First and foremost: Thanks (and sorry-s)  to Kate, the best webmistress-XBox RB2 singer-shoulder to cry on around, for starting my blah-g (and moving it (which was no small feat)) and then watching me not use it to the fullest extent of it purpose.

Second: Thanks (and sorry-s) to my three readers (you (and I) know who you are) and I’ll try to be more prompt in my musings and extraneous crap.

So in my last post I alluded to a wedding in CO I was to attend (and which forced me to append my ZZTop Dream-Beard). I attended said wedding and much fun was had. My sister (and obligatorily-mentioned (but still well-loved)) brother-in-law happen to live in Fort Collins so two (or three, depending on perspective) birds were killed with one stone.  That Friday Kelly and I had our customary pedicures. Her normally Smelly-Guy was thankfully un-smelly and my usually awesome, overly-attentive pedi by the owner was instead administered by my ex-girlfriend’s (equally half-assed) clone. I love getting my toes done but, as a dude, I always feel like an intruder.

The best man at the wedding, Matt (my co-best-friend back in Denver) and the groom, Cheese (his room-mate (also a wonderful friend)) had introduced me on a couple of occasions to their friend D-Joe. He seemed like a nice enough fellow but he moved back to OKC. Two years later when I was moving to OK they were like “Hey! You’ve got a mutual friend there, already!” And I was all, like, “But I’ll be in Tulsa. I’ll bug ya ’bout it when I’m settled”… Two years passed. I wind up moving to OKC.

So I fly back for the wedding and am invited to an after-rehearsal-dinner shindig at Cheese’s. It turns out D-Joe’s one of his groom’s men.  I’m reintroduced and ask “So. Where in OKC you live?” and he responds “Like 82nd and Western. It’s called the Lightning Creek Apts”. And I’m like “… I live in Lightning Creek Apts…”. It turns out we’d been neighbors for more than a year. Worse yet: The Wednesday before I flew/he drove out to CO we’d both done laundry. He’d said “Hey.” I’d said “How’s it goin’?” in that non-committal way. Small world or coincidence? (Here’s a pic of D-Joe just to break text):

The shindig turned into a night to remember. It involves 2 strip clubs, 100 miles, X-treme Drunken Driving (as a sport (I was an inebriated passenger!)), a possible (and unexpectedly) Neo-Nazi at the wheel and details more graphic (!!) than I’m willing to detail here. Much booze-bottle-smashing-on-interstate-highways was accomplished with zero repercussions (Nights like these make me want to  attempt more impossible/awful illegal endeavors). Not a good thing.

In other month-old news: I bought my first suit! And my second! (The Men’s Wearhouse had a buy one/equal value or less+ $100). My first suit looks like this:

My second suit’s a sort-of-gray-checked-Saturday-Night-Fever-Three-Piece affair. (I say that especially because I tried it on with a loaner flat-black shirt). I couldn’t have that one fitted because my gut required it be let out 3 inches and the tailor could only accommodate 2. It’s waiting for me down the street. Once I lose an inch. Or three. Plus I need to grow an ass.

The wedding itself was fine. My “date”, Matt, was obligated with Best Man duties so I was happily recognized by his ex-GF Liz. I was relieved to have someone to visit with during the ceremony. Sparks seemed to fly (I’m awfully naive (and any interest may have been equal relief/make-jealous bullshit) but ex-GF status/ex-BF status/my BF status) took care of everything. I had chocolate fondue (first time!) but it really just seemed to be decent-fruit and oh-yeah here’s a bowl of semi-warm Hershey’s Syrup to go with.

The day after I drove the rented Caddy back to Denver and spend the day with my other co-best-friend, James and his live-in Amber (“Jamber”). We spent a few hours drinking beer and touring The Great Divide Brewery. James asked a pointed question about driving propane-fueled forklifts in such an enclosed space and I was proud. I wanted to ask “If you were a hot dog…. Would you eat yourself? I know I would.” but chickened out. We walked downtown and caught the free Mall-Ride and took this pic:

They took me out for real-ass-smothered-in-Green-Chile-burrito in a re-purposed Village Inn under I-70. I got the regular. James ordered the big boy. It looked like this:

That picture was intended to show how big that burrito was compared to his face. In hindsight, it doesn’t look big enough. But, trust me, it was realllllly big.

To be continued.

CFD has a new home. It looks a little anemic right now because I’m trying to work out some design details, and CFD himself is out of town. (Timing fail.) I sort of did this without showing it to him first, so here’s hoping he likes tolerates it for now.

-ks

But this Thursday, I fly to Denver to attend a wedding on Saturday and … I just don’t want to be “That Guy” in Cheese’s wedding photos. But I’d put so much effort into effortlessness that I didn’t want to just kiss it all away so easily.

Tuesday:

(I dunno why I LOVE this pic but I fell in love and emulated the look for the following pics.)

Wednesday:

This day was the worst. Just look at that monstrosity!

Thursday:

This day was easily the most popular. Curly is ballsy and invited lots of intimations about Mr. Monopoly, Ringmasters, That Guy Who Wasn’t Dudley Do-Right, Turn-Of-The-Century-Strongmen-With-Labeled-Round-Barbells, etc. Personally, it was the worst day. It looked good ‘n’ funny, but the pomade I used to curl it kept running into my mouth and I spent the whole day with a chemical taste in the back of my throat.

Friday:

I slicked my hair back (what hair I have left [in the front, anyway])) and caught hell about that (“Zorro!” “Rico Suave!” etc.), as opposed to my crappy, blond nod to Gable and Addams.

Saturday:

Finale:

Big beard: Mom hates it. Friends applaud it. Coworkers comment on it.

This week’s change/performance: Out of 60 or so coworkers only 10 percent seemed to be “in” on the joke/performance (if you could even call it that).

I’m growing back my old 1/8-inch beard because, as the pictures attest, I’m a chinless freak.

[P.S. I'd have normally spelled "Beardie" as "Beardy," but for pun's sake, I went against my own spelling fastidiousness.]

• “Is this your idea of funny? Which one of you farted in this bag of Cheetos? I just opened a new bag and it smells like fart.”

• “How can I grow my own Funyuns?”

• “This bag of Rold Gold Pretzels:
sold my neighbor’s kid counterfeit tickets to see Foreigner at the State Fair!”
is looking at me funny.”
ran up charges on my credit card!”
wrote an inflammatory email to my boss!”
gave me head lice!”

• “I read that you’re coming out with some new Star Trek-flavored Doritos. Which captain will the bag feature? Kirk or Picard?”

• “Is it true that Chuck Berry’s Ghost is scheduled to be on your board of directors?”

• “This Christmas tree is defective!”

Well 30-some years later I’ve managed a 180:

The kid on the card isn’t actually me. And the choice of card is no happy accident. In fact Mom helped make PottyShirt v1.0.

She also got me this:

1. Be illiterate. When the arresting officer asks you to recite the alphabet backwards simply burst into tears and sob something to the effect of “I can’t read! I never learned my BVDs!”

2. Be an amputee. Walking a straight line is tough enough even sober. Walking a straight line missing a leg/wearing a prosthetic/using those weird polio crutches is probably nigh-impossible. The bright side is you’ll have hopping in place on one leg down pat.

3. Lack a nose. If asked to hold your arms apart and slowly touch your nose simply point out your missing proboscis and the incredible insensitivity of the arresting officer. An industrious drunk might be tempted to endeavor in an impromptu nose-ectomy but, per the old adage, it’s never a good idea to cut off one’s nose to spite the fuzz.

Made a new shirt.

‘Nuff said.

I coughed up the dough and they asked 10 questions to which I replied:

“1. Danceable psychedelic 60’s-80’s pop with an infectious gang-vocal-worthy chorus that would sell a metric shit-ton of cat food. P.S. I’m a huge Ween fan.
2. I’d like the chorus to incorporate my nickname: “Dr. Ew”. I like it pronounced “Doctor Oooooo (as in “Ooooooo! That feels awesome!”)” as opposed to “Doctor Ewwwww (as in “Ewwwww! That smells nasty!”)”. Feel free to snoop my blog www.cheddarfondrew.com/ for other various lyrical content.
3. “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones, “Rock n Roll Hoochie Koo” by Rick Derringer, “Steppin’ Out” by Joe Jackson, “Hot Pants” by James Brown
4. I like rock drums, farty/wet bass, squiggly synth lines, funky horn charts and swirling acid-soaked guitars. I’d like a little glockenspiel, if possible. You guys can go nuts but I’d prefer something that wasn’t too busy to enjoy.
5. Somewhere between lots and oodles.
6. All of the above
7. PG-13 (Two “fucks” max)
8. I’d like to hear my jam before 2010.
9. Can I answer that after I’ve heard it?
10. Sure. What the hell!”

And I really enjoy the results.

Pros: The guitar is acid-soaked, the synth couldn’t be squigglier, there’s a glockenspiel and my chorus is seriously bad-ass (the back-up vocals sound more Gener than hot black ladies but I’m still going to imagine hot black ladies).
(Minor) Cons: The bass is awesome (especially the breaks before the choruses) but could be wetter, somewhere along the line Tom Jones turned into Fred Schneider (which is actually kinda awesome) and the lack of a funky horn chart.

If them dudes ever make it OK way I daydream they’ll bill it as “Drewbious Ranger” and let me on stage for a “Dr. Ew” freakout.