It’s that time of year again, when the entire blogosphere comes to a halt. Every summer it happens; Maybe everyone’s tired from having fun outdoors all day. Maybe the heat has baked the goddamn sense out of everyone’s head. Or maybe an entire summer vacation spent with the kids has left everyone hiding in the closet, weeping and drinking vodka in bulk. Me? I’m busy with my charity work, serving as a spokesperson for Tequila Para Los Perros. We do good work at TPLP. Every summer we round up stray dogs, get them ripped to the tits on tequila, then turn them loose in nursing homes. Why? Well… Uh… Wow. That’s a really good fucking question. Hmmm. I may have to rethink this whole thing. … Dammit. Continue reading

Gee, I hope our friends in Magic Land are doing ok!

I try to eat a sensible lunch when I’m at work during the week. Back when I was in my 20’s and immortal, I used to eat all kinds of crap because I was only eating it to soak up the alcohol anyway, and besides, burritos with pork, sour cream, and guacamole wrapped in a flour tortilla have damn near all the food groups in them, right? Unfortunately, when I got a little older, eating from this bastardized food pyramid made me start to look like a pyramid, and I knew I needed to change things up a bit. I remember that eating spicy Italian sandwiches at Subways made be blow up like a goddamn balloon, causing me to think to myself, “Jared, you dogfucker, you are a lying sack of shit.” Continue reading

It was 109 degrees out today. That’s in Fahrenheit, incidentally. 109 degrees Fahrenheit is… I dunno, a hectare or something? I don’t know shit about the metric system because I’m American, and unless we’re talking about kilos or 9 millimeter ammo we don’t know a meter from a 3.28 foot wide hole in the ground. Suffice it to say that 109 degrees is ball-scorching hot. But then again, I live in Phoenix and it’s July, so that should go without saying, right? Continue reading

I signed up for a writing class the other night. Now I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking, “But Greg, you don’t need to learn how to write!” And of course you’re right. No one knows how to make goodly words on the screen like me does. But there was a very specific skill that I wanted to learn (how to write effective ransom notes), and I figured that it might be fun to take a class on the subject. It’d be like going to college again, only this time I’d actually attend the class rather than stay home drinking beer out of paint buckets. Continue reading

I have to apologize for something. During the course of writing yesterday’s post, I embedded a video of U2 playing the song Lemon. This was a terrible and inexplicable lapse in judgement on my part, and I find it almost impossible to apologize enough for it. I love my readers, and although from time to time I like to shake them up by posting strange and bizarre videos, this was clearly a case of going way, way too far. I should have posted a video of something easier to stomach, like Aretha Franklin getting her asshole waxed. I am sorry. Continue reading

I’ve pretty much been exposed to rock music from the moment I was born. Well not the exact moment I was born, obviously. I mean, there weren’t any drum solos going on, or laser shows, and no one was holding up a lit cigarette lighter in the maternity ward when I made my debut. Babies don’t really belong at a rock show, really, except maybe when Courtney Love is in town because you take one look at her and you know damn well that she’s aborted a few behind a stack of Marshalls with a syringe full of heroin and a Dustbuster. (I’m going to just go ahead and apologize for that line right now.) Continue reading

I was watching an episode of The Wire the other day, because that’s exactly the kind of with-it, up-to-date guy I am. My middle name is Zeitgeist. I have my finger so firmly on the pulse of this nation that I’m about to steal the nation’s watch. I am hep to the jive, even though I’m not sure what the word “hep” means, and up until a week ago, I thought that “the jive” was something that you treated with hydrocortisone. I am up to fucking date is what I’m saying, just as long as that date is June 2nd, 2002. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go dance the Charleston on top of a flagpole. Continue reading

My life is a lot like the show Mad Men: I lounge around in a suit all day, quaffing gin and chain-smoking while ad men try to convince me that they hold the key to untold riches. And when I get bored, I head out to the Savoy for a twelve martini lunch and then wind down by maybe chasing a little tail. Ring-a-ding-ding, it rules to be me! Then I wake up from this pleasant dream to find vagrants pawing at me while a man in an ill-fitting blue suit informs me that I’m no longer welcome at the Amtrak terminal. So, I guess my life isn’t like Mad Men at all, which is a bummer because those guys really know how to party. Continue reading

I recently rearranged my office because I bought a new reading chair, and frankly the feng shui was all wrong. Did I get that right? Feng shui is that thing that the Chinese use to make sure their bedrooms don’t piss off spirits or something, right? Frankly, I’m not convinced. Look, China, you had one shot to win me over with fortune cookies, and you fucking blew it. “Today would be a good day to make a new friend”? Thanks a lot, China. That guy gut-stabbed me and took my watch. Fortune cookies are bullshit and so is feng shui. Continue reading