Oops I done it again.

but I did NOT pee on the toilet seat.

Honest. I'm not THAT drunk.

So, we wqent to visit Heather at the Coat Hole, and then Devon (who's got this HUGE shiner and BLOOD IN HIS EYE!!!) gave me a shot or four of this Vincent Van Gogh Espresso Vodka (WHAT?) and then a Strongbow and then Rich andf Arlen let me come BEHIND THE BAR to POUR MY OWN DRINKS???

How am I not dead right now?

Plus we played Galaga and I totally kicked Rachel's butt. While drunk. But I suck at Frogger. I'm OKAY at Donkey Kong.

Now I must go, because I am at the LADIES house, and I must be good.

This was probably a waste of a post, but I got pizza, so there.

Why is Rachel draining her tub at 2:30 in the morning? This makes no sense, even to someone as inebriated as I....

I am no longer E.B. Farnum's coat

E.B. went and became the mayor and got a new coat. Little big for his brtiches now, the punk.


Just threw me away.


Like that.

I Am E.B. Farnum's Coat.

Honestly, that's the most brilliant costume choice ever. If E.B. ever gets a brand new coat, I might just die.

Currently watching Deadwood Season 1 all over again for Rachel's sake, so that when we watch Season 3, she's not all "Who's that? Why did he do that? What's going on? Why are there no Cylons? Why isn't this set in space?", and then I won't have to punch her in the arm. Also currently uploading a thousand different CDs to iTunes so that if my apartment ever gets flooded, burglarized and burned down in the same day, whoever steals my computer will have an amazing music collection. At this moment my computer is making wheezing sounds, as though it were an geriatric bronchitis victim smoking seven packs a day, and every time I feed it a new CD, it hitches and bucks and then settles into a subtle vibrational pattern that causes me all sorts of concern. At this rate, I'll have more music than porn in the memory, but I'll lack the capacity to reach either libraries.

Kidding: I have no porn on my computer. I don't even know what you speak of when you mention this 'porn' thing. What kind of miscreant are you?

Stuff:

1. The new Ween ("The Friends ep") is really gay; and I don't mean in the way that I usually describe really dumb things as gay, but in that "I Feel Free" happy hardcore, busting out the amyl nitrate while sucking on a pacifier with eight bare-chested firemen blowing whistles in time with the beat type of gay. What's more: it is TOTALLY FRIGGIN' AWESOME. In that way that Ween has of being awesome.

I'm sorry: Ween overshadows everything. Even the fact that former employers the Wee Book Inn had both Porno For Pyros CDs (hey, Perry Farrel didn't completely suck after Jane's Addiction...) plus Snoop Dogg's Rhythm & Gangsta and all three only cost me ten bucks. That's incredible, but Ween conquers ALL.

Hey, did you hear that Snoop's got a book of fiction out, and it's called Love Don't Live Here Anymore? I know! I'll bet good money you didn't know that 50 Cent's got one, too!

(What, you really need a joke after that?)


2. Speaking of wordish things: no, I haven't really given up on White Noise; it's pretty damned good, despite the fact that even the kids in this book are smarter than me (honestly: what ten-year-old boy questions the existential root of his motivations? I was happy questioning why Megatron would put up with Starscream's whining and scheming when I was ten...); it's just that I've finally got a copy of Palahniuk's Rant, and I'm excited, but I figure I gotta finish what's on my plate before I get to have dessert.

3. (This was gonna be a rather crude comment about my sex life, but I think everyone's tired of hearing about how I've finally been allowed to touch a member of the opposite sex; but: yay for me!)

4. I do not care about Harry Potter. No, really, I don't, so just SHUT UP about it, 'kay? 'kay...


5. Shellac is better than you. I only say that because Shellac is better than ME and clearly, I am better than YOU. Of course, while we're going with this stream of logic, Shellac is JUST AS GOOD as the Crazy Lady.

6. She paid me $10 to say that, which only proves that I will shill shamelessly for any price. Still: the Shellac IS that good.

That's all. The Beano Night Crew has been halved by summer vacations, leading to the creation of next summer's smash hit, Mormon and Jew: Where Are You?, shot on location in Italy, Vancouver, and a lost mountain range where we have to find a monkey who holds the secret to the location of our lost counterparts...but, no, I'm giving too much away as it is. Y'all have to pay top dollar for THIS adventure.

Yes, we are saddened by Josh and Jared's departure, and wish them a speedy and safe return. Josh: don't rupture anything while you're in Italy. Jared? Sleeping outside on the riverbank is NOT A GOOD IDEA.


Is it sad that I'm super-excited about my new toilet? I can't help it: it's been pretty much non-existant since January, and now the housing gods have blessed me with a new and improved version. Seriously, the guts of the old one are still in my garbage can. They did it all while I was at work, so it has the feel of magical plumbing elves installing a turbocharged engine of waste management in place of what was once a broken-down contraption of levers and pneumatic tubes. I can now defecate in modern gleaming comfort. If only they'd do something about the rotting drywall in the ceiling...

More later. I must go find pie, now...

"Reacharound your soul/and love your fellow man..."

Dean Martin fucking rocks. Not the leathery rat-pack one, I'm talking about the oh-so-cuddly drummer from such popular Calgary-based troubadours as The Summerlad, The Ex-Boyfriends, and MFO. Why does he rock? Because the first song on his latest mix-CD ("Dean Martin's Variety Hour #666", naturally...) is Quicksand's "Thorn In My Side", which is soon followed by Mog Stunt Team's "King Of The Retards", both of which are all kinds of awesome.

And none of you care, right? Right. Whatever: when they finally make the movie about my life, Dean's doing the soundtrack.

3:00 a.m. and I'm wired, which should surprise no one, as everyone knows that I have a precarious relationship with the sun (it is evil and must be destroyed, now, thank you, do it now, or I will wreak my vengeance on your very soul, or at the very least give you a really nasty Indian Burn...); it's just that I have to be up at nine to go to the doctor, and then I have to call Josh 'Screaming Balcony Wolf' Barsky at ten so that he gets up in time to meet us at Beano at noon so that we can all go learn how to put vaginas on top of your goddamned lattes.

No, I will not explain the last part of that sentence; I think it's much better if you live in fear of barristas implanting various genitalia into your beverages. Third Wave THIS, y'all...

What this means is that I need something to focus my attention on, as the Crazy Lady is at home and sick; because without her to constantly tell me I'm not hallucinating and keep me from eating paint chips, I'm left to my own devices, which means that I play too many stupid online video games, read too many shitty comics, and eventually look at too much porn. I know that's hard concept to grasp, but it's true: sometimes you've seen so much that you find yourself wondering why there are pictures on your computer of tiny Asian women vomiting eel chunks onto each other's belly.

Don't ask. Don't look it up, either, because there are some things you just can't UN-see.

All of which leads to me spending the last four hours making mix-CDs for the workplace that hopefully straddle the line between being stamped 'Beano-Appropriate' by the powers that be, and not sucking total ass. My head is in a strange place right now, which is why I'm taking a break to commit bloggitry and sample Mr. Martin's superb offering; soon enough I'll be back asking myself if slipping Ween's "The Rainbow" into the mix will cause the Mount Royal Trophy Wive's Club to shoot non-fat dairy products out of their various nose jobs.

HOLY CRAP HOW DID IT ALREADY BECOME 4:00??? Okay, this is me going to bed, and the first person to wake me for anything less than the friggin' Rapture gets a golf shoe to the face, and even then, well, that Jesus fella better keep it down if he knows what's good for him...

I am stupidest when trying to be funny.

Coffee-shop bitch number 402: If you don't want your drink to taste like coffee, don't order a drink that has coffee in it. It's really that effing simple.

Also: enough with the tweaking. Our menu may not be that specific, but we like the way we do things, and we've spent a lot of time trying to perfect the drinks we already have (well, not me, personally, but people who actually care about what you think have done as much; myself, I have no problem serving you raw sewage...); every time you ask "...but instead of this can you do this? And can you put this in it? And can you leave this out? For me...?", you risk getting punched in the face with a lawnmower.

Also x2: don't come in five minutes before we close, order a complicated drink and expect us to be happy about it. Especially if you're from Toronto. In fact, if you're from Toronto, just stay the fuck away. Please. No amount of money is worth having to put up with you.

Is Stampede over yet? Please oh thank you.

Anyway: another week's come and gone, and all I have to show for it is dirty laundry and too many CDs. Oh, and the Crazy Lady apparently still likes me, so things aren't all bad. I just wish she'd stop drawing pictures of broken penises...

Things That happened: Fishing with the Boys.

Okay, so it's been a couple of weeks since we did the whole fishing thing. Still: it deserves telling, if only because it happened. Josh & Jared, otherwise known as Mormon & Jew, had picked up butterfly nets at the Dollar Store (you have to capitalize that, or they send you to jail. It's true.), thinking them ideal for dipping into the river and trapping some fish within.

Yes, I know. I KNOW. Yet: it was worth a try, if only as an excuse to drink by the river.

Trusting Rachel, we were led to a spot underneath the railroad tracks (yes I know it sounds like a Nirvana song shut up), which actually proved to be too high for the Boys to reach the river with their nets, so we sat for a while drinking wine, taking pictures of hobo blankets, and getting the bejeebus scared out of us by trains passing overhead. Okay, so it's more like a Tom Waits song, but whatever. Eventually, we DID get to the river, at which point more wine was consumed, and then fishing commenced, the only thing actually caught being: a few leaves, a worm, some mud, and Josh's notebook after he accidentally dropped it in the river.

Also we left a note in one of the bottles that stated: "Everything' s okay on our end, but if YOU should need some help, please don't hesitate to ask."

Afterwards we treated The Boys to their first encounter with the Blackfoot Diner (aka the Trucker Breeding Grounds); they were actually a little disappointed in their lack of success, but I've promised them that I'll have a surprise for them next time: hip-waders.

Oh, yeah. You heard me.

More Things That Happened: The Parents Arrive.

I have no pictures. They came, they saw, they drank some coffee, a nice time was had by all. Nothing exploded. Here's to another fourteen years between visits. Kidding! Sorry, Mom.

Other things:

1. Gee, apparently someone caught on to the fact that a comic written in the '30s might have a little racial stereotyping going on. Go figure. It only took you the better part of a century to speak up. (Actually, this kinda thing makes me see red; I'm not gonna use the excuse that this comic is a 'product of it's time', as the examples these people have latched onto can make anyone feel a tad uncomfortable. I can only say from my own experience that it seemed that Herge tended to paint everyone as caricatures and buffoons, even the Great Civilized Europeans, and that I always found a healthy respect present for every culture he portrayed in his stories. I'm actually quite fond of this entire series, and I'd have to admit that reading these books as a kid only made me more curious about the world I live in. So, um, suck it.)

2. I have a thousand new CD's to listen to. No, really, I've got that many. So, here's a sample of what's new and good and not-so-good:

'Spoke' by Shellac deserves your undivided attention. Leave it to Steve Albini and company to do it right (are you listening, Dinosaur Jr?). Plus, their new album, Excellent Italian Greyhound, sports the best cover in the world. Those dogs are coming to destroy you.

The new Chemical Brothers? Pretty good, up until that stupid salmon song with Phatlip from the Pharcyde. I'm pretty sure this is one of their sleepers; in about a year, I'll probably proclaim it to be genius, as I am fickle that way.

Justice, "t": actually, that's supposed to be a cross as the title, but whatever. I can't tell if this is actually Christian-themed dance music, the thought of which leaves a foul taste in my mouth, but it's not bad. Think Daft Punk with a little less sexy, and there ya go.

Did I mention that Battles is phenomenal? I did? Cool. Did I mention that John Stanier, the drummer from Helmet, is one of these brilliant musicians? Consider yourself schooled.

Tomahawk, "Anonymous": hey, look, Mike Patton's no longer pretending to be Hispanic, now he's Native American! All kidding aside, Patton & Co's exploration of aboriginal vocal rhythms and musical patterns is astonishing and a little frightening. Also: look it's John Stanier again!

Beastie Boys, "The Mix-Up": more porno music from the whitest boys in hip-hop, which isn't a bad thing, as their last actual hip-hop album ("To The 5 Boroughs"), while palatable, didn't really break any new ground. This, however, is surprisingly refreshing.

Stars, "Do You Trust Your Friends": no, not really. In fact, not at all. I don't know why I bothered, to be honest. Stars are one of the most insufferably precious bands in Canada, and remixes from similarily ineffectual musicians only turns Stars' masturbation into a circle-jerk.

The Polyphonic Spree, "The Fragile Army": yes, I like them. Fuck off. Their albums are never perfect, often filled with a lot of wankery and too many goddamned flutes, but they're unafraid of criticism and stand unabashedly for love in its entirety. They may be a little silly, but all they want is to make YOU feel good about YOURSELF for a brief moment. If you can't allow yourself to be touched by this group, then the problem's with your inability to love yourself. I have spoken.

Cloud Cult, "Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus", "The Meaning Of 8": weird near-perfect indie-pop akin to the Flaming Lips. Apparently you can only get these guys online. Do so now. Thanks to Jared for doing all the hard work.

Ohbythewayeveryoneshouldownthis: Doug Martsch, "Now You Know": solo album from Built To Spill's main dude. 'Nuff said.

Also: I've ranted before about the brilliance that is Old Man Gloom. This is me repeating myself, for I am always right, and sometimes you people need to be told twice.

Up next: Buffalo Tom, Boris w/ Michio Kurihara, a new mixtape from the ever-fabulous Dean Martin which apparently features new material form the Summerlad, so colour me excited. Oh, and Deadwood Season 3, although I have to wait for one lady to catch up before I can watch it, and I've promised another that I'd watch it with her also, so this will take all manner of scheduling to arrange, which will probably hurt my head. In the meantime: this is me shaving my head and arguing with my landlord over plumbing facilities. Be good, or I'll ground the lot of you.

Adventures In Buddha Palm Technique. (This is not a masturbation joke)

Man, I remember when Stampede meant something.

I lie: it never meant anything - it just seemed cool way back when to eat as much deep-fried sugar as you could before strapping yourself into as many gravity-altering contraptions until you threw up into a Conklin garbage can. It was fun, y'know? All Stampede means these days is that people get drunk while wearing pink shirts. Oh, and really bad cover bands playing at a Stampede Breakfast at 10:00 am on a Sunday. Please stop ohgodwhyamiawake pleasegivemecoffeeandahammer tohurtpeoplewith.


Anyway: that's over now.

Yes, I know it's been another week since I, y'know, blogged. I am a bad antisocial interweb ranter. Sex does that to me. Now I'm home, but it's only to do laundry and clean the disaster that I call my apartment, before the parents hit town for the first time since they left, way back in 1994. Needless to say, I is a tad on the nervous side, as it will be the first time that my parents will get the opportunity to view my digs EVER. I know: it's sad. I'm over thirty. I should be able to answer the door in a wife-beater and ratty boxers, point at a collection of beer cans and porn and say, "Welcome to Casa Del Janzen!" with a shrug and a grin, but still: it's Mom & Dad, and they have superpowers. So clean I must. Plus: if I clean, then the ladyfriend can FINALLY come over to my place and not be afeared of being hit in the head by a flying ant.

Oh. Did I mention the whole Ladyfriend thing? Oops. Yes: the decade-long drought is over, and I have a Special Companion, or whatever it is you kids are calling it these days (I refuse to call her my 'ho' or 'bitch' or 'cum-dumpster', as some people have suggested, as doing so will result in the loss of teeth and sexual activities), and she is pretty and all of that stuff and I like her a lot. So there.


One thing: I'm still leaning towards cancelling my cable, as I haven't actually watched any TV in the last month and a half, aside from the few minutes I caught today which confirmed the fact that lacrosse still seems to be considered a REAL sport, and that everybody STILL loves Raymond, which in my opinion is more than ample proof that the lot of you need to be euthanised. Also: Watching a dubbed version of Kung Fu Hustle really sucks ass.

Coming soon: Fishing adventures with The Boys.

This is me going to clean now. No, really. I mean it this time.

I must speak quickly and with great emphasis on what is important, paring away those things which are not.

Tonight Josh and Jared are treating us to the spectacle of fishing in the Bow River at night with butterfly nets. This is not something to be missed, and I must chronicle their adventures, as Jared and Josh are a modern day Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, only with more comical results. Think: The Adventures of Mormon and Jew, but without all the religious-based nonsense.



Also: this is me saying out loud to the Crazy Lady: I like you. Lots.

This is me going to find alcohol to help fuel our shenanigans, for it is SUNDAY, the day on which all sellers of spirits seem to hide their heads for fear of being thwacked on the noggin by Certain People Of The Lord wielding thick books of onion-skin and cruel-looking flagellation devices. We will win this war, eventually, despite their entrenched positions of authority and their devious mind-controlling ways. Now this is me just being silly.

Wish me luck.