I donÂ’t see the point of criticizing others unless itÂ’s done it jest or the person really deserves some grief, but there are a shitload of bloggers I canÂ’t stand. Some of them are popular but most of the people on the list arenÂ’t especially high traffic sites.

The Great Pretender
I have a lot of pet peeves and a lot of things annoy me. One of those things is when people pretend to be experts on things or talk about things as if they had a great deal of knowledge, experience or insight when in fact theyÂ’re completely off base or just plain wrong. IÂ’m not talking about opinions, which are subjective, IÂ’m talking about facts. ThereÂ’s an old sayingÂ…A Chinaman can say anything about kung-fu and be believed, no matter how ridiculous. The same is true for the Internet.

The One Trick Pony
Yawn.

A Dollar Short
Some bloggers become obsessed with a post they write or a topic that amuses them. Temporarily. They then try and milk it for a week before they decide no one gives a shit but them. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. These people have more false starts than the 400 meter event at a school for the hearing impaired.

The Shockblogger
Self explanatory. This sleight of hand technique is used to misdirect you from the absence of actual writing.

The Tin Men
Here we go round the mulberry bush. Some people would shoot their mother for a hundred more hits a day. Trying too hard reeks of desperation and is terribly sad. I recommend a drive in the country or perhaps a good prescription drug.

I donÂ’t think I need to point out that these are not mutually exclusive.

Feel free to add your own in the comments or take a shot at me. IÂ’m thick skinned.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:46 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 317 words, total size 2 kb.

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Woijnvjgwinovu53005iuy,jginksnjiomcjiorjmxopejtbvyh9uwhmxiurhwoitn chi

ThatÂ’s what I see when I visit some blogs. ItÂ’s not browser trouble.

The paragraph above is actually more interesting than most of the stuff IÂ’ve read in the past few days. Sorry.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:24 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 46 words, total size 1 kb.

So my buddy grilled some spareribs on the 4th; and there was a bunch of leftovers. Since we hosted the barbecue, I naturally claimed some of said leftovers for myself. Of course, I hadn't had any that day either, so I was eager to try some later. Well, Sunday I heated a half rack up for a late breakfast/early lunch treat. An hour later, I was pissing out my butt.

Let me tell you, bad pork just doesn't fool around any more. I mean, it just wouldn't let up; literally, I was shitting so hard I was sweating. For at least three hours I couldn't be more than a room away from the toilet. Eventually, my butthole was hurting so bad that I just refused the urge to shit anymore. I just clenched it; deciding that I was going to force my body to hold it in until the lower intestine got off it's ass and started absorbing water. I guess I held it for about an hour, when the wife arrived.

She's a nurse, so she knows a crapton more about how a body works than I could ever pretend to. When she walked into the living room and found me curled into the fetal position biting a wooden spoon and covering my ass with both hands; she advised me to just take some Immodium. Unfortunately, you have to take the pills after having a 'movement'.

(Note: I hate that some professionals and literature refer to them as 'movements'. This word, for me, conjures up maybe a ballet, or a couple minutes of Vivaldi. What I was doing was shitting. Spraying raw sewage out of my butt is neither graceful, beautiful, nor moving - ergo, it is not a movement. Let's not be flowery when describing the decidedly unflowery aspects of the human experience.)

So I crawl back into the bathroom, and release what the flood gates had been holding back. It hurt so bad. By mid evening, my a-hole felt like 100 microscopic miners had been filing away at it with 100 tiny rasps. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand; it was a bad day to be my butthole. After I finished, I went straight into the shower. I mean, six hours of the squirts makes a guy feel a little dirty.

After the shower, I took the meds; and my bowels haven't so much as quivered since. We're talking easily 24 hours without a #2 here; and I've swung to the other side of the panic pendulum. No longer do I worry that I may die on a toilet; I do, however, worry that I may die from poop backup. Of course, compounding this problem is my reluctance to do anything to encourage a deuce; for fear that it may lead to another bout of those uncontrollable, violently powerful, and immensely painful shits.

Posted by: shank at 03:51 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 486 words, total size 3 kb.

...That soccer players are just as rowdy as the fans. Even the French ones, mind you.

Posted by: shank at 03:25 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Of all the haunts I frequented over the years BarneyÂ’s was always a favorite. The place has a long history and a great vibe. ItÂ’s the kind of place where youÂ’d see all walks of life on any given day. Yeah, youÂ’ll see celebrities, but theyÂ’re usually dressed like bums and keeping the lowest possible profile. ThereÂ’s not exactly a VIP room in a place like BarneyÂ’s.

When the place opened in 1920 it was on the glory end of Route 66, not far from the end of the line. It was basically a shanty. In the 40s they had a lot of regular customers like Errol Flynn, Bette Davie and Clark Gable.

The greatest thing about the place is the food. They have a huge menu printed on newssheets but the chili, burgers and sandwiches are what most people come for. They have something like 40 kinds of chili and about 100 different beers and a combo like that is tough to beat.

Eventually it became a hangout for the counter-culture. The likes of Dennis Hopper and Charles Bukowski were regulars as well as a host of musicians. Location had a lot to do with it as well, live music clubs like the Troubadour just up the street. Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando could be seen sitting next to Frank Zappa or Jim Morrison. The Doors offices and Elektra records were around the corner it became a hangout.

Over the years the place never lost itÂ’s cool.

“During the '90s, films such as The Doors and Out of Bounds featured Barney's Beanery as a location. As the altrock.com and independent film generation emerged, scriptwriters such as Quentin Tarintino would hole up in one of the multi-colored padded booths, ordering chow from the extensive, newspaper-like menu, to write such epics as Pulp Fiction. Controversy can still surround the place, as when Drew Carey formed a public protest in 1999 against California's smoking ban by inviting press and television cameras to the bar at Barney's Beanery, to watch him and his pals light up a few cigarettes.”

ItÂ’s one a the few places I sorely miss since I moved from L.A.. One of those places you could go hungover and dressed like a hobo and nobody cares. A place where could see almost anybody from the movie business with no one asking for autographs. A place where you were almost guaranteed to a couple of weirdoes talking to a guy in a business suit. I love that place.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:50 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 425 words, total size 2 kb.

So there I am, sitting head to head with the steadiest hand north of Reykjavik. I'm a little nervous becuase this guy's known world 'round. And I'm a lot nervous because I've got the small stack in a head to head game. Not good. But I can see his tells; the long-john wearing freak. Every time he bluffs he pulls at his stupid white beard. The only thing is, every time I get a good hand he backs out.

I'll have you know, I'm seasoned. I play poker like I'm sleeping off a hangover; so I find it hard to believe that this fat red bitch, for all his jolly grandeur, can possibly be reading me. I mean, we're talking about a fucking slob who probably works a day a year; and is, as we speak, drunker than shit. Fucking slurping at the tit of welfare.

I just can't figure it out. How is this sloppily drunk a-hole figuring out my bluffs? I mean, we're playing in his damn barn for chrissakes! His wife has been asleep for three hours, and the only witnesses to this embarassing asswhooping are a few bales of hay and a bunch of fucking rei-

Reindeer.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. And that red-nosed henchman of his, Rudy, is standing right behind me. These bastards were working the whole damn night! I'm pissed now, but every good player knows you never let 'em know you've got their tell.

I decide to play the next hand blind; because I'll be goddamned if they're gonna hem me up again with this crappy road game they've got going. Old Man Christmas doubles the ante after I check. I can see in his eyes that Rudolph ain't giving him shit. Which is good. I lay my face down on the table and peek at my cards. Flop aces.

I call, knowing Rudy ain't seeing shit of my hand, but also knowing he's the kind of lackey that fears his boss enough to act like he's in the know. Father Christmas calls me all in. I pause, make a fake look at the cards, fiddle with some chips. And that's when I set the hook: I beg him to throw me a house line to cover his bet, and I'll call him all in; the Great White North motherfuck!

He glances at his elf, then looks at me. 'Cept I know he ain't looking at me, because he's looking behind me to see what kinda nod Rudy's gonna give him about my hand. Like I said, that antler-festooned freak didn't see shit about my cards, but he sure doesn't want to fire up the bossman. Santa allows the house line and I pull him in. The community drops.

9.

Ace.

Jack.

I give a forlorn look and Santa grins behind his beard menacingly. My betting betrays the pocket pair, and my current look fools that fat Norweigan bastard into thinking I've lost it all to possible pair of Jacks. What he doesn't know won't - oh wait, yeah. He's all in. Maybe I will give him a sting; except I've nothing else to bet.

Mmm...maybe I do.

"So, you fat red bastard. I'm throwing in that prized red-nosed reindeer of yours."
"HA! But it's mine, you fool!"
"Yeah, but you two've been playing a road game on me all night. And probably been doing the same to others for countless years. He's mine to bet, or I spill the beans and every bankroller from here to Key West is going to be looking for your fat sleigh-riding ass."
Shock. Timidty. Silence. Rudy finally saunters from behind me for the first time all night. Santa's been called out to the front yard and he's got no cover.
"Fine," he says. "Lay it down. Your flop pair was worthless from the start."
Rudy snorts and sits in the hay, as the dealer drops the last two cards.

Jack. My heart throbs. I'm in it now if that sorry nothern fuck has one.

Ace. My heart stops. I know I've won but I continue to stare at the Jack in disbelief.

"HO, HO!" howls the nordic fucker. "You couldn't cover my three of a kind; you little punk!" He's pactically hopping, the big bastard. I just keep staring. I'm actually relishing his foolish posture. Then he leans into my face.
"Well, how does it feel; ye spunky rapscallion?" and laughs.
Personally, I hate it when he talks like that. Like being older than god's shit gives somebody the right to speak like some kind of fucking Hollywood pirate.

"I tell ya, it doesn't make me feel to bad," I say as I flip over my pocket rockets; "You fucking artic prick. Now I'm taking this measly pot home, and you're prized reindeer. Merry Fucking Christmas, eh? I hope that crapbox of yours has foglights, because I think it might be time for a good old fashioned reindeer roast. Oh, and might I get some lessons on driving this red-nosed freak back to my place? I'd hate to damage the goods before I had time to tender them up."

Yeah, and that's the story of the time I sat with the best and walked away. Hey, that bitch had it comin' to him a long time. Cocky fucker.

Posted by: shank at 10:03 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I'm sorta the king of snap judgments. When I know what I want, I don't want to have to wait for it, or beat around the bush, or be strung along like some fucking halfwitted dunce. Cut the shit, because if this line of shit is your way of telling me my offer isn't acceptable, then counter-offer and let's finish this up.

Like car shopping. I do a lot of preliminary independant research before I go car shopping; so you can beat your bottom dollar I know everything about the car before I ever even show up at the dealership. But car salesmen are the fucking worst people to deal with. Most car salesmen don't know shit except the rules of Frustrating Negotiation. Chances are, the salesman you're talking to has been selling cars for years at all kinds of different dealerships; so when you ask him a question (Is this a totally new model, or was it sold in overseas markets before it came to the US? Does it share a platform with any other model?) he's probably going to be clueless. These people have effectively masterd the art of generalization. I don't even bother talking to them unless I'm buying a used vehicle. When I want something new, I bring in my trade and a couple grand and get the hell out. Oh, but shank, what about incentives? Dude, those are predetermined and they're going to give you every single one you qualify for. Of course, to do that, you'd have to be a senior citizen who's a retired military vet and a teacher with Farmer's Insurance. But most of the time they'll offer about 3 grand in dealer incentives off the price of a car with a 27K or more sticker price. I'm telling you, talking to these people is like talking to Mickey Mouse - they just smile and shake their heads.

My big brother, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He's got the persistence of a Bangkok watch salesman and the calm perseverance of a kindegarten teacher. I went shopping for trucks with the guy once (on a whim mind you, he wasn't even seriously considering a purchase) for four fucking hours. Four hours! Towards the end I became hungry, which meant I was a scowling little bitch. Our search for the right truck with the right motor and transmission and the right kind of seats and the right kind of bed spanned probably 70-80 miles of driving, three dealerships, and what must have been a parade of these asshole salesmen. One of them was so shitty, we ended up using the damn sales manager as a go between.

Of course, being a snap judger means sometimes I have to acknowledge that I made a mistake, or that I jumped too soon. But that's okay with me, because I figure that's good for a person - gives them a sense of humility. Which a guy like me really needs sometimes since I'm always so goddamn right about everything.

Posted by: shank at 03:34 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Yesterday afternoon I was flipping through the channel guide on TV and as I was scrolling down I something caught my eye. CSPAN 2, otherwise known as the Ambien channel, was showing coverage of the fucking Daily Kos convention.

Now I don’t read that shit, nor do I read other political blogs because life is too short and the assholery that goes along with it insults my intelligence. But I couldn’t resist. I had to take a look at this. When I tuned in there was a panel of assholes and some tenured prick was droning on about something, I have no idea what. Then they panned to the audience—Holy Mother of God.

I’ve never met another blogger in real life, but if that’s what bloggers look like I hope I never do. Half of them looked like the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons and the other half looked like leftovers from a Star Trek convention. I’ve never seen so many freaks outside of a circus tent. A couple of them got up to ask insightful questions like, “I don’t think it’s possible, but can you help me hate Bush even more than I already do? Because it’s the focus of my life and I put that before my children.” I couldn’t believe the shit was on CSPAN.

Anyway IÂ’m getting away from what these people looked like, which is the point of this post. I hate to be shallow, but if you look like those people I donÂ’t fucking want you here. For all I know it might rub off like those people who look like their dogs.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:06 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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You have no idea how tiresome this has become. Note to self—no more extended blogging commitments.

LetÂ’s start with a question this week. Why are so many people hostile towards the arts?

HereÂ’s a good example:

Back in high school I had a part time job working for some rich people. The old man was okay but his wife thought she was the fucking Duchess of York. They were fairly new in town and it was a very affluent area. I was probably the poorest person living there. Anyway, this old broad desperately tried to ingratiate herself into the well-established circles of society and they were having none of it.

She acted as though she were a great patron of the arts and an expert in all things cultural. The problem was she was a fraud, and feigned knowledge is always exposed over time. They were nuevo riche and personally I see nothing wrong with that. As they say, itÂ’s riche part that really matters. Yet she felt it necessary to give the impression that she was from a family of distinction or some shit. Now, if you havenÂ’t been to finishing school, have little education and no social contacts itÂ’s extremely difficult to buy your way into society. A lot of wealthy people are bored shitless and like nothing better than asking leading questions about your family and education and thereÂ’s no way you have the right answers. TheyÂ’ve seen it all before.

Meanwhile, I was working for these people and the frumpy bitch thought she’d try to educate me. It was a painful experience. She’d put on NPR and they’d be playing Vivaldi and she’d say, “You should listen to this! Do you know what this is?” and before I could answer she’d say, “That’s Mozart, one of the greatest composers that has ever lived!” As you can imagine it was a painful experience, but the old man wasn’t cheap so I persevered. I always thought a proper horse fucking would have set her straight, but I wasn’t about to suggest it.

That horrible woman would have turned me against anything remotely cultural had I not had more pleasant experiences prior to our meeting. I think that when most people think of the arts the image of this woman or one like her come to mind because it’s become a cliché.

Most people who pursue the arts aren’t rich. They don’t travel in social circuits and they don’t go around talking about it all day. I know a lot of beer swilling, farting, regular guys who like classical music. Well, maybe not a lot, buy several. Same with painting. Not everyone who can appreciate the impressionists, or are painters themselves act like assholes. They don’t all hang around art galleries. I know a guy who paints. He’s good, and if he would have put some effort into it he probably could have become a big deal. He’s also a collector, though he’s not rich and his “collection” is insignificant to all but himself. He doesn’t sit around eating fucking canapés, either. He plays poker with us once a month and he’s a Dorito eating, gin drinking slob. He also likes opera and his house is littered with old Penthouse magazines.

I think IÂ’ve made my point.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:47 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I'm not sure how many of you caught Dan Simmons' post last April. I found it to be a particularly riveting peice of short fiction; and it seemed to get visceral responses from many people.

So I guess I wasn't surprised after all the blog hubub that he came back this month with a decidedly non-fiction peice that revists many of the ideas and supporting thought that went into Dan's original story. I found it to be at least as equally riveting as the first.

Considering the commotion the first peice caused, and Dan's thorough rebuttal; I highly recommend them both. The pretty much refute for me any moral equivalency arguments against the war; but also clarify what kind of enemy we're at war with, exaclty; as well as how we should approach such transformational faiths and ideologies that threaten society by seeing other human beings as means to their ends rather than as ends in themselves. As Dan would say.

I'm telling you, it's a real eye opener; and you'd be doing yourself a disservice by not giving it some time.

Posted by: shank at 03:07 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 186 words, total size 1 kb.

Someone keeps searching this site for the words “throat yogurt.” Another big search here seems to be “urination stories”.

I guess we all have to make decisions about what to do with our spare time on the Internet.

I can just picture these people too, sitting in some mold infested, filthy apartment with Jerry Springer on in the background.

Or a balding guy in a suit overlooking central park, typing away at Google, searching for the mother load. He probably had a sandwich for lunch. IÂ’m thinking pastrami on a rye, brown mustard, a fountain drink with too much ice. HasnÂ’t bought his own underwear since college. His wife, who settled, probably still buys three packs of Hanes when theyÂ’re on sale. What a fucking momo.

My imagination is really too active for my own good.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:37 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Happy with it?

IÂ’m a big believer in the fact that we control our own destiny. Cause and effect. If you drink too much, youÂ’ll get drunk. Run in into traffic, get hit by a car. Yet every day IÂ’m amazed at people when they declare they donÂ’t know why XYZ happened to them.

I fucking know why—you need to pay your bills before you start boozing it up or flying to Jamaica on a credit card. I know I’ve said this before, but if you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you really can’t afford it 19%. It’s almost like going to a shy for the money.

However I’m no longer stunned when I hear people say, “It must have been God’s will.” I’m not a believer, but many people are. I’m genuinely happy for them because psychologically it’s probably very healthy in the right doses. Yet some people use God as an excuse. They fuck something up, either through stupidity, laziness or otherwise through their own volition and then they tell you it was God’s will.

Some of these people are assholes; some of them are not. A lot of folks are just plain stupid, regardless of religion or lack of it and we shouldnÂ’t confuse the two. Some truly believe that God has laid out a plan for their life, right up to what theyÂ’re having for dinner every night. They are having meatloaf tonight because God has willed it. Pee on the toilet seat? No need to clean that up, thatÂ’s GodÂ’s will.

Before that vein in your neck bursts let me say that IÂ’m not anti religion. I grew up going to church and so did almost everyone else I know and nobody was leaving pee droplets on the toilet seat. Normal, intelligent people. Using God as an excuse would never occur to them. I was never really into it personally. My family faked it pretty good except for the old man, who refused to go to church. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen they felt like they did their best and finally relaxed and said fuck it, the jig is up.

I have a lot of respect for religious folks so long as they arenÂ’t selling or telling me how I should live my life. IÂ’m glad they found something, because a lot of people are looking and the alternatives are sometimes scarier than we like to think.

Some people believe in both God and luck. Somehow I canÂ’t reconcile that one. Some people pick and choose which aspects of a religion appeal to them and ignore others. Some people are only religious when itÂ’s convenient for them. And some people are genuinely pious, humble folks. I donÂ’t wish to offend the latter.

This post was inspired by an incident this morning where a guy told me it was GodÂ’s will that something work-based happened, which has pushed me over the edge.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:42 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 499 words, total size 3 kb.

I knew it was going to be trouble the day before. Somebody in my neighborhood was lighting fireworks. No big deal, right? Except it was almost one in the morning and the shit was loud. My kid was sick and every time she fell asleep…”Kaboom!”

Finally I had enough. I got out of bed in a fit of rage and started pulling on clothes.

“What are you doing?” my wife said.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing.”

She intervened and there was a brief but tense altercation before I acquiesced and got back in bed, under the condition of if I hear one more, and I mean one more, nobodyÂ’s going to stop me.

Thankfully it was quiet after that.

On the actual 4th of July I expected all hell to break to break loose with fireworks so IÂ’m not too unhappy when the entire neighborhood starts shooting shit off around seven in the evening. By eight oÂ’clock it was intense. I was trying to watch Platoon and I swear the sound from outside was louder than my home theater system.

Still, it was no big deal. ItÂ’s the 4th and everything so who am I to complain.

10:00 PM: It now sounds as though my house is under siege. I was getting jumpy. I had looked around outside to see if they were good fireworks or just noisemakers and I couldnÂ’t see anything, but they sounded close.

10:30 PM: My discerning ear tells me that someone a few houses down has gotten hold of at least a few hundred dollars worth of M-80s. They were tossing them into the street one at a time, nonstop. I start to ponder how bad it would be if I lived in a shitty neighborhood. I canÂ’t imagine.

10:45 PM: The barrage of shells going off from every quadrant is astounding. I canÂ’t fully describe the sound. This shit is LOUD and IÂ’m experienced in fireworks. I canÂ’t imagine what theyÂ’ve gotten their hands on. Fearing my perimeter has been breached I go outside for a look. I canÂ’t see who is lighting shit off, but itÂ’s coming from every direction. There were so many rounds going off at once, and for such a long duration, that I cannot fathom the thousands of dollars spent. It sounded as if twenty families had each spent a weekÂ’s paycheck on fireworks and decided to shoot them off simultaneously, with no breaks whatsoever, for as long as they would last.

11:00 PM: If anything itÂ’s intensifying. IÂ’m praying the kid doesnÂ’t wake up and start coughing again. I put my shoes on go outside for a look and my wife gets that look on her face.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to make sure I know who is doing it.”

“Why?”

“Retribution. Not anytime soon, but I’m gonna be egging some houses in the future.”

12:30 PM: IÂ’m in bed reading a book, as is the wife. All is quiet except for one asshole. Every once in a while he lights an M-80. Kaboom! I look over at the wife.

“You realize what this is, don’t you?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Karma. Do you know how many times you’ve been on the other end of this? And the worst part is I’m always included in your karmak paybacks…by proximity.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:10 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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This is a prime example of why I hate people. Whenever I try to help someone it turns out exactly like this.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:28 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Happy birthday America!

I hope you're all out there on the beach or barbecuing or shooting off those illegal fireworks. I love this country, and my family's shed blood on this land to ensure that it was not only ours, but free. As much as some of the people who live here annoy me, I wouldn't ever let my homeland leave my heart.

Further, to read words in this regard makes me want to dig out my grandfather's old hunting boots and go stomping a mudhole in someone's ass. Some people take everything for granted; to such an insane extent that as they curse their own nation, they don't realize that the great thing about their nation is that they're allowed to curse it in public.

To those little twats, I say: Pack your crap up and move. If you want to dish the poop out on my country on a day like today (or any damn day for that matter); then take your ass somewhere else that you think is better. Not only will you never find such a place; but when you come back, we all get to rochambeau you. Hey, them's the rules.

BRB, I gotta go 'slpode some stuff.

Posted by: shank at 05:52 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I got an emailed question regarding food in bars. Oh man, this is a tough one, because it's highly subject to some very nebulous criteria. Firstly, when I go to a bar I'm not chasing down a meal. The bar at Outback Steakhouse is not a real bar - it's a way for them to cram more people into their restraunt. Bar food is limited to something one can eat while in a bar - a bar being a place where people converse, shoot pool, play darts, watch TV, or punch each other in the nuts. My bar doesn't have a menu; they've got potato chips and pork rinds, slim jims, hot pockets, and microwaveable corn dogs. It's a bar people, let's remember that. I wouldn't be averse to a plate of cheese fries or maybe some quesadillas; but here we skirt the line. A bar shouldn't offer a whole host of finger foods, prepared side items, and salads. I'm sorry, that's just not what bars do. Bars serve drinks, good times, and that's it.

Off the topic of 'good' bars, Paul hit on something that I'm a strict believer in. A bar, for me, has to have a story. As commercial as Sloppy Joes has become, I'll always spend at least one night there every time I'm in Key West because I like the history. And dive bars go a long way with a guy like me. The Wife and I had our late-night after party at a local beach dive that most people don't even know exists. The best part is they've built a refrigerated big-rig trailer into the bar itself that acts as the beer room. You walk in, pick a beer from easily 150 bottled brews (domestic, international, micro, etc) and bring it to the bartender. The place is decorated with swap meet furniture, 4x6 prints of past summer parties, and items from ships that sunk off the Cape Fear river in the last hundred years or so. The floor, where there is one, is brick laid right down on the sandy ground. There's a backyard with a big steeldrum barbecue and what must be the world's largest black lab.

These are just my opinions of what a good bar is, and many times I'm in different types of bars; as Paul mentioned he does. Understand here that a good bar isn't defined by myself, but by the people who make it their joint and how well you gel with those people. I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you think either of us are wrong on what a 'good bar' consists of; that's okay.

Even though you wear a striped shirt and your favorite drink is a jello shot. You toolbag.

Posted by: shank at 03:00 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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See ShankÂ’s post below for the background.

I enjoy different kinds of bars depending on my mood.

Category I

Dive bars. These are places where derelicts abound and anything can happen. I donÂ’t frequent these types of establishments any longer, but when I lived in Los Angeles at least once a month a group of us would drive around and have a drink at maybe six or seven great dives. There was mystery involved and a tolerable degree of danger. In LA a lot of the dives used to be decent places, a lot of them famous at one time or another. Seedy can be fun.

Category II

The standard tavern. I tend to lean towards the standard tavern as my personal favorite. I donÂ’t want fancy decorations and spinning lights. I want a dark cave with semi-articulate banter and frequent buy-backs from the staff. I donÂ’t want to see people drinking fucking umbrella drinks in my tavern.

Category III

I like a small jazz club where people sit in on the bandstand and the place is totally absent of “hip, fashion conscious assholes.”

I shall not talk about “meat markets” as they have their place in society. But the absolute worst, and I mean worst possible drinking establishments, are the fucking “Cookie Cutter Bar” chain places. I cannot abide franchised bars, especially as I see them taking over across America.

How people can drink in a place with no soul is beyond me. I like some history in a bar. IÂ’ve had cocktails in the same place where Jim Morrison got clocked on the head with a Jack DanielÂ’s bottle by Janis Joplin. IÂ’ve done shots in the same place Sinatra and Errol Flynn had done the same. IÂ’ve spilled beer in the same places as some of the founding fathers of this country.

It need not even be famous history. It just has to have soul. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Hard Rock Café. I want old beer signs on the wall advertising beer that doesn’t even exist anymore. I want a bartender that buys back after three and doesn’t have to log in with a fucking ID card with the cash register being monitored online from some corporate headquarters in Omaha. If I want food while I’m at a bar, I want the bartender to send a runner to the sandwich place down the street, not read me the fucking specials. There is no mango salsa in a real bar. And it doesn’t hurt if I can get a bet down while I’m there.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:23 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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For many people, surviving a week in this crazy world of ours without a good bar would be impossible. For those of us who know our bars, there is a short list of "Must Have's" that a bar must meet to even be considered. It's an important decision, choosing a bar; because nothing upsets the balance of a soul like suffering through a drink at some shitty bar.

The most overiding component when choosing a bar would have to be the 'people mix'. If you can't feel comfortable with the regulars, then don't even bother; because technically, your aim is to become one of this crew. A good regular always pays their tab, always tips well or better, never breaks the bar rules, and when someone else breaks the rules, will always side with the bartender. Notice, I didn't say a regular couldn't be irritating. Every bar has any number of raging alcoholics who are there every day when they aren't sleeping or working. Every good bar will have two, maybe three, but no more. And it's important to note that these drunks are of the harmless variety. They don't start fist fights, though they need to be quieted; and they mostly just ramble on like crazy people. Bartenders should be friendly, but not falsely so. They should have a good repetoire of dirty jokes, as well as a conversational current events and political affairs acumen. The bartender should be someone who deserves your respect as a peer and a pop-intellectual. Good regulars already know the following unspoken rule, but as an aside; don't hit on the bartender. Her husband is one of the regulars and he finds it somewhat irritating when people hit on his wife, then realizing her husband is sitting right next to them, proceed to tell him how lucky he is and how he should treat her well. That shit is lame. Is that supposed to be some kind of sage advice or something? Most importantly, a good 'people mix' can pretty much outweigh any of the following concerns; and should always be the key factor in picking your bar.

A good bar will always have gaming tables. Be it billiards, darts, cards, fooseball, or arcade machines; they must be there. I prefer shooting pool, so my small bar has about 8 regultion nine-footers; but they also have fooseball (an odd game that I've never really understood), pinball, darts, and arcade bowling. Take it upon yourself to loosely pick up at least one of the available leisure activities and become relatively competent. You don't need to be a champ or anything, but competency will help group cohesiveness. The quality of the gaming equipment shouldn't be shabby, but expect some wear and tear.

There should be at least three TV's within view no matter where you're standing in the bar; and a decent jukebox should be available. I'm not a serious sports fan, but I do love watching a good game with friends. Sports can drive a lot of conversation, and if you really get into watching the home team or a championship series; it can be lots of fun and excitement. Hell, sometimes at the bar we'll watch 'Family Guy'; and there's a group of guys who come to watch 'Battlestar Galactica' together. I've never seen that show, but that's probably because I'm too busy getting laid, something that I would assume rarely happens to 'Battlestar Galactica' fans, Trekkies, and that guy who played Bilbo Baggins in 'Lord of the Rings'("RU-dee RU-dee!"). As far as jukeboxes go, modern advances have made them quite satisfactory. Gone are the days of lame, outdated records stuck in rotation. Modern jukeboxes are patched into a network, and instead of playing records or disks, hold the music in mp3 files. The jukebox itself will provide a standard bank of about 50-100 albums that change frequently via the network depending on parameters set by the bar ownership. An added benefit of the network is that it allows listeners to download selections not in the standard rotation at a somewhat higher price. These downloadable titles include just about everything ever made; including the little known fusion version of "My Favorite Things" that Coltrane did. No, not the one you've probably heard, there's another one. I call it heroin jazz, because that's what happens when you mix heroin and jazz. Try not to get the two confused, because if you do; you'll inadvertantly subject yourself to 25 minutes of sonic hell. Damn you Coltrane!

I tend to prefer more intimate, less 'clubby' settings, so as far as size is concerned I try to stick to a place with a maximum capactiy of 100-150 persons. Check the fire marshall's certificate hanging on the wall to get an idea of how crowded it gets in a bar on busy nights. Also, I tend to go for less mainstream places - I don't want to have to wait in line to get into my bar, and I sure as hell won't pay a cover charge to hang out with my friends. Granted, the downside to these type of places is that there's not ever any live music; but that doesn't bother me too much.

A good bar will have a decent to excellent selection of beverages and mixers. For Pete's sake, if you don't care about selection just hit the grocery store for some Bud Light. Personally, I'm not big on beer from a tap versus beer from a bottle. Sometimes keg beer is mixed improperly in the lines and comes out tasting like it's been cold filtered through a goat's asshole; whereas bottled beer is fairly consistent. However, I'm not stuck on one or the other; especially depending on the brew being served. Also, a good bar will consider recommendations by regulars on future products; so if you settle into a bar that doesn't carry what you like, mention it politely a month or so down the road.

Lastly, as a little peice of info, don't be afraid of a nominal yearly membership fee. I'll explain how this works. You walk into the bar and the bartender will ask if you're a member. You're not, so you can either pay the nominal yearly fee (say three bucks) or one of the members can sign you in under their name. If you're a cheapskate and an ass, you'll probably balk at having to pay a fee; followed by some obnoxious remark, probably create a small scene, and leave. At which point the patrons would raise their glasses to each other and toast to Good Riddance. If you're not a cheapskate or an ass, and someone in the bar can tell it by looking at you; they'll sign you in under their name and you're in for the night. If you're not a cheapskate or and ass and no one knows that yet, you'll probably say to yourself "Damn, it's only three bucks." In which case you'd pay the fee, and ask the bartender what's with the silly three bucks. The reason bars do this, your new bartender will explain, is that in some states bars must serve a certain percent of sales in food. However, by charging a yearly fee the bar becomes a 'Members Only' institution; and these organizations don't have to sell a certain percent of sales in food. Moreover, notice the interesting dynamic of clientele control and asshole screening that a membership fee puts in the hands of the bartender and the regulars. If some scuzzy looking bum comes in, no one will sign him in. It also allows the bartender to 'bar' patrons who break the rules from ever returning to the bar. The whole thing creates a dynamic where the regulars and the bartenders kind of police each other. Don't explain it to everyone though, because then we'll never know who the cheapskates and asses are until they're already members. And then we'll just have to bar them.

If you have any questions or comments, or feel I've been to ambiguous in explaining things; please feel free to post them below or email them to me. I'll be happy to address them, as I take this kind of thing very seriously.

Posted by: shank at 01:17 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Much to the dismay of my wife, I have recently come into a family heirloom. ItÂ’s an oil painting of me done when I was about ten years old. It was painted by an artist of some note and itÂ’s top quality work.

In the painting I look quite handsome and athletic. Once when I was in high school some friends came over and saw it hanging over the fireplace. One of them, a guy with a large bag of weed in his sock, stepped closer and studied it for a while before stating, “You know, it looks like you could have turned out to be a real asshole.” It was a memorable moment in my life.

This particular painting has been the cause of much controversy since itÂ’s first showing. My sister was not a big fan of it.

“Why the hell is his picture on the goddamned mantle?”

Good question actually. I was certainly not the favored child in my opinion, but who knows. I guess it is pretty obnoxious to hang an oil painting of one of your children in a prominent place while the other looks on.

Now the picture is in my possession and causing problems again. This time with my wife.

“So now we’re going to start hanging large pictures of ourselves?” she said, clearly appalled.

“It’s not a snapshot from Six Flags, it’s a fucking portrait in oil!”

“What difference does it make? You can’t hang portraits of yourself in your own house!”

“I rather like it and I can’t see stuffing the only real piece of art we have into a closet.”

“The only real piece of art we have? What about—“

“The only real oil painting we have.”

She stared at me for a long time before laughing quietly and dismissing me with her hand. Her show was back from commercial.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:51 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I canÂ’t fully explain my hatred for them. I canÂ’t complain about the way they maintain their house or their landscaping, itÂ’s almost perfect. They donÂ’t have parties, theyÂ’re not too noisy and they pressure clean the sidewalks. But they are indeed strange people.

IÂ’ve been in this house about five years now and up until last month weÂ’ve never really spoken. Almost every time IÂ’m coming or going I see one of them skulking over there. I always wave and smile, just in case, because thatÂ’s the kind of guy I am. If they happen to glance up they will return a wave but you can tell itÂ’s taxing them. Some people just donÂ’t exude warmth.

IÂ’ve always suspected theyÂ’re up to no good. For one thing theyÂ’re always pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of theyÂ’re house on the phone. ItÂ’s not a cell phone either; itÂ’s just the cordless phone from the house. And though IÂ’ve heard them speak English they also mumble in a tongue that I canÂ’t identify, though I suspect itÂ’s Greek.

In the last week I noticed an addition to the family. An old man in a wife-beater that sits in a lawn chair out front all day. ItÂ’s very classy. Of course thereÂ’s nothing anyone can do about it. ThereÂ’s no bi-law in the HOA rules that says an old man canÂ’t sit out front in his undershirt all day like a fucking Turkish coppersmith or something. And now that the long summer evenings have arrived the new ritual is for the whole clan to bring their lawn chairs out back every night, face them towards my house, and watch me barbeque. They simply stare at me. The first time I go out there IÂ’ll give a quick wave and one of them will return it, but thatÂ’s the extent of our communication. I canÂ’t begin to tell you how uncomfortable it is.

One night about two years ago I overheard an argument while I was taking out the trash. It was one of the few times I actually heard anything from that direction. It was the younger one and he seemed to be dressing down the rest of them. The one clear statement I heard, repeated twice, was, “That’s worshipping false idols!” He was screaming it at the top of his voice.

On that note I retreated to the relative safety of my couch and wondered if I should fire a couple of warning shots through their front bay window. Kind of a preemptive strike on whatever brand of insanity may have brewing been over there. My wife reasoned against it as sheÂ’s wont to do on those infrequent occasions when I become agitated.

Since then I have suspected they are some type of Christian crazies. Whenever I hear a family argument about “worshipping false idols” I suspect the worst. One of them probably bought a garden gnome or something and it set off the crazy factor.

I remain vigilant.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:19 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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