Lil Dicky visits my root canal

I was told root canals are awful and painful. And maybe to people who haven’t squeezed 8-pound masses of human out of their vaginas, they are.

So while I’m laying there this week in a serene hour of root canal heaven, with my face numb and a “rubber dam” wrapped around my tooth that seemed strangely similar to the dental dams used for safe oral sex with women, I realized how I wouldn’t really mind starting out every day of the week like that.

And lo, an angel came to me during this paradise. An angel endodontal assistant named Kolby. He was a sweet Michael Cera-type that reminded me of my little brother, kind of awkward but wanted me to have a good experience. Talking about being an usher in his friend’s wedding that weekend, I would guess he was about 28 years old and just barely learning the ways of pleasing the ladies/mens, but I digress. The important thing about this encounter was how uncomfortable he seemed with waiting in silence while we waited for the numbing effects of the novocaine to set in.

michael ceraDuring this waiting period, the endodondist would go away and attend to other patients. So it was just me and Kolby. And Kolby was what we call a “nervous talker,” filling silence with whatever he could pull out of his ass simply because he had no idea how badly I wanted to sit there in silence. But he didn’t call me “mommy” so I’ll give him a pass. What he DID tell me was how my endodontist’s daughter was making her way in Hollywood, appearing in small films and music videos. “I was at my buddy’s playing board games one night, and she showed up in one of the music videos on YouTube. And I thought–hey I know that girl!”

Me, with my mouth wide open and this rubber dental dam on my face, said “Oh yeah, what music video?” He didn’t understand me. “Whuh mu-ic vi-eo?” He didn’t anticipate the questions I might have in my awkward position as he detailed shit I barely care about. “‘Lemme Freak’ by Lil Dicky,” he said, hesitantly. I could almost hear his inner thoughts as he squeaked out that secret, realizing maybe, just maybe, it’s not his place to be sharing this information about his boss’ daughter to the patients. Who knows, maybe the endodontist doesn’t give a fuck. But sweet little awkward Kolby had to say the words “Lemme Freak” to me as I lay there in front of him with my mouth wide open and sedated, so who knows. Not only that, but the video is kinda fucked up but I have to applaud Lil Dicky’s lyricism. Mayhap my endodontist feels the same way.

What took this whole surreal experience to another level was how I dreamt last night that I recounted this exchange to my friend Beth in a bar, because in weird dream-land this information tied directly to her in some random way. My mouth was even numb as I told her this tale. However, after that point I leave the bar and go home, but on my way home I stop by my dad’s house because I really needed him to perform an exorcism in my upstairs bathroom. A demon-possessed cat had taken over the bathroom and had been causing ongoing flooding and general disarray.

My dad took one look at the cat and said, “that cat–he’s the ‘beast’.” Well no fucking shit, he’s a cat of course he’s “the beast.” Fucking cats. Gross.

Until the quiet comes.

Flying Lotus – Until The Quiet Comes [short film, dir. Kahlil Joseph]

Featured Songs (in order of appearance):
“See Thru To U” (feat. Erykah Badu)
“Hunger” (feat. Niki Randa)
“Getting There” (feat. Niki Randa)

The only thing we know is Work hard, Play hard.

Worky Jerky getting the best of you?

I’d much rather write about a bunch of bullshit on the internet than sit in this cubicle and work. Even if I DO look hot in these tweed slacks.  My mind explodes with the useless shit I plan to shower on you in the coming weeks. I’m recruiting some sexy assholes to help me with this. Let’s face it, I’m a lazy muthafucka. I choose the elevator over the stairs probably 3 out of 4 times. My love handles say to you “You’re welcome.”

I’m feeling inspired this week. What’s making your panties wet, people?

What happens at RiversEdgeMusicFestival stays at RiversEdgeMusicFestival (and on the internet…forever).

Fuckin’ awesome weekend with my sister-in-law (known in blog-land as doodoomamajuju, or “Ju” for short) at the Rivers Edge Music Festival in St. Paul, Minnesota. First off, let it be said that she’s one badass sexy muthafucka. Ju, that is. And she was one of maybe six non-whities at the festival. Making her the sacrificial lamb of the Asian community of the greater Midwest. On more than one occasion I thought to myself, “White people at concerts. What the fuck?”  What is it with white people not wearing shoes at concerts? That’s so fuckin’ nast. The array of white shame thrust in my face was incalculable. Dear guy with the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves that said “it ain’t gonna lick itself”, we all know you have never seen a vagina. And you likely never will.

I also got to meet Satan this weekend. He’s no where near as intimidating as I expected him to be. He really just wanted to enjoy the Flaming Lips. Who put on a DAMN GOOD show, by the way. Even Satan was pleased. Look how he’s been inspired to share his water with his neighbor. That’s downright Christ-like.

May I be so bold as to offer up some fashion advice for all you sexy crackas that frequent summer concerts and music festivals? Please stop wearing fucking fedoras. That shit is not cool. The ONLY person in the land of the free that should EVER wear a fedora is THIS guy. No one else. Please stop wearing them.  Also, the only–and I mean the ONLY–person who can wear boat shoes and not look like a total douchebag is Sugardaddy. And that’s because he’s a serious geek and doesn’t try to be lookin’ all “boss” in fuckin boat shoes. Hooker please. Best t-shirt award goes to this guy, wearing the Vanilla Ice t-shirt. Well done, sir, for also not looking like a pretentious asshole at today’s show. You are one of the few, and you did well. With your “I don’t give a shit” attitude–if you act swiftly and strategically– you may just see a vagina at some point in your lifetime.  You know who else might get to see a vagina one day? This dude with the faux-hawk and amazing mustache, who was so kind as to have his picture taken with Ju. He stood mext to us the night before at the Tool concert, and his mustache was like a bright star in a sea of fashion darkness. Especially when a dirty little shirtless white dude with “dreads” pushed up behind me and started getting all up on my shit. We will call him Edgar, because he had a tramp stamp on his back that literally said “Edgar”. Either that’s his name and he tattooed it there so that the nameless stranger who would bend him over that night would know what name to call out, or that’s the name of the person who owns him, and has branded his name where he can see it when he’s making him his little bitch. Either way, to me, the bitch who yelled at him, he will forever be Edgar. Another little piece of advice… if you are at a Puscifer concert, leave your flowery parasol at home. Just a suggestion.

Also, may I wax a little bit on the whole VIP deal? Now, I understand that you have to pay a LOT more to be a VIP. So, unless you get something substantial out of that deal (which in this case you did not), you will only look like a huge fuckface by standing in the VIP cage… directly next to everyone else… as we roam freely on the less than crowded concert grounds.  I’m not kidding, you look like fucking tools.  So, it could not have been for any other reason than to punish you by drawing attention to this douchery, that this woman decided to hula hoop like a damned fairy in the middle of the VIP cage.  Oh, and 19-year-old girl sitting forlornly like a scorn hipster against the inside of the VIP cage wall, smoking a cigarette like fuckin’ Johnny Depp, I’m sorry that your parents decided to cut you off and force you to grow up and pay for your own shit like the rest of society… like VIP tickets to this music festival. Here, let me buy your poor entitled ass a beer. Oh wait, you’re 19. That’s not legal. Here, here’s a double-shot-no-fat-vanilla-latte. No whip. (*get a job*).

Ooooooooooooh wait a minute….!!! So THAT’S why you would buy VIP tickets to sit in that pathetic little cage. To stay away from THESE guys. The goth emo muthafuckas who love to feel the depth of emotion from the music, the trees, the earth, the sky, and from each other’s rarely washed bodies. HOURS later, we walked past them laying on their blanket, legs intertwined and arms around each other, listening to Flaming Lips. I’m sure they are still there, three days later. Because these guys would do some dramatic shit like that.

Douchebag Award goes to this guy with the ankle tattoo, wearing a polo from Abercrombie or American Eagle or some shit like that, sitting alone on a blanket he brought from his mommy’s house, smoking a cigar with his one little douchey knee up in the air. You, my love… I want to destroy you.

A very special “Thank you”  goes to Steve, the frizzy red-haired corn-rowed hippie from Minot, North Dakota, for sharing the Mike’s Hard Lemonade on a hot summer night, thereby keeping Ju nicely sloshed during the Tool show while she watched the love of her life Maynard James Keenan serenade her. Also, special thanks to the two large dudes (aka “Johnny Knoxville” and “Bouncer”) who cleared a path toward the front for us ladies at the Puscifer show.  You really deserve a little boobie flash from us, but you’re not going to get it. Thank you for your grace and sacrifice.

We got tom-toms over here bigger than a monsta.

“But I take a left and leave ’em hangin’ like a teste.” – Nicki Minaj, ‘My Chick Bad’ by Ludacris

You knew it was only a matter of time before something threw that special little happy place I was in for a couple of weeks straight into the commode of cynical frustration with the world.  It’s just how things are. It’s nature. It’s science.  So now I blog to you MFer(s). (You’re welcome, K-Money.)

After a little hiatus from workin’ for a living, in order to nurture some lil’ babies (you know, chewing their food and spitting it into their open mouths like a little bird), I’m having to look for a job in a fucking awful job market. Luckily I have semi-decent bazungas. You gotta pay for these titties, aight? Or at least pay my baby-sitter.  The upside to today’s job search was 2 extra hours of being kid-free, leaving me sitting here writing this bullshit, eating a leftover piece of my 4-year-old’s birthday cake, and sipping on a Bud Light “lime” beer, but the kind with less alcohol content because that’s all they sell in grocery stores in the arctic circle, and I was too lazy to go to an actual licka sto. The situation is that sad. Yet I’m strangely happy.

There are two main ways that I effectively deal with anxiety– 1) running, and 2) drinking… well, now that I no longer compulsively eat to drown out the pain…maybe I’ll write about that sometime.  The happy juice was my method of choice for about the first 3 months of 2012… and quite frankly, since July of 2011.  But there comes a time, boys and girls, when you look down at your love-handles and realize they’ve expanded beyond what can legitimately be considered love-handles. When they become too big to hold onto, for instance… they’re not “handles”.  So on March 22, I decided it was time to stop literally pouring cheap wine down my throat every night, and to begin the slow process of purging my body of toxins and rarely used stores of energy (i.e. “fat”). I began eating better, and exercising every single fucking day.

Believe me it was a good choice, and here’s why.  When you run, or do any sort of cardio exercise as far as I’m aware, your brain releases seratonin, a happy little neurotransmitter that makes you feel all squishy and satisfied (low levels of which cause depression). Chocolate does the same thing, but with alternate results to running, I’m afraid. Figure it out.  Your body also begins to release endorphins after 30 minutes, which minimizes your brain registering pain (praise the Lord Jesus!), and give you a feeling of euphoria.  This euphoria… this is a good thing. Sometimes situations in life leave me feeling so shitty and out of sync with the universe that running is the only thing I can do to make things right in my head.

Now, mama can’t rightly attempt this daily feat on her own, no sir. Mama needs some purty lil’ children to serenade me down the path toward what Sugardaddy and I jokingly call “beach-ready hard body”.  These sweet sweet voices… they go by the names of Nicki Minaj, Ludacris, Nirvana, Metric, Jay-Z, and Filter.  Some songs offer up a good tempo, other songs are energetic, but these speak truth right when you need it. And running is very much a mental game. If you’re thinking thoughts like “I can’t do this anymore”, you literally will not be able to do it anymore. If you imagine little lego guys rebuilding the muscles in your legs, and visualize your lungs opening wider so you can get that oxygen you feel short on, that shit’s gonna happen.  The songs below speak truth or power that put the right things in my head, all at just the right time, like sweet little angels in my ears.  And I find that running isn’t too different from life in general. The mental approach you take can greatly influence your actions and the way you perceive reality. Make sure your self-fulfilling prophecy is a good one, friend.

So I offer these up to you as a gift, with the hope that you will also experience this euphoria. It’s just good shit.  And somehow, after the two-hour long hard cry I had at the shock and horror I felt when I found out I needed to go get a job, I was able to promptly get on with it. Somehow, through running, I think I’ve managed to reverse some of the self-inflicted brain damage that may have occurred during my binge-drinking months as I was coping with my little baby’s close blows with death and the resulting halt of my career.

Here is my homage to the wind beneath my feet. You can go to the full playlist and listen to the songs HERE if you’d like. You’ll find more than what’s described below. What are the songs that help you live life better?

Did it on ’em by Nick Minaj. This song is probably what I’d consider my theme song for motivation, and gives me a sense of power over anything that gets in my way.

Notable lyric: “If I had a dick, I would pull it out and piss on ’em. Let let let let let let let let let let me shake it off.”

Hustle Rose by Metric. Emily Haines soft sweet voice will calm you during the moments that you need to calm your breathing and focus, slowing your pace to recover a little. But this beautiful song slowly progresses to get you back into a strong and steady place. The shift into awesomeness happens at 3:25, and you’ll be well on your way to another strong tempo.

Notable lyric: “If you’re looking for something life-like in this sardine nightclub… If every surface you touch is cold, never go home… You could throw me a bone, if I get too close you wake me up, remind me…”

Dirt Off Your Shoulder by Jay-Z. It’s easy to just get down on yourself when you’re running. There are too many times when you feel tired, weak, sore. You have to mentally push past that. And Jay-Z will help you with that, crackas. He’s like the coach telling you to keep going when you want to stop.

Notable lyric: “If you feelin’ like a pimp n***as, go’n brush your shoulders off. Ladies is pimp too, go’n brush your shoulders off… You gotta get that dirt off your shoulder.”

You Know You’re Right by Nirvana. This is another good song to get you to refocus at its beginning, especially if you’re at a really tough part of the run, and then Kurt Cobain starts pleading with you in his raspy voice to remember that you’re okay, because it sounds like he’s saying “you know you’re alright“. And I need that reminder. Thank you, Kurt.

My Chick Bad by Ludacris feat. Nicki Minaj.  Ludacris is one of my favorites. In this song, he’ll tell you how great you are, and how he wants to buy you Louis Viutton shoes and stuff.  Sometimes a girl just needs to hear how great she is.

Notable lyric: “My chick do stuff that your chick wish she could… Trash talk to ’em, then I put ’em in a hefty.”

My Chick Bad Remix (“Pussy Rules the World version) by Ludacris feat. Diamond, Trina, Eve. Again, this song just tells me how amazing I am as I embarassingly chug down the street.

Notable lyric: “I got swagga on the hund-ed, thousand, trillion… Now that’s what I’m all about, I’m the baddest… Still the Eve of Destruction, still pushing buttons that’ll do away the roof… So put your diamond rings on and get yourself a hustla.”