had a drink, and at least 8 months since I last really drank. I used to drink much more, I just got kinda bored with it. I also get all hot and sweaty when I drink. As an already hot-and-sweaty fat guy, this is not ideal. I am, however, willing to make the sacrifice this one time.

What gives me pause, however, is that the partygoers are almost all going to be strangers to me, and are likely to be significantly younger than I am. The host is a former coworker, one with whom I actually get along very well, but who is only 26. I'm 39, but feel about 49 physically and 79 mentally. These kids were what, three or four years old when Kurt Cobain died? What the hell are we going to talk about? Skype? I hear the kids talk about that shit all the time. Some kind of new shoe polish, I think. Assholes.

I'm gonna have to learn these young whippersnappers a lesson. I can shotgun a beer so fast, I was nicknamed Hemingway in college. These guys have no fucking idea. I may or may not update this site again before the game. Either way, I'll make a report on Monday, once the judge sets bail.