Shit man, I'm starting to get jealous. Here's why. My buddy Elliott writes some of the best blogs I've ever read. Read them here. And his blogs inspire me to begin writing my own again, but, unfortunately, I have nothing to write about.
I've been less rantly lately. In fact, I think my latest rant was about someone I know who rants a lot.
I haven't been doing many interesting things. By interesting, I mean getting totally shit-faced and making an ass out of myself, which is what past blogs have been about.
And, honestly, I have no desire to write blogs about "the human condition" and where I sit in that pile of stench.
So as I sit here writing the above, I still don't know what to write, so this is gonna be freestyle. Besides correcting punctuation, grammar, and spelling, I'm not going to go back and fix anything, this is stream of conciousness which will go on for as long as I please. So here we go.
I just fed my dog a banana. I did this for two reasons: 1. He likes them, and apparently Split Pea tells me she learned from doing research on Spaniels that they apparently love bananas, which he does, as well as apples. I also fed him it because my wife apparently let him completely run out of food, so, you know... starving dog. He's laying in front of the heater, but seriously, I don't want to write about my dog, because, seriously, blogs about my dog? Blah. That's the reason I haven't been blogging, 'cause who wants to read about that shit.
So I got laid off from my job, and I can't really blog about that because blogging about your job, good or bad, can really bite you in the ass. So I stay away from that. I could tell you about the job search and unemployment, but really... boring!
Yeah, that's right, I used an exclaimation point. I was taught in college that you are only allowed to use one exclaimation point a year, so use it wisely. Since the year's almost up, I can afford to waste it here. My professor in college, said that there's a reason an exclaimation point looks like a baseball bat, because it beats people across the face, so unless that's what you're trying to do, don't use it. My last job required me to do copy writing, this wasn't real copy writing, mind you, it was the kind where I was encouraged to use exclaimation points after every freaking sentence. Example: Spring in Paris! Space is limited! Sign up now!
I actually told my boss I refused to use exclaimation points. Maybe that's why I got laid off.
Anyway, I'm writing about my last job and I said I wasn't going to do that.
So, I'm a bit hungry because I got up freakishly early considering I stayed up late with Elliott and his friend who is back in town from Afrikka (that's right, Afrikka, as in Bambatta. Recognize). Anyway, the three of us were up late drinking beer and B.S.ing following our not-so-monumentous night out playing trivia at a pub.
Tonight we're returning to this same pub for karaoke. I think I may sing some Beatles.
Anyway, I'm hungry and want to make some food, but I'm really cravin a spinach and tomato sandwhich, but I need to make pesto, and the food processor is loud and Elliott is sleeping (which he will be till noon) so either he gets waken up by a food processor when I get too hungry to handle it, or I starve.
Speaking of, Split Pea and I thought Elliott was dead the other day. Here's why: He usually sleeps late on his days off, because, you know if you went to the link above like I effing told you to, you would know he works late. Anyway, he sleeps late. The other day, 3pm rolls around, and I tell Split Pea that Elliott's still asleep. She's worried. I call him from within the house, which, I know, it's weird, but less obtrusive than knocking. He doesn't answer. Finally 5pm rolls around, and Split Pea decides to knock on his door. She does, then goes in. He's not there. Later we told each other we thought we might have to poke a dead body with a stick, which would be my first. So now, though, I'm thinking, if he's not in his room, and he's not answering his phone, he's dead in the Sound.
The night before, Elliott got off work late. He called and told me he was waiting for a bus, which were all backed up by the Seahawks game. I went to bed shortly after, so never saw him, and was unsure if he ever came home. Having waken up really early for me (7pm) I knew he had never got up and left the house without Split Pea or I knowing. So I was certain now that he had gone to catch a bus, got mugged, the stabbed, then his body was thrown into the sound.
He was working. I know, I know, boring ending, but there it is. Split Pea and I thought he had the day off. He didn't. He had to work really early.
So I'm going to see my friends from my past life in Spokane this weekend as one of my closest friends gets married.
Which will be fun, but probably won't have any debaucherous stories to write about. So don't be anticipating a story about having to crack a bouncer across the face with a broken beer bottle after trying to grab a strippers ta-tas, 'cause it probably won't happen. We're all older, wiser, and married now.
So that concludes this little test. I'm gonna go read, or eat, or, shit man, I dunno watch T.V.--I'm unemployed remember?
Hope you enjoyed reading this, I'll try to come up with something better to write about next time.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Friday, June 8, 2007
The Big Red X: And other adventures on the Hill
The day was long, extremely long. It was the kind of day that went on for what seemed like ever and ever. I could have left the office at 3:00, but having gone to get coffee with a co-worker and having seen the parking lot we call the 520, decided to stay in the office till my official leave-time of 6:00. There were really only a few things that needed to get done yesterday, so I spent most of my time watching Youtube videos, checking out band's Myspace pages and replying to blogs on threeimaginarygirls.com.
But 6:00 did come around, and I still sat in parking-lot traffic to return to the land of Ballard an hour later. Elliott, my roommate (and super-cool dude) got home a little bit later and he nestled up to the nipple on his Sparks as I drank wine like an Italian hooker (yeah, I don't know what that means either. Metaphors...)
We had plans, though. Those "plans" later turned into The Plan.
First things first. Elliott's birthday was on Monday. Elliott has a kick-ass blog. Check it out. Today Elliott will be writing about the same circumstances I'm about to write about from a different perspective. So check it out. Seriously.
For Elliott's birthday, I told him I'd pay his way in to see CSS play at Neumo's. I could have bought tickets, in fact I was on the website, ready to purchase tickets, but I decided to be cheap, not pay the surcharge, and pay instead at the door. I can't even name the countless shows I've attended at Neumo's where you could still get tickets at the door. We arrived there only an hour after doors had opened. A half hour before the first band was to go on. The show was sold out. I felt like a total douche.
So we go in the new Moe's bar (previously the Bad Juju, previously the entrance to Neumo's) and get a drink. The bar is very well styled, mirrors and lamps making the space elegant, booths for large groups of people, no more mermaid mural, and a well layed out space that gives the illusion of it being bigger than it is. Summed up, Moe's is the bar for hipsters who, five years (approximately) from the opening of Neumo's, got good jobs and more money.
Elliott and I sit in Moe's, discussing this, before we decide to see what's going on at the Comet, find a Stranger to see what else is going on (Chop Suey perhaps?) or go to the Sattelite for drinks. We decide on the Sattelite. On our way there, though, we pass Havanna's, and I have a plan.
Last year I worked for Bumbershoot. While there I met many people who do lots of interesting things in the city. Two people I met co-own Neumo's. One of the owners also owns Havanna's. So I go in there, thinking I have an off chance of running into him and seeing if he can do anything for Elliott and my ticket dilema. He's not there.
But some hats are. There's all these hats, and nice hats, sitting around the bar. I go to get a drink and ask the bartender, "What's with the hats?" She says it's a promo, and they're free. Sweet! Elliott gets himself a sweet hat. I have to try on a whole bunch because I have a freakishly tiny noggin, but finally get what Elliott calls the "Brando when he's eating tomatoes and getting chased through the laundry by that kid" hat. Score.
Now that we have our hats, what to do about the rest of the night? We go to the Sattelite to take a look at a Stranger and see what's going on.
The Stranger reports that there's a dance party at Chop Suey. Nope. The Cops are playing at the Comet. Maybe. And, besides that, there's not much going on. So we go back to Neumo's.
Elliott asks the girl at the box office if there've been any tickets arise. There hasn't. We're standing there, standing there, standing there for quite a while until Elliott says, "What the hell are we doing?" I say, "Follow me. I have a plan."
"Where are we going?" Elliott asks because I'm walking with purpose down the sidewalk.
"QFC," I say. Why?
The Plan
Because we need supplies. You see, while it seemed like I was waiting around, seeing what was happening, I was scouting out people's wrists. They had on a green wristband with VIP printed in intermixed black and white. All we needed was some kind of green band. We found it right away. On a kite.
One kite. One Sharpie. One bottle of Whiteout. One roll of packing tape. We're in business.
We pay for it and get to work. We go over to a table at the Starbucks Kiosk, which is now closed down, tear the streamer off the kite. I write VIP in white and black. Two times. And tape them to our wrists. All the while we're laughing like we just did a bunch of coke, and who knows what we're up to. People walking by probably thought we were nuts.
On our way back I say, "Just do what I do."
We hold back for a second, wait, throw our cigarettes on the ground, then go. The bouncer is checking IDs, I walk behind them, flashing my bracelet quickly. "Where's your stamp?" the bouncer asks.
Shit.
I shrug. He asks to see my ID. I show him. He gives it back. He asks to see my wrist. I pull up my sleeve, keeping my hand over the fake wristband. He says, "No under it."
Shit.
I cover it with my fingers, and pretend like I'm lifting it. I feel the tape slip. He stamps my wrist. I'm in. I can see the light (stage lights) at the top of the stairs and all I have to do is climb to freedom. Elliott's getting his ID checked. I know we're in, and I'm playing it cool, but kinda want to jump up and down and yell out, "Fuck yeah." Then I see the bouncer talk into his walkie talkie.
Shit.
Another bouncer arrives. The bouncer who checked our IDs tells this newly arrived bouncer to check our wristbands, mine falls off. He says, "That's not going to work." And Elliott just gives the bouncer the it-was-worth-a-try look, and the bouncer says, "Let me see your wrists." So we put out our wrists, both thinking he was going to give us a "nice try" freebee, but instead, in slow motion he puts a big red-Sharpie Scarlett-letter X on our wrists. We're not welcome.
So we go to Linda's. Have one more beer, then head back to Ballard where we perfect our "Smooth Criminal" lean with our super-sweet hats.
Happy Birthday, Elliott.
But 6:00 did come around, and I still sat in parking-lot traffic to return to the land of Ballard an hour later. Elliott, my roommate (and super-cool dude) got home a little bit later and he nestled up to the nipple on his Sparks as I drank wine like an Italian hooker (yeah, I don't know what that means either. Metaphors...)
We had plans, though. Those "plans" later turned into The Plan.
First things first. Elliott's birthday was on Monday. Elliott has a kick-ass blog. Check it out. Today Elliott will be writing about the same circumstances I'm about to write about from a different perspective. So check it out. Seriously.
For Elliott's birthday, I told him I'd pay his way in to see CSS play at Neumo's. I could have bought tickets, in fact I was on the website, ready to purchase tickets, but I decided to be cheap, not pay the surcharge, and pay instead at the door. I can't even name the countless shows I've attended at Neumo's where you could still get tickets at the door. We arrived there only an hour after doors had opened. A half hour before the first band was to go on. The show was sold out. I felt like a total douche.
So we go in the new Moe's bar (previously the Bad Juju, previously the entrance to Neumo's) and get a drink. The bar is very well styled, mirrors and lamps making the space elegant, booths for large groups of people, no more mermaid mural, and a well layed out space that gives the illusion of it being bigger than it is. Summed up, Moe's is the bar for hipsters who, five years (approximately) from the opening of Neumo's, got good jobs and more money.
Elliott and I sit in Moe's, discussing this, before we decide to see what's going on at the Comet, find a Stranger to see what else is going on (Chop Suey perhaps?) or go to the Sattelite for drinks. We decide on the Sattelite. On our way there, though, we pass Havanna's, and I have a plan.
Last year I worked for Bumbershoot. While there I met many people who do lots of interesting things in the city. Two people I met co-own Neumo's. One of the owners also owns Havanna's. So I go in there, thinking I have an off chance of running into him and seeing if he can do anything for Elliott and my ticket dilema. He's not there.
But some hats are. There's all these hats, and nice hats, sitting around the bar. I go to get a drink and ask the bartender, "What's with the hats?" She says it's a promo, and they're free. Sweet! Elliott gets himself a sweet hat. I have to try on a whole bunch because I have a freakishly tiny noggin, but finally get what Elliott calls the "Brando when he's eating tomatoes and getting chased through the laundry by that kid" hat. Score.
Now that we have our hats, what to do about the rest of the night? We go to the Sattelite to take a look at a Stranger and see what's going on.
The Stranger reports that there's a dance party at Chop Suey. Nope. The Cops are playing at the Comet. Maybe. And, besides that, there's not much going on. So we go back to Neumo's.
Elliott asks the girl at the box office if there've been any tickets arise. There hasn't. We're standing there, standing there, standing there for quite a while until Elliott says, "What the hell are we doing?" I say, "Follow me. I have a plan."
"Where are we going?" Elliott asks because I'm walking with purpose down the sidewalk.
"QFC," I say. Why?
The Plan
Because we need supplies. You see, while it seemed like I was waiting around, seeing what was happening, I was scouting out people's wrists. They had on a green wristband with VIP printed in intermixed black and white. All we needed was some kind of green band. We found it right away. On a kite.
One kite. One Sharpie. One bottle of Whiteout. One roll of packing tape. We're in business.
We pay for it and get to work. We go over to a table at the Starbucks Kiosk, which is now closed down, tear the streamer off the kite. I write VIP in white and black. Two times. And tape them to our wrists. All the while we're laughing like we just did a bunch of coke, and who knows what we're up to. People walking by probably thought we were nuts.
On our way back I say, "Just do what I do."
We hold back for a second, wait, throw our cigarettes on the ground, then go. The bouncer is checking IDs, I walk behind them, flashing my bracelet quickly. "Where's your stamp?" the bouncer asks.
Shit.
I shrug. He asks to see my ID. I show him. He gives it back. He asks to see my wrist. I pull up my sleeve, keeping my hand over the fake wristband. He says, "No under it."
Shit.
I cover it with my fingers, and pretend like I'm lifting it. I feel the tape slip. He stamps my wrist. I'm in. I can see the light (stage lights) at the top of the stairs and all I have to do is climb to freedom. Elliott's getting his ID checked. I know we're in, and I'm playing it cool, but kinda want to jump up and down and yell out, "Fuck yeah." Then I see the bouncer talk into his walkie talkie.
Shit.
Another bouncer arrives. The bouncer who checked our IDs tells this newly arrived bouncer to check our wristbands, mine falls off. He says, "That's not going to work." And Elliott just gives the bouncer the it-was-worth-a-try look, and the bouncer says, "Let me see your wrists." So we put out our wrists, both thinking he was going to give us a "nice try" freebee, but instead, in slow motion he puts a big red-Sharpie Scarlett-letter X on our wrists. We're not welcome.
So we go to Linda's. Have one more beer, then head back to Ballard where we perfect our "Smooth Criminal" lean with our super-sweet hats.
Happy Birthday, Elliott.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Do you have to be stoned to enjoy jam bands?
A friend of mine recently turned me on to an online radio station called Pandora. How it works is, you select a band or song you like, and it finds similar music. I started my own Pandora station spanning the wide range of my musical tastes from neo soul to mod. For the most part, Pandora plays things pretty close to what I like, even introducing me to bands I've never heard of before. So today I'm sitting at work, listening to Pandora, a long string of music I enjoy streaming along, and, for whatever reason, Pandora decides to play Dave Mathews. So here's the deal. I hate Dave Matthews. I know they say Hate is a strong word, but I really do despise Dave Matthews, and furthermore, jam bands.
I'm not sure exactly why I hate jam bands so much, but after thinking about it, I've came up with a few theories.
1: I'm a touch ADD (when it comes to entertainment, anyway). I'll take a short story over a long novel, I prefer music videos to movies, and I like bands like the Ramones and the Strokes--bands that get to the point, and have no need to go on long instrumental solos.
2: I don't smoke weed. I think the slowed-down condition involved with smoking pot is necessary for listening to jam bands.
3: I don't smoke weed mostly because I'm annoyed by the culture that goes along with prolonged pot use. I can't stand the smell of patuli. I'm annoyed by the spaced-out stares of stoners; I don't like to just sit around and talk about the universe; besides reading my horoscope in the Stranger, I could care less about astrology; I hate hackeysack; and I can't stand jam bands.
So is it the stoner or the jam band I'm annoyed with? What does this mean? What does this say about me as a person? I have no idea, and frankly I don't care. All I know is, if there's a Dave Matthews CD playing, I'm gone.
I'm not sure exactly why I hate jam bands so much, but after thinking about it, I've came up with a few theories.
1: I'm a touch ADD (when it comes to entertainment, anyway). I'll take a short story over a long novel, I prefer music videos to movies, and I like bands like the Ramones and the Strokes--bands that get to the point, and have no need to go on long instrumental solos.
2: I don't smoke weed. I think the slowed-down condition involved with smoking pot is necessary for listening to jam bands.
3: I don't smoke weed mostly because I'm annoyed by the culture that goes along with prolonged pot use. I can't stand the smell of patuli. I'm annoyed by the spaced-out stares of stoners; I don't like to just sit around and talk about the universe; besides reading my horoscope in the Stranger, I could care less about astrology; I hate hackeysack; and I can't stand jam bands.
So is it the stoner or the jam band I'm annoyed with? What does this mean? What does this say about me as a person? I have no idea, and frankly I don't care. All I know is, if there's a Dave Matthews CD playing, I'm gone.
Monday, April 2, 2007
What I love about Stacia
One of the things I love most about Stacia is how much she loves stuff. When we were first married she sent me a link to my email address, when she was supposed to be working, of conversion vans painted with the likeness of Stevie Nicks. She deemed this as awesome. I deemed it as awesome because of how awesome she deemed it.
Shortly after, Stacia discovered Leslie Hall. Leslie Hall began with a website all about gem sweaters. The main question was: is this a joke, or is this for real? And the answer is: it's both.
Not but two years after discovering the gem sweater web site did Stacia discover that her (what became) idol, Leslie Hall started a rap group called Leslie and the Lys, singing about her gem sweaters, her gold leme pants and her awesomeness.
So I'm riding the bus last Friday, doing what I love to do most when I'm riding the bus--reading the Stranger. And what do I see in the Stranger? Leslie and the Lys are playing at El Corazon.
So I get home and tell Stacia, "Break your plans for Sunday, we're going out."
We get to El Corazon, and Stacia still has no idea what we're doing there. I kept it a surprise.
She asks as we're waiting in line for beer, "Why's everyone dressed so weird?" and I let her know what we're there for. She literally gasps.
A local group called Team Gina opens up. They're awesome and we laugh our asses off.
Later that night Leslie comes on stage and, well. I'll just let you watch. Check it out here.
Shortly after, Stacia discovered Leslie Hall. Leslie Hall began with a website all about gem sweaters. The main question was: is this a joke, or is this for real? And the answer is: it's both.
Not but two years after discovering the gem sweater web site did Stacia discover that her (what became) idol, Leslie Hall started a rap group called Leslie and the Lys, singing about her gem sweaters, her gold leme pants and her awesomeness.
So I'm riding the bus last Friday, doing what I love to do most when I'm riding the bus--reading the Stranger. And what do I see in the Stranger? Leslie and the Lys are playing at El Corazon.
So I get home and tell Stacia, "Break your plans for Sunday, we're going out."
We get to El Corazon, and Stacia still has no idea what we're doing there. I kept it a surprise.
She asks as we're waiting in line for beer, "Why's everyone dressed so weird?" and I let her know what we're there for. She literally gasps.
A local group called Team Gina opens up. They're awesome and we laugh our asses off.
Later that night Leslie comes on stage and, well. I'll just let you watch. Check it out here.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
What the Ferguson's do on a Saturday night
Yesterday evening Stacia and I went to the Hi-Life for dinner. I was anticipating the deliciousness they call the Marguarita Pizza. In happy hour it's only $4. I also anticipated a glass of wine. So we get there and it's not happy hour. I kinda wanna leave. Stacia wants to go to Thaiku, but the waitress is already at our table with our water, so we stay. I'm a little tired and a little grouchy because I'm hungry, and I'm being a bit of a dildo, or a "deck" as Stacia calls it (search for "Kelly Shoes" on Youtube and you'll get a feel for Stacia's lingo these days). I'm being what Stacia also refers to as "a Ferg." This is a derrivative of her nickname for me (Turd, Ferg, Mr. Ferguson, or Turd Ferguson.) This name comes from an old SNL sketch where Norm MacDonald plays Burt Reynolds on SNL's version of "Celebrity Jeopardy!" Norm's "Burt Reynolds" insists that Will Farrell's "Trebek" refer to him as Turd Ferguson because, "It's a funny name." I asked Stacia, early in our marriage to refer to me as this name, "because it's funny," and it stuck. Mostly she uses this name when I'm "being a turd."
Anyway, I was being a Ferg last night. I was just in that mood. It only took one beer and a Manhatten to get me over it, though. So we ate our dissapointing food and returned home, but not before stopping off at the store to get a gigantic bottle of wine.
So Stacia says she wants to do "something creative" and I just don't want to sit in front of the TV. So somehow in the midst of a wine haze we decide we're going to make a movie. We only have a digital camera that takes one-minute clips. So we come up with a story board, some music, and an idea, and shoot this bad-ass piece of creativity. You can view it here.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
I have a typewriter: the inaugural blog
I have a typewriter. I got it for my thirieth birtday. I sit here using a brand new laptop with this fancy new opporating system, and all I'd rather be doing is typing on my typewriter. I'd continue a story I've started on it appropriately called, "The typewriter." The first line of the typewriter is "I have a typewriter. I got it for my..." You get the picture. This is not a new thing, this reverting backwards. A couple years ago when everyone was getting ipods, I got a record player--an old-school recrod player. It's from 1968 and is a beautiful piece of craftmanship. The kind you don't see these days. I got a record player because I wanted to begin buying records with the idea that some music can just sound better rugged. With the advent of the CD, the goal in listening habits was to have crystal-clear sound. And although this is something I enjoy when listening to complex music with many layers, such as Radiohead or the Arcade Fire; when I'm listening to other kinds of music, I want to hear it the way it was meant to be heard. The Rolling Stones and Johnny Cash didn't record music with the intention that one day there'd be new technology where you could hear a pin drop in the studio while recording. They recorded it knowing it was going to sound scratchy and deep. And let me tell ya, the Rolling Stones and Johnny Cash both sound a million times better on vinyl than any other kind of recordings. If you don't believe me you can find out for yourself. Come over sometime. I'll pour you a glass of whiskey. We can smoke cigarettes and listen to Tom Waits. On vinyl.
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