I’m halfway through reading Crooked Little Vein, by Warren Ellis, for the second time. Ran out of library books, due to my reading too fast and not anticipating that there wouldn’t be anymore at the library waiting for me, so here I am, reading Crooked Little Vein again, a mere two weeks after I finished it for the first time.

Which means two things: One, i need to keep better track of the books on my library Hold list and Two, Crooked Little Vein is a great book.

Oh, and Three, I really need to pay the $10 in library fees. Okay, so that’s the real reason. I don’t wanna pay the $10, not yet. Maybe next paycheck.

In any event, second time around on CLV is really just as good. It’s that kind of book. Not Great in the sense that kids’ll be studying it at UCLA, or great in the sense that there’ll be conventions around it with folks dressed up as peripheral characters.

Rather, it’s great like a great record(sorry, album, no, cd, shit, what the fuck do you call a collection of mp3s released as a whole by an artist these days?), one that you put on, soak up, then immediately set back to the beginning, so you can do it all again. The surprises in CLV read different but equally as entertaining the second time around, and now that I know the ending there’s a comfort in not being horribly disappointed by a plot turn or the possible clusterfuck of a bad ending.

It reads like much of Ellis’ other work, synthesizing genre fiction with his love of the sheer horror that is our global culture, all the things that at first glance exist only on the outskirts, but upon greater reflection, sit right next to each and every one of us. There is a freak everywhere, he insists, and as such, can anyone really be considered a freak anymore?

Also, it’s damn funny. Funny gross evil funny. Funny like a unicorn vampire. But better.

Go get it. It’s a li’l hardcover, cute and adorable with a black cover and then you read some and there’s some wrong in that book. Some wonderful wonderful wrong.

Today is Wednesday. Congratulations, you made it. I bet you’re going to get all cocky and ask for a raise now right? Well, the answer is no. You’re attitude still sucks and you’re not dressed properly for the office. NO SNEAKERS. How many times do I have to tell you this? Also, work starts at 9. Not 9:30, not 10:30. 9-o-clock. Can’t talk, gotta run, I’ve got a 10:00 tee time.

I don’t know much about no blogs and shit, but any blog that would persistently hound me to submit my thoughts, feelings, and/or opinions obviously knows nothing about me and even less about blogging. And if you’re reading this right now, you’ve evidently hit rock bottom too, considering that you’re reading a blog with terrible enough judgment to ask me to single-mindedly steer them through the next millenium or two. Well, miserable or not, here we are–together. You can’t polish a turd, as they say, but at least it feels good coming out. I will try to be for blogging what Vern was to Ernest…

This is the twisted bad-ass mug of punk rock circa 1980. In Norway. I wish I had half the amount of punk balls these cats had (I look very docile in my 1980 photos, I was 3). My older step-brother pulled me off of garbage music like Stryper and hipped me to the sounds of Black Flag and the Sex Pistols. My mom took down his Dead Kennedy’s poster which was a massive pattern of male genitalia entering into um, how do I say this… bums? I was happy to find out that The Slips continue to rock despite not looking like 12 year olds. For their past and present I raise my glass. To the SLIPS! Here here!

Last weekend I was maid of honor in my best friend’s wedding. It was a splendid affair, I had several pieces of cake, a few red velvet cupcakes, delectable kobe beef sliders and several bottles of water, as it was quite warm.

Oh, I also watched the union of two souls as they joined forever in a covalent bond of love.

I still think weddings are weird and slightly outdated, and they cost too much and are as much for our parents as ourselves, and the amount of trouble and aggravation they cause is barely worth the effort.

Caterers and party planners and flowers and the dress and the cake and the folks that need to get paid right away and that one guy who can’t sit next to that other guy and making sure yet another guy doesn’t make a speech, and keeping the parents cooled out and making sure the babies have baby seats and the food line isn’t too long and the speeches that Are given are appropriate and making sure the dads aren’t too drunk and that there’s enough booze to go around and the gifts are in the right place and there’s somebody to take the gifts home and on and on and ….

I used to think it ridiculous that some folks ran off to Vegas and had Elvis marry them. But, well, now it looks like a rather perfect solution to the controlled bedlam of the modern wedding.

My mom only requires half a wine cooler to get buzzed. I’ll pop by the house Sunday for dinner, open the fridge for some water and find half, even sometimes three-quarters of a Bartles & Jaymes waiting for next Saturday night. Yes, she even drinks them flat, because no, nothing goes to waste.

My mother, therefore, obviously got the short end of the stick on her and my father’s recent trip to Ireland for a family wedding. That’s because during their weeklong sojourn, every night was spent at a pub doing what the Irish do best—heavily drinking. If it’s any indication of how much they drank (and yes, it is, because my father can certainly hold his own), the first thing out of his mouth after getting off the plane was, “Damn, those people can drink.” He then turned to the side and I literally gasped and stared in awe at the visible increase in the size of his beer belly. (more…)

If there is some kind of special Dads-Only party that these guys here are gearing up for, I want to know. Could be pretty cool. Pump the volume.

We express ourselves in many ways, through song and dance, and sometimes with words and emoticons (LOL). That’s why we spent some time in the internet garage to knock out two new pages for you to peep. I’m so excited about our two new pages, I put on a vest and some red pants and jumped through a plate glass window! Our recommended listening page (B.A.T. Mixtape) and our modest but powerful collection of favorite videos (B.A.T. Movie Hits) are ready for you, question is are you ready for them?

Karl Rove might not be a bad guy deep down; deep down below his oily, 4-inch thick casement of blubber. He’s leaving government work on to bigger and better things having escaped any kind of trial that would’ve put him in jail. I would’ve loved to see him in an orange jumpsuit, but then I found myself hoping for some kind of special civilian torture far worse for the Rover than jail time.

Some people want the guy dead, and lord knows he’s made enough decisions that have ended other people’s lives and careers. Honestly, I think I’d be happy if a group of teenagers lit a bag of dog shit on fire on his doorstep, week after week. Or if the neighbor’s dog peed on his manicured lawn. Or if he got wet newspapers. Somehow I think this would make his head explode. Also if someone wants to punch him in his fat gut that’d be okay too. Any volunteers?

I almost choked on my own saliva Tuesday morning when I heard Today show news anchor Matt Lauer ask a woman whether or not her vagina was all stretched out after having 17 kids. I was mindlessly examining the seriously dark color inhabiting the space below my eyes, expecting the 7:30 a.m. weather and traffic update, not pussy talk. But instead, that’s exactly what I got as Matt interviewed Mrs. Duggar, proud mommy of 17, and her family.

Clearly, those were not his exact words. It went a little more along the lines of: “So, Mrs. Duggar, is the birthing process any easier after having done it so many times,” but, it’s no stretch of the dirty mind whatsoever to translate that into, “So, is your vajayjay now just this huge gaping hole that pops out babies like a slip ‘n slide?” And I’ve gotta say, Matt was simply asking the question all of us were thinking (admit it, the thought crossed your mind), but doing it in the most morning-news-appropriate way possible. (more…)

Apparently a rebel southern tornado wandered well north of the Mason Dixon and wreaked havoc on Brooklyn!! The whole time I was watching the non-stop lightning I had no idea my life was in danger. It was beautiful, then I spent the rest of the day trying to get to work using subways that were both underground and underwater. Love this town…

In generations past, people got damn serious right outta college. Before that, right outta high school. Before that, they didn’t go to school, they toiled in the potato fields then got serious; married with kids by age 18, and a potato farm. Just like that, the best part of adolescence, adulthood, was wasted on the young. For those many lost generations, I vow to prolong and perfect my adolescence before attempting the long rocky incline of becoming a serious adult.

Tricks I learned early on, I’m still getting better at. I am now keenly aware of my limits, my tastes are refined and I am not yet hindered by any serious commitments like a mortgage, child or pet. I have more resources to spend on the things that make me happy. I’m going to buy a skateboard I wanted when I was in 4th Grade, because I can. It’s going on the wall because I’m washed up, but that’s neither here nor there. Above all I am perfecting myself so that my future wife will get the finest product she possibly can. This is really about making her happy. (more…)

Had it been I, and not Aladdin, who found the Genie’s lamp (and had it been present day), I wouldn’t have needed three attempts to satisfy my wish quota. Just one, and it wouldn’t have had anything to do with money or immortality. Rather, my wish would have been to be able to pause for a minute, close my eyes and see myself from whosever perspective I chose, while at the same time being fully aware that it was myself I was looking at.

I’m sure a lot of people wonder how they come across to others, but lately, due to some recent and random interactions, I’ve been especially troubled by this thought. As a result of these occurances, I’ve been given no choice but to reach the conclusion that I do not, at all, give off the impression I assume I am. Truly, by any and all means, my internal visual cues are way the fuck off.

For starters, it appears I exude the ignorant, dumb ass, ditzy, Valley-girl vibe. I may use my fair share of “likes” when speaking, but I was appalled when some random dude at a bar thought it would be super clever to ask me whether or not I engaged in “jazzercise.” Exactly what the fuck is that and why the hell would you ask me if I do it? (more…)