Eureka!

So apparently, Dallas PD thinks that it has the right to hand out excessive fines for running yellow lights (an entirely legal traffic transaction; in fact, I think that I probably saved lives and donated to charities simply by refusing to brake). Now, if I take the matter to court (which I fully intend to do, particularly if I can get Brian "Strongarm" Loncar to get my back) it's my word against that of an obviously crooked cop with *ahem* some obvious emotional baggage.
Well....I found the loophole! After hours at the Royal branch of the Dallas library (too near the scene of the alleged incident for comfort, mind you)spent researching law, criminal justice, crooked cops, Sacco and Venzetti, Dallas penal code, and Siberian tigers, I found out that it is NOT illegal to implicate a cop in a male prostitution scandal if you have reason to believe that the accused cop is a major ASSHOLE!

P.D. Johnson's Dog Day Deli

Once more from Preston Center, I bring you news of fine cuisine and wacky atmosphere. This time, I'm reporting live from P.D. Johnson's, which believe it or not is located catty-corner to Wang's Chinese food (which should, in turn, be adjacent to both Woody's Lumberyard and Big Willy's Caulking Supplies). Sharing a wall with a 24 hour fitness, this little deli is a beacon of lunch salvation in a sea of Chipotle burritorias and Sonic Burgererias. Upon entering you are enveloped in a soothing wave of semi-titillating "Johnson" references and clever signs that may or may not be authentic (For example, the "Now Hiring: No Irish" rusted tin sign...ah, if only today's prejudices could be so well-founded). Although faced with several Cold Johnson, Hot Johnson, and Nearly-Foot-Long options, I quickly narrowed it down to either a "Heavy D," a corned beef variety with a curiously named 007 sauce, or "The Bone," which included a luxurious combination of cranberry sauce and cream cheese.
Now, something to consider when you inevitably end up choosing to eat at P.D. Johnson's is the entertainment. Pinned to the walls are several articles from The Onion, a brutally honest news source. Piled on the counter are practically current magazines for every interest and a pile of crossword puzzles copied out of recent newspapers (oh 47 down, why do you haunt me still?). I feel as though the needs of my intellect are as carefully considered at Johnson's as the needs of my belly.
Speaking of belly needs, the pot of gold at the end of this lunchmeat rainbow is filled with P.D. Johnson's brownies. Oh god. Give me a moment to reflect...
The brownies have gradually improved over time, becoming more and more undercooked (less and less cooked??) until they evolved into their current glory: an entirely uncooked puddle of brownie batter poured onto a square of saran wrap. This soupy nectar is then lovingly wrapped and molded into a rectangular prism resembling something more solid. This is not only efficient for the time-hoarding bigwigs at P.D.'s, but beneficial to today's learned (and startlingly sexy) brownie consumers --such as myself.
Major Caveat: If you order water, they charge you 23 cents for "cup and ice" even if you assure those bastards that you hate ice.
Related Bonus: The tap water charge absolutely eliminates the nasty guilt feeling usually associated with filling your "water" cup with Sierra Mist. Thesis Statement: Being a female patron of P.D. Johnson's doesn't get you free water, but it sure does make you feel uncomfortable while ordering up a 6 inch Bone.

Cosmic Cafe

The combination of vegetarian food, eastern religious figures and meditation practices has never been so hokey or super tasty as it is at Cosmic Cafe and Meditation Center on fabulous Oak Lawn Avenue. I have never felt so mock-spiritual in my life, and that includes my brief stint as a nun. Plus, after 5 straight hours of intense Dance Dance Revolution competition, there's nothing like a mango lassie to soothe my aching ankles.
So, Manimal, Jesus, and I once again visited this beacon of holy treats and sassy, if at all, service. The Manimal ordered the Taco Trinity from the "Oscillating Big Bang Entrees" section of the menu without a hint of irony and I believe he enjoyed it immensely, as evidenced by the beams of light pouring out of his eyes upon completion.
The Messiah and I bypassed the "Sidereal Allah Carte" menu, despite its having the silliest name and headed straight for the "Celestial Light Offerings" which were probably the heaviest items on the menu, despite their moniker. The Shiva pizza refreshed my DDR spirit with an exciting blend of peppers mushrooms and was that squash? Decidedly deit-astic. My Lord and Savior replenished his infinite strength and wisdom with A Fold in Thyme (what most inferior restaurants might have referred to as a wrap). He topped His meal off with a large-ass Mango Lassie and, in his enlightened state of digestion claimed, "This Lassie puts the ASS back in LIE." Holla', Jesus.
Main Idea: Get hip; eat Indian-esque food named after holy beings. Madonna would be so proud. Plus, an entire menu of vegetarian-friendly food is pretty tough to find in Dallas, so job well done.
Auxiliary Idea: Whether you eat meat or not, whether you enjoy sitar music or think it's for whiny babies and the Beatles, whether you're old or young, whether you get your saris from Bombay or Gap, the waitresses here will NOT pay any attention to you whatsoever. (Tip them anyway, assholes. They have bills, too. [Theirs are just sassier than ours.])

Fireflies

First there was the Cottonwood fascination. Now that pillow fight season has sadly passed, Texas has again offered up a new surprise: Lightning bugs. Fireflies. Whatever they're called, I had no idea these little flare guns actually existed until I lost my way and ended up here. One got trapped in the house once and in a misguided attempt to do some mating it started flashing his assets around our dining room (or dining area, as it could more fittingly be called). Isabella went nuts and aimed straight for its jugular (and a shelf full of champagne flutes) but, although they seem drunkenly slow, this one managed to escape harm and return to its singles bar on the patio in short order. In fact, those luminescent little devils' only purpose seems to be to procreate, and fly around slowly enough for little kids to catch 'em in jars for further observation. I mean, I've definitely never seen a dead lightning bug. I'm not sure exactly what it is yet, but there is a lesson to be learned from that.

La Duni

Fantastic. Finally a place that lives up to its recommendations. On McKinney, about a block north of Knox, La Duni is apparently a very hip place to be on a Friday night. Getting there just before 7, however, there was no wait for a meal. Just that certain sense of inferiority that you get when your car gets valet parked just after a lexus suv and just before an audi. Among the patrons were four "sex in the city"esque females, sporting pashminas draped over their shoulders despite the eighty five degrees waiting for them outside. Among those lucky enough to snatch a patio table was Michael Bolton and a female guest. At least I think it was him. But come to think of it, this guy's hair was kind of reddish, whereas Michael Bolton's hair does not currently exist.
But, by taking advantage of the early bird dinner hour, usually reserved for senior citizens and lame-o's, we were given an inside table immediately upon entering and loaded up pretty quickly with some very potent drinks. A mojito for me and a caipirhina for my mint-hating cohort. Accompanying our beverages was some of the finest salsa this side of Encinitas, with some generic but necessary chips.
I wouldn't say that La Duni has Mexican food. They call themselves a Latin bistro, but I wouldn't say that La Duni has Latin food, either (mostly because of my distaste for the ubiquity of the word "Latin". It has some identifiably Cuban fare with a little bit of Venezuelan or some other South American flavor thrown in. Think of plantains, think of mint. Think of pork, here we go. We had some sort of appetizer. It was lovely; plaintains filled with spicy shredded pork and black beans and topped with some kind of cheese. I had tacos al something and Manimal had quesadillas al something with mahi mahi. The only poor planning on the part of the restaurant was making the food so unpronounceable that nobody can possibly spread the word to anyone else about anything except the desserts (highly pronounceable and sooo good). So I guess I'll just tell you about those:
I had the Cuatro Leches cake and this is the superstar for which La Duni is famous. The price is a bit stiff, but who the hell cares? It's manteca cake (which I'm pretty sure means butter cake, so right away you know: nice) soaked in tres leches sauce and topped with cuatro leches sauce and a leche meringue whipped cream hybrid. That makes a startling total of ocho leches. So you're getting twice as many leches as you're paying for! Then it has a drizzle of caramel which makes this a dessert that you don't so much taste in your mouth as you do feel in your loins. Their other desserts look comparable but why on earth would anyone go through the trouble of ordering anything else? Stick with a sure thing. (On a sidenote, that is also the name of my new bestselling self-help book. "Stick with a sure thing: how to settle for second best and keep the status quo humming along nicely")
The service at La Duni was much spicier than the food. I'm pretty sure I must have inadvertantly slept with our waitress's boyfriend because damn, she was spitting fireballs at me all night. Not to mention all the inappropriate touching that she administered on my dinner mate. Did I care? Not with cake in front of me.
Thesis statement: Do not mess with a Cuban woman unless 8 milks are on the line.

Two Rows

I would like very much to say that I enjoyed this place. It was very late last night when we ate here and I was starving so I think that even Chick Fil-A would have seemed gourmet, but even still...
Two Rows is in Plano somewhere, near the tollway. Plano is pretty much all the same so I think if you went to any corner near the tollway, you would find it, or an equivalent eatery no problem. The best way for me to capture the experience is by taking you on a virtual tour. So, close your eyes for a moment. Oh shit, now how am I going to get you to open them. I hope you have one of those automated voice computers that blind people use to instant message....I really should have thought this virtual tour through before giving a command like that. Well, for those of you who lost patience and opened your eyes by now, I apologize. Don't close your eyes anymore.
Just picture TGI Friday's. Or, even better, go to their website and print out a picture. (I refuse, for ethical reasons, to include a link here) Scratch out the name of the restaurant and write Two Rows. BLAM! You've got a primo image without even having to utilize your poor overworked imagination.
The main draw of this place though, the thing that makes it worth driving 30 minutes to dine in, is its perplexing array of soups. They have a grand total of 2 soups: Taco Soup and Tortilla Soup. When I am able to discern between these two soups, even whilst enjoying them simultaneously, then and only then will my soul feel peace.
Auxiliary draw: They brew their own beer. The huge brewing tank, or "brank" if you would be so kind, sits out front like a water tower, promising refreshment and hops to all who enter.
Thesis Statement: At least Chick Fil-A has waffle fries.

Freebirds

I've been meaning to have an opinion on Freebird's World Burrito for quite some time now, but I think I'm just now getting around to it. I mean, it ain't no Rico's, that much I know.
I can't tell if I like Freebirds and their anti-corporate corporation, their hippy/redneck flavor, or if my DT's due to lack of guacamole are just making me think that I do. Either way, I go. I order my half bird with steak. I pay extra for guacamole. I pay $5.25 (pre-guacamole tax) for what passes as a meal. It beats paying nearly ten bucks for a monster, a tortilla piled so high with crap that it takes the fat man who orders it four bites just to penetrate the foil wrapping.
I go and I eat and I'm vaguely certain that I enjoy it. It's just that I've been to one location in Austin, one in Dallas (on Greenville Ave. and Lovers Ln.), and one in College Station (if ever a city could be categorized as a "total fucking mindfuck, bro") and each location is exactly the same as the next, from the half brick, half cement walls, to the foil sculptures left on the bricks by customers, to the giant Statue of Liberty on a Harley holding a burrito instead of a torch. I mean, if I had just gone to one, I might have been fooled into thinking it was unique, a novel place, where college kids can rediscover what tortilla-wrapped edibles should be.
But I didn't stop at one. Nay, I got hooked on their backwards F logo. I saw it, high on a shopping center marquee and I salivated. I imbibed again and again, until resistance was futile; I was no longer a consumer, but a puppet, controlled by a half-bird with no cheese. So do I still go to Freebird's? Of course. Do I enjoy it? maybe. But do I choose to eat their burritos? Quite the contrary. The burritos chose me.
(Wow. Pot really DOES affect yer brain.)
Also, if you're still interested, you can order your Birds online! They'll be waiting for you ten minutes later at your favorite location. Bitchin'.

Tolerable

Tolerable is the word of the week to describe this city. Sometimes Dallas can be downright tolerable. I'm starting to come around. I mean, 'member cottonwood trees? Those things are fucking awesome. They make me feel like I'm driving around in the middle of a cosmic pillow fight. And not in an intrusive, coitus interruptus way. In a nice participatory way.

Two Guys From Italy

As for the name of this restaurant...F that.
As for the rest, it's a little out of my particular way (on Webb Chapel and 635) but it's a prime date spot for the local high schoolers, so that's fun. Whereas Dallas guys take their prom dates to 2 guys from Italy, my prom dates were 2 guys from...no? already saw that one coming? well, SCREW YOU!
I guess it's sort of romantic in a painfully obvious way. In a two-people-sharing-one-booth sort of way. In a let-me-buy-you-a-twelve-dollar-bottle-of-white-wine,baby kind of a way. The ceiling is covered in what I presumed to be fake grape vines? but I suppose they could just as easily be fake bouganvillea? fake ivy? what the hell is that crap and just what about Italy is it supposed to represent? Do Italian people really feel more at home with empty wine bottles and grape vines over their heads? Is Italy primarily a dense jungle region? (I'd like you to note that I refrained from using the word "jungly" there out of pure respect for my readers.)
Apart from the atmosphere, which was bland at best, the food was all right. Gnocchi in orangey sauce and Dr. Pepper with those little crushed ice pieces. Mmmm. If french fries came with it, I'd be in heaven. Or some strange blend of several European countries. Same thing.

Keep on Truckin'

Y'know who sucks? SBC and all the internet service that they DON'T provide. Y'know who still rocks? The Professor.

The Skin Trade

'member when I mentioned these guys? Let's refresh...it was in the context of Rubber Gloves, they were very small, they moved me to the core, there was a question as to whether or not my Heineken wrote my editorial....
Anyway, at least the beer question was answered. Fully sober, I attended another hoedown Skin-Trade-style, and I was again reminded of exactly who "The Man" was and that I was fucking pissed at him. And so it goes...they're still awesome. This evening we discovered that the drummer who was so tinytiny I just wanted to store him in my pocket, or a tupperware (for freshness), had a birthday today and is (get this) TWENTY YEARS OLD! For real. My age guesstimations are going horribly awry. Next show they'll tell me that the singing guy is in his eighties, the bass player is already dead, and I am actually only 6 and a half. Coherent conclusion: Anybody have any beer? When the Heineken was talking (see RGRS; below), I made more sense.

Star Seeds

The Manimal and I went to Austin this weekend to visit Jesus for the big holiday (Passover) and despite the whole anti-leavening-agent aspect of the week, we indulged in some sweet-ass gingerbread pancakes at the Magnolia. Sacrelicious. Then, upon the recommendation of some burger-craving crazies (I have my doubts as to the extent of their sobriety), we opted the next morn to branch out from the Magnolia's unholy offerings and dine at the Stars Cafe, as it is known in the Day's Inn parking lot, or Star Seeds, as it is known inside the place. Forewarning: This cafe should offer in lieu of a requisite height sign, a la the Gravitron, a sign with a prerequisite coolness quotient ("Must be at least THIS hip to eat omelettes herein" or "Must wear at least 67% black leather at all times to enter" or, "If you've had a haircut recently, don't bother"). I walked in wearing tennis shoes and I can't express the shame I felt in blog format.
But, as long as you meet the standards, in the Star Seeds cafe, you will find what can only be described as "some large ass breakfast tacos." I guess I could describe them more...uh, descriptively than that but I'm still suffering from heartburn induced by my Sunbow breakfast plate. Jesus ordered one of the aforedescribed (albeit poorly) tacos and was rendered speechless (which, if you've ever hung out with the savior, you know is nothing short of miraculous). The Lord also appreciated the fact that there were so many vegetarian options available.
Another bonus of the Star Seeds, besides the fact that the hipness even oozed from their crackly stereo system, was the wall decor. Art pieces by what I can only imagine are the hottest young artists of the Austin-area, depicting super-IN topics such as how the Man is oppressing us and how all the latest wars are simply a byproduct of the Man's oppression and also how bikinis were invented by the Man as a way of oppressing women. It was good early-morning contemplation fodder. You know, the kind of stuff that really makes you feel oppressed before you've even had your morning 'ccino.
So, the Main Idea? Those burger-craving crazies are friggin' cool, yo. I would have never thought to look in a motel parking lot to find true breakfast salvation.

On the Subject of Awesome

For those of you who are interested (which should be all..what, four of you?), the Skin Trade will be putting in an appearance at the Rubber Gloves on Saturday, April 17. They'll most likely be the opening act (seeing as how they're neonates), so you can get there at 11, drink a Heineken, let their holy sound renew you, and be out the door before you have to sit through Jackson 8 or 40 Minutes of Hell (seriously, those are the band names; you can't make this shit up). What do you say, Freaky Jesus? Is a trip to Dallas in your near future? It's just post-holy week; you're sure to be resurrected by then.

The Flying Fish

hmmm...what to say about this neon-lovin' place in Preston Square, just west of the Metro Diner, just east of the wig supply shop. Well, i have to show proper appreciation to the place that reminds me of why I haven't run screaming from Texas yet: hushpuppies and catfish. In fact, just getting a "meow mix" combo of food that is all so deeply fried as to be uniform in color makes me want to stick around just a little longer.
But, first things first. This restaurant is one of I think two in the greater Dallas area and was created by the son of the guy who started Six Flags Over Texas, the amusement park, but I didn't learn all that history until after the hushpuppy fact, so it's not necessary for me to debrief you on all of this. The Flying Fish is set in two dining rooms, separated by a screen door. The front dining room has no windows, just open space, attempting (I think) to give it a waterfront or pier-esque feeling. Unfortunately, these charming open spaces offer a view of the majestic Luther Lane parking complex, which is home to much less marine life, but surprisingly smells just as fishy. But it was a really nice attempt at making me feel coastal once more. Rather than being served at the table, one must stand in line to order food, which saves money on tip, but doesn't save time. However, one more bonus: if the line is long, this really tall guy who I'm not sure is actually employed by the restaurant will give you free hushpuppies. mmmmm. how I love food named after baby animals. Plus, the decor is definitely something at which to marvel. Adjacent to the line is the fishermen's hall of fame wall, with pictures of fishermen and all their vital stats, their turn-ons, their turn-offs (I'm not sure of the proper pluralization of that; if you are in a position to advise, please do), and the photos are oddly stuck to the wall with notebook paper reinforcers, which finally gives those things a function in modern times, so that's cool.
The front dining room is home to the world's first Billy Bass Adoption Center, meaning that lame-o's can give their singing fish to the establishment and be rewarded with a free meal. However, the rest of us are punished for this act by having to listen to those damn fish for an entire meal, as children are invariably seated next to the adoption wall and are invariably looking for a good ass-whoopin'.
One caveat: There were several typos and misspellings located all over the restaurant, as though the restauranteurs were in such a hurry to serve catfish to the masses that they thought they would just overlook the rules and intricacies of the English language. Did they not anticipate that they would one day cater to the Professor, with her high standards of quality and almost maniacal urges to proofread? What the hell? Anyway, the misspelling of the word "piece" was understandable; who can remember that whole "i before e" thing in a pinch (besides me). But "chiken"? Please. Your goddamn menu deserves a little more respect than that. On my next visit, I'm getting a magic marker and adding a ^ and a 'c' to that shit. I think we'll all feel a little more comfortable after that.

Beth Marie's

I spent a recent balmy evening in Denton, TX. For those of you (and by you, I mean me) who are unfamiliar with the mini-city of Denton, let me explain that Denton is to Austin as a really smart fetus is to the muthafuckin' Professa'. We clear? So anyway, it was warm out, as Texas is inclined to be (at its coldest), and I felt a yen for some "homemade" ice cream and so headed in to Beth Marie's. I will not delve here into my passionate beliefs about the application of the word "homemade" to for-profit establishments, but I will tell you what I thought of the place. First off, I felt upon entering that this small-town ice cream parlor was unsettlingly bar-like: from the men sitting at the counter who scrutinized my assets, all the way to the hot chicks behind the counter who refused me service in favor of helping my male counterparts, who they thought perhaps would be more likely to tip when intoxicated with Rocky Road. The dim lighting may have been an imaginary byproduct of my general bar-infused-memory of the place, but I could have sworn it was fucking dark in there, man. In fact, this strange tavern quality was so disquieting to me that I hardly remember anything about the ice cream itself. Except that when one is anticipating a shot of tequila in a lime-rimmed glass, a scoop of Tin Roof in a waffle cone is not a bad substitute. Main Idea: In this honky-tonk world of high-speed telegraphs and motorized carriages, it's good to know that there still exist some things that make you go "hmmm.."

Oh, the places we'll go...

Here are the top ten places that we will go to breakfast if you're visiting me in Dallas, TX:
1. Cafe Brazil-I can't let anyone subject themselves to Dallas without a well-deserved reward of Chorizo Avocado omelets or Fruity PanCrepes. Plus, there's a coffee bar. How often does one enjoy all the comforts of a bar at 8 in the morning?
2. Breadwinners- We will go to the new location of this restaurant on Lover's Lane and Inwood and we will indulge in overpriced mimosas and Miguel's eggs. Then, we will buy a pecan sticky bun and live off of its adhesive nectar for weeks on end (possibly in the woods!)
3. Angela's Cafe- I just love it when old ladies call me hon' whilst they pour me mug upon mug of diner coffee. And, I looooves me some tacos on the breakfast menu, just to keep the option open.
4. Panera Bread- I don't even care that this place is a chain. We will have blueberry bagels and raspberry cream cheese and we shall rejoice in the existence of carbohydrates.
5. The donut place next to Holy Smokes where they give you free donut holes while you're deciding what you want- 'nuff said.
6. Magnolia Cafe- I don't give a shit if we have to drive all the way to Austin to get us some damn breakfast, I WANT GINGERBREAD PANCAKES AND I WANT 'EM NOW!
7. Kathleen's Art Cafe- The walls say artsy and the prices say "we only cater to rich people," but I'm listening anyway. They give you free blueberry thingies while you wait for your we're-too-good-for-omelets-style eggs.
8. La Madeleine- I would like the strawberry crepes, please, with a dozen of them crow-sants on the side.
9. Metro Diner- I like my runny eggs with a side of feminism...or biscuits.
10. Celebrity Cafe- Because by the time you've visited me long enough for ten consecutive breakfasts together, perhaps the mediocrity of Celebrity will serve as impetus to git yer ass back home.

Meta-holy shit...

So, just below, I weblinked a photo of a churchsign from the "real church signs" page of churchsigngenerator.com (a fully legal and heartsmart act, according to blogger terms and conditions). Then, the lord, in the form of some sarcastic bitch ass replaced my curious picture with an even more curious note saying that I am an evil person with unethical web practices. The real irony here is that the church sign said, "God wants to kill you." I thought I was in deep shit then, when the wrath of the lord was upon me, but now, with the wrath of the condescending web imp on me, I feel further immersed in shit than ever before. F you, web imp.

Holy Shit...

Metro Diner

I was not moved terrifically by the Metro Diner (Preston Village area, off Northwest Highway, next to the place that sells a refreshing combination of sunglasses and teddy bears), but there were a few things of note about it that I don't mind sharing on this, the World Wide Web. If you can't share it here, where nobody can hear you, then where CAN you share it, eh? Anyway, the establishment was small, one of the few unfranchised restaurants in the Preston/NW Hwy area, I believe. It was cheap (like me!) and I ordered a breakfast combo called the Woody (insert another cheap joke here...). There appeared no earthly reason for the name; it seemed like your basic Denny's Grand Slam with the added flavor of lard (I'm not arguing). Things to note: Our waitress was female, the girl at the register was female (as most girls are, regardless of the presence of a register), the cook was female, the person who appeared to do nothing save for open and close the refrigerator was female. If the owner of this establishment is a man, then let me struck down dead now because I would really like to think of this place as a little oasis of feminism; the only truly empowering place for a woman to eat her eggs overeasy and get a real shitty cup of coffee with some cream that's been sitting out all day. And there was no cheesy music playing, which would have been a nod to all the mainstream feminist bullshit that doesn't do anything except give women something lame to spend their money on. The fact that the diner was only ten feet by twenty feet (kitchen included) only made me more certain that this was more than a mediocre diner. This was...this was....aw shit, I just lost my whole dissertation. Anyway, main idea: eat at Metro Diner if you don't mind crispy bacon served with a crispier attitude. Thesis statement: Plus, they have biscuits!

RGRS

Last Saturday, I decided to attend a concert. This concert was of the informal variety and was held to honor a band they call Fishboy. Yes, Fishboy: the band, the myth, the legend, dare I say....the legendary myth-band? This legendary band's informal concert (which might also be called a "jam session" or "rocksteady hoedown") was held in the somewhat less legendary and somewhat more informal Rubber Gloves Recording Studio in Denton, TX. This place is bad ass, be forewarned. However, the band, who I had actually never heard of, will remain unheard of and unheard, because I was exhausted early in the night by the absolute awesomeness that is: The Skin Trade. Maybe this is the Heineken talking but when they walked out on stage (or "bunch of 2 by 4's" as it is also known) I was thinking, "This band will not be awesome" and I was proved utterly wrong. Later that night, standing corrected, I instead thought, "That band was totally awesome." Again, this may be the beer, but I've known few beers to be so eloquent.
Their first song started out with some light guitar plucking (visualize: pluck,pluck,pluck) and some subtle cymbal tickling (shishsihsihsihsihishishishishi) and the vocal guy (or "singing vocals guy" as the position is also referred to) starting singing about flowers and sunsets or some shit. But then (oh just wait) the bassist guy who looked about 9 starting fully reminding us all of our respective genders by smashing music out on that thing as though the sweet lord himself willed it. Then the drummer, who was maybe 4 and a half, started drumming those drums like they were....fucking DRUMS, man. And the vocal guy, who hadn't even been born yet, did a 180 and started wailing as though the Man was oppressing him right there in the Rubber Gloves and he had to tell him to shove it at triple the allowable zygotic volume. My cronies and I were like, "Fishboy rocks," but then, it turned out that these gods of rockage were the local band and their name was truly terrible: The Skin Trade. We figured if the local band could move our loins in this manner, Fishboy is going to be off the charts. But then the next band redefined "sucking", so we just left. Our pride was scarred, our logic thrown. We were afraid we would start sucking by association and we just really wanted to continue to think of Fishboy as some elusive, mutant, semi-aquatic band. I think that was achieved. Anyway, the Main Idea: go to RGRS. it's the hipster/fundaddy/cement/ax-bearing/Vans-wearing/gimme-another-32ozCoorsLight swingers club that you've been looking for with a fire in your belly. Supporting Idea: Keep your eye on the Skin Trade. They are sure to moisturize your retinas, if you know what I'm saying. Thesis Statement: Fishboy. Live the Legend.

Spiritual Guidance

I'm back, and this time...it's personal. So I don't really feel like talking about it.