Droppping Plates on Yo Ass, Beeyotch!

I had this kick ass dream last night that I kicked the shit out of Colin Ferrel. Disturbing thing was that I was Michael Douglas.

Guantanamera!

Saturday turned out to be the day three of us got tired of being in Madison and ventured our way to Milwaukee. We piled in my car and away we went. The first five minutes were filled with banter, as I haven't seen Tom in a while and not much of Jeremy, either. As the conversation died down, I put on some XM dance channel and passed the Marshal exit. (Please note that Marshal is entirely populated by a Romanian Bucovina Cult or something. They are weird people.) I was fast becoming sleepy listening to the repetative electronic music and told Jeremy to change it. He fished around, stopping at the NASCAR channel to collective groans, ESPN for the Penn State Score for Tom, and finally at the 80's channel.

Things remain kind of quiet until Tom started singing the backup singer portion of some 80's song that I don't remember. It could of been on by Foreigner. This was followed by Bananarama's only self-penned U.S. hit, "Cruel Summer", and others until "Pour Some Sugar On Me" came on. I then changed it, passing the 60's channel when Jeremy heard a bit of a familiar song. He changed it back and behold it was "Guantanamera", a song I didn't know, but he knew from high-school Spanish class. This made Jeremy's whole night and we could have turned back home. Unfortunately, the music digressed from there and we were forced to turn it off at the intersection of Hawley & West Lincoln Avenue.

We picked up Steve and decided on Tres Hermanos. Steve informed us of a recent homicide in the neighborhood and told the story of how he saw some guy getting his head kicked into the pavement outside the restaurant some time. We were no longer in cushy, wimpy Madison anymore. Jeremy was excited at the mariachi band standing by the bar. By the time we sat down and ordered our drinks, the band was going from table to table, performing requests. Jeremy no sooner said "I hope they don't stop here" when I heard "Good Evening, Gentlemen!" He knew not of our reputation. The lead hombre asked for a request and Jeremy yelled out "Guantanamero!" The band responded and Jeremy would have died happy at that moment.

Not much else interesting happened after that. We went to a bar that kept blaring hair metal, another bar that was cool, but had the worst juke box, and another before we called it a night. I did manage to make a wrong turn at Albuquerque, circled Miller Park, drop off Steve, get lost again, then head back home. It's good to get away from this town sometimes.

Viva Prowlahtary Ot!

Jo-Na has a great post on snobbery. I can relate to it in the sense that sometimes I seem to speak a foreign language to people around me. This is especially true in the construction company where I work. My internal monologue prizes certain works that just aren't spoken, yet slip out from time to time. Thankfully, when drinking any kind of alcohol, my base Wisconsinite language comes out in full force, "ain'ts" and "ehs" included. People understand me better then.

Anyway, that guy is mistaken. Shakers is clearly (no pun intended) the best vodka available.

Lame Ass Flash

Ugh.... my alma mater actually made a flash cartoon out of their lame ass campaign.

Crap

More codine today. *sigh*

I'll swim tonight, which will help.

Malaise, Codine, and the Green Fairy

Once again, I'm feeling apathetic disconnect from the world which translates into some internal unease. Unlike most times this happens, I'm not much bothered by it, which paradoxically, makes me more uneasy in an objective, rational way. Usually, I get a bug in my ass and do something about it. Now, I just don't care enough to gear up for something. My innate sense of discontent will kick in soon and I'll, uh, got to Bangkok or something.

In more tangible news, my back has been killing me. I'm getting it stretched and fixed so it hurts in the mean time. Last week, it hurt enough for me to call my doctor's office and plead for some temporary relief. Rolaids came in the form of Tylonol 3, a relatively(!) weak narcotic. That was enought to dull the pain, but after four days of it, I found myself rather nauseous. For some reason, one day, they wouldn't hit me and the next day I'm babbling and staring beyond space. Thankfully, my back feels better.

In more culturally-oriented drug abuse news, my bottle of Nouvelle-Orleans arrived in the mail last week. I'm not sure how much more will be brewed in the near future as the distiller is based in New Orleans. I have not yet tried it, since it was not cheap and I need a good occasion to do so (refer to paragraph 1 as to why this may be a while). Perhaps New Years Eve. I bet Sophie would love it!

Anyway, I need to wash Cheeto residue off of my fingers.

First the Power, Then the Women

We have these ragged pine trees at the corner of our building. I've wanted to get rid of them for 15 years. In high school, I had to mow around them and when I made it into the office, they blocked any site of outside that I had through my arrow-slit of a window. My father never saw it my way.

Today, our tree service was here cutting down a couple of pine trees that no longer fit due to the curb and gutter going in. Since my father's on vacation, I asked if they could cut down the ragged pine trees and they're doing so as of now. I'm happy as a pig in shit.

I have the power, now I need the women!