"How 'bout you Sideburns, you want some of this milk?"

I haven't had a haircut in four months. And what does that mean? Well, it means i look like a total Scumbag, that's what. And since at this point in my life i am balding & have more salt than pepper in my hair (actually, i was at that point about five or six years ago), it actually means i look like and old Scumbag.
The bright side of all this, however, is that i've re-grown my kick-ass, mofo, un-bee-leev-a-ball sideburns. In fact, it's again gotten to the point that i'm gonna have to name them. Some of you may remember Higbert and Sir Admiral Irving "Cy" Stark-Kynes, OBE & their subsequent death. And those of you who don't, shame on you.
Anyway, i guess the Easy thing would be to go with Higbert, Jr. & Irving IV. But fuck Easy. I'm calling the left one (no, my left) Ebb Tide & the right one Jack T. Colton. I think this makes perfect sense.

I'm not really sure how this all bodes for my sanity. You can imagine the mindset a person must be in to name their sideburns in the first place. Of course, last year at that time i was drinking. Heavily. Just about every day. You may ask: But you've been relatively sober - how could this happen again? The answer is simple, really. Once you've been to the Circus, there's really no going back...
-cpb 4/22 {link}

New haps over in The Shower. Three new poems (they're the ones on the bottom, in case you can't figure that out). On a scale of One to Gay, i'd say this News rates about a Four.

Anyway, a request to the three or four loyal Experience readers:
I need some feedback on these poems. I think one of them is Good... but i'm not sure if i can trust myself. Shoot me a line at [email protected] & let me know what you think.
-cpb 4/17 {link}

Well, the calendar has turned once more... & what was March is now but a gleam in some apple's eye. Or some such nonsense. The college basketball season is winding down. My fearless predictions are as follow:

Memphis over UCLA & North Carolina over Kansas... then North Carolina over Memphis

Bet on it! Plus, take Ohio State over Massachusetts in the NIT Finals. My picks are never wrong. And by "never", i mean "usually". If you want to know my thoughts on the Women's Final Four... well, there's no symbol on my keyboard for YAWN.
What else? Well, i'll tell ya - PANIC IN TIGER TOWN, PANIC IN TIGER TOWN! The Tiggers are 0-3, but i think people in Detroit need to come down off the ledge... there's a long way to go. Besides, the Pistons are all set to waltz into the Eastern Conference Finals & the Red Wings should wrap up the Presidents' Trophy tonight. The Lions are still the Lions, of course. But fuck them. Fuck them straight in the ear.
I have little else. I did have a fantastic rant on that Lying Thug Screw Mayor of Detroit, but it was needed elsewhere.
Other than that, i've just been lamenting "getting old" lately. I put "getting old" in quotation marks, cos i've felt like an old man for years. But in recent months i've been feeling some sort of odd Creep. I'm not sure what is stalking me, but i sense its motivation is Boredom. Occasionally i think this is due to me being relatively sober... but my Fear is that it is not. We live in Wondrous times... & the New Technology keeps every Perversion, Persuasion & Pox known to man right at our fingertips. Our collective Glory is found only in silence, but the Din helps us sleep. As i told a dear friend recently - Gas is high & Whores are cheap. Living is the only Cure. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride. Selah.
-cpb 4/3 {link}

"To sleep, perchance to dream."
-some faggotty English cunt

The past few months i've been having quite a few vivid dreams that really stick in my head long after i wake up. I rarely remember my dreams, but i will occasionally go through stretches where i remember a lot of dreams... & they tend to be fairly odd. It usually happens when i'm drying out after a months-long bender, so i guess it's not too surprising that it has been happening of late. Anyway, this past Sunday morning, while snoring away in the relative uncomfort of my sister's inflatable mattress, i had quite a doozy...

I dreamed that the three surviving members of TERRY's KID got back together & formed a new band, along with Regina Spektor & some other dude. Andy was still on drums, Keith was playing bass, french horn & the flute (to my knowledge, Keith plays zero flute, not counting skin) & i was still singing & also playing harmonica & jew's harp. Spektor was playing piano & various other instruments as well as singing & the other guy was playing guitar. I have no idea who the guitar player was (maybe it was Ronald Jones)... every time i saw him he appeared as a nameless, faceless black figure.
Spektor & i were dating, although it wasn't really a Paul & Linda deal, cos obviously she's much more talented than i. Andy was dating Nelly Furtado & had his own clothing line. Keith was the Buzz Killington of the group with his wife & three kids. And to top it all off with a little Harrison/Clapton flavor, Joe Rando guitar player was dating my ex-wife. I don't know what the name of the band was, but i can only imagine it to be something like Do Not See Me Rabbit, or Fuck Robert McKee.
We had just finished up a world-wide tour along with The Tragically Hip & Los Lobos, although i'm not sure which of us was the headliner. We were at the last stop on the tour, which was the annual Austin City Limits Music Festival... which for some reason was being held in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil - right under that giant statue of Jesus (bear with the logistical inaccuracies here... it was a dream).
I distinctly remember us playing Claudette Was A Straightedge & Poorman's Passion Play... although i don't know if they were similar to the TERRY's KID versions or not. To close out the set, though, we broke into this crazy version of The Flaming Lips' Slow Nerve Action. The crowd was hysterical & dancing & sweating & gyrating & all of a sudden it was like we were in the middle of the Carnival scene in Black Orpheus. It turned into some transcendental experience where the crowd & band seemed to morph into that One Note thing that Pete Townshend was trying to get across in his Lifehouse Project.
And that's about all i can remember. There was also something about a dog on the tour bus, but i can't really recall what that was all about. And i think Mike Taco made an appearance... although i might have injected that after the fact. It was all very strange, but most of it makes sense when taking into account the music i've been listening to (especially on my drive to Akron on Saturday) & other things that have been on my mind lately. To be honest, i try not to dissect it too much. Sometimes i wish i knew what it was All about... but most of the time i'm glad i don't...
-cpb 3/31 {link}

For some reason, recently i've been thinking quite a bit about stand-up comedians... so i decided to amend & expand the list of my favorite stand-ups. Ta-fucking-da...
-cpb 3/28 {link}

Well, the first day of the NCAA Tourney isn't even over yet & my bracket is already bending over & grabbing its ankles (thank you, B. Early for serving me some UK Kool-Aid). But, so it goes, year after year. As i've said before, i don't really care how good my picks are, i just want to see close games & upsets. Not too many as of yet, but we've still got three more days.

"Goddamn great Deluge in here!"

In the meantime, i'll just continue doing my best to keep my head over water... literally & figuratively. The snow/rain/snow/rain routine has left much of Northwest Ohio soggy at best, underwater at worst. My brain can relate. Escaping Michigan has not brought the Peace i thought it would, but i guess instant gratification is not anything i can expect anymore as i near middle age. But we're working to it, i suppose. The Mind lolls & rolls, & the Beat goes on...
-cpb 3/20 {link}

Ah, March... that magical time o' year.
Since i'm about nine years past giving a shit about my birthday, March means two things to me anymore (well, three if you count HTBSM):
1) The beginning of the baseball season &...
b) March Madness.
I fucking love this 10-day stretch going on right now with the end of the Conference Tournaments & the first two rounds of the NCAA Tourney coming up. I just can't help but walk around with a foot-long boner from Thursday to Sunday as we're pelted with huge upsets, improbably comebacks & various other storylines so sugary sweet ya just can't help getting diabetes.
Baseball starting, of course, isn't much on instant gratification, but i've always loved the purity of Spring Training (& thank you to the New York Yankees & Billy Crystal for trying to ruin that). It's a new season, every team is 0-0 & everyone's got a Shot. Hope springs eternal, indeed...
This year there was a little added bonus in March, as i got to go down to C-bus for the wedding of none other than Mr. Matthew Paul Bierlein. It was good seeing some old friends from high school, but for fuck sake, i hate trying to explain what i'm doing with my life 15 to 20 times in a row. Next time i'm just going to wear a big sign around my neck that says "DEGENERATE" & when anyone asks me how or what i'm doing, i'm going to just point at the sign & walk away. The wedding was great, though. It was a nice, quick service in the church & the reception was excellent.
The reception got me thinking of how crazy white-people weddings are. The thing is, it doesn't matter how they start out, they inevitably deteriorate into pretty much the exact same thing. It doesn't matter if the reception is at the swankiest banquet hall you can imagine or in the back of the local VFW... at some point there are going to be a bunch of white people out on the dance floor making complete fools of themselves awkwardly dancing to songs like Pour Some Sugar On Me & Play That Funky Music. And usually an old person falls down. God bless Whitey...
-cpb 3/17 {link}

A couple new-ish things at The Corner. Old-ish new & just plain new new.
-cpb 2/24 {link}

In a recent missive i sent off to The Banana, i commented on how crazy i thought the phenomenon of old people farting was. They just walk around & fart & just keep on goin' like nothing happened. Like they didn't just shit their pants. Anyway, it got me to thinking about farts in general... & led to this little discourse. These are the things that cross my mind when i'm sitting at home alone & the power goes out. Plus, i figured i had better follow up that abortion crap with something a little more seriouser. So here it is, ladies & germs... my take on farts.
And people wonder why it took me 10 years to graduate from college...
-cpb 2/20 {link}

A new edition to the Random Thoughts page? The Deuce, you say! Well, as Jose Lima would say, "Believe it!"
Just a little Letter To The Editor about dreams & unicorns & puppy dogs & coat hangers.
-cpb 2/16 {link}

THE Experience needs YOU (again)!

A couple months ago, while discussing movies with Andy The Spic, the film The Notebook was brought up. And not by me. After setting down his purse, Andy admitted to me that he cried while watching it, then proceeded to interrupt my explosion of laughter by betting me that i could not watch said movie without crying myself. Fwa! We weren't able to pin anything down that night, however, as we were both pretty drunk by that point & i was distracted with trying to figure out which brand of douche Andy uses. It's Massengill, by the way.
Anyhoo... i had forgotten about it until this past weekend, when the subject was broached once more with The Greasy One still confident that this movie will break me. Unfortunately, we were again unable to come up with a good bet. This time it was hangovers that did us in, compliments of the prior night's festivities. Watching Andy & his girlfriend-ish pick fights with various Randos who happened by and then each other - & the copious amounts of alcohol needed to make this all palatable - had left me feeling like a bear took a huge shit on my brain. Plus, i think Andy was suffering from some sort of hardcore intestinal distress. Whatever it was, we were again unable to decide what the bet should be.

Which is where you - The Public - come in. THE Experience is asking for your help coming up with an acceptable bet. I said that he should buy me a car, but that might be a bit much. What i was thinking would be good is a Kenny Vs. Spenny-type humiliation for the loser. And if you've never watched KvS, then do yourself a favor - watch it, laugh, then thank me in a postcard entitled, "Eat a dick up you Canadian piece of shit!" If anyone out there has a good idea for a humiliation that the loser will be forced to do, send it to us at [email protected]. Your help in this most delicate matter is much appreciated.
-cpb 2/14 {link}

Well, i may have been way off on the score, but i did pick the winner of the Super Bowl correctly. Then again, i never have been much on picking the over/under. Selah. To be honest, i didn't really give a shit who won, i just wanted to see a good game. And that it was. Although, it would have been nice to see New England win, if only to shut that dumb asshole Mercury Morris the hell up. That guy is a Dickhead.
No real great commercials this year, although the Tide "talking stain" & the Bridgestone one with the screaming animals did make me chuckle a bit. Tom Petty was good, as were The Heartbreakers. Woefully out of place, but good none-the-less. I'm not quite sure about the beard, but i guess the guy's earned the right to do whatever the hell he wants. The real question, however, is why the hell do they feel the need to trot someone out there to "sing" the National Anthem when everyone knows they're just lip-synching? If the song is pre-recorded, they should just show a video up on the JumboTron of whoever singing it.
-cpb 2/10 {link}

I'm legally obligated to predict the winner of the Super Bowl. Ta-fucking-da. I've gotten the last three correct, so i feel like getting one wrong. And thus...

New York - 44
New England - 39
-cpb 2/2 {link}

To answer your question... Nothing - that's what. Deal with it.
I have nothing interesting, mostly cos nothing is interesting me lately. As far as Sports go, i did horribly on my Bowl picks, i have not rooting interest in the NFL Playoffs, it's too early in the college basketball season for me to care & the NBA is just pathetic. Politics is making me dumb & numb at different times & sometimes both. The economy is bad. Gas is high. The weather is shitty. Plus i'm broke... mostly cos i haven't been able to turn a trick for about two weeks now. I tell myself it's the snow that keeps the Johns away. I keep a smile on, but truly i'm crying inside. It cuts deep, man.
Anyway, i present another e-mail to Mr. McGee in the stead of anything interesting. Generally the missives i send The Banana's way are better than anything i write for THE Experience, mainly cos he used to scratch my ass-neck with his stubble back when we were both co-eds at EMU... & i've always been grateful for that. This one actually isn't that good, but i'm posting it here anyway, in hopes of angering The Couch enough that he'll come back to work for us. This is doubtful, though. Not as long as there is still pussy to pull in Denver. Selah...


____________________

SPM,
Shane. What is the wird? I'd ask you how your christmas was, but i don't care, cos fuck christmas.
I'm not sure if i mentioned in my last note, but my computer took a shit on me three or four weeks ago. Basically about a week or so after i moved. So here i was, stuck moving back in with my family after about 10 years "on the outside", so to speak, in a place where i have no friends or even acquaintances in a 60 mile radius, a place where i can't act or speak like i normally do, can't drink & act like an idiot, etc., etc. But there's a bright spot! "Well, at least i can maybe get focused on some writing... with few distractions & actually sober for once. At least for a couple months." Then - BOOM! Computer - DEAD! Files lost, nuts kicked, spirit crushed. "Thank you, God, for thinking of me... you ass clown."
Actually, the shit that i lost doesn't even really matter. Some of it i had backed up anyway, some of it i didn't... in the end, it was all crap. The main problem is that i've realized how used to & attached i've grown to the "new technology" (using the term "new" loosely, like i use your mother). When i first started writing cheesy poetry back in high school, it was always with pen & paper. That continued for quite some time... even when i started attempting prose & short stories unsuccessfully. I usually wrote out all my papers at Eastern longhand before typing them up, as well. In the past, maybe, three or four years, however, i've gotten used to "creating" (again, using that term loosely) straight into my computer. Almost as if inseminating a cow.
I didn't realize how used to it i was, though, until my computer died. Writing shit out then typing it (which i have to do at the Public Library... which is a whole other set of volleys & fuck-upents) is for the fucking birds, pecky dum-dum. Plus, for some reason i can't seem to write anything longer than a single page. I just can't bring myself to flip the sheet & start in on a whole new, nice, clean, yellow page. However, the comedy here is that i'm writing this out (or, at least i was... of course now i'm typing it out, but i can't get into this paradox right now cos it might make one of my balls explode, which brings up a whole other story i'm not going to get into either about how, instead of being the stereotypical dude that thinks with his dick, i actually think with my balls... selah) right now & i just had to flip the page after that last "comedy". But those are the sacrifices i make for you, cos i love your pecs.
Anyway, just a Slice... i'm sending this in lieu of anything interesting, cos i have nothing. I think i'm slipping back into Madness. My only hope is that i can survive this little trial long enough to get back on my feet & get a place of my own so that i can kill myself in the privacy of my own home. Get back & let me know how it goes a Mile High. Until then, i remain...
Writing by gas lamp with quill pen
-cpb 1/16 {link}

He painted a black mirror on the wall and stepped inside.
She sat on the windowsill and watched him disappear.
It had started out so nice, so softly. Soft words, soft touches... soft minds. It was a dream and both of them knew it, but neither cared. It rained only on Sundays back then. And the parties and the toasts and the handshakes that lasted a little too long, but no one seemed to care. It was a house and a dog and a fence and it was small and warm. They laughed. They laughed in those days. Hours alone and apart and together and it all blended nicely into dinner time. And the tree and the park and the swing. And the light. The light. The warm summer sun.
Then there was a knock on the door. A messenger, C.O.D. It was for him. It was for her. He thought he could run away, but the faster he ran the sillier he felt. She ran after him and laughed. Dinner was ready and that was it. No more. No more of all of this, any of this. It rained today.
He painted a black mirror on the wall and stepped inside.
She sat on the windowsill and watched him disappear.
-cpb 1/2 {link}

Hap... wha?
-cpb 1/1 {link}