Thursday, July 17, 2014

Remembering Tiamat

I was tired at work the other day and said to myself "Man, I am draggin' like Tiamat.  Tiamat is the only dragon I could think of at the time, although Smaug is one more people would know given the popularity of "Lord of the Rings."  Still, I like to let my inner nerd shine by referencing the Dungeons & Dragons mythical beast and one of the stars of the 1980's Saturday morning cartoon series.


Also, Tiamat represents a dark day in my past when I was around 8-years-old and snuck down to the Christmas tree before my parents woke up to find that I had the toy Tiamat, the five-headed dragon!  I yelled "Tiamat!" and my sister, my partner in crime that morning, told me to keep my voice down.  All that hard work my parents went through assembling those toys and laying them out, and they didn't get to see my genuine reaction.  When we got back out of bed to open gifts as a family, I had to fake the surprise of seeing Ms. Tiamat under the tree and scream her name a second time and fain the same level of enthusiasm.  All five heads appeared to be shaking their heads in their disapproval of my treachery and disappointment in my lackluster acting performance to conceal it.

I damn near just ordered this shirt. 
I played fricking Dungeons & Dragons as a kid.  I'll admit it.  It's cool to like knights and dragons again, I suppose, with the popularity of Game of Thrones now, but all you have to do there is flip on the television and talk about it at work on Monday.  D & D was a big commitment.  But I didn't mind rolling dice, reading all the rules, getting out the graph paper, and creating a character with all his/her attributes.  I'll admit it.  And I still remember all five heads that Tiamat had, the color of dragons, their breath weapons, and the order of how strong they were from strongest to weakest.  Observe:

1. Red: Fire.
2. Blue: Lightning.
3. Green: Poison Gas.
4. Black: Acid.
5. White: Ice Blast.

Shit.  I think I mixed up a few.  My nerd powers are waning over the years.

I always wonder what the stomachs were like for those green and black dragons to be able to belch up acid and poison gas.  What must their farts smell like?  Actually, in the case of Tiamat, all five heads shared the same body, as well as the same dragon butthole.  Do you think she could turn around and blast out all five breath weapons at once out of her butt?  How many hit points of damage would that do?

(Notice he tucks in his legs to avoid injury?  This isn't his first rocket blast fart joy ride.)
And this free association random-ass blog post has led us to . . . dragon farts.  Why not?

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The other night I was at the bar and got talking to one of those guys with a curly-cue mustache.  The Rollie Fingers mustache, if you will.

"Top 10?  More like Top 1."
I asked him how long it takes him to do that in the morning, and it sounds like quite an ordeal, styling it and spraying it down and all.  And if he doesn't do anything, then it looks like a Fu Manchu.

"I may not have the curls, but can you guess where this pinky thingy goes?"
He went on to tell me that he won 2nd place in his category in a facial hair contest.  My first question was what the name of that category was (because it really should be the Rollie Fingers Category).  He said it was "Freestyle Mustache."  Oh.  I then asked how many were in his category, and he said there were only three.  I let him know that he also placed 2nd-to-last.  I was buzzed a little and speaking freely . . .

But also I just hate hipsters with stupid facial hair, piercings, and just dumb stuff like that in general.  You're not a turn of the century boxer.  You work for Whole Food, or whatever, and when you're late for work and don't have time to style your 'stache, your coworkers call you Fu Manchu Fuck Face.  And when you're primped up beautifully, they call you Old Boxing Photograph Fuck Face.

Fight?  I thought we agreed to a Mustache Contest?

Not all styles are coming back en vogue or are somehow ironically cool.  When does it stop?  Do you want to throw on a powdered wig and be all 1700's?  Probably if a true hipster saw people wearing the wigs, he would get really pissed and go back to a look from 50,000 years ago and just throw on a loin cloth and go to the bar and sip his Pabst Blue Ribbon.
So I guess the conversation with the weirdo from the bar was still in my head because yesterday I'm driving in the car, I'm a little lost and crabby, a hipster with a terrible old-timey mustache is crossing the street and I find myself yelling "Fuck that guy!"  He wasn't doing anything wrong - just crossing the street like everyone else.  I just couldn't take it any more.  I actually caught myself off guard with my sudden outburst.


Am I out of line here, or has the hipster thing worn thin with anyone else?

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

This has got to be the longest time I have gone without updating my blog, and I apologize.  Here are some updates . . .

Mrs. Noisewater and I finally moved out of our tiny apartment where our bedroom window faced the alley of decadence and a Chicago life of excess.  Just about every night we would hear a couple getting ready to get it on, some people doing cocaine, a fight breaking out, but usually just people being loud and drunk.  I really knew it was time to go when I saw the aftermath of what I could only assume was a hobo orgy.  This is an actual picture that I took:

Aren't you glad the bums are being safe?
So now I'm back in Lakeview, my favorite neighborhood where I lived for around 7 years before the party-alley-place.  But back then I had 4 roommates.  Now I just have one, and she's the best roommate ever.  Does it bother me that Mrs. Noisewater is more handy than me and is painting, hanging up shelves, and using power tools that I don't know how to operate?  A little.  But I'm in charge of . . . the record player.  And that's important stuff.

Our landlord is a Chicago cop part time, and despite the fact that he looks precisely like Vic Mackey from "The Shield," he is actually a really nice guy.  He doesn't want us grilling on the balcony because he doesn't want us burning the place down, so he lets us use the grill and smoker in the courtyard and even buys and replaces the propane tank for us.  Now that's a hell of a deal.

"Don't beat a confession out of me!  That was me playing Captain and Tennille on my record player last night.  And singing along."


Our downstairs neighbor is an elderly four and a half foot tall Japanese woman who has been living in the building for forty years, and when she moved in her rent was sixty bucks a month.  Very sweet woman, but a bit of a hoarder.  She has filled up the basement with years and years of useless crap.  She was telling me one day when I was doing laundry down there that sometimes she buys two of something because she forgets she already had one.  Probably because it was buried under other stuff.  Landlord Vic Mackey has given her until the 15th of this month to have all that stuff moved out of there.  She will often offer us something, and usually we say no.  But sometimes we will take something just to make her feel that some of those objects have a home.  I fill a thermos of hers up with Gatorade all the time and tried to tell her I was using it, but her English isn't very good.  I have been thinking about taking some things that she offers and just throwing it out for her - a few dumpsters away so that she doesn't see that I tossed it.  That way she's happy and I'm helping her clear the joint out, right?

Hope you're enjoying your summer as much as I am, readers!  

Friday, June 20, 2014

Zeptual Healing

I got bad news from my best buddy (Heterosexual Life Partner) the other day that his Uncle Bill is in critical condition after a serious accident.  He was loading his truck for work and either fell or had a seizure, and the end result was a stroke that has left him incapacitated.  He can now only move his left arm and toes.  If his condition doesn't improve by next week his kids will have to decide whether or not to pull him off life support.  His youngest just graduated high school.

The first time I met Uncle Bill we were at a gathering in a backyard with "Dazed and Confused" projected onto the garage.  Bill, myself, and some others were talking through the whole thing, which I think bothered some folks, but the fact is I've seen it twenty times and Bill lived it.  I have always loved rock music from the 1970's, and Bill is that guy who saw every awesome band from that era.  So, when you put the two of us together, you're going to have long discussions about rock music that go about like this:

     Dr. Ken: "Did you see Pink Floyd?"

     Bill: "Yup.  On the 'Dark Side' and the 'Animals' Tour."

     Dr. Ken: "No way!  How about (insert legendary rock band here)?"

     Bill: "Sure did.  Saw them on the (insert seminal work of given artist here) tour.

Another time I saw him he was fresh off a divorce and dancing his face off at The Liars Club, the best bar on planet earth.  The dude is always smiling and just always fun to be around.  When my buddy told me the news about him, I was devastated.  I asked if there is anything I can do, and knowing that I'm not a religious man and I don't know shit about praying, my buddy told me to play some Zeppelin for him.  So that's what I'm doing now.  



Hear those opening chords on "Ten Years Gone," go towards (or is it away from?) the light, and pull yourself out of this, Uncle Bill.  Your family needs you, and we all want to see you smiling and dancing again.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

So I had this dream last night that my girlfriend and I were desperately trying to screw in this giant grotto style public pool type place, but we kept getting interrupted.  It was as if it had to get done or something bad was going to happen.  And at one point I looked down to see that I had way too much chest hair.  Truth be told, I'm a bit of a hairless mammal, so it was a little scary for me.

In other news, when I went to pick up my contacts today, I dropped into the record store across the street that I usually go to when I see the eye doctor.  They specialize in dance/house type music so their rock collection is very limited.  They play their shitty house music the whole time, and when I was done selecting my $13.10 worth of records, I found myself waiting at the register with no one to ring me up for a couple minutes.  So I peeked into the back room to find three employees hanging out and not working, and I had to interrupt them and ask if someone could actually do two minutes of work and ring up my purchase.

Yup.  That's what your typical record shop in Chicago is like.  They're snobs, they are way over staffed with guys doing nothing, and they suck.  When I did that job, I loved every single shift.  It was the best job in the world - listening to music all day and talking about it all day.  Real jobs are hard, and that's what they need to realize.  The record shop gig is fun and really, really easy, but you do have to staff one of the three guys to be not in the back room so that they can spot when a customer is trying to spend money in the shop.  That's one of the only rules.

Okay.  I gotta go spin my $13.10 of music that was well spent, even if the proprietors didn't make it easy for me to spend it.

Saturday, June 07, 2014

My lady and I were at brunch the other day, and I looked up at her to see that her eyes were watering and she looked like she might be having a stroke.  She said the hot sauce was way, way too hot.  She started coughing and sweating, and I was getting a little worried.  I tried just a dab of the stuff, and yes, it was the hottest damn stuff ever.

The hot sauce came in a little metal dish, like the ones you get ketchup in.  It came with no explanation of what it was and how hot it was.  There was only one explanation: It must have been the infamous ghost pepper.

(I guess we should have suspected something when we saw this guy go back into the kitchen)
The waiter, in between apologies and delivering milk to her, said that it was, in fact, ghost pepper hot sauce.  Apparently some customers complained that the hot sauce was hot enough.  So the solution was to get the hottest stuff in the free world and hand it off to customers with no warning?  Seems like they could have dialed up the hotness slightly to make some people happy instead of waging secretive chemical warfare upon all the rest of their patrons.

What do you think?

Monday, May 19, 2014

Jackson, Home of Two Oblivious Racists

Mrs. Noisewater just got back from a business trip in Jackson, Mississippi and encountered two of the most oblivious racist comments of all time.  She is half Asian, by the way, and apparently they don't often encounter races other than African American and Caucasian.  So you get these sorts of things . . .

#1

While at a restaurant, a man she didn't even know walked up to her table to ask her what other language besides English that she spoke.  When she replied that English was the only language she was fluent in, the man was shocked.  What a crazy assumption.  I would have responded "Klingon," and then spouted off some angry grunts.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/sJhPa4lMLDo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(I was searching for Klingon youtubes, and while there were plenty that made a lot more sense, I had to go with this one because of the pretty girl.  It takes all the way until 3:25 to get to the Klingon part, but good god. she is hot.  Anyway . . .)

#2

Then Mrs. Noisewater is at a meeting in Jackson, and on the way out she drops a pen.  When she bends down to get it a guy actually said, "Oh, I thought you were bowing."  I laughed my damn ass off when she told me that one.

<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yAHKqtsGZLU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(Now, are these fellas bowing or looking for their pens?)