Yale Goes to the Zoo With His Proxy Family
A temporary impecuniousness has brought about a period of uncommon torpor for this worldly word warrior. It's that fucking truck I bought; it's putting the fiduciary screws to me, but hard. And it comes at a bad time too, on account of I'm trying to save up my nickels for a trip to Montana to attend Greg "Twigg" Twigg's wedding come August 11.
No, nobody made me buy the monster truck, but the Jetta was on its last legs. When I pulled up to the dealership, the salesmen were all laughing at the grating sound emanating from the Jetta's rear wheels. Naturally, this puts the consumer in a position analogous to that of a sex slave. I had no metaphorical bargaining chips, so I was happy to get two grand out of the Jetta, which, by the way, was exactly what I paid for it, so whoo-hoo!
Plus, this truck is the nicest vehicle I've ever owned by far, and it's comforting to be relatively sure it's not going to explode on the freeway, as was the case with the Jetta.
Ooo! I just saw my first freeway accident about an hour ago! Well, I see the aftermath of accidents every time I'm on the freeway, but this time I got to see the shit go down. There was kind of a flash flood this afternoon, so I decided to go out driving and see how the monster truck fares in such inclement conditions. It fared well, thank you, but I can't say the same for the person in the Dodge Lancer four or five cars ahead of me on northbound I-25. He hit a huge puddle of water and it thrust his car to the starboard, causing him to overcorrect and plow sidelong into the concrete median. Sparks and shit were flying and I looked up from my steering-wheel hand-drumming exercises to see a barrage of brakelights ahead of me. I thought it curious that not a single person stopped to see if the person was okay, but as I passed him myself, I thought, "fuck man, I ain't stopping!" The guy looked to be okay, so I proceeded along as if I didn't even see it.
But in a more interesting development, the place where I work was having a summer picnic at the Denver Zoo. Usually I streadfastly avoid any work-related extracurricular types of things because a) most of the people with whom I work are not persons I would ordinarily associate with, which causes b) the conversation to invariably be reduced to talking about work, which I think is about the biggest crime you could commit against yourself. I think there is nothing sadder than people getting together outside of work and talking about work. Of course, if someone is real pissed or upset about some occupational matter and wants to go buy me drinks all night and let off steam, fine. Or people I don't work with, well, I love to hear about their jobs. But as a general rule, no mixy worky with leisurey. (It reminds me of this dink that worked at Casa Pablos with me in Missoula. I'd see him at a bar and all he would talk about was that night's burrito output. "Yeah, that sucked when Louie sent back that burrito that wasn't supposed to have onions in it, but you put onions in it anyway. Yeah, that really slowed us down. We were slammed after that...")
So I figured this type of outing wouldn't involve too much co-worker interaction, and I dig zoos anyway. Plus it would be a good chance for me to hang out with my little 2.75-year-old cousin Samantha. I also invited my good friend Tara, so it was kind of like I had a rental family for awhile.
Samantha and Tara were like long-lost friends, which was a relief because Samantha sometimes sort of clams up around strangers. And, as it turned out, Tara, in addition to her exceptionally pleasant company, was an invaluable help because Samantha kept running away, and it really did take two of us to keep track of her. Now I realize why parents put their kids on leashes.
So here are some family-oriented photos. Don't worry, I'll start cussing in a minute. None of the photos of animals turned out on account of they're kind of far away or enclosed in glass.
Tara showed Samantha how to communicate with birds.
This shot just kills me with that look of wonderment on little Samantha's face.
These things freaked me out majorly. They're like half deer, half mouse. Can't remember what their name was.
More of those freaks of nature.
This is Samantha with her new baby brother Austin.
Wouldn't it be cool if 'zoo' was spelled 'xoo' instead? God damn, that would make my life complete.
Later that very night, Scout reported over to my urban yurt for some ramen, beer, and fellowship. We ended up going to the 15th St. Tavern, where I took this shot:
This gentleman from an Atlanta band called Chocolate Kiss played the whole set in his briefs, much to the discomfiture of the audience (of about twelve). But when he suited back up, I noticed he was wearing an X shirt. X is one of my all-time favorite bands, so naturally I struck up a Rock Talk with him. He says that not only is X doing a reunion tour, but Billy Fucking Zoom is playing with them again! Oh my stars and poptarts, that is unbelievable! Because the last I'd heard of Billy Zoom, he'd renounced the rock (including setting his bandmates on fire in Sweden) and become a hardcore Orange County Christian. I use the Orange County qualifier on account of that area is of course thee stronghold for some of the most stodgy, uptight Reagan Republicans/religious fundamentalists in the whole country. Excepting perhaps Appalachia or something.
So you can imagine what a mindblow it is to have William Zoom back on the rock! I wonder if they deprogrammed him or what? In any case, the man lays the fucking diffie down on guitar, and I can't wait to see 'em in Denver on August 27th or so. If by any chance I get to meet him, of course I'm gonna say, "William Zoom, I presume?" Hilarious, I know.
The next day I opened up what passes for the independent newsweekly here and read that the fellow in his briefs is some sort of famous ex-Denver scenester and 'zinester named Bob Rob. Aye!
Scout and I rounded out the evening with some elegant apertifs at the Skylark Lounge, and ended up just taking photos of each other drinking beer. I tell you, this fucking digital camera is the best investment I ever made. As you can plainly see...
Scout drinking beer
Yale drinking beer
Yale drinking beer
Scout drinking beer
That's the shit.
Treasures From the Photo Trove
(it clicks on the small versions to get the large versions)
Any female elves looking for a boyfriend?
This is Hot Charles (formerly "The White Tiger") from the International Playboys. They played here in Denver two weeks ago and I completely forgot to go. I feel like a total fucking stooge for missing them guys here. Sorry, bros! Word on the street has it that my man Shane Graff showed them a good time in Chicago last week though.
This is my friend Nat after the door of a Ryder truck fell on his head. Ewwww!
Interesting Fact of the Week:
Now I don't know whether he was inspired by the Yalestar Hand-Based Text Formatting, but my old friend Rusty Smetanka wrote to me with the following:
I'm fine-tuning an air semicolon to signify that I have not fully articulated my thought, that a related (complete) sentence is to follow, and that the listener should hold his/her horses before interrupting me with a 'Yeah, that's like me, one time I...' "
I was bowled away because, speaking on a personal level, I fucking hate being interrupted almost more than anything in the world. I hate it even more than when convenience store clerks give me back change and the bills don't face the same way. I find that when interrupted, the item that the interrupter deemed so momentous as to warrant interrupting me is typically so unspectacular and uninteresting as to leave me in a state of abject disbelief. Moreover, I find that a stultifying percentage of Americans are either so impatient or so self-obsessed that I can hardly complete a declarative sentence without being interrupted by some lame and long-winded personal anecdote that only marginally relates to the subject at hand. Simply put, most people can't be bothered to resist the urge to talk about themselves constantly. So a gesture like the Air Semicolon is just what the doctor, as they say, ordered.
I say being a good listener is the penultimate (fuck, I hate that word, but what else is there?) quality any American could bring to the table.
Album of the Week:
Run-DMC: Raising Hell
I have a real sore throat today because I spent about three hours last night yelling along to this album in my monster truck. My favorite part is to do only the Run parts on the intro to "Peter Piper," which essentially involves me yelling: "...Piper! Pepper! Rhyme! Dumpty! Down! Time! Nimble! Nimble! Quick! Master! Faster! Jack saw Jay's dick!"
That was so much fun that I think I did it over forty times in a row. I'd really like to show somebody else this unique skill, but I'm sure I'd be too embarrassed to do it in front of a live human.
I think it's weird that "Walk This Way" was the hit single off this album, because it's the weakest track by far. Sure, it was cool with the video where Aerosmith comes crashing through the studio wall to rap with Run-DMC, and sure, I realize there was a time when it was considered novel to meld rap and rock. But shit, I think even as a teenager, I fast-forwarded thru that turd every single time. Still do. Maybe it's because that Steven Tyler (nee Tallarico) guy bothers me so much. Especially when he tried to get people to call him "The Demon of Screamin'." What a dildo. (Sorry, Jimmy Rolle)
Why listen to that track, 'cause you get pure unsullied genius bombarding you everywhere else on the album! Of course "Peter Piper" kills, but what about "It's Tricky" and "Hit it Run" with the xylophone and shit? Even the novelty songs like "Dumb Girl" and "You Be Illin'" cause me to break into Soul Train moves while driving.
Lately though, my favorite track has been "Perfection," where I don't know who the fuck is playing drums, but it's the tautest beat I can think of. Real drums! Lately, when I go to this big music warehouse to play drums with the fat kids in Misfits shirts, it's this beat I lay down. It seems to keep the salesmen away.
Runner up:
Andre Williams: Silky
Scout loaned this to me, and it's real good, but the line that has me laughing uncontrollably is the following:
"Let me put it in. Let me put in a bid for your love."
Andre Williams is the only black man in South Dakota, according to this album.
HIDE
