My gay, homewrecking SIM

My Sim found out she was gay when she was trying to piss off a girl named Kia by kissing her while surrounded by visible green stink clouds. Since that life changing moment, a lot more has progressed.

It was the Sim weekend, and I had only $85 dollars to my name because I'd quit my job, bought a new couch and accidentally burned a bunch of ham and eggs. Basically, all I could do was spend my time making out with people and trying to "woo hoo," because that was free. I was looking through my Sim's contacts and I noticed she had a budding romance with Jill. I called up Jill and invited her over. We watched TV together and made out a lot, but then she started to get crabby. Her husband, Jack, is down lately and she wanted me to make him laugh. Why on earth her solution to her husband's depression was getting her lesbian affair girlfriend to tell him a joke, I don't know. Or maybe Jill wanted us all to have a three-way from the get go and Jack's depression was due to a lack of sexual adventure in their hum-drum marriage. But I decided I would help her out and see if I could break up their marriage along the way. I decided to forgive them for taking advantage of me in this vulnerable moment of just finding out I was gay/having problems with body odor.

So I walked over there and I had Jack hooting and hollering with all my jokes/flirty jokes/faces made, and then Jill got home and saw me there and looked crabby. I was just about to explain to her that I'd made Jack laugh so we could start our three-way/their divorce but then my game shut off and I didn't save my project.
What a great game.

Return of the Mad Dogs

Listen closely, children, and I'll tell you a tale. Once upon a time there were two nefarious souls, psuedo-glitterati hellbent on taking over the world by tyrannical, jewel-encrusted force and subjecting the masses to their sinister chicdom. The lunar calendar was in the proper cycle; cats began walking on their hind legs and wearing top hats; horses began going insane and galloping off cliffs to their doom. The diabolical plans of this dastardly duo, better known as the singular entity Kohn Sandvig, nearly came to fruition. The seven Ferragamo demons came on their seven gangrenous swans, carrying the severed head of Marc Jacobs and the freshly unearthed remains of Guccio Gucci to be used as a sacrifice toward Kohn Sandvig's success. All seemed lost.

Then a bright line shown from the East, and a pack of glorious black dogs came sprinting from the ether, their beautiful coats shining like holy fire in the moonlight. The pack of savage beasts ripped through Kohn Sandvig's soldiers, their skinny, cocaine-chic bodies open to attack after Kohn mandated that the infantry's armored uniforms be replaced with low-cut v-neck T's and D&G jeans. The massacre was swift and the black dogs retained the majority of their strength, thirsting for the blood of Kohn Sandvig.

They crossed the threshold of the castle gate, past the walls littered with portraits of Queen Harry, Madame Spears, and Lady Gaga, climbed the innumerable steps to the top of the highest tower and leapt through the door of his/her chamber.

"What is this treachery!" It hissed in a high-pitched squeal.

The mad dogs circled their prey, bearing their yellowed teeth and growling with the timbre of an enraged Michael Madsen or a horny Miss Piggy. Kohn attempted to keep the monsters at bay, throwing NARS lipstick by the fistful and twirling like a drunken sailor on shore leave, but then their came a dancing dip, and Kohn's very being was abruptly ripped in twain. They were undone by their own manicured hand. The one called Kara fell to the floor, her outrageously curled hair softening the blow, while the one known as John, his frilly shirt the thing of a "Seinfeld" episode, clutched his lumbar vertebrae and yelled,

"My back!"

The dogs laughed their grizzled laugh. They licked their chops and prepared for the perfumed feast. But then the one called John had an idea. True, his body was frail and decrepit like an octogenarian, but his wits were sharp like... like a... like an octogenarian with a samurai sword. He reached in a nearby cupboard for a bottle of whisky and hurled it at the pack. Their thirst for the pair's blood was strong, but their love of sweet mother liquor was insatiable; it numbed their better judgment, especially that of the alpha male. They lapped at the drink covering the chamber floor while Kara lifted the skinny man-boy into her arms and carried his weeping mass down the castle steps, out into the street where they escaped in a Buick Century. The dogs, having licked the floors clean of whisky, told a few anecdotes about the last time they were inebriated, smashed some shit up, and ate six whole pizzas before they came back to their senses. Sound reasoing restored, they were disappointed that they hadn't destroyed Kohn once and for all. Still, they had driven the evil being from the castle and that was a small victory. The heroic dogs took their guard at the castle walls, readied themselves for the battle that would one day surely come, and bared their fangs into smiles. There would be another sunrise.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kara and John have begun blogging again. In response, we here at Da Dawg House have decided, nay, we've been forced by the powers that be, and by the moral responsibility that comes with being this awesome, to restart our blog and combat the evils of karajohn.com. The road is long with many a winding turn. But, as we did in the days of yore, we will expel Kohn Sandvig from this land, and milk and honey will rain from the heavens. This we swear.

Stealing March's First Post

So I figured I'd snatch March's first blog post, and seeing as how I have only posted one note so far, it's about time for me to make another.

I had almost planned from the start to make a post dedicated to my most important addiction, which is my addiction to tobacco.

I'll start with an introduction. I've never habitually smoked cigarettes, but I can reasonably say that I've been addicted to nicotine for a while now. I don't recollect the first time I smoked shisha, but I'd venture a guess that it was sometime in my senior year, or possibly freshman year of college.

After I had my initial taste of the delights that hookahs bring, it wasn't long until I had to have one myself. I started off with a minimal setup of a no-name $40 glass based hookah from The Hideaway in Dinkytown. That lasted me quite a few months, primarily smoking Pharaoh's tobacco. One thing you should know about me, though, is that once I delve into something, whether it be keeping aquariums, printmaking, or in this case, owning and enjoying hookahs, I try to learn as much about the subject as possible. Aided by the internet, I have learned a whole lot about hookahs.

I quickly discovered that not only are the brand of coals that you use and the varieties of shisha that you smoke important, but also your hose, and general setup. Due to this discovery, I went out and bought another hookah, dubbed affectionately 'The Amber Spyglass', and purchased a Razan hose. The importance of a quality hose is often overlooked, and it can lead to greater splendor through the smoking of your hookah. Razan hoses are often considered the best hoses around, and retail for about $20-25.

Key points about Razan hoses are as follows:
Washable plastic hose material, comparable to a garden hose, which makes it easy to clean without fear of rusting (non washable hoses are wound with wire which will rust if washed),
Large handle. This is a personal preference, but I feel that it's a worthwhile plus to mention.

Wider hose. This is the kicker of the hose argument, if there is one. Razan hoses are quite a bit wider all along the length of the hose, which makes it easier to draw, and facilitates larger quantities of smoke for those big clouds you often dream of. (Or maybe I'm the only one who dreams about that).

Now, hoses aside, the quality of your hookah is essential for a quality smoke. I currently have a Mya Vortex (retail for about $100, pictured above), which has not let me down as of yet. The biggest benefit of buying a high quality hookah, in my opinion, is how long it lasts. Repeated draws on a hookah lead to water vapor getting in the stem, which often times ends up in corrosion of the threads that screw it into the base. A higher quality hookah will have at least some preventative measures, such as being made of stainless steel, which will prevent this from occurring too quickly, but I don't think any hookah is immune to this.

Aside from the quality of your hookah and hose, the other important things are coals and shisha.
I personally prefer Tangiers shisha. It's an American company (Yeah, America! Right?) that uses all US grown tobacco. They have multiple types of shisha that they sell, Tangiers Premium, Tangiers Lucid, and Tangiers F-Line.
Premium is their standard, and has the most flavors to choose from. It's unwashed tobacco, which makes it different from garden variety head shop brands like Pharaoh's etc. This means that the tobacco has a higher nicotine content, and this is very noticable if you smoke it after only smoking washed tobacco. F-Line is their goofy offshoot line that has caffeine. I've tried this, and I didn't think it was anything to shout about, I didn't really notice anything different. Plus, it's probably just bad news bears for your body, but fuck that anyways. Lastly, the Lucid line is their washed tobacco, and thus has less nicotine content, for those bitches who can't handle a little heat. Overall, I've smoked a lot of brands of shisha, but Tangiers is always my number one when it comes to shisha. If you use natural coals, one bowl of Tangiers can last for 3 hours+ with full flavor.

Now, for coals. I'm pretty lazy, so I just use 3 Kings instant lights, which I consider to be the best of all the instant light coals, in the categories of price, flavor, and time to light. A box of 100 coals sells for about $13.

If you want to be more picky, and smoke the highest quality bowls, you'll go natural coals. The problem with these is that they take several minutes to light while being held over a burner. The ideal situation would be either having a personal burner or a stove near whever you smoke. Benefits from smoking natural coals are that you'll never taste the coal, due to the lack of added chemicals for the 'quick-light' aspect. I'd guess that they are considerably healthier for you, but that may not be true, and also who cares. Brands I've read to be good are Coco Nara and Exotica Japanese coals. Never tried them though, so you'll have to see for yourself.

Well this kind of turned into me basically jerking off Tangiers and Razan hoses for being so great, but rightfully so, because they both kick ass.

I'm not going to go into health issues here, because, to be honest, I don't care.


Keep enjoying tasty shisha, I am.


Forgot, one last thing. Prices listed are based on what I've paid before at www.mnhookah.com Tarik and the rest of the crew are some good guys, and they've got good deals and ship fast.

On the ten-thousandth day of internet, my web-search gave to me: endless, typing drunks!

Please forgive the use of "12 Days of Christmas" for the title. I plan to reference it about ten times in life and then let it go forever.

Anyway, today I was doing a routine Google search of my website (leckybang.com) and I found a couple entries, supposedly "by" Leckybang on a site called Drunksblog.com. Now, I know I haven't ever fathomed such a site, so it couldn't have been moi posting.

My first assumption was that it there was another Lecky Bang out there, some parallel universe quasi me, who was the opposite of me by, um, really liking alcohol. But no. Drunksblog had posted a Twitter I wrote about a drunk person in Josh's house. It is webcrawling for our drunken statements! It is a drunken RSS, I suppose. Anyway, it updates constantly, because the world is drunk.

Here are my recent favorites:
"drunk bitch is finally going to bed"
"half price wine @ crust. Drunk"
"to be drunk by clouds"
poetry.

Shhh, Please Not So Loud: One

I woke up this morning and immediately regretted it. The sun was brighter then usual, too bright and was slowly but surely killing me. My head ached in a way that only happens when you drink a bottle of champagne. I stood up from my bed and had to sit right back down. I was hungover. And for the first time part of me was glad.

Once I was able to get to my feet and withstand the weight of my own body I thought of this blog post and which cure I was going to try. I figured to start this off I would use my standard hangover remedy. I popped the Advil that resides on my nightstand for mornings just like this one and parted my unbearably dry mouth to pour water down. I always expect instant ease and comfort and therefore I am always disappointed. The next step of my cure involves a long shower. I brought my iPod speakers in to the water closet with me and put Rilo Kiley's "The Initial Friend and stayed in the shower until the album was complete, my hands were pruned and I had written most of this post in my head. By now the Advil had kicked in and I was left with only a dull ache in my head.

It's hours later and I can still feel the effects of last night on my body.
The Advil only lessened the pain, the shower, while nice, relaxing and cleansing, really did nothing. This is really no cure for a hang over.

So this concludes the first posting of Shhh, Please Not So Loud, I hope it was enjoyable. Please feel welcome to suggest hangover cures and I will attempt them and report and the success.

Perez + horrible news = surprisingly good revelation

Perez Hilton posts that a plane crashed into a house in New York. Zero commenters cry terrorism. America is officially out of the Bush era.

I want to party with THAT guy

Watch out Steven Colbert, you just got bumped down to second on my party list.

I can't fake that I don't Quake

A recent Quaker promotional display at Target has made me realize how accidentally loyal to Quaker products I am. I've always known that on a given day I eat Quaker Oatmeal for breakfast (Josh can even tell when I do because my hairline, he says, smells like pancakes ... ) but I also regularly snack on those tiny rice cakes dribbled with sugary syrup and those sinisterly addictive potato-chip rivals called Quakes, which come in Cheddar and Ranch flavors. And like anyone who has attended public education, I've come into contact more than I pleased with Quaker granola bars (which are probably at the same time the most lackluster granola bars and the most inevitable granola bars on the planet.)

I don't resent my accidental allegiance to Quaker. They make good treats, those slightly Puritan-esque, Shaker cousins who might have written the song that goes "To turn, turn shall be our delight, 'cuz by turning turning we come round right" (although I think that was written by the Shakers. I prefer to attribute it to the Quakers though, because who would call themselves Shakers?) For the record, I don't agree with their tactic of making the most bland flavor the staple in a variety pack (chocolate chip granola bars are possibly the most boring thing in the free world) but I do agree with their ability to turn some kind of wheat-like flake into a part of my life.

Future Plans

I have been mulling this project over in my head for a rather long time, it was once even proposed to my blog mate Jay as an idea we could share in, however he declined my invitation so I will now embark on this project alone.

I have a rather busy weekend ahead of me, filled with various activities, all of them involve drinking. I will this weekend be searching for the perfect hang-over cure. I have in the past tried many an old wives tales and other borderline voodoo rituals to rid myself of the aftershock of the previous night. I'm not sure which have worked.

So, I will be reporting each morning to mid-afternoon my findings, lets hope my gin addled brain will be capable of handling this.

Thoughts on Paper

I have found through years of speaking to other writers that the habits of a writer can become as important as the time and ideas that go into the story itself.
When in a group of writers there are a few topics that come up in conversation almost routinely. I have been asked by countless peers where do I write? What do I write on? When do I write? All the very basic whats and whens, and yet very seldom does the question of why come up, I assume become they have their own motivations and are aware of the personal nature and almost uniformity of the answer. And because it is polite I give them my answers, even though they change without any rhythm and reason. I have no real ritual or conformity in the basic elements of putting words on paper. Yes I own many different varieties of notebooks, ranging from leather bound journals to smaller mole-skin notebooks that fit very comfortably in my coat pocket. All of these have an equal amount of words etched in their pages and I personally have never found a favorite among them. I think some look more professional then others, and I think some are fit for different types of prose but these thoughts never really inhibit what eventually ends up within the covers. I have in my possession dozens of envelopes, fliers, scraps and bar coasters with ideas, sentences and lines on them. I am sure that if provided with an ample supply of these minor items I would write as much as with any quality of notebook. These details never linger long in my mind. I have met people who insist that they can only work on a yellow legal pad, or those who delight in showing me a very elaborate journal. To these I smile and nod and will usually take out a note pad from an inside pocket and hold it to my heart.
Eventually all these words haste fully written on paper find their way into a Word document and some have started out on a electronic scrap of paper, which I have discovered is some sort of heresy in certain circles.
The where is equally as unimportant to me. When I was younger I felt that where I wrote would influence the kind of writer I would become so I would go out on these lofty walk to various secluded places. These places were always the same in terms of nature, trees, few people, but just enough to notice that I was writing dammit! and was to not be disturbed. These places made little difference in what was finally put down, if anything. It was posturing at its finest, but such was many of my youthful acts, so I hope it can be forgiven, I was a nostalgic youth with a head full of Keats and Byron.
Just now I was in need of fresh air and stepped out on to a smallish roof that hangs from underneath my bedroom window. After carefully sweeping away what can only be called a cigarette graveyard from the recently melted enclave of my roof I brought my current notebook out with my to the roof. I was careful to find a dry place to sit and taking great care (I almost slipped off once this season attempting break off a very large icicle foolishly clad only in a robe in slippers) sat down, lit another cigarette to provide a proper burial for and wrote. It was pleasant and I noted my surrounding were quite nice, the sun was setting and I watched a kitten walk through a few yards, wandering under cars to escape the many puddles that dotted the yards and streets. But this place didn't help my writing any better then the arm chair from which I am writing now.
I guess I was just wondering what others thought on this topic.

I do prefer pens though.

The Internet: The Greatest Thing Ever?

I love the internet more and more every day. When the internet was first invented, I mostly used it to look at Beanie Babies. Now I mostly use it to look at the President's pectorals.

Robo Tunes

There's a series of Youtube videos featuring robots singing popular music? Intrigued? Here's a taste -

This Is Not A Farewell

I have started something new. As of an hour ago I have started my own blog. Now, to quickly put to rest the fears of the readers, this is not an act of aggression towards "Da Dawg House", this will always be my home, I just made a blog to fit more of my needs. This does not mean I will stop writing here, in fact if anything it means you all will have a second place to read something by me.
I'm going to post a link, I hope you enjoy it. Right now I have an introduction and a short story I wrote posted.

http://whenmenworehats.blogspot.com/

Enjoy.

All the U's stoners, oddly going to one formal venue

Yes, of course I am talking about the Tim and Eric Awesome Show tour. It happens in t-minus three hours. All I must do is get through one advertising class and decide whether or not to have a drink first. (My current thought = no. I'd like to remember this event.) Sorry, this was a pointless blog post. But maybe you'll like your life more if you go to Adult Swim's website and watch some full episodes of "Tom Goes to the Mayor."

Everyone needs a bit of Pipe Camp.

Rock?

Anyone know the band The Gaslight Anthem?

Probz, they're on The Current sort of frequently.

Anyway, I just got their record and it's pretty damn badass. Sounds like a punky Springsteen without a hint of irony. Mmmm.



Wiki!

MySpace!

Review!

A Long History, and Introduction

One day, many years ago, I heard the name Tony Libera. It was thrown out casually by a co-writer on this blog, though my at the time drunken stupor doesn't allow me to recollect which, Jay or Andrew, either works. I had, at that time, not been formally introduced to Tony, or Tone the Bone as I sometimes affectionately refer to him as. I did, however, hear many great tales of his valor, among other stories involving various acts and descriptive qualities of greatness.

I don't really recall the exact time, but I'd hazard a guess it was junior year of highschool-ish, that being Fall 2004, Spring 2005. Although that is a fairly large length of time, my dual addiction to both heroin and perscription pain killers leaves me with hardly any chance to remember it vividly. Tony's name was originally thrown out due to his entrance into a relationship with a previously misplaced girlfriend of mine, who's name I will not utter here. What could have easily kindled into a blazing hatred, due to my commonly occurring personality trait of intense bitterness, was inevitably cooled to a calm understanding that this was a man I wouldn't cross in anger.

Now here I think I must say something of importance. I have never met or been introduced to Tony Libera. I have, however stumbled across his path on at least one occasion. The last, and possibly only, recollection I have of seeing Tony is this past summer at Loring Park at the previously mentioned ex-girlfriend's concert. He was looking sprite and healthy, and I assumed he could kill at least a half dozen men in a round nine seconds.

In the end, I would like to make my first post on this prestigious blog a formal introduction between fellow writers. Hey Tony, I'm Ian. Nice to meet you on the internet. I hope this unravels a new beginning to a friendship formed, like many others, through the ultimate transitional friend that is Jay Boller.

Goddamn Rick Warren

Obama's inauguration was largely inspirational.

But, as expected, Rich Warren's presence was an obvious hindrance.

His speech was hardly a speech - it was a prayer.

For the growing number of people who chose not to worship deities, this was uncomfortable, to say the least.

For those who happen to belong to the gay community - roughly 1 in 10 of us - this was downright awful. That's not to say gays are godless, but Warren was adamantly in favor of Prop 10 and harbors many anti-gay beliefs.

Obama said he chose Warren in order to bring ALL Americans together, but Warren's divisive and hateful beliefs do all they can to tear America further apart.

To top his rambling, fat and sweaty prayer off, Warren read us The Lord's prayer. That is to say, The Christian Lord's prayer.

Great day, historic day, one awful choice.

Also, never has karma been more visually evident as was when Cheney's evil ass was forced to wheel itself around.

My New Fighting Technique Is Unstoppable

David Rees' My New Fighting Technique Is Unstoppable was first introduced to me several years ago by my two older brothers. Luckily, when they showed me the book, we were at my cabin on a rainy day so I had little else to do but read through it. At first, my reactions to the clip-art comic book were along the lines of "uh...ok...wtf?", but as I kept reading I started chuckling, then giggling, then laughing pretty hard, until finally I was completely won over and my brothers and I were all struggling for air.

Rees says of his own comic , "It can't really be explained. You either get it or you don't", which is exactly what I have experienced when I try to share it with various people. Half the time the book gets handed back and people shoot me weird looks, or on the flip side I'll give it to a person who must have the same strange brain quirk as me, and they will also be thrown into fits of laughter.

Here is the comic itself, give it a few chances. Let me know your reaction.
http://www.unstoppable.com/comics.html

Seattle Weekly says of My New Fighting Technique Is Unstoppable-
Once in a while, unhinged profanity in the arts can be goddamn fucking beatific--this sentence being an obvious exception. His new minimalist comic collection, My New Fighting Technique Is Unstoppable, places Rees alongside George Carlin, Casino, and South Park in the gutter guffaw pantheon. He employs crude cut-and-paste methods with about 10 different clip-art images of karate figures to tell a breezy, ironic saga of obnoxious temple fighters who, when not relishing "giving motherfuckers a free ride in an ambulance," are uproariously aware of their existential status as static cutouts. ("What the fuck?" one ponders. "I'm stuck in permanent kicking position!")... Ridiculously brilliant and innovative.

Also check out Rees' website : http://www.mnftiu.cc/. Here you can find all of his other comics, such as the famous Get Your War On, and the all too hilarious My New Filling Technique Is Unstoppable.

EVERYONE loves sex

This is strangely quirky, kinky, romantic, and horrifying...

Enjoy!

...but please wait until you finish enjoying those gin & tonics - it may upset some sensitive stomachs.

The Perfect Gin and Tonic: A History

As far as drinks go I have made my choice. It has been etched in stone that Andrew Larson shall as frequently as possible imbibe a gin and tonic.

I've been drinking the tonic portion of the mixture for over half my lifetime, which could be seen as the catalyst for my affection towards the mixed drink. Tonic started as a summer drink, something to cut a place of comfort through the heat. And as my grandparents lawn ceased needing to be cut they continued to offer me my summer time drink of choice, and I continued to accept. And sooner then I realized it I was ordering a glass of tonic at restaurants, in the winter. The bitter taste of tonic grew to be a part of my character and demeanour. My affiliation with the alcoholic portion of my best-loved refreshment came during my middle school career. My fathers co-worker was getting married and I was asked to come and loving social gatherings, especially those involving my fathers co-workers ( I had a fondness for gently ribbing my father in front of his staff, and we had developed a rather good back-and-forth), I accepted. I, of course had a few conditions.

This was the first time in my life where I had started putting forth a great deal of effort into how I looked; my hair and clothes had taken a fore-front were before a baseball cap and a over sized plaid jacket had suited me just fine. Now I had taken to pushing my hair back, which required quite a bit of maintenance, so much so that I carried around a comb and mirror in my pocket to keep my hair in place. And so in preparation for this wedding I wanted a suit. To be slightly more specific I wanted a black suit. Of course my parents saw fit to refuse my pleas for a new suit, something I was sure to out grow with-in the year. And my grandfather gave me a suit of his, not black but navy blue. And convinced I cut a dashing figure we were off to the wedding.

At the wedding I of course ordered my traditional tonic and my father had to explain to his c0-workers why his son was drinking half of a cocktail. And soon I discovered that tonic had it's other purposes. I observed the guests ordering a gin and tonic, it seemed by beloved tonic had a cohort I had been unaware of all these years. And as the wedding goers set down their drinks to dance or mingle I made my way over to their glasses and would from time to time switch my tonic for a gin and tonic. I was in shock. I could taste the tonic yes, but there was a new and charming piny taste accompanying it. My father caught me after my second or third switch and put a quiet stop to the matter. He however explained to me why gin tastes of pine. It was the fact that the gin was distilled from juniper berries. I was surprised at my fathers knowledge of spirits considering the fact that I have never in my life witnessed him drink any alcohol, which of course is another dozen stories. However at this moment it was as if I was struck my a mixture of Dionysus and Cupid.

Now I fear I may have lingered on the history here and I will now move promptly on to the way a perfect Gin and Tonic is made.

• The quality of the gin is important but not essential. I personally use Bombay Sapphire or Tanqueray. However these aren't the most important part, a good gin and tonic is possible with a lesser gin.


• The tonic is very important, I don't think I have ever used anything besides Schweppes.


• A slice of lime is a must. It adds a different sort of bitterness that makes the tonic taste slightly different, which in this case is great. A lemon is acceptable in only dire circumstances, but never have one without the fruit.


• Now as far as portions go depending on the size of the glass I will usually put in around 2 shots of gin. You want to be able to taste the pine in the drink, masking the taste with too much tonic ruins it.


• The lime (or lemon if times are tough) should not only adorn the side of the glass but should be released of it's juice into the glass.


• Ice makes the drink complete, now you don't want to add too much ice like those bartenders would think that ice makes up for the amount of liquid in the glass, 4 cubes should do it, unless it's the summer then any amount is allowed.

I truly do hope that this is was enjoyable and helpful.

And now after all this talk of Gin and Tonics I plan to go make myself one. Yes I know it's 2:00 in the afternoon on a Sunday. Judging isn't part of the perfect gin and tonic.

Cheers!

New Cliches

Take heed all writers everywhere; there is a new cliché. Now, when teenage girls get pregnant and make a teary-eyed, self-deprecating joke about how they're a statistic, it is no longer funny. If every maudlin TV drama has thrown that line at bored viewers eating Cheerios, it is not original anymore.

Don't ever...

Don't ever mix Scotch, Fresca, Grenadine, Collins Mix, and Michelob Golden Light into one super drink.

Just don't.

Jones Street Station

Just a heads up to anyone who is looking for something to do tomorrow night. Jones Street Station is going to be playing at the Nomad on West Bank on Saturday Jan. 17th starting at 10 pm. I have reliable sources who tell me they are better live than they are on their cd (Overcome) which I have been listening to obsessively during the last two weeks (when I was given it as a gift from my brother). I love the story behind the group -- they are all Midwestern guys who are now living in New York City and most of their songs are homages to the fly-over states of their youths. It's lovely.

I don't have much time, so here are some other peoples reviews of their music and a video in which you can hear/see my favorite song of theirs being performed live...

“Listening is like running down a mountain on a switchback trail, the sound of surprise generating its own momentum. There’s a punk glee inside the bluegrass craft–and a punk vehemence inside the bluegrass smile.”– Greil Marcus

“... charming, unusually graceful music” – The New York Times

“...like 1995 Wilco with the sensibility of 2007 Wilco.” – The Onion AV Club, Milwaukee

“They play their catchy originals with virtuosic mandolin jams and honky-tonk piano fillers, and top them with off-kilter, good-time harmonies.” – Time Out New York






(I feel like I need to acknowledge the fact that, as much as I love this band, they don't really belong in a post above the Replacements, and my favorite group - The Hold Steady.)

Impression Time!

Da Dawg House is not the least bit threatened by the fey (not a typo) antics of another vastly inferior blog that will go unmentioned.

We know the degree to which we rock ass, and needless to say, it's off the charts.

But, in an attempt to not seem small and petty, we are prepared to offer (for comedic purposes), blog rendered impressions of the authors of the enemy blog! Huzzuh, indeed.






Kara Nesvig -





Annnnd!





John Sand -

Inter-generational Rocking

So I just started reading "The Replacements: All Over But the Shouting" by Jim Walsh and, I must say, my obsession with said group is reaching new heights.

I was speaking, or "Facebook chatting", I suppose, with Kelly Molloy's older brother and he put into words my adoration for The 'Mats (it happens to be his, too). Essentially, he said that The 'Mats embody the three things he most loves: Rock music, booze and Minneapolis, forming a perfect apex of - well - perfection.

But in all that idolization and worship, it hit me, The Replacements, for as much as I love them, mean so, so, so much more to those who grew up in the 1980's watching and adoring them first hand. But, thankfully, the great town of Minneapolis supplied our generation with our own group that embodies all the above things that made The 'Mats so great. I'm speaking, of course, about The Hold Steady. It comes as no surprise that The Hold Steady's frontman Craig Finn cites The Replacements as his all-time favorite group. It also comes as no surprise that they top my list, too.

Anyway, enough babbling. Here's some rock. And some pics. Which also happen to rock.

The Replacements -







The Hold Steady -

Eating like a poor person in the city when you're really just a poor person in your own apartment

Making food can be hard. Sometimes you end up with onion shells in your freezer and garlic hands. When the burden of having opposable thumbs with which to construct a snack gets too hard, McDonald's is waiting with open arches. But when it's zero degrees and the fridge must provide, you can still eat within 30 seconds of thinking about it, and get all the zing of street vendor class. Just follow this recipe:

Ingredients:
-hot dog
-bread or bun
-ketchup
-hot sauce
-GREEN hot sauce
-banana peppers

Microwave that hot dog and shove the rest in some bread. If you don't already have green hot sauce and banana peppers, you are denying yourself the good things in life.

Where to Find A Vast Sense of Contentment

My father said to me, "Son, if you ever start smoking you only smoke Camels. Unfiltered". I was around ten at the time and never expected to heed my fathers advice, I never planned on smoking. The only smoker I had ever see up close was my mother and she made it look so, so unappealing, like a chore or something that required a great deal of thought.

When I was older still my father handed me his lambskin cigarette case. I never knew why, it was coupled with his warning to never smoke, and of course at that age I had no intentions of doing so. And then things started to slowly become a more grey to me. I truly believe to true turning point was when I seriously started to watch old films. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be Cary Grant and Bogart, and Errol Flynn. I wanted to wear a fedora and long coat and only utter the most profound and careless of lines, I wanted a cigarette. These men knew what life was. It was a drink in one hand a cigarette in the other, or in case of Bogart dangling ever so slightly in the corner of his mouth for hours on end ( a movie I have yet to perfect as well as him), but they knew a secret I didn't. And so I did what any youth who looked so much older then his current age would do: I bought a pack and tried my hand at the art of inhaling. It didn't work. By no means can what I did be considered smoking. And so it came down to me carrying around a pack, only in extreme cases of wanting to look as dashing and mysterious as I could.

So now I sit huddled near my window with a Camel filter (Sorry Pap) dropping ash onto my already ash stained keyboard and new robe, which will soon bear the markings of my nightlife of smoke and ash, still trying to look like my black and white heroes, and think awful lofty thoughts and read here for hours. And it's in these moments in which I am truly content.

Weekly Bests: Sex Talk from a Giant

The winner?

Why it's the massive: Eddy Curry!

Mr. Curry has been accused of making unwarranted sexual advances on his former friend/driver who happens to be white, Jewish and - presumably - not 6-11 and 300 lbs. like "Da Currster"

Anyways, in the midst of this lewd debacle we're also blessed to receive this oratory golden nugget (allegedly) spoken by a rather lusty Eddy Curry -

"Look at me, Dave, look. Come and touch it, Dave."

Hot. Too hot? Possibly. Anyway, for shame on Dave for not succumbing to the painful and hobbling sex he so unprofessionally turned down.



Curry on the sex-attack with someone his own size.

Firsties

Sup dawgs -

So Tony and I were reflecting on how entirely bad-ass we are, and it hit us - we're totally a million times cooler than Kara and John. Coincidently, Kara and John have recently started their own blog. Our mission? Destroy the fuck out of their new baby by sicking our rabid dawg of a beast on it in the form of a vastly superior mega blog. This happens to be it.

That said, enjoy the hardening of your dongs and/or rocking of skulls as you enjoy DA DAWG HOUSE!

In conclusion:

- ARF!

and

- Enjoy this video!