Friday Morning Hodgepodge

For some reason, I can't ever seem to get in on the ground floor with whatever America's pop culture darling du jour happens to be at any given moment. LOST? Started watching after the first season. The Shins? Bought their albums around the time Garden State came out on DVD. Getting large back tattoos depicting hellspawn ripping through my flesh in a orgy of brightly colored inks and black metal album cover-inspired art work? Mine is woefully mired in the blueprint stage.

Not to mention the fact that there's a better than average chance I just flat-out won't get into said phenomenon at all! To date, I've never read a Harry Potter book, I'm still not entirely sure what a "Coldplay" is (it's a kind of soup, right?), and I've yet to catch on to this whole "wearing pants" craze for which all the kids are just going bananas. I'm sorry but is it my fault that my junk needs to breath, I don't like whiny British men who marry wan American actresses, and I have a general aversion to whimsical children who fight Ralph Finnes? No, so enough with the hate mail, MOM!!!

Anyway, I bring this all up as an awkward and meandering segue into me telling you about this awesome new show called Mad Men that apparently I'm the last one on the planet to discover and fall in love with and because of which get arrested for trying to break into the house of Don Draper so we could cuddle, even though he's fictional. Sigh... that Jon Hamm, I tell you what. I am not a gay gentleman, but if he showed up at my door with a pack of smokes, a bottle of scotch, and a look in his eye that told me I had no choice... well, let's just say he and I would be having sex. Smokey, drunken sex. I bet he smells like Old Spice and the leather they use to make saddles. Mmmm... oh... uh... sorry... but beyond Studly McLooks-Amazing-In-A-Suit up there, Mad Men basically has everything else in the world going for it. The writing is subtle yet powerful and could be used to solve the world's problems if the Government wasn't so fucking blind to obvious solutions (c'mon Obama... read my letters...), the acting is top shelf all the way, and the overall look of the show is so spectacularly retro-awesome, it kind of makes me want to burn down my apartment.

Soooooooo good, Mad Men. If you're not watching it already, go watch it now. Quit your job if you have to. But make sure you stock up on liquor and cigarettes because this show will leave you with a craving for both so powerful your clothes will rip off like The Hulk.

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I slept weird last night, and by that I mean I fell asleep drunk and with my head at a ninety degree angle pressed up against the radiator, and now my neck if fucking killing me. Also, I've got these burn marks on my face. They don't feel good either, but I've been rubbing them with a cooling balm and that has helped.

The cooling balm I've been using is butter. I've been rubbing butter on my face. My face is delicious right now, if anyone is in the area and up for a lick.

Anyway, I stole some cat tranquilizers from a veterinarians office and I ground them up with 38 baby aspirins and made it into a thick slurry with a can of lukewarm, expired Red Bull and shot the whole mess into my jugular vein with a homemade syringe (a turkey baster, the tubes from a few empty Pixie Stix, and a fork, in case you were wondering), so I should be fine before too long. Thanks for your concern, though.

Wow... I can totally see through time right now.

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I guess I don't really have much more to say. Things here are basically the same as they have been. Still looking for a job, still going on interviews, still with Girlfriend (no worries on that front, kids), still trying to write things that don't make me vomit with self-loathing and regret, still eating my feelings, still mostly remembering to shower, still trying to figure out who murdered Old Man McGintey for his fortune in rare coins, still driving these cattle down South before the Winter comes, still touring behind my latest album of doo-wop covers, still lurking in the shadows of a Chili's waiting for the right moment to steal a fresh Awesome Blossom, still writing love letters to Blossom from Blossom who DOES NOT find my vaguely threatening letters awesome in the least apparently, still coasting on my "caught a falling infant" fame, still dancing with the stars, still punching out trees just to prove to Mother Nature that she's not the boss of me, and... I guess... still just being me, C-dog, the man to whom your heart belongs.

Have a great weekend, my little lambs. I'll be sure to drink one (many) in your honor!