Mouth Torture

Today I conducted mouth torture, on myself. I’m sure you’re wondering what that is. While I imagine there are various types of mouth torture, the one I speak of here is of the tasting kind – the one where you taste gross and disgusting things. Why did I do this? Because a coworker gave me a pack of Jelly Belly jelly beans intended to have the consumer taste various beans that look alike but taste very, very different.

Take for example the yellow ones: either rotten egg, or buttered popcorn. The white ones? Baby wipes or coconut?

See the problem here?

While I initially said “no” to giving these a try, I was quickly lured in to test the toothpaste vs. berry blue. And that’s when this started:

“Why am I going to eat these Jelly Bellys with both normal and disgusting flavors that look the same in order to compare them?”

“Much to my surprise, pencil shavings are not bad tasting. (Wtf is wrong with the world?)”

“Also: the toothpaste is delightful, as expected.”

“I spat out the centipede as soon as I tasted its horrendousness.”















“Thank god that was caramel corn.”

“Moldy cheese flavor – not a winner.”

“Baby wipes flavor tastes exactly as they smell. Fyi.”

“Juicy pear has worked out. Otherwise it was “booger.” Fortunately they only packed one of that option.”

“I absolutely refuse to take a chance with the skunk spray. No-way ho-spray.”

“Canned dog food hanging out with centipede after a moment in my mouth.”

“And finally, I refuse to attempt “barf.” I have no interest in that. More interest than skunk spray, but not enough to try.”



After this, I determined I will never torture my mouth like that again.

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Change the trunk oil, not the engine oil, please.

Many years ago, my friend wanted to buy an engine from a guy so he could upgrade his car for racing purposes.

We went in my car to get the engine from some guy in El Paso. He thought it appropriate to bring my car and also thought it perfectly sane to put the newly-purchased used engine in the trunk of my car.

After lining the trunk with tarps, we loaded it in.

As we drove back to his place, which consisted of both left and right turns over the course of an hour, the engine understandably tipped from one side to the other.

What did we open the trunk to find after arriving at his house to unload the engine?

Engine oil. Everywhere.

Apparently no one thought to drain the engine prior to transport. Also apparently, no one thought about checking to see if the oil had been drained from said engine prior to loading it into the trunk.

Needless to say, that was a nightmare to clean; a process which took days, included a laundromat, and never fully removed all of the oil.

Fortunately I don’t have that car anymore.

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Questionable Acts with Food and Drink, Part One.

After writing about my nacho incident I realized that I had other stories regarding food and drink that would bring my character into question. I think it’s best to share these stories with you. Here’s part one. You’re welcome.


“The Turkey Club”

It was already an eventful night: people getting in trouble with their girlfriends for being a wingman; too much alcohol for some; people tripping up the stairs and spilling beer all over their clothes; and a random woman screaming at me “TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF! REAL MEN FROM OKLAHOMA TAKE THEIR SHIRTS OFF!” while standing in line for a beer, even though I’m not from Oklahoma… all while taking in a country music show.

But the highlight of the evening took place after the event when we went to a nearby restaurant to eat and drink even more.

We arrived at the place and found it to be wall-to-wall packed. Understandably, we opted to leave and go elsewhere, if not home altogether.

On the way out, we walked past the hostess station. The front side was near impassable and I was drunk, so I walked behind since no one was standing there.

As we passed through we saw a to-go container sitting there. And just like the nachos, this box looked lonely, too. No one was close enough to claim it. And we certainly couldn’t let whatever it was go to waste.

So of course someone (likely to be TheGreatCon) decided it best to take the container and run out the door… what with being drunk and hungry and all.

After sprinting across the parking lot, we stopped to survey our bounty and consume whatever was inside the container.

We opened to find half a turkey club sandwich. And without hesitation, I grabbed my portion and started to eat.

TheGreatCon followed suit, but only after some disbelief in me jumping right in for a bite. And then he cried in complaint that there was tomato on the sandwich.

…A sandwich which we did not order.
…One that we could not customize ourselves.
…As if he could complain in any fashion whatsoever.

And then we went home.

The end.

Wait. No, that’s not how the night ended.

So then we were ON OUR WAY HOME when someone (again, likely to be TheGreatCon) informed us that he needed to vomit.

So we pulled off the highway, turned, turned, drove and turned, and finally found a dark place to pull over for him to take care of business.

He exited the vehicle, went over to the chain-link fence, and proceeded to gag himself.

After being unable to make himself throw up, he called me out of the car to keep him company. And then I offered to help him throw up by punching him in the stomach.

He agreed.

So I told him I would hit on the count of three, but then I actually punched him at ‘two’ like the surprise-maker I can be, which did nothing more than surprise-punch him and did not result in vomiting.

I guess at that point I got back in the car and waited for him to finish up.

And THEN we went home.

The real end.

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I would probably consider moving to Texas if it wasn’t for that jackrabbit.

(Scene: Summer, June/July 2002, Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas. Another airman (woman, actually) and I are conducting a walking tour of the base for newly-arrived trainees. I begin to warn them about the dangers of jackrabbits.) (Narration by yours truly.)

You think I’m joking, but I’m serious when I say “watch out for the jackrabbits.” They’re squirrelly and will attack you. They have human-like eyes that just stare at you, and you can tell that they’re sizing you up. You know they’re looking at you. You know they’re thinking about you. It’s really kind of freaky. Just keep your distance.

(Enter jackrabbit on the sidewalk 50 feet ahead, facing the street.)

See, there’s one right there. We have to go in that direction, so let’s walk slowly toward it and hopefully it will run away.

(The group and I walk slowly toward it. As we move closer, the jackrabbit turns toward us and squares up with the group.)

See! See what he did there!

(As we approach closer, in a burst of speed the jackrabbit runs toward us, aiming directly for the group as if it were trying to attack.)

(We all jump back in fear of being mauled by the rabbit as it comes within 15 feet of us.)

(It turns right and runs with great purpose to the middle of the road.)

(It stops, turns left, squares up with the car driving toward it, and runs in attack mode directly at the car until it is only a few feet from the vehicle.)

(It then bursts left and runs back toward our group until it is 10 feet away, forcing us to jump back again, and then darts away from us with great purpose, running off to terrorize others on base.)

(End scene)


Ever since that day I’ve been wary of jackrabbits. And ever since that day I’ve vowed to never live in Texas, almost exclusively because of the jackrabbits.

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Planes, beers, and confusions – Oh my!

I’m back from Chicago. Alive.

You may not know I went, probably because I didn’t say anything on account of the surprise party I was attending. But now you may know that I was there. If you didn’t already via twitter.

It was a good time. And I missed you all. Now, on to some highlights:

1) 4:30pm Saturday: Cincinnati Reds fan passed out drunk next to me at the hotel bar. Didn’t wake after the manager tried to wake him. I assumed he was dead. He was not. Or, is a zombie.

2) Late night Saturday: with half a sheet cake on my lap sitting in backseat, I laugh, and thus cry hysterically, over nothing (apparently), whilst eating a soft pretzel. Some of it falls out of my mouth. Icing gets on my jacket as well as the seat. Icing can still be found on said seat.

3) (blurry haze of confusion)

4) Pizza, beef sammich, Chicago dog. No White Castle though, so I can’t die just yet.

5) (more blurry haze of confusion)

6) (Definitely missing something else of relative importance. You’re loss, though.)

7) Beer.

That about sums it up. You may leave now.

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If you follow the blog, you should follow the Twitter, because really – my life is that much more exciting than yours. (Not really, but you should still follow the Twitter.)
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An uncommon conversation about a Twitter

Me: do you know what a twitter is?

Him: is this a trick question?

Me: no

Him: you can’t have ‘a twitter’… you can only have ‘a tweet’

Me: But. What is a twitter?

Him: a verb

Me: not a noun?

Him: the noun would be tweet

Me: isn’t twitter a thing?

Him: the website is a thing

Me: do you twitter?

Him: I follow a few people, but that’s about it.

Me: so you twitter

Him: if you run from a chasing lion, does that make you a runner?

Me: it’s safe to say you have some level of twitter.

Him: ok, I’ll accept that.

Me: so you twitter.

Him: I twitter.

Me: you have a level of twitter in your life.

Him: a small level, yes.

Me: but a twitter nonetheless.

Him: quite.

Me: and it’s an official twitter?

Him: as official as a twittered tweet can be twittered.

Me: so you know what a twitter is then?

Him: I do.

Me: and you twitter then.

Him: I twitter. I do not produce tweets.

Him: I partake in the tweets of others.

Me: so you know what a twitter is.

Him: I do.

Me: good.

Me: time for lunch.

Him: Enjoy!

Me: Twitter.

Him: Tweet.

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Turns out, the walrus left!

[TheGreatCon, aka Con Lee, wrote a guest post the other day (Is there a walrus in my room?). This is his follow-up. Read here for the backstory.]


In a strange turn of events, while watching the Bulls & Hawks win last night, I was joined at Manny’s (a local bar with great wings I might add) by my boss and fellow coworker. With each sip of his Budweiser, I know my night was going to get worse and worse. “Hey, you know what we don’t have a lot of at the apartment? I ask. “Apples! We need more apples and fruits in our apartment. What a great snack!” “With a look of ‘WTF’ are you talking about on his face, I quietly went back to drinking my Delirium while singing along to Cee Lo Green’s, ‘Fuck You’. Ironic?

Anywho, out of nowhere, he looks at me and says, “I’m moving out.” I think to myself, did he read the posting I wrote?! Oh man, how funny and awkward if he really did! “The apartment is too small and I am waking you up every time I use the ‘John’” Strangle, I found myself thinking, ‘Did I do something wrong? Why is he leaving? He is leaving to go to another apartment where there is already two other people. Is someone else moving in?’

Nope! I have the place to myself!

Well, I found myself waking up in the middle of the night wondering if the disturbing images will ever leave my mind. After vomiting, I realized no, likely not.


Thanks to all the viewers and thanks to JRM at Workspace Writings for letting me post.

http://www.twitter.com/TheGreatCon

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Is there a walrus in my room?

[On my drive to work this morning, I was informed that I would be having a guest post today from TheGreatCon, aka Con Lee. Show him some love. Here is his story.]


My job requires that I travel a lot. Typically, I will be on the road three to four weeks of the month. Needless to say, I am familiar with the process which accompanies traveling (i.e. TSA requirements, hotels, car rentals, local food hot spots, etc.). In fact, there is something to be said about going into a hotel and having them treat you pretty well because you have earned their respect… or rather, you have spent thousands with their company. Regardless, at the end of a long day, I can go back to my private room and relax, unwind, catch up on emails and talk to my wife and friends.

Recently, my job relocated to New York City (Upper East Side to be exact) for the entire month of April. Each year, I enjoy this particular case because it gives me a chance to visit NYC and enjoy all it has to offer, and my wife will even travel out over the weekends when she can. Plus, it’s an opportunity to make a good deal of money as well.

Now, because the cost of living is so high in NYC, we are forced asked to share tiny one-bedroom apartments with our coworkers. Fine, I understand that. It makes sense to save money that way.

Here is the problem: I was paired up with my boss who loves to stay out drinking all night. As you can imagine, when he gets back to the apartment, he is a little gassy AND being 65 years old, has somewhat of a bladder issue. Still, both issues are what you can expect from drinking all night.

However, the bathroom is located in my bedroom and to get in there he has to slide the door open, which happens to also be off its track (I have already tried to fix it, it’s just old, like my boss) and walk right past my head.

No kidding – if you are using the toilet in my bedroom, you are no less than 10 feet from my bed. So, of course, I wake up several times throughout the night to the door sliding open and my boss wearing only an undershirt and his tighty whities walking past me to the bog.

Except the past two night have been cause for alarm. I am starting to hear the sound of a person who doesn’t have a high fiber intake and is still VERY gassy. For several minutes, I lay in bed, sickened and forced to listen to what I can only assume is the slaying of a walrus.

Oh, and someone never closes the bathroom door either! “Hey Guy!!! Are you serious?! Close the effin door!” I yell to him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were awake” he replied. “I don’t care, ALWAYS close the door. What is wrong with you?”

Let that soak in for a minute…

Finally, I made it back to bed and got up at 6am to head out to work. I have a nice note apologizing. Thanks!

So the moral of the story? As long as you write an apology note, anything you do is forgivable.

That said, payback is a bitch.


Follow @TheGreatCon on Twitter!

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Extending whoopee

So we went out for dinner and drinks. I had the worst Mexican food I’ve ever had. This post will not be about that.

This post is about what happened after dinner, after the half-pitcher of margaritas, and after a few drinks at the next place.

Perhaps it was too loud… Perhaps there was too much alcohol... Or perhaps we’re just hard of hearing…

The old man who was clearly drunk decided to stop and say to us as he walked by:

“I don’t know either of you, but he’s extending you whoopee.”

Now, I don’t know how one extends whoopee exactly, and in all honesty I really don’t even know what that means. I’m still pretty confused about it actually.

What I do know is that it’s very odd for a stranger, and old man stranger especially, to approach a couple and say something about extending whoopee in one direction or another. I mean, is “extending whoopee” a common phrase that I’ve somehow missed my entire life?

Can you take back this whoopee once it’s extended?

Can you adjust how far you extend your whoopee?

Is whoopee something you can eat?

Or is it purely ornamental?

I didn’t see any of this so-called whoopee extending anywhere, so I’m definitely lost here.

Dear, good time: I had you. Again.

This past weekend was full of activity, primarily due to The String Cheese Incident run on March 10th, 11th, and 12th.

I can’t possibly recap or review; there was just too much, and I could never do it justice. It’s one of those things you have to experience first-hand to appreciate, understand, or even begin to grasp.

But, it would be uncharacteristic of me to give up so easily. Instead, I offer you my (then) real-time updates from the @WrkspcWrtngs Twitter account (follow now if you haven’t already). And no, there’s no “I’m going to get a beer right at this moment” or “I’m currently eating a hot dog” or “I’m standing in line and am cold” or anything insignificant like that. I do my best to shy away from such annoyances.

So, without further ado, behold:

Thursday, March 10th, 2011:
-So far this evening I have seen buzz lightyear and a giant penguin. I suppose that’s a win. Right?
-And also a man wearing a black onesy(sp?) with a bunch of eyes all over it. That move.

Friday, March 11th, 2011
-Already: 2 cow costumes and a Who.
-And one of those giant furry fetish cat costumes.
-This can mean only one thing: I’m buying a costume before tomorrow’s show.
-And one of those Chinese dragons, but small enough to wrap around a neck.
-Men with lighted hula hoops shouldn’t happen. Imho.
-And now a juggler rolling through the crowd on a glowing ball.
-Wait. What is that! A man in a penis costume, complete with testicles? Yup. Sure is.
-And of course more people on stilts.
-And a guy next to me was just tackled by security.
-I may or may not die by hula hoop.
-I turn around, find a circle of ppl, 1 guy in the middle, puking all over. Lovely.

Saturday, March 12th, 2011:
-Sold out show tonight. How will I ever have room for my interpretive dancing?!
-Maybe don’t bring a wallet the size of Africa. Just sayin.
-I found the Burger King. Let the night begin.
-That cat I mentioned last night? Standing next to me.
-Not sure, but I think that was an interpretive dancing mosh pit.
-No joke: some dude just put ketchup on his soft pretzel.
-Well this is a logistical nightmare: apparently they’re trying to get a parade together to go around the venue.
-But I just had a grilled cheese, so it’ll be ok.
-{picture taken and shared}
-{picture taken and shared}
-{picture taken and shared}
-You have to be here.
-{picture taken and shared}
-Giant beach balls {picture taken and shared}
-And just like that it’s over.


Oh, and for those counting at home: no water bottle cap issues this time around.

And for your continued interest in my String Cheese experience, read about my first go-round with the band last year: Dear, good time: I had you.

Seeking: NWM(P), and A Strange Sheep-Thing

That stands for New Weatherman(person), not Nighttime Werewolf Messenger (Please), fyi.


This winter’s weather has been horrible in the Denver area: we’ve had virtually no snow. While other parts of the country have had literally feets (yes, feets) of snow, we have had almost none. And it’s quite depressing.

Does anyone know of a good weatherman(person) who needs a job? Ours are having trouble with predicting. As with most other areas of the country, the weather here isn’t an exact science. But when you predict 2-5” of snow and it turns out to really be 0”, and you predict 4-6” and it turns out to be 1”, over and over and over again? Yeah… There may be a slight problem.

I’m not saying our current weathermen(persons) aren’t smart or are doing a poor job, they just haven’t been accurate this season. And while we all know that it’s near impossible to predict the weather, you can at least come close to figuring it out.

Each storm is not something you’ve never seen before and cannot map it with a decent level of certainty.

And also? Maybe don’t predict the end of the world when you’re 4 or 5 days out. Maybe only predict a possibility of snow. You’re getting a lot of hopes up when you predict a potential snow day and don’t deliver by coming up way short – not just a little short – but a lot short.

And more also, what the eff is this thing.

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NC BBQ and MR. CLD

I love barbeque. You may too. Even if you’re a vegetarian, I’m sure you can appreciate the tastiness of its sauces and typical sides.

Cut to the chase: one of my favorite BBQ joints is in Burlington, NC – Hursey’s BBQ to be exact. I spent some time in NC many years ago and fell in love with the NC style BBQ and have craved it for many, many years.

Soon, that crave will be satisfied. Or, I’ll crave it even more.

I’ve often thought of taking a weekend trip just for the BBQ (and for the few friends in the area, of course). Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened once in the past 10 years.

Yesterday, though? While on business in NC, Con Lee drove hours to Burlington just to get me a couple bottles of sauce. He also had a pork sandwich and some Brunswick Stew. I’m jealous.

So, here’s to you, Mr. Con Lee… thank you for procuring the sauce.

NOWSENDITQUICKBEFOREIEATYOURFIRSTBORN!

STAT!

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That’s not water damage… That’s from a swing?

…a sex swing to be exact.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, arrived at his apartment yesterday after work to find that his bed was made. Thinking it was nice of his wife to do so (apparently it’s uncommon in their household for the bed to be made on a regular basis), he didn’t think much of it.

Then he noticed a hole in his ceiling. A square cut-out that he, nor his wife, had done.

They began to wonder. Then they called me to confirm their next move. They then called their apartment management company to find out what was going on and to ensure there wasn’t any nefarious activities while they were gone for the day. No note was left by maintenance personnel, so things obviously seemed strange and most definitely out of place.

After a quick call to the management company and then a call back to me, I learned that a notice had been sent previously which stated that maintenance personnel may come in and fix water damage if they see anything. So there you have it… Case closed.

…But there was no water damage in their ceiling. And his wife didn’t make the bed that morning.

Apparently the maintenance person saw holes in the ceiling which were thought to be water damage and made the bed before cutting the hole.

Actually though?

The holes were drilled previously for the purpose of a sex swing.

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The most important of all tickets…

I went to the Umphrey’s McGee show Friday night. Other than the show being great, it turned out to be pretty eventful.

While in line halfway to the door, my friend turned to me and said she lost her ticket. The very same ticket I gave her earlier before standing in line, for which she hadn’t paid me yet.

She proceeded to purchase another ticket while I went inside and met up with me later.

Once inside, I checked my coat and received a ticket for it. I proceeded to get a drink and then headed to the floor.

After a while into the show, I purchased another drink.

After an even longer time, I reached into my pocket to take inventory of its contents, something I regularly do when out in public, and which I had done previously in the night.

I realized then I had lost my ticket, much like my friend had lost her ticket earlier in the evening. Under normal circumstances I would have thought nothing of it because I was already inside… but this was not a normal circumstance.

You see, I had ticket number 1. The first ticket of all tickets to the show. THEE very first ticket sold. Numero uno. Ticket #1.

You can imagine that it was very, very disappointing to learn I had lost my ticket. Thus began a formal search of the floor – everywhere I had been standing after getting the second drink.

So there I was, while band playing, wandering slowly with drink in hand all around the venue where I had been previously. Unfortunately, after some time of looking in places, re-looking, and going back again to the same places a third time, I hadn’t found my ticket. I found other pieces of paper, but not my ticket. Not ticket #1. Nor did I find any other numbered ticket.

All the while, I kept checking my pockets, all of them, again and again, in disbelief that I had lost my ticket, in hopes of finding it hanging out as if nothing happened (perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me?).

Each time I checked my pockets no ticket appeared.

However, the other ticket was still in my pocket, which is when I realized that the concert ticket really isn’t of great importance, and I was making a big deal of nothing.

And that’s when it hit me – I still held the most important of all tickets… the coat check ticket!

You see, if you lost that ticket, you’re likely never to see your coat again, making it truly, the most important of all tickets.


Of course, after time went by, still in disbelief, I reached into my pocket again to check – and what did I find along with the most important of all tickets?

Ticket number 1.

Hanging out.

Just sittin’ in my pocket. Snug-like the entire time.

Apparently playing magic-man with me all night long.

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Say hello to Jasper

He’s a friend of a friend. Maybe not even a friend of a friend, but someone a friend had interaction with at one point. Well, maybe not even someone a friend had interaction with at one point, but someone a friend was in the vicinity of once. Yeah. That’s it.

And she decided to draw a portrait.
Which just so happens to be the size of a quarter.

I do believe it was a work-related function as well. Some sort of off-site third-party training.

Can you tell that the training was highly valuable to its audience?

Jasper, if you’re out there, and you think this looks like you, and your name happens to be Jasper, phone us. Or email. I’d like to see a real picture of you. So make haste.

Probably not though. It’s ok if you never come forward. Your portrait has been sitting on my desk for many, many months now. And yes, I’m JUST getting around to writing a post about you.

Thanks for the entertainment you've brought me.

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Mad egg peeling skills (Mad as in awesome? Not at all.)

…Mad as in ‘unlicensed black-market surgeon’ or ‘mad scientist with a hacksaw and 3 bodies to dismember and put back together again’. Yeah, that kind of mad.

I remember a day when I could peel an egg like nobody else. The operation always went smoothly and the eggs survived, coming out whole almost always. These days, my eggs come out of operation looking something like a hack-job, with pieces missing after being ripped off, and they end up looking disfigured. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. And it’s starting to bother me.

Honestly though, I think Xtina has something to do with it – she’s the one who boils them. But she doesn’t seem to have the same trouble I do. In fact, her claim is that she can remove the shell in two (that’s 2) pieces. Which might lead one to believe it’s the operator of the egg peeling operation (me). Whatever.

Here’s a picture of the eggs post-operation for your amusement:

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The Big Five-OH!

No, I’m not fifty, yet, fortunately. If you are, or have been for a while, that’s ok, I’m not putting 50 down, I’m just not there yet. And I hope it’s still a long time before I am, rather than waking up tomorrow and all of a sudden I’ve aged 20 years in my sleep.

That would be weird.

Anywho. This post serves as a mini-celebration as I call out a milestone in my site’s subscriber count – fifty! That’s five-oh! I’m pretty pumped. I would like to thank the following platforms: Twitter, Blogger, Facebook; all my friends: Con Lee, Ms. Amy (here and here), Fishy, JRG, et al.; and of course Xtina, the master egg peeler, which you weren't aware of yet. You will be though.

I would also like to welcome and thank all of my newest “friends” on the interwebs – those of you who have made this possible and subscribed to my feed. Thank you.

Ok – enough of the clapping and tears, thank you, thank you. Thank. YOU!

On tap for today:

-Mad egg peeling skills (Mad as in awesome? Not at all.)
and
-WW’s Weekly Items of Note – V1, I.2
(here's V1, I1 to hold you over)


PS – What the hell is Yahoo Slurp? They couldn't come up with a better name? That's pretty weird.

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Night Terrors - Part 3

And here's another conversation that adds character to the continuing topic...

Xtina: I told you that happy hour is at Wynkoop tomorrow, right?

Me: Yes.
You got a problem with that?
Wanna fight about it?

Xtina: I will take you down.
Just because I have not yet fully unleashed my wrath upon you does not make it impossible.

Me: It's pretty much impossible, unless I'm sleeping. At which time I'll flee the room screaming my head off.


For history on the ‘night terror’ topic, here's Pt. 1, and here’s Pt. 2. …Enjoy.

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Roy G. Biv must have been on crack

So what’s the deal with Roy G. Biv? I get the whole red, orange, yellow, green, and blue thing (and sometimes violet). But indigo? Is that really necessary? I mean, last time I checked they are just a shade off from each other, unlike yellow and green, or orange and yellow (but arguably red and orange can be a shade off as well, but they’re not nearly naturally as close to one another as indigo and violet are).

And also, wtf is this ultraviolet business about? “Man, it’s so violet, it’s ULTRA violet!” Yeah, ok. WHATTHEHELLDOESTHATMEAN?! Couldn’t they have come up with something a little more unique than ‘ultra’violet? I don’t have any suggestions to replace ultraviolet, but I’m sure there were plenty of words not taken at the time they decided to coin it ‘ultra’.

And more also: Finally! It seems my FeedBurner woes are gone. Finally! Yes! Sweet! Wow, that was a pain, and how long has this site been up and running? I guess some things just take time to work out, or, if you stare at something long enough it will fix itself? Either way, I’m please (for the time being) with my FeedBurner service.

On the way:

-Say hello to Jasper
and
-My egg peeling skills (or lack thereof)

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In support of their Waltz on Friday: FaceMan

Originally posted a while ago (5/24/10):

I ended up at Pete’s Monkey Bar (formerly Dulcinea’s 100th Monkey) Saturday night for a few drinks and some live music. I love going to Pete’s, it’s a very comfortable place and I feel at home there – good people, good atmosphere, and good music. I was a little hesitant to go Saturday because Pete’s doesn’t usually post who is playing, and I like to do my research on the bands ahead of time to make sure I’m going to enjoy them. I ended up going anyway, and wow, what an experience.

FaceMan was playing that night. Who (or what) is Faceman? FaceMan is a band with a very interesting gimmick: the singer/lead guy comes walking through the front door after the music has started wearing a silver/grey suit with a contraption on his shoulders which fashions a box around his head that has vents on all sides and spinning lights on top (which he turns on and off throughout the show). Needless to say, I was surprised by what I saw, and honestly, I was a little apprehensive of what was going to follow.

And so the show went on, silver-box-with-spinning-lights-over-some-guy’s-head and all. They also had a special guest, a harmonica player called Medicine who added serious depth to the music – who should always play with Faceman from here on out. Oh, and there were two projector screens near the ceiling, and a silver robot looking thing centered in front (something like you would find on Mystery Science Theater 3000)… with a light that kept changing colors (what I thought to be an eye), and a mouth with fiery-orange teeth… fun right? It was.

You see, the projectors played snippets of video along with the music (think Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and the Wizard of Oz, but with different videos). And although the music and video weren’t in perfect synchronization, it was still pretty damn cool. Every now and then the video would become two eyes, and that’s when you could see it: two eyes, a nose and a mouth of a giant something (see below).

As the music went on and the videos kept changing, it began to make sense… this wasn’t about the band members; Faceman is about the music, the show, and the experience.

FaceMan, I have to hand it to you – you did a great job. Your music was surprisingly good and your gimmick worked very well with the crowd. I definitely look forward to seeing you again.

And Pete – thanks again for another great night. You guys are awesome.

Pete's Monkey Bar: http://www.petesmonkeybar.com/

Pete's on Facebook: www.facebook.com/petesmonkeybar

FaceMan: http://facemanmusic.com/
FaceMan on Myspace: www.myspace.com/facemanmusic

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