Flannel ain't got Shit on Goose Down

One night I dreamed I was ensconced in a flannel hammock.
Though bitter cold nipped all about my checkered cocoon I was as warm as toast.
Suddenly my dreaming self recalled his own dream, one of rigid chill, of discomfort.
But as the bubble inside the bubble grew thin and weak, and sub-sub conscious eyes began to flutter, warm flannel was layered over my shivering body.
The bubble burst and I was a glowing coal.
Through a small hole in the fabric I saw shirtless and pant less figures smiling down upon me.
My eyes frantically searched their faces for familiarities before they were washed away by the smoky cold breath of some lurking predator. I darted from face to face and though I was already red with warmth, I blushed, realizing I was in the presence of flannel royalty. King Borland and Arch Duke Vedder neither flinched or shivered as the tidal wave of frozen breath lurched over them. Prince Nirvana threw himself headlong into the mist. Count Young and Lucas the Sorcerer simply turned their backs as the ice cloud crystallized their bodies. Horrified, I burrowed into the rows of flannel as ice axes and frosty barbed wire battered the soft walls of my shelter. The barrage passed and all was still. Then, a sickening crackling and snapping of flannel ripped through the calm. My muscles recoiled as layer after layer of flannel shattered like lake ice. My mind, unprepared for what horror would surely consume me, forced itself back into consciousness. I did not get out of bed that day.

Someone Should Start a Band Using Only Banjos and Steel Drums

Someone should start a band using only banjos and steel drums.

Edit: Some songs could have xylophone, steel guitar or hand chime accompaniment. That would be good too.

Names That are Dead

Something occurred to me tonight as I sat watching the closing credits of First Blood (a.k.a Rambo I), some names are over. As the names raced up the screen an idea started smoking in my mind. It burst into flames when I saw the name of the movie's Hog Handler Hubert Oaks. Some names are fucking dead. Gone. Finito. Bill, done. Donald, nope. Fred, yeah right. Nancy, not ever. Don't even talk to me about Gertrude. Every Gertrude there was has one foot in the grave or is six feet in the earth. How does this happen? How do names go from in vogue to names like....DICK!? Yeah, Richard isn't shitty enough, lets change it to DICK. "Richard, what's happening!?"

How many 82 year old Ethans do you know? 62 year old Scott's? How bout a 17 year old Don? Is this phenomenon being studied in some sociology class somewhere? Should I start production on the documentary stat?

I plan on getting to the bottom of this thing sometime soon, but until then I will be cataloging the names of the deceased names here. Feel free to make suggestions.

Gotta start with:
Gertrude
Nancy
Fred
Hugh
Beatrice
Joan
Gene
Jean
Lesley
Leslie(born to play softball and dip)
Marty
Mort
Mortimer(born to undertake)
Arthur
Theodore(this one should come back)
Ebenezer
Fucking Judy
Don
Phyllis
Herbert
Herb
Gary( this has to be a recent development, but do you know a Gary under 35?)
Ray
Albert
Al
Jack( according to Travis, Jack was the Ben of the 50's. I agree, laughing my ass off.)
Pam
Jerry
Winston
Walter
Larry
Terry
Barry
Bobby( for some reason this name pisses me off, if you are named Bobby chances are I am going to secretly hate you for no reason.)
Billy
Willy
Nelly
Randy
Harry!?
Penny
-y in general
Constance
Conny
Sal
Bob
Archibald( I have to admire this one for its intrinsic awfulness. Archibald and Ebenezer deserve each other.)
Clyde(this one should never have died. Clyde Suplex Smith...I like it.)
Brenda
Norman
Norm
Carla
Carl
Karl
Vera(another one that should never have gone away. Vera is a sexy, sexy name.)

O.k, I'm exhausted. I'll keep my eye peeled for others.

(P.S. Bible names like Moses and Ezekiel and Malachi are out of consideration because they are so fucking dead its just ridiculous. )

I'm really only considering names common in America, but one German name has to be on this list. Adolf was pummeled out of existence by Hitler. He totally ruined that name forever. Way to go, assface.

Robbie has suggested Leonard and Gerald. Lets think about these nominees. I can not honestly say that I know a Leonard, Leo or Gerald. In the world of sports I know of Gerald Wallace and not a single Leonard. But, come to think of it Robbie, I only know as many Geralds as I do Robbies. One. Robbie Keane and Robbie Stienbvroidhrgoi or whatever. So, your plan to execute Leo and Gerald has backfired and it's now your name which is on the chopping block. Don't make me do this, hit me up with some examples of your boyish name fool.

Our powers grow stronger....

I'm not sure where to pick back up with this, so...here's an awful poem:

In Ireland the Guinness flows like wine
most of it into my belly
Last night I won a drinking contest
And jigged to the sweetest tunes
while watching some skank ball kick a buffoon

Where is my mind?
I'm sorry journal, this sucks ass

Perhaps I should have passed on the grass
No. It put me to bed when Guinness was overtaking my head

A drunken Indian thought his beer was a gavel
and sprinkled the bar as his brain came unraveled

I forgave him, the Pogues were playing and I was full of happy drink
I. Love. Ireland.

The setting for the poems action was Dublin's famous Temple Bar district, which is fucking awesome. That one night of stout pounding, pub crawling mayhem fulfilled my wildest fantasies about drinking with the Irish. What I think city planners set out to do was create, as best they could, a booze hound's Utopia. Every building for blocks and blocks is a pub. No art galleries or pocketbook depots, just beautiful pubs filled with beer and yelling.

I want to take a few lines to thank a young Irish skank for setting the mood for the evening. As we and some random hostel folk approached the bars our eyes were drawn to this Irish rose screaming at some poor guy who had no idea of what was about to happen to his junk. Random skank was making such a scene that all 7 or 8 of us stopped in our tracks to watch as she cocked her black, size 10 1/2 combat boot back and smushed it deep into her beau's loins. At that moment we reacted like a rabies ridden kick-off coverage team and tore off cackling into ultimate inebriation.

The rest of the nights details are sketchy at best. I have flashes of The Porterhouse and its delicious porters and amazing one man band. I remember being thrown out of a bar for talking Braves baseball with a Mets fan. I remember a highly intoxicated and overzealous Indian yuppie touching women and hammering a mug of beer on a wooden guard rail in a bar. Most of all, I remember Oliver St. John Gogarty's. It's a pub. No. It's the pub. I have no idea what time it was when we got upstairs to hear some authentic Irish music, it had to be 4 or later. I can only be sure of one thing; we jigged so hard the Earth nearly shit its pants. The pure joy of being hammered in Ireland, surrounded by happy people while jigging to the Pogues was almost too much for me. Unfortunately, so was the next morning.

I vaguely remember walking back to our hostel and to this day none of us are sure how in sweet baby Jesus' name we found it. I do remember that when we got back I hung outside to smoke a cig while the crew headed to bed and was accompanied by a mysterious woman who offered me a joint. Not wanting to seem rude I accepted and...I woke up. Naked. With an intense throbbing pain surging up from a vein in my ball sack into my stomach. I freaked out, not knowing where I was and threw off my sheets. Bad idea. Suddenly I was sprawled nude on a cot while six strangers stared, mouths agape, at my disfigured testic....nah I'm just kidding. I smoked the joint and zombie hobbled to my bed with nary a scratch on my coin purse.

To be continued...

Poems in Beerland

I took the greatest trip of my life this past summer. Me and three amigos in the course of a month visited Dublin, Prague, Munich, Rome, Cinque Terre, Interlaken, Amsterdam, Bruegge and Paris. We played a lot of games to pass the time spent on plains and trains, our favorite being the sport of drunken chess, but when these games got a little dull we wrote down whatever hazy memory was left in our head from the previous night in a bunch of journals my Mom gave us. I decided to choose one form of expression and stick with it. My choice: the poem. I am not good at poetry, but I decided to spread my wings a little. I thought I'd post them here with a bit of explanation before I inevitably lose my journal.

The day of departure was fucking flabergasting. I-75 was in gridlock all the way back to the Cartersville exit because some asshole decided to have one of the most horrific accident in recent memory. Some people can be so selfish. Our flight to Dublin was cancelled due to bad weather about the time our sealtbelts were fastened and our tray tables were in their upright and locked position. We spent the next 4 hours rushing from gate to gate trying to get on another flight to no avail. At our lowest point, when we found out we would have to wait until the next day to leave, our spirits got an enourmous boost.

Traffic Jam, gaint ham-
burger made me full.
Waiting in the rain
I want Guinness

A meager start...but a start nonetheless. Later that day...

Deltanental confuses
So thirsty for opaque gold
line after line makes us moan and whine
I want beer
What's this!?
Old white woman brings young black woman the crucial clue
We go tomorrow, goodbye sorrow
Hello HumanHighlight reel
NIQUE!!! recognizes our existance
Slam dunked a smile on our faces and saved the day.

As you can see, we got to meet the great Dominique Wilkins, who frankly appeared stoned on pills. I spotted him and then watched as he left his phone and ticket on a ticket counter. Nathan grabbed his gear and returned them to him. He thanked us and we took pictures of him while he wasn't looking. Awesome.

Will's daddy picked us up and we spent a relaxing night at his house drinkin a few beers and watching the Sun's get jobbed by Big Shot Bob. I must have masterbated six times in Will's brother's bed. Just kidding Will's brother. Only twice.

ANYWAY...the next entry is from the following day when we finally do make the trip. Unfortunatly I have to sit like 15 rows away from the thee amigos inbetween an old woman and an odd man. I got the shaft because I was making a last second pit stop before we boarded and thats when the trio figured out that one person was going to have to sit alone. That person was me. Despite this my spirits are high and the poem reflects this.

SO here's the scoop, I had to poop
But could not get it done
And all the while in line single file
my friends were having fun

A book betwixt two ends am I
Smashed for 7 long hours of flight
But this task would be my delight
If the drink cart would come and get me tight

Mojitos, screwdrivers, whiskey and rum
I hope that girl has herpes, Will, you're a bum.
Ireland, here I come.

I forgot to mention that Will was sitting next to a stunningly beautiful woman and (understandibly) refused to ask here if she minded switching seats with me. Nate and Robbie asked the people next to them but they refused. I wouldn't have asked her either, Wilmo.

At this point my enteries have one of two tones: drunk or hungover. See if you can determine which state I'm in while I write my first entry in Ireland from a pub on top of the Guinness brewery.

We tower above Irish people
So drunk and oblivious
I lost my camera
Beer.
This town smells of Butt soup
I'd eat some
Snap into a Guinness!!!
How can we walk home with so much beer in the gut?
Say a prayer for my cock.
Bye Bye.

Wow. WOW. Take a handful of jet lag, a pinch of exauhstion and a heap of stout, mix them together and try to write a poem. I dare you!! You won't because you're all too scared. Too scared it could never live up to that masterpiece above.

I'll write more later...it gets wierder.