Not sure why'd you want to be Prindle, check this out:
Ha ha! WHEE! Let me tell you about a GOOD old time I had last night!
Drinking vodka always sounds like a good idea, so away I went as the R-rated film Games Girls Play made its titillating way across my computer monitor. Hours later, we were at the local Arriba Arriba Mexican Restaurant enjoying some Paella Crepe and Salmom when suddenly the mixture of alcohol, unemployment and unpaid back wages sloshed my brain into an unrecognizable state of despair and self-pity. As usual, out came the suicidal threats. Oh! how the wife does love those drunken suicidal threats. So her three sheets to the wind RAGE rose, and some mean-spirited yelling at me occurred. As we left the restaurant, I hailed the cab, let her in first, then threw in my keys and wallet, closed the door, and walked off towards the East River to drown my sorrows in waves of Death. Next thing you know, she's chasing after me and some nicer things were said and she convinced me to come home with her and everything was just dandy, UNTIL......
When we arrived at our homeside destination, the taxi driver requested his payment, as they do. I slurred to wife, "You have my wallet." She screamed back, "NO I DON'T!" Me: "You lost my wallet?" HER: "YOU DIDN'T GIVE IT TO ME!" Me: "I threw it right next to the keys!" Her: "I DIDN'T SEE IT!" Me: (*gets out of the car; walks off towards the East River to drown my breathing in waves of water*). Her (to cabbie): "THANKS ASSHOLE! YOU JUST KILLED MY HUSBAND!"
Next thing you know, nobody's chasing after me and I'm just a few yards from the East River when I realize, "Holy Christ it's cold out here." It was like 2 degrees and I wasn't wearing my scarf. I guess the gusty winds of time (and wind) served to sober me up a bit because suddenly the idea of plunging my already cold body into an even colder body (of water) seemed like a flagrantly foul idea. So I walked home, humiliated and chilly.
But wait! There's much much more! I finally got home to my apartment building, rang the bell, got buzzed in by the wife and - because I felt so stupid - sat at the bottom of the five-flight stairway to my aptment for about five minutes. Finally I worked up the whatever to face the piper, trudged upstairs, walked in to the chipper sounds of my wife drunkenly saying, "I'm so glad you're home!" And HERE'S where a bit of common sense on my part would've saved me a whole lotta achin'.
I began yelling at her for losing my wallet. Next thing you know, she's BEATING THE HELL OUT OF ME and screaming that I'm not a man and she doesn't want to be married to me anymore. These are always great experiences for a drunken husband so I of course felt like even more of a failure and cried even more. Finally I got sick of her angry abuse, slapped her hard across the face, held her down and told her I was mad as hell and wasn't going to take it anymore. Then I went in the other room and cancelled my credit and debit card. Poor Henry The Dog was so frightened by the whole experience, he kept running up and down the stairs all nervously. When I finally went to bed, he snuggled up to me though, like a good boy. Granted, he had terrible gas all night, but come on it's the thought.
Morning came and the wife was still pissed at me. She didn't finally warm up until I told her that I don't want to drink anymore. Then I looked in the mirror and saw that she'd given me a huge red bruise on my right eyelid, which seemed to support my decision. Alcohol and unemployment just aren't mixing for me this time. If I ever get another job, I'll start drinking again but for now it hardly seems worth the risk of ending my marriage!
And wouldn't you know it: the cabbie turned my wallet in to a Bronx police precinct! All the money was apparently still in there too, although the Bronx precinct where I picked up the wallet informed me that I'd have to pick up the money at a DIFFERENT precinct next week. Not sure what that bit of red tape was all about but whatever.
The bottom line is that marriages can be difficult because life can be difficult. She can't understand how I could let myself get $9,000 in the hole with my boss, but quite frankly I only found out about it by ACCIDENT and at that point she'd owed me $13,500!
I actually talked to my ex-boss today, btw. She says that I have one check coming in the mail this week, and then a final check from Payroll coming at the end of the month. I also had a consultation with a lawyer today, just in case she once again doesn't come through. I'll keep you posted!
This album stinks.
THE VERY END, AFTER WHICH THERE IS NOTHING.
After a 6,000-year break resulting from Roger Miller's broken ears, Mission of Burma reunited with Shellac's Bob Weston taking the role of "guy who records a vocal and then plays it back at a different speed for no reason." The mix is very tough and strong with a warm reverbed guitar tone replacing the scratchiness of old, but Miller's voice is still weak, Conley doesn't sound like Mick Jones anymore, and the two together create some of the most godawful vocal harmonies ever released. Slightly off-key with one voice too high, terrible vocal performances like "Falling," "What We Really Were" and "Fake Blood" can't help but make you wonder if Miller's ears are even more damaged than he thought.
Furthermore, the experimental side of the band has taken so far a back seat that it might as well be in the trunk. Most of this is just basic guitar rock -- alternately punky, funky, indie, strummy, anthemic and emotional. A few suitably creative ideas stand out from the pack; the three-chord harmonics riff of Prescott's "The Enthusiast," alarmingly eerie cowpunk of Conley's "Nicotine Bomb" and dark'n'speedy two-note lick of Miller's "Playland" are particularly sharp. But the other highlights are just everyday rock songs that happen to hit the right melodic buttons. For example, as much I enjoy "Dirt," it could've just as easily been a Tom Petty song without his fans lashing an eyebat!
Onoffon does have its moments -- just fewer of them than ever before or since. Too many songs are mired in rotten vocals and bad decisions. Miller's Tuff-Funk-Rockers "Wounded World" and "Fever Moon" may in fact be the worst songs the band has ever recorded -- quite a feat for the guys who did "Learn How"! And did they honestly not notice that the first and fifth songs on here use the same exact chord sequence? (The first is faster, and therefore better).
Okay, I'm GONNA GO KILL MYSELF NOW GWERHGINRRRRRRRRRRRRR
― frogbs, Tuesday, 14 June 2011 23:28 (twelve years ago) link
one year passes...
one year passes...