I'm #1!

I was just informed that I am the #1 Google Image search result for "Amputee Horse Porn." And the #5 overall. And apparently the first 4 are clearly spam, though I'm not about to search that on this work computer.

I've never been more proud of myself.

Really.



(Not shown: Horse, remaining 3 limbs, penetration)

My Sad Little Life: A Recap

Thunder Matt fun for the whole family!

What's been going on in my brain of late:

Thunder Matt has been DFA'd in Colorado, yet no one will pull the trigger on the AArons here. Hendry, I'm looking in your Huttesque direction.

Apparently Crane Kenney is still going to be president of the Cubs under the Ricketts regime. Meet the New Boss. Literally and With No Exaggeration, Same as the Old Boss.

Despite my best attempts to defend him from the more emotional and strident Cubs fans I know, Milton Bradley insists on being a temperamental prick. At least he's making contact, finally.

Wednesday's 9-4 win has done NOTHING to wash the stain of the 15-6 loss to the Nats on Tuesday. I thought I had given up on this team before, but AAron Heilman coughing up the Grand Slam will go down in the history books as the exact moment I stopped giving a tin shit about the 2009 Cubs. And I'm better for it.

I'm up to page 190 on Mason & Dixon. Some really beautiful writing on the relationship between fathers and sons and the nature of love, longing, grief, and duty. Not nearly enough talking clocks, though.

My fiancee is out of town for four days starting tonight, which means the meals I cook are less in the area of "a small portion of cooked fish and a salad with homemade vinaigrette," and more along the lines of "steak, tater tots, and scotch." It also means I may have a heart attack by Friday.

On the subject of Steak:

A) My cut was pretty cheap, but I marinated the living hell out of it. With coffee. It was pretty decent.

B) I also made gravy. Because I am southern. It was awesome.

On the subject of Tater Tots:

A) Much like Wayne Newton with pasta, I always make too much.

B) If you are going to bake them (because, like me, you don't want to start a grease fire in your hovel), for god's sake, broil them for a couple of minutes or they're really just soggy potato lumps.

C) Though they run the risk of moving into Overrated territory, I love that Tater Tots are showing up on a lot of local bar menus. They are great drunk food.

On the subject of Scotch:

A) I like it.

B) A lot.

On the subject of Holy Shit, This Is Rad:

A) Holy shit, this is rad.

Repeated viewings of Bridezillas with said fiancee over the past few weeks (which is doing wonders for my masculinity, let me tell you) have led me to the conclusion that Women Must Be Stopped. Honestly. It seems like half of these cows are only getting married so they can treat their best friends like slaves for a few weeks.

Within hours of declaring that I was arbitrarily supporting West Ham United FC (though not actually watching soccer, as it bores me to tears) for the sole reason that Steve Harris of Iron Maiden is a huge fan, their supporters got into a riot with Millwall supporters. Which delights me to no end, because while I don't really care about soccer, I really love hooliganism.

It turns out none of the things I've had to say have moved me enough to write a full blog entry. So you get these dregs. Hope you're happy.

Oh, and instead of watching the Cubs game tonight, I watched a couple of Simpsons DVDs. It was the most fun I've had during a ballgame all year. I can only assume the fact that my apathy has hit full swing will make the Cubs a team of winners. You're welcome.

The Pynchon Project: Mason & Dixon

TMS archive.

Or: Is Pomp Culture Making a Comeback?

Or: The Cubs Are So Wretched, I'm Turning To Literature.

Or: No Seriously, I Hate That Jeff Samardzija Just Started a Game.

Confession Time: I am addicted to Thomas Pynchon books. Utterly, completely addicted. His insane writing style, a mixture of James Joycean wordplay and stream of consciousness, Raymond Chandlerian pulp excess, and Joseph Helleresque paranoia and modernist neuroses really appeals to me on a deep level.

Confession Time, Part II: I am not nearly as addicted to actually finishing those books. Oh, I start them with the best intentions, but my (until recently undiagnosed) severe Adult ADHD has made me set them aside for shinier distractions. The problem with Pynchon is, the longer you set him down, the harder it is to remember just what the hell was going on the last time you held the book in your hands. Couple this with a prose style that often requires the casual reader to stop, go back, and reread a passage to figure out what just happened, and (if you're me), you end up with a lot of dog-eared and bookmarked detritus on the shelves.

Compounding Incident: Pynchon has recently released a new novel, Inherent Vice. From everything I can gather, it's a noir-detective novel dipped in a druggy paranoiac haze of decaying 60s idealism. And I want to read it so very badly.

"But Wolter," says my Better Judgment. "You have a metric ton of unread Pynchon on your shelf. And can you really justify a new purchase when you haven't even gotten your money's worth out of the last few?"

"Shut the hell up," I respond. "If I wanted the opinion of an anthropomorphized abstraction in my psyche, I'd ask my Inner Child."

"MORE DOCTOR SEUSS!"

"See!"

And at this point my reverie devolves into nothing and my bookshelf gathers dust.

Economic Twist: Given the fact that I currently have less than $9 in my checking account right now, it seems much more viable to read what I have, instead of buying more things and not reading them.

The Insane Challenge: In the grand tradition of the TMS Bat Project and Chaim's Mustache Diaries, I am wading in feet first into a project that is no doubt doomed to failure: to read ALL of Pynchon's catalog that I own. All of it. Even the stuff I actually did finish (which includes, oddly enough, Gravity's Rainbow, which ranks up there with Finnegan's Wake on the "so-called classic no one ever actually reads" scale). If I can do that, and live to tell about it, then I will allow myself to invest in Inherent Vice. If I fail, I will be forced to tear the suede patches off my tweed jacket and admit I only have an undergraduate degree. The good news: thanks to the addition of ADHD-inhibiting drugs, I've already made it 117 pages into my first book...

The First Book: Mason & Dixon. The impetus behind this whole project. I picked this up and realized that, though I remembered loving what I had read of this, AND that I had a bookmark halfway through, I couldn't actually remember anything at all about the book.

The Story So Far: It's the late 18th Century, and the Rev'd Wicks Cherrycoke is in Philadelphia, telling his niece and nephew a tale of intrigue about his youth traveling the world (after his exile from England, under pain of losing his inherited income from his father). The tale centers around his travels with Mason & Dixon of the famed line (and one supposes Jars and Cups). Charles Mason is a young widower, a London resident given to melancholy whose favorite pastime is attending public hangings. Jeremiah Dixon is a boisterous, hard drinking apostate Quaker from up north. They travel together on a series of missions of Astronomical import, assailed (up to this point) by a French frigate, nubile underaged Dutch blondes, and an overabundance of mutton-based meals. Along the way, they encounter a Learned dog that gives sage advice, world traveling clocks that (like all acquaintances) spend most of their time discussing the weather, and the seductive charms of the exotic ketchup.

All in all, typical Pynchon. Now let's see if I can make it through this thing. I figure it's the least I can do after making the rest of you read this.

Note: Don't worry, bored reader. I will NOT be writing any other posts about this project, but I will be appending status updates to the end of my other, much more fascinating posts about Iron Maiden, Video Games, and The Brutal Murder I Have Planned for Jeff Samardzija.

2010 Update: I finished it like 8 months later, and totally backed out of doing the rest. Then I bought another Pynchon book which I started and didn't finish. Sigh.

Freelance Dramaturg Returns! Again!

That last post was a real bummer, huh? Cathartic for me, but it can't have been too fun for the rest of you.

Here's something a little more frivolous: a Freelance Dramaturg cartoon I drew last weekend, when I was far too drunk to actually draw well (thank goodness he's easy).



For those "in the know," I'm not actually a fan of Rebecca Gilman¹ - so Freelance Dramaturg isn't really just a noseless caricature of The Slogger.

So there.

---

1. Theatre Geek Footnote: I think Gilman hides behind shock value and would not be half as critically acclaimed if she were a man writing the same Neo-Websterian Grand Guignol pieces of cod-Mamet. In fact, her writing reminds me of that guy in every first year playwriting class who thinks that staccato dialogue liberally interspersed with "fucks" and "cocksuckers" makes him edgy. But she's the one getting awards and critical acclaim, whereas I haven't even been paid for my writing in almost 9 years, so I'm certainly no judge... Also, I've never even read or seen Spinning Into Butter, which is usually considered her best work. ...Hell, I guess I shouldn't throw stones.

My First Foray Into Electoral Politics....

Okay, this is less of a blog, and more of a link to Thunder Matt's Saloon, where I actually wrote a blog entry.

I guess that earns a lazy blogging tag, even if I worked on it elsewhere...

2010 Edit: Hey, since I'm doing this whole Archiving Project, here's the piece:

The Prodigal Son Wants A Crack At the State House

Often, when people learn I am, in fact, from South Carolina, they are stunned. I’m an avowed atheist, a civil libertarian, and I have never shot a gun at anything living. I don’t even have a strong enough accent to place me anywhere near my home town of Charleston (most people assume I’m from Ohio or something). I hate NASCAR, and don't sleep with my cousins.

But, if you get to know me, the hints come out. I’m passionate about the fact that barbecue is a noun, and should be made with either mustard or vinegar. I strongly believe tea should be iced and sweet, or it’s better off in a harbor. When I drink I get maudlin about country songs and boiled peanuts. And, I own a few slaves (it’s a heritage thing, people. It has nothing to do with hate).

And, while I love my adopted home state of Illinois more than I love John C. Calhoun’s wild-eyed stare, I’m willing to do my part and throw my hat into the ring.

That’s right, Palmetto State. This expatriate Sandlapper is willing to come home and govern you. Govern you hard.

Well, that’s not really true. I’m in no way willing to actually “come home” for more than a few days at a time. But hey, in these internet-savvy days, you don’t need to actually live somewhere to control it. Most of the TMS bartenders don’t live anywhere near Chicago, and Chaim Witz was actually replaced by a team of Indian day laborers 7 months ago.


However, I've got big dreams. In 2012, I will be 36 years old. That's the first election where I will be legally eligible to be president. And, as that election approaches, I will be unveiling a comprehensive platform that is sure to galvanize the entire electorate (I'll give you a hint: Flying Goddamn Cars). I am the man to build a bridge to the mid-20th century's idea of what the 21st Century was going to be like.

Or, I would be, if I didn't have absolutely no experience in governing, a public record of underachieving, and almost zero personal charisma.

Easy way to solve this: get elected governor of some podunk state, be charmingly stupid, and pander to the masses. And here is where South Carolina steps in...

I'm not going to go deeply into this current imbroglio. We all know what's going on down there. And, frankly, I found those emails disarmingly heartfelt and embarassing. Human emotions like that sicken me, and I will not support their promulgation.

I think what outrages voters more than sinful behavior is pretending you aren't a dirty sleazeball. Bill Clinton still kept a reasonably high approval rate while nailing every thick ankled, small uvula'd woman in the Beltway. Sure he denied everything, but he did it with a wink that said..."you've all ridden a moped, too, boys..."

So, South Carolina, I make these promises:

1. I have no ability or experience in leadership roles. I know nothing about running a state government. This should not be a problem, as I'm pretty sure no one born in South Carolina in the past 75 years knows how to run a Quizno's in a strip mall, much less a State Government.

2. I will be abusing the power of my office. That is the strongest campaign promise I plan to make, and I'll be damned if I break it. You can trust in me.

3. Most importantly: I can assure the voters of my home state that if I disappear for 3 days I am safely ensconced in a mountain hideaway with a pile of drugs, a few handles of whiskey, and no less than 6 prostitutes of no less than 3 different ethnicities. In fact, even when I'm actually going on a hiking trip or just taking some time to catch up on reading, I will tell the press I am going to Argentina to bang my hot mistress. Because I have a rep, people.

So what do you say, South Carolina? Are you willing to take a chance on an unproven maverick who won't play by the rules? I mean, your leadership has been running your state into the ground for almost 2 full centuries. Why not choose a man who will do it openly, honestly, and (quite likely) completely fried out of his mind on psychedelic mushrooms and Islay malt scotch?

Vote Wolter. His Sordid Scandals WILL Go Into Sexual Details.

Paid for by the Committee to Elect Jon Wolter to Run South Carolina Into the Ground.

The Ignominious Return of Freelance Dramaturg

One more exciting, halfassed cartoon for the Freelance Dramaturg series! I drew this in an attempt to avoid clawing my eyes out from boredom last weekend at the National Restaurant Association convention.



Collect 'em all!

Freelance Dramaturg

A Poorly Drawn Comic Strip By Someone Who Normally Draws Better Than This

Some time ago, I drew a couple of halfassed comic strips on a sheet of 3-hole typing paper, reflecting my own semi-jaundiced view of my experiences in theatre. And this morning, I decided to do a third using my el cheapo pen tablet. I figured I'd share them.

Who knows? Maybe I'll make more one day.


If you click on them, you can see them at legible size. I particularly like the way FD looks in the last few panels of the third one.

Disclaimer: Freelance Dramaturg is not NECESSARILY a self-portrait without a nose. For one thing, I hardly ever actually work as a dramaturg anymore. However, it's not NOT a self-portrait either.



EDIT: Jesus fuck, the spam commenters had a field day here (well, 3 comments, which is a field day by my standards). Seriously, spammers: this site averages about 40 hits a day, mostly from people doing image searches and not reading the words. It's not worth the effort to even run a bot.

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 2

More TMS insanity.

Or, "This Isn't Working, But If I Talk About How Talking About It Not Working Isn't Working...It Just Might Work."

When last we met me, I was remembering how I came up with the idea to write about the sheer genius of Iron Maiden's Powerslave album vs. the sheer Power of Apples. And then I promptly passed out in a haze of "inspiration."

Which brings me to:

12:11 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
After microwaving my lunch and sitting down to start composing the next chapter in this masterpiece, I decide how to begin this, and end up settling on:

1:24 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I give the following update to my fellow bartenders: "I ran out of lunch time. This will be at least a 2-parter.

Also, it probably makes no damn sense. "

I shortly receive this response:

1:26 PM, Monday, May 4th
Brant Brown: "Jon, brevity is a virtue."

I immediately snark back. This devolves into one of our numerous pissing matches (I think he is trying to haze me or something). Nothing witty is said on either side, so I will not recount it here, and only mention it as a bit of local color (and proof that it was my negative attitude that killed Pomp Culture not some "editorial decision," as the press release stated).

3:00 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Part 1 is published according to schedule and meets with the following critical response:

3:03 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Jordi: "My personal guideline:

The Serious Tip: 500 words or more
all other blogs: 300 words
Less than 144 characters: I'm Twittering that bitch" That's right. Jordi even pushes his blog in our private conversations. What a whore. Wait: don't tell him I said that, though. He will totally suplex me.

3:10 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Brant Brown: "Jon, I don't care for the direction of your post, but I do appreciate you working in the Tyler Perry quandary." I take this as the effusive compliment it clearly is.

3:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Chaim Witz: "Jon, though that post may not be fully appreciated until well after you've passed on from this Earth (quite possibly at the calloused hands of Brant Brown), let me be the first to recognize the tortured genius that emanates from those disjointed words. " I am momentarily flattered, then realize that Chaim also thinks the finest work of Western Literature is the 1970s KISS Adventures comic book, because "it uses real KISS blood in the red ink. Let's see Tolstoy do that."

6:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
In our comments section, Nick V states "It took a few minutes to realize what you were talking about Wolter, but by the end I chuckled" By the end he chuckled. Exactly the response I wanted! Emboldened, I renew my vow to finish this, come hell or high water.

12:31 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I sit back for a minute and try to remember where the hell I was going with this. Oh yeah:

1:01 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I write something to this effect before stopping:

3:03 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I totally pass the hell out drunk, thinking I had a great idea for a blog post. (I am paraphrasing here).

12:35 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I'm back on track!

6:48 AM, Monday, May 4th:
Oh god. Is that my cell phone alarm? Jesus Christ! I need to get up and go to work...holy god, my mouth tastes like country fried ass. Why do I do this to myself...

This goes on for some time, until...

10:13 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I step out of a near-endless staff meeting, still haggard and not-a-little-hung-over, yet determined to write the best possible blog entry on my lunch break.

10:16 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I realize that Powerslave vs. Powersauce is the stupidest idea I've ever had. Even stupider than those damn NES reviews.

10:18 AM, Monday, May 4th:
The following idea passes through my brain and is quickly discarded:

Iron Maiden:


vs.

...THE IRON SHEIK

Again, Jordi would totally nail me if I didn't fact-check this one.

10:37 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I come close to googling pictures of Iron Chef before banging my head on the desk in frustration. Bad idea, as it re-activates my fading hangover.

10:53 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I hit a spark of inspiration, moments after I nix a plan to write about the incredibly awesome religious NES game Exodus (in which one plays Moses and Smites Pagans With the Power of the Lord). That one will come back. Trust me.

The plan is simple: I will write a "behind the scenes" look at how one of my posts comes to be. The only problem is: I don't have any good recent posts that I could possible remember the conception of. But I always say "when life gives you lemons, make crap up until you've filled the blue book." So I decide to write about the fact that I'm writing about the fact that I'm not writing anything at all. And by using dates, times, blockquotes, and different fonts, I can make a silly and pointless verbal puzzle that will both confuse and annoy all readers, while still making some semblance of sense if the reader wastes the time reading it.

And if anyone questions it...I'll say it's postmodern!

Armed with this confidence, I get back to doing my actual job until my lunch break.

12:54 PM, Tuesday, May 5th
I check the original entry again to make sure I know what the hell I'm talking about before starting to wrap this up:

12:11 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I begin typing the following:

I am not a prolific blo

...before spilling hot soup on my desk.

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 1

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive. This one's a doozy. As is the next one.

Or, "The Making of "The Making Of "Iron Maiden vs. [TBD]"""

I am not a prolific blogger.

There. I said it.

Some would theorize that the reason behind this is that I am simply lazy. Others might say that, when I do write, I pour so much of my heart, soul, and limited html programming skills into it that I'm bound to put out less posts than most. The latter group is being charitable. I'm pretty damn lazy.

I note that it has been ages since my last post here, and that was a list post. Ugh. Shame on me. Well, actually, shame on Neal Cotts. What a turd he is.

But I digress.

Anyway, one thing I think I can provide to the TMS reader is a free peek behind the scenes at TMS - what makes us tick, how we come up with what we do. And an that note, maybe I can give you a look inside the process of how looking into our process has affected me, both as a TMS bartender, and as a man.

And the best way to do that is a diary of my thoughts about the diary of the events that shape a typical blog entry on TMS:

11:47 AM, Monday, May 4th
I decide I should probably write that "Behind the Scenes at TMS" blog entry, as my lunch time is fast approaching. I then realize that I need to get something to eat.

12:10 PM, Monday, May 4th
A quick trip downstairs for a Coke and to the kitchen to microwave my soup, and I'm ready to begin. I start thinking about the events I'm going to have to recall to make this blog make sense...first I need to start remembering when the idea for a blog post about writing a blog post first came to me, then I'll have to OH HOLY CRAP!

12:13 PM, Monday, May 4th
I finish cleaning the hot soup off my desk, and get back to writing. I decide to start back last week, when Brant Brown was being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of particiaption in them. I begin to type:

Sometime Last Week
Brant Brown starts being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of participation in them.

I then look at that and realize that's a crappy thing to say and decide to cut that part. I decide a better place to begin is to start is my growing realization that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately. I modify my statement:

Sometime Last Week
I begin to realize that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately.

11:32 PM, Saturday, May 2:
Brant Brown writes: "Mookie. Write 200 words on how Tyler Perry's "House of Payne" differs from Tyler Perry's "Meet the Browns". Due Monday, via TMS post." [Note: Brant has taken to calling me "Mookie Blaylock," probably because he's bitter that I'm able to blog under my own name, whereas his real name (Perez Hilton), has apparently already been taken].

2:54 AM, Sunday, May 3:
I respond: "Perez: No." But the need to write something soon festers.

12:23 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I should probably mention my current mental state, as a way of explaining this entry. I take a second to find the right phrasing, then type:

7:30 PM, Sunday, May 3:
I attend my fiancee's graduation from her acting conservatory.

9:36 PM, Sunday, May 3:
The word goes out that everyone is leaving the after-graduation reception to get a few drinks at Brehon Pub. I tell my fiancee, "You can stay out as late as you want tonight, but I'm want to be home and in bed by 11:00, because I have to work tomorrow."

1:17 AM, Monday, May 4:
I do a shot of Jameson's with all of the members of her graduating class that are still upright.

12:30 PM, Monday, May 4:
I stop to reflect on my hangover for a moment.

12:52 PM, Monday, May 4:
I remember what I was doing with this blog, and start writing about the moment I remember that I haven't written jack and/or squat on TMS for some time.

2:47 AM, Monday, May 4:
I decide that I need to write a TMS post. But about what? I think about maybe getting up to play a little NES, but someone apparently set the room to "spin," so I decide against it.

2:55 AM, Monday, May 4:
I have a brainstorm. Mentally, I begin typing out the following Genius Idea:

Powerslave....

vs.

Powersauce!

3:03 AM, Monday, May 4:
Satisfied with this incalculably brilliant concept, I drift into a dreamless slumber.

1:02 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I need to stop writing this, as my lunch break is over. I decide to continue writing this one later, and break this entry into multiple parts. The next part will commence with my morning-after second thoughts about this formerly "incalculably brilliant" post idea. It will also include the angry responses from other bartenders that this entry will no doubt provoke.

End of Part 1.

Tune in tomorrow (no really) for the continuation of this in-depth look into my thoughts about my thoughts about something no one cares about,. Unless I am murdered by my fellow bartenders before I can finish it.

So, yeah...

I can't think of anyone who reads this blog who doesn't know this already, but to all the people who came here looking for pictures of Adam Ant, explanations of Boy George Lyrics, rants about Ghostbusters and/or The Golden Girls, or just some good old fashioned amputee horse porn:

I got engaged last night.

That is all.

Pomp Culture Press Conference

This piece originally appeared on the now defunct Pomp Culture, which used to be Thunder Matt's Saloon, and then returned to that name before becoming Exile on Clark Street...I think I still write for them...

Hello, and welcome to the first in a series of press conferences at Pomp Culture. I'm your host and moderator, Chip Wesley. Each conference will feature one member of the Pomp Culture Collective as they answer questions from their esteemed colleagues. Today we will be introducing our newest member to the group, Jon.

Jon, who blogs under his surname Wolter, has done some writing at his own personal blog, The Slog, as well as the horrific and bewildering Bleed Grizzly Pink. He currently resides in Chicago, which makes his addition to the site crucial to neutralizing some of our west coast bias.

Anyway, let's get Jon up here so we can begin with the questioning.

Jon: [coughs nervously] Thank you all for coming. I'm both honored and mildly appalled at my
selection to provide content for--

[checks card]

"Pomp Culture?" Is this some sort of rockabilly site? Well, I generally use Murray's Pomade with a dab of Royal-

[Brief discussion, illegible]

Nevermind. Anyway, I'm glad my sporadic blogging at my own site has generated--I see that I've been told to move right to the questions...okay.

Daft Funk: With your involvement in several of the Illinois governor scandals from years past, as well as your rumored involvement with the OJ Simpson Murders, do you think you'll be able to stay on track and perform, both at Pomp Culture and in the sack?

Jon: No matter what the governor or OJ may have done, I was the legitimate appointee to this point, and I'm well qualified to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do. And when I find that out, look out internet!

Brant Brown: Jon. Oasis or Blur?

Jon: Funny you should ask. Tentatively, I say Blur, but I'm
actually working on a scientific scale to prove it. Currently, in the initial test of Iron Maiden vs. Judas Priest, it seems pretty reliable. I'll be happy to provide the results once the FDA concludes its Quality Assurance audit of the test facilities.

Governor X: As a Denny's stockholder, I would like to hear some details on your dish preferences and how frequently you visit the establishment. Could you provide?

Jon: It is to my ever-abiding shame to report that I am not a common frequenter of Denny's, having grown up in the heart of Waffle House country. However, if they serve Country Fried Steak with White Gravy, then that is what I would order.

Chaim Witz: Who, in your qualified opinion, has been the best KISS replacement member over the years?

Jon: Clearly Vinnie Vincent. And not just for his obvious technical proficiency, his utter rejection of his Italian heritage to make a buck, or his tacit support of the worship of Mighty Osiris in his assumption of the mantle of Ankh Warrior.

No, Vinnie has taught us the important lesson that anyone can, through hard work and general jackassery, manage to get fired from KISS for "unethical behavior."

Chip: In one aspect or another we're all guilty of snobbery whether it be food, sports, music, movies, politics, etc. What would you be considered a snob of the most? Has this ever led to arguments ending in a finger jab to the throat?

Jon: Well, of course, I try to be as elitist as possible in my daily life, but I really think my snobbery has come to the forefront in three areas:

1. The field of pre-, proto-, quasi-, meta-, post-, and unprefixed punk. Of which I have my own
definitions. And woe betide any that dare speak against my proclaimed tastes in this field.

2. As a native of South Carolina, the only state with 4 distinct Barbecue traditions (Vinegar, Carolina Mustard, and both Light and Heavy Tomato-based), I have engaged many a sissy slapfight with those that either use barbecue as a verb or refer to grilled food as "barbecued." Also, the abbreviation BBQ and its variants should only be used when handwritten on a wooden sign.

3. My innate sense of revulsion at the obscene Midwestern tradition of slicing pizza into squares. Anyone over seven that eats pizza like this will get a resigned eyeroll and a haughty sniff if they try it in my presence. Unless of course, someone else is paying for a pizza I'm eating. Then, sure, because c'mon...it's just pizza.

Jordi: In an internet search of your name, I found that you play hockey for Dartmouth.

Two questions: 1) Does the Outing Club really help people to come out of the closet? 2) What kind of groupies are you most familiar with?

Bonus question: Before Pomp Culture, what blogs did you read and why?

Jon: 1) I don't know if it helps, but anything that enables you to feel free to be
yourself couldn't hurt. I mean unless you're into getting hurt. Then it probably will.

2) Most of the groupies I've dealt with have been people that have mistaken me for Rivers Cuomo. Although, once I was mistaken for Mario Cuomo. But I didn't really get any action for it. Unless you consider a guest speaking engagement at the Buena Park League of Women Voters "action."

Bonus: The usual suspects for baseball (the one sport that I can actually analyze with some confidence), especially Cubs ones (HireJimEssian, Desipio, FJM, Baseball Prospectus). I also have a soft spot in my nerdy heart for blogs about the ridiculous crap that went on in old comics. And, of course, Rodney Anonymous's blog, because if you can't learn a life lesson from the former Dead Milkmen frontman, it is unteachable.

Daft Funk: I see you mentioned comics. Are you a comic nerd?

Jon: I was a huge comics nerd in the late 80s. Then I was a pretentious indie comics nerd in the 90s. A while back, I realized that heck, I have a decent job, a great girlfriend, and a pretty passable semblance of a life, so I went back to comics because I now have nothing toprove.

Brant Brown: Russia or the United States. Pick one.

Jon: I'm going to go with the U.S. because we have Captain America. Though Russia has the Red Ghost and his Super-Apes...so that's kind of a wash, since I have a soft spot for super-powered apes.

Wait. I'm forgetting that we also have Rock'n'Roll, which beats Tuvan throat singing rather handily in the badass department. Plus, there's no way Ivan Drago takes out Carl Weathers in a fair fight. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Jordi: Jon, favorite pro wrestler? This will say a lot about you in my book.

Jon: Well, I'm a little out of the loop, but I will tell you that I was always a fan of the "Heel" characters when I was younger. I'm far too weak and girlish to be a wrestler, but one of my Dream Jobs would be an evil manager, like Bobby "The Brain" Heenan.

As far as actual wrestlers, I've always had a soft spot for "Rowdy" Roddy Piper. He was the Celtics to Hogan's Lakers (or maybe the Oakland Raiders to Hogan's 49ers - I'm not good at non-baseball analogies). My favorite pro-wrestling moment of all time was on a mid-80s Saturday Night Main Event when an injured Piper came out to beat the hell out of Adrian Adonis (a Gorgeous George rip-off that had played hell with the WWF for much of the preceding
months, through the time honored tactic of cheating). Piper beat Adonis down with his crutches in spectacular fashion. If I recall correctly, Piper hated Adonis so much that he helped a woozy Hogan keep his belt during that fight, which a judicious folding-chair to the Hulk's face had placed within Adonis's grasp.

But it's been over 20 years since I watched that, so don't quote me.

Lingering Bursitis: Three questions. 1)What is your ultimate desert island disc. You can only take one album.

2)What do you request for your last meal on Death Row? More importantly, if you were ever to end up

on Death Row, what would your crimes be? 3)Who's your favourite Beatle?

Jon: Desert Island Disc: I'm going to be cliched and say London Calling, which has been my answer for 15 years now. But several other albums are gaining on it.

Last meal: A McRib, A country-fried steak, and a plate of hot wings. Hopefully, I have a heart attack and die before they execute me for the brutal ritual killings of Jimmy Buffett, James Taylor, and all non-Joe Walsh members of the Eagles. Walsh just gets cut a little.

My favorite Beatle is Ringo.

Honorable mention to Stu Sutcliffe and George Martin.

Chip: Say you're a member of a successful rock band.

Name 3 items that must be in your backstage green room or you'll refuse to go on?

Jon: Exactly 416 White Cheddar Cheez-its, unbroken, served in a crystal bowl. A French press stocked with the most expensive coffee to be found in a 50-mile radius A guy who looks uncannily like Jerry Orbach who just sits in a corner, reading the paper and grumbling to himself.

Jordi: What is your favorite Wu-Tang rapper and why? This will also tell me a lot about you.

Jon: I'm partial to the GZA. To some extent, it's because he made Liquid Swords. But really it's because when they form like Voltron, he happens to be the head.

Dave Thomas: What is your most hated mispronunciation?

Jon: No one realizes that the word forte (as in "not my forte") should be pronounced "fort,"not for-tay. It comes from the the French word for stregth, not the Italian word for loud (oh, I'm also an etymology snob). But I know that is a losing battle.

Also, though it is apparently an acceptable alternate pronunciation, when people say Cli-TOR-is instead of CLIT-or-is, a little part of me dies inside.

Chip: Alright, we have time for just one more question.

Daft Funk: What three words would you use to describe this picture?

Jon: Gay Robot Prom?

Chip: OK, that concludes our press conference today, thanks to all who participated. Jon, do you have any final comments?

Jon: I have a deep and abiding NONSEXUAL love of Bea Arthur.

Chip: Welcome to Pomp Culture Jon.

Zen and the Art of Procrastination

Or, Is Anyone Still Even Writing This, Much Less Reading It?

Holy hell, my poor Slog is on life support. I’ve just been too drained of purpose and direction and energy to update of late, I guess. Damn this ADHD, for getting me to make promises I can’t keep!

Here is the running tally of things I have utterly failed to blog about:

• My facial hair Odyssey
• My exciting trip to the Bristol Renaissance Faire^® in Wisconsin and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
• The utterly ridiculous nutpunch end to the baseball season
• My career and education goals update
• My attempt to replace baseball with hockey in order to ensure the winter months are just as depressing for me as the MLB Postseason
• My return to Appetite Theatre, this time sans beard
• My near complete conversion from apathetic Taoist Atheist to apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist with Taoist leanings
• My conviction that, though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot
• The new ongoing series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
• Will Wolter ever buy the Clash Shea Stadium live CD, or is it too much of a cash-in?
• The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – will it be out before Chinese Democracy?

I suppose I should work on making that list more manageable, in an attempt to get caught up and provide anyone who still bothers to check what passes for a blog in my neck of the woods. So, I will provide a status report/brief entry:

My Facial Hair Odyssey
On the way. Honest.

My Exciting Trip To the Bristol Renaissance Faire^® In Wisconsin
…and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
Also pending.

The Utterly Ridiculous Nutpunch End To the Baseball Season
I am still far too pissed and sad to formulate anything worthwhile from the experience. Again, this isn’t a baseball blog for a reason.

My Career and Education Goals Update
I am still trying to make this possible, but I am very seriously considering going back to school for an MFA in Biomedical Visualization.

Screw you…I’m not joking.

I’ll need a several undergraduate courses to catch up, as well as a decent GRE score, and probably some serious help with letters of recommendations and some form of financial assistance (if I can even get that – given my previous woes with student loans). But this actually seems like a very cool, and very fulfilling, career path for me, if I can actually jump through the hoops.

My Attempt to Replace Baseball With Hockey In Order To Ensure the Winter Months Are Just as Depressing For Me As the MLB Postseason
My adopted “home” team is now 0-3 – but I haven’t actually watched a game yet. Still, Chicago sports is nothing, if not consistent. Go Blackhawks! I think!

My Return to Appetite Theatre, This Time sans Beard
You can find the info here. I am in the first show of the evening. I will be playing the part of "Peanuts."

My Near Complete Conversion from Apathetic Taoist Atheist To Apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist With Taoist Leanings
I also can kinda gloss over the Zen/Taoism stuff, as I am far too mystified and new to the processes and ideas to be an apt explicator – and I’m already driving Ali crazy enough. Anyway, my buddy Gene is a hell of a lot better at talking about the processes and he’s pretty much on the same path as I am right now. The most I can say is that it actually appears to be completely compatible with my Atheism and my love of the Tao, while giving me a sensible (or at least sensibly nonsensical) process to a state of understanding and living in the world that might just be what I need to keep from wanting to murder Ryan Dempster.

My Conviction That, Though Not Undoable, Sarah Palin Isn’t Altogether That Hot
Though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot.

The New Ongoing Series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
Soon, my dear Reader (can I call you Reader? ‘Cause I already did). Soon.

Will Wolter Ever Buy the Clash Shea Stadium Live CD, or Is It Too Much Of a Cash-In?
The answer to both parts of the question is: probably.

The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – Will It Be Out Before Chinese Democracy?
The answer to this question is: probably not.

So, my new to-do list is as follows:

• My facial hair Odyssey
• My exciting trip to the Bristol Renaissance Faire^® in Wisconsin and the extension of my streak of personal intoxication
• The utterly ridiculous nutpunch end to the baseball season
• My career and education goals update
• My attempt to replace baseball with hockey in order to ensure the winter months are just as depressing for me as the MLB Postseason
• My return to Appetite Theatre, this time sans beard
• My near complete conversion from apathetic Taoist Atheist to apathetic Rinzai Zen Atheist with Taoist leanings
• My conviction that, though not undoable, Sarah Palin isn’t altogether that hot
• The new ongoing series: Comics Ideas That Never Were
• Will Wolter ever buy the Clash Shea Stadium live CD, or is it too much of a cash-in?
• The Dark Underbelly of the Eighties, Part 1, Section C (Subsection ii) – will it be out before Chinese Democracy?

I hope that was helpful. See you in 3 months when I realize that I have not updated The Slog since this entry, and do this all over again!¹

---

1. This is the longest Slog entry I’ve ever done without a footnote.²
2. Shit.

About Me, Addendum #3

I'm going to gloss over the fact that I was diagnosed today with SEVERE ADULT ADHD, as that is more or less anticlimactic for anyone that has hung around me for more than a few hours, and talk a little bit about my thought processes.

On the way home from the Walgreen's today (the only one in the area to carry the Schedule II narcotic needed to treat my SEVERE ADULT ADHD) I noticed a dog on the train. Of course, that dog was attached to a blind person. A blind albino.

My thought chain, numbered for your convenience:

1. "Man, she really hit the jackpot, huh?"

2. "You are on a bullet train to Hell, Wolter."

3. "Hey, I don't believe in Hell, so who cares!"

4. "Blind Albino would be an awesome band name."

5. "She does have a pretty awesome pompadour for a blind person. My hair usually looks worse, and I can see."


I am beginning to suspect I am a bad person.

For the record, the Blind Albino^TM was a little pudgy too, but who am I to judge?

In Which Wolter Urinates On a Highway and Does a Little Naked Plumbing

So, how was your weekend?

Me?

Well, I'm batting a thousand so far, thanks for asking.

Sure, I could be all Sabermetric and admit that it's a pretty small sample size. Two visits are certainly not an indicator of my entire potential. But right now I am 2 for 2 in getting tanked in the state of Wisconsin.¹

It's actually surprising how little I've seen of WI. I live in Chicago, no more than an hour away. But, hell...it's an achievement to get me north of Lawrence these days, and I'm right by the 4400 block.² In all honesty, it's an achievement for me to walk my damn dog some days. Especially if it's raining. Or below 50 degrees out. Or above 60.

And the drunken sample size is skewed even further when you realize that one of the two trips to America's Dairyland was for Germanfest³--an occasion where I managed through sheer willpower to be, quite possibly, the drunkest member of my family in attendance (no mean feat when the twin specters of copious beer and the societal acceptance of lederhosen are combined). The very notion of Germanfest may seem a tad...unsettling for some, given the poor track record the Teutonic folk have about going, well, a little "overboard" celebrating their culture. Thankfully, German Americans are far less likely to join a Bund these days, and Germanfest is--like any other gathering of tubby caucasians in America--largely an excuse to drink keg beer and Jäger bombs. Oh, and there's a far greater likelihood of spätzle. And oompah music.

Adding to the statistical anomaly, my second visit was for Ali and my friend Lisa's surprise birthday party. I think it would be incredibly rude if I ever failed to get embarassingly schloshed⁴ at a friend's celebration. It'd be like Radiohead refusing to play "Creep" live...oh, wait...

Anywhoo, believe it or not, I didn't actually make altogether that much of an ass of myself that night (as I acquiesced to being cut off after an indeterminate number of drinks⁵). I mean, at one point I insulted the Brewers a little bit (but I wisely steered clear of Farve) - but it was done in a good natured way. In fact, by the end of the night, Lisa's brother and I (as well as Dr. Scotch's assistants, Nurse Bourbon and Intern Lager) were contemplating the Cubs and Brewers melding their team into one super-team⁶ that would whip hell on the rest of the NL. Booze heals.

A couple of waters later, and Ali and I were ready to drive home (Ali didn't have very much at all, and was clearly stone-cold sober before we even hit the Taco Bell⁷).

Well, one spilled Mountain Dew later,⁸ we were flying down the highway towards The City Vienna Beef Built. I kinda had to pee a little, but I was okay. I could hold it. We were making good time. Really good. I mean, it was nearly 2am. Traffic was nonex--

GOD...DAMMIT!

Okay. Suddenly it's bumper-to-bumper for as far up as I can see. And it's not creeping forward. It's stopped. Moments later, we saw and heard the sirens.

Creeping through northern Illinois' newest parking lot was a huge fire truck, an ambulance, police cars, and a tow truck. Oy.

Did I mention I had to pee a little?

It was becoming, "I have to piss. A lot." Technically, it was becoming "I have to motherfucking piss. A lot." But this is a family blog, and I didn't want to offend anyone with my italicized stress.

I turned to Ali and said, "Man, it's a good thing I've sobered up, or I'd probably just stroll out onto the highway and whizz all over the median." We chuckled.

Time passed, slowly. Inexorably.

The median was calling me. I tried not to answer. By this point I was at least 97% sober. Not a good percentage for public urination. Especially with a built in audience of other cars.

I did what I always do in these situations. I complained. Ali said, "I think you should just do it. That way I don't have to hear you complain about this any more." Given that oh-so-supportive declaration, I decided to go ahead and do it.

I hopped out of the car and went to hop the concrete barrier. Hey, that's not a median. It's a closed off lane. I crossed the barrier, and went to the other side, where I decided to urinate across the second concrete barrier (to the lane with sporadic traffic going the other way. Screw 'em. They weren't stuck). This barrier was about 3 inches below my crotch, by the way, so I had to aim out a bit. But the alternative was stand out in the open with my junk flapping in the breeze, and as one can tell from this blog, I am an intensely private person.

So I start to go.

And go.

And go.

And a spate of cars came around the bend in that lane.

I moved instinctively to hide myself from view, which caused a bit of blowback. Grr. One they were gone, I resumed my position and kept going. This was getting comical. Well, not to me. As I was sitting there, wondering when I might, oh I don't know, RUN OUT OF LIQUID WASTE, I heard a roaring noise to my left.

It was a car zooming by me from behind.

The lane wasn't closed.

Which meant I was basically standing in the middle of a highway lane in pitch darkness, pissing on another highway lane in pitch darkness.

Eventually, the laws of physics asserted themselves, and I ran out of ammo. But not before three more cars, probably filled with nuns, or orphans, or every girl I had a crush on in high school, whipped behind me.

I should mention each passing car was another occasion for blowback.

I finally skulked back the car, fully expecting a round of applause from the inordinate amount of immobile cars. Thankfully, that was not to be. We eventually started moving, got past the wreck, ⁹ and made it home. I slept like a stone for many, many hours.

Oh, I also did some naked plumbing this weekend.

---

1. I know. As of right now, I'm no better than when Tuffy Rhodes hit those three dingers on opening day for the Cubs, only to suck himself right out of American baseball. Although, old Tuffy still holds two homerun records: Most homeruns by a foreign player in Japan, and most homeruns by a guy named Tuffy anywhere.
2. Chicago geographical reference placed by the Gideons.
3. "Anschluss Free Since 1946!"
4. Not to be confused with "Anschlussed."
5. More than 5, but less than 10.
6. Not really sure who would play first on the team, in hindsight. Derrekles is my personal choice, but where do we put Prince Spaghetti Night (sorry...Fielder)? I'd probably trade him for like 2-3 pitchers, as both teams seem to have a rotation composed largely of spun sugar. Oh, and we both agreed that the Cubs essentially ending Turnbow's career was a favor to our Sausage Racing Friends to the North. Like putting down a particularly untalented rabid dog.
7. Did I mention we hit the Taco Bell? Not literally. But I needed sub-par pseudo-Mexican food to complete my transformation into Guy Who Is Actually Sober, Not Just Thinking He's Sober. Also, I needed a Mountain Dew. I always order a Mountain Dew at Taco Bell. This is because I hate myself.
8. That did wonders towards putting me firmly in the Guy Who is Actually Sober category.
9. On a down note, that looked like a really horrible accident. Hopefully no one was sitting in the passenger seat, as there really wasn't one left.¹⁰
10. Here is a painting of Yoda with Bob Marley to help you get past that last, downer footnote:

You gonna cry now? Huh? Gonna cry?

There are certain things a man isn't supposed to do. Crying is high on the list.

There have traditionally been only a few circumstances where men (or even boys) can cry. And all of them should be limited to a single, significant tear:

• When drinking and thinking about your late father, who never told you he loved you
• When a sports legend playing for your team retires, especially if it's due to illness¹
• When you have to shoot your beloved dog because he has rabies
• When you see someone litter on the highway²

Of course over the last few decades, as we as a culture have grown "Sensitive," the list has expanded greatly to include such notable reasons as:

• Watching "Field of Dreams"³
• Attending some sort of Wilderness Retreat where you get in touch with your Inner Man
• Couples therapy
• Getting eliminated on Project Runway
• ...and many more.

And thank goodness. For most of my life, I have been a pretty soft touch. And I have some overactive tear ducts. I'm easily emotionally manipulated by movies that I should be cynical enough to laugh at. I even tear up when using baby talk. In fact, cutting more than one onion at a time is a nightmare for me (I used to have to do it in bulk when I worked at a pizzaria. That was hell).

I've gotten used to that fact, and try my damnedest to not be ashamed. But there are a few genres of entertainment that are just plain embarassing to cry over. And I have cried over them. More than once. In fact there are certain things that ALWAYS make me cry. Some of them make me cry just thinking about them.

So, without further ado, and with no further justification, I bring you:

The Top Things That Always Make Me Cry Inappropriately, By Genre

Pop Song

Runner-up:
"Veronica," by Elvis Costello
I know music is a powerful emotional force, but c'mon! This song is so upbeat I'm not surprised Costello had been working with McCartney on this album. Still, it's about his beloved grandmother's final years. Every time I get to the point where EC says:

But she always had a carefree mind of her own
with a devilish look in her eye
saying you can call me anything you like
but my name is Veronica

I just lose it. Comically. And pathetically.

Winner:
"Silver and Gold" by Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros.
Waterworks. The whole song saddens me in context, as it is a meditation on all the things the singer wants to do before he gets too old. Sung by a man who died suddenly about a year after it was recorded. Man, that's a bummer. That's like 10 bummers. The last song on his last album. Specifically the bit after the song ends when he says. "That's a take." Again: waterworks.

For a while, this song was playing every time I came into the local Chipotle. Nothing like stifling tears at your local high-end Mexican fast food joint to brighten up your evening.

Animated Television

Runner-Up:
The Simpsons
Specifically the episode where Homer flashes back to the birth of Maggie.⁴ Remember when Homer has to quit his dream job as a Pin Monkey to come literally crawling back to Mr. Burns after playing his head like a bongo on the way out? That part...doesn't make me cry. But at the end when he uses Maggie's pictures to make the Demotivational Plaque read "Do It For Her?" Oh god...I'm barely keeping it together now. If all I had ever seen of the Simpsons was the last few seasons, I would punch you in the scrotum⁵ for suggesting I could ever be moved by Homer's devotion.

Winner:
Futurama
If you watch this show with anything approaching the degree of fanaticism I do (and, admittedly few do), you already know what I'm talking about. The fabled Dog Episode, "Jurassic Bark."

True story: I have been told not once, but twice, that the person I watched it with would never watch it again. And with good cause. That last time-lapse sequence where--oh God...I can't--just move to the next section...I'll catch up in a minute...No...I'm fine. Just--Just skip ahead...

Superhero Comic Books

Runner Up:
An issue of Justice League America whose number escapes me

Okay. I'm back. And this may be the most embarassing section of all. I mean, if it were Maus, I'd have an excuse. Maus is about the Holocaust, so it's okay to be devastated. But what if it's about Super-Freakin'-Man?

This issue was the finale of The World War III storyline from like a decade ago. I'm not one for giving decent plot recaps, and it's been ages since I've seen it, but Chris Sims⁶ sums this up well:

Which is why the rest of the Justice League concocts a plot so complex that I can only tell you it involves a giant hamster wheel, the Purple Healing Ray, and the stone heads of Easter Island that temporarily gives every single person on Earth super-powers. And that's when the whole of humanity rises up as one to fight alongside Superman against the massive embodiment of despair and hopelessness, because after all the times that he saved them, how could they not save him when he needed them to?

Okay, the first part is exceptionally silly, but c'mon man: you'd have to be a Man of Stone not to be a little touched by that final part...I mean...right? Right?

Anyone?

Fine. Be that way.

Archetypes make me sob, okay!?!?!

Winner:
Watchmen

Specifically,

........SPOILER AHEAD⁷........

The death of the original Nite Owl, Hollis Mason.

After being mistaken for his replacement, the elderly Mason is attacked by gang members at his home. Despite fighting gamely, he is eventually beaten to death with a trophy given to him for his meritorious service. And as cold as that is, the scene is depicted with the panels alternating between a spy, kindly old man being pummeled by degenerate thugs and washed out panels depicting The Nite Owl in his prime, busting up "Ratzis" with a million dollar smile on his face, looking like the stereotypical Perfect Comic Book Hero. It's bone chilling, and one of about a thousand reasons I suspect the movie will be underwhelming. I'm not sure if the scene even comes close to being transferrable.

........OK, YOU CAN READ AGAIN........

And now.................................

The Ultimate Thing That Makes Me Cry:

Sure, I've established that a lot of silly stuff makes me cry, but nothing does quite like:

Gilda Radner.

Oh, how Gilda makes me cry. I remember watching the play "Bunny, Bunny" about a decade ago Off-Broadway. It starred Paula Cale as Gilda, the late Bruno Kirby as her friend, the writer Alan Zweibel, and Firefly's own Alan Tudyk as, well, everyone else. And basically I cried for the entire second act. Pathetically. Blubberingly. I felt hung over afterwards, I was so dehydrated. I have also wept openly during an SNL special when they did a tribute to her.

And, probably most embarassingly, while reading the Sunday comics.

When Bloom County's Opus said "Gilda Radner isn't supposed to end." I think it was the most heart-wrenching thing I've ever seen in a newspaper.

.............................................

There, admitting this was cathartic. It's good to admit you're a raging pussy sometimes. I hope you've enjoyed yourself at my expense. No if you'll excuse me, I think I have something in my eye...

---

1. I am aware that Denis Leary pointed this one out in No Cure For Cancer. It doesn't make it any less true.
2. This only applies to Native Americans.
3. Which, of course, is two hours devoted to Never Playing Catch With Daddy.
4. Ok, I used to remember episode titles. I'd look it up, but if you haven't seen that episode, there is no reason to be reading this: you and I have nothing in common.
5. Or appropriate subsititute for any women or harem guards reading this.
6. If you like kicks to the face and/or Jack Kirby half as much as I do, I strongly recommend The Invincible Super Blog
7. There is a movie being made, after all, so this will probably be in it. God, I hope it isn't botched. Like every other movie connected with Alan Moore.

How My Back Ruined My FOUR Day Weekend

Or, Even I Can't Blame the Dog For This One¹

Greetings from the Slogosphere! Though I have never yet gotten to the point of writing The Slog Manifesto, there is a reason for this blog's title. And it's hints are in the definitions on the corner of the page, and how they relate direct to My Sad Little Life.

Even barring the surprisingly common occurrance of Unauthorized Canine Fecal Matter in my apartment,² I am not known as either

• A particularly lucky person
• A particularly level-headed³ person when my luck is bad

In other words, bad shit⁴ happens me to a lot, and I like to complain about it.

I suppose I should "man up" and take charge of my own destiny. But no. In the case of my back, I think it's entirely fair to whine and moan like an 11-year-old that's just been told she can't get tickets to see Hannah Montana.⁵

As eagle-eyed Slogophiles might well be aware, I am 31 years of age. When I was about 26 or so⁶, I developed sciatica. Your mid-to-late-twenties is always a fantastic time to develop a lower back problem. Because, since youth is wasted on the young, why not just take it away from them, and give them a disorder that makes them feel like they're 78 years old?

Honestly, "sciatica" sounds like something your Granpappy complained about just before Mom and Dad made the so-called "tough decision" to ship him to some raisin ranch with a name like Sandpiper Estates or Pleasant Hill Cove. Maybe we could come up with a more "youth-oriented" or "Xtreme" name for it? Or name it after someone kinda cool? I'd much rather tell people I had "David Cross Syndrome" or "a Bulging Chiklis."

Where was I? Oh yeah.

Pain.

I has it.

Anyway, my sciatica has been an on-again, off-again phenomenon since then. Mostly off, as one of my Top Three Deadly Sins to commit is Sloth,⁷ so it's usually easy for me to follow doctor's orders and lay off lifting more than 20 pounds at a time. However, there comes a time in a man's life when he's sick of paying 108 bucks a month to store his excess crap. So Teh Aly-Baerz⁸ and I went on a trip to Public Storage this weekend, and sorted through the Lion's Share of Wolter's Library.

Other facts about me that I could share right now:

• I am a compulsive book reader
• I am a compulsive book buyer
• I am a compulsive book hoarder
• This makes me a jackass

So, I had to sort through roughly 700 pounds of Assorted Printed Material, deciding what to keep and what to give away to Goodwill. I managed to actually give away something like two boxes worth, which is a serious victory in My War on My Compulsions.⁹ However, the specific gravity of paper is high. Oh, so very high.

Before anyone says anything: I (mostly) lifted with my legs, I swear. The problem with that? Oh, the next day, when my legs were killing me and we had to move the boxes into our apartment. Because I then favored my legs. At the expense of...well, I think I've spelled that out enough.

Anyway, yesterday, I couldn't walk, and wasted some Paid Time Off to rest it off. I basically spent the whole day in or around the bed, pestering La Alejandra del Hombre Bueno and complaining. I was moderately better this morning, so I decided to cut off what was rapidly becoming The Worst Unplanned Vacation in History. And since you can't get heroin over the counter, in order to rejoin the work¹¹ force I had to take (to paraphrase Bill Hicks paraphrasing someone else) An Heroic Dose of ibuprofen this morning.

Interesting fact about ibuprofen: it's not a miracle pill.

So, the Slog Status Report for March 18th, 2008:

• I am in excruciating pain
• It is largely my own damn fault
• I have tried and failed to blame The Spark
• In retaliation, he will no doubt crap on something I love while I am at work
• I will be powerless to clean it up, as it took me over 5 minutes to put on a shoe yesterday.

Hope you liked this bitter, largely unfunny rant about My Defective Body. Next one will be less self-centered and have more Synthpop Stars and Mogwai Feeding Tips.

---

1. But Lord how I tried. I really did.
2. Located in stately Slog Towers ("You don't have to be Section 8 to live here, but it helps.")
3. I was going to put sanguine, but I suddenly remembered that I can't remember if sanguine means calm or belligerent. If only I had some way to look up words and their meanings. Oh well, back to writing about myself on the internet.
4. I still can't believe he shat the bed. THE BED!!!
5. I'm not sure who this is. But I'm following the time-honored old-guy tradition of making an attempt to appeal to the youth demographic ('cause kids love reading blogs where 30-somethings rant about how much Citizen Kane could have been improved by adding a scene with a young Bea Arthur and a Talking Rhino singing a show tune [and you KNOW it would have been]. Or at least they do when you mention some pop star and/or actress they like).
6. It might have been 27. I honestly can't remember much that happened in my life before last Tuesday or so. Every now and then I have to consult this blog just to remember what I'm mad at lately.
7. The other two? Gluttony and Wrath. I would have put in Lust, but honestly, thinking of Lust just makes me commit either Envy or Pride, depending on my current status. And Greed is pretty awesome as well. Really, all of the Deadly Sins are pretty good. But I try to stick with my Top Three for most occassions.
8. See my new line of "Loljew" merchandise, soon to be available at a cafepress store near you.
9. Up next: I tackle My Irritating Need To Put Footnotes In Blog Entries¹⁰
10. And after that? Randomly Capitalized Terms.
11. I admittedly use that term loosely (see "Seven Deadly Sins, My Top Three" above)

About Me, Addendum #2

So, a coworker and I were discussing Ghostbusters earlier today (big surprise, huh?), and he asked me what form I would want my Destroyer to take.

I thought about this for less than three seconds, and promptly replied:

"Adam Ant."

Adam. Ant.

Less. Than. Three. Seconds.

I guess it beats a large and moving Torg or giant Slor. But not by enough.

About Me, Addendum

For those seeking to understand me on a deeper level, the following fact is more edifying than anything I just vomited onto the screen yesterday:

I just misspelled my own name five times in a row.

That is all.

About Me, or What? No Hitler Picture?

I know I'm breaking both the "No New Content" rule and my amazing streak of Hitlarious¹ Photos, but I think it's about time to really get to know me, The Slogger. I should probably fill all this crap out in the profile section, but that's kinda lame. But a Cult of Personality isn't built in a day, so let me get cracking.

As you may have guessed, I am a reasonably heterosexual² male, I live with my girlfriend, who is a [note to self: come up with clever synonym for "Jewish Person" that is Not At All Antisemitic and Done in Good Fun before you post this], in the city of Chicago (Pennant Loser To the World).

I grew up in Charleston, SC ("Now Slavery Free for 143 Years!"), where I spent the first 28 years of my life, including a nine-year stint at the College of Charleston³, where I majored in Theatre⁴, with a concentration in Dramaturgy⁵ and a minor in Studio Art. Needless to say, I am now working as a receptionist.⁶

I'm tone deaf, which leads me to a passion for music. I've got a soft spot in my heart for any punk or post-punk band formed before 1982, and at least 10 that formed after that. I believe that Bowie is God⁷, and the Clash are The Greatest Thing In History.⁸ I cannot think of a genre that I don't like any representative piece (other than Anything Some Dumb Hippie Likes). For the most part, however, I prefer songs with Loud Guitars and/or Memorable Hooks.

God? You bet.

In my estimation there is One True Sport. That sport is baseball⁹. For reasons Bowie only knows, I have been a lifetime supporter of the Chicago Cubs.¹⁰ I would blog more about my feelings about the Cubs, but numerous other sites do it better, smarter, and funnier.¹¹

I'm not really interested in blogging about politics, but my general sympathy to the anti-authoritarian left will probably shine through from time to time. I'm neither liberal nor conservative, but I'm not really a fan of the middle either. I'd be an activist, but I can barely get up the energy to write a blog about the Goonies, much less overthrow the Capitalist System.

I'm a huge fan of cartoons and cartooning (and may one day toss some art up here). I love a lot of intelligent, arty comics, but for the most part am satisfied if the issue has at least one jetpack riding monkey punching a dinosaur. I'd blog about that love more often, but at last count there are roughly sixteen thousand people doing ironic, silly comics reviews, and at least fifteen thousand of them have better collections and a more thorough knowledge of the minutiae of mainstream comics.¹²

Random assorted arty things I have been paid either money or beer to do:

• Drawing Caricatures at a Bat Mitzvah (Money)
• Stand Up Comedy (Beer)
• Acting in plays (Money and Beer)
• Designing posters for plays (Money or Beer)
• Designing a brochure for a Theatre Program (Money)
• Designing a logo for a set piece in a play (Neither money nor beer, I was young and foolish)
• Writing a play (Money)
• Writing sketch comedy (Beer)
• Drawing a Turkey (Money)
• Drawing a Dragon (Money)
• Designing a tattoo (Beer)
• Illustrations for some handbound books (Beer)

If you have something you'd like me to do for money or beer, feel free to contact The Slog.

There. That's enough about me for now.¹³

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1. I coined this specifically to be the "w00t" of 2008. Use it with my blessing.
2. My inexplicable non-sexual fascination with the Spice Girls (and for that matter Bea Arthur) notwithstanding...
3. Despite its reputation as a "party school," I have very clear memories of six of those nine years.
4. Spelled this way because we in The Theatre are pretentious.
5. After countless classes and at least two separate instances of working as a Dramaturg, I am still murky on what it means exactly. I think it's kind of like the Consiglieri of a play. At least, I hope it is, otherwise it was way out of order for me to leave that horse's head in the playwright's bed...
6. Straight! I swear!
7. That's the 1968-1982 Bowie. And c'mon, that's not weirder than any given major world religion. Hinduism, I'm looking in your direction.
8. Even greater than the McRib? Yes, fictional interrogator. Even greater.
9. Or, as the English call it, "Football."
10. "World Champions Every Hundred Years, Like Clockwork!"
11. "How is that different than any other topic?" you ask. "It's complicated," I answer. Then I stare knowingly into the distance until you feel a little awkward and leave.
12. A genre I stopped reading for over a decade due to the concerted efforts of one Rob Liefeld to destroy it utterly.
13. I actually think that's EVERYTHING about me. I may have no reason to ever blog again. Other than, of course, boredom fueled egomania.