For this blog exercise, I am a French bulldog

Because I have no discernible musical talent, any time I step foot into a recording studio I pass the fuck out. And in this case, I had company: some dude asleep in a chair.

I suck

Fate is against me. I've missed at least a half dozen Black Joe Lewis shows that I had easy access to. Why, oh, why can't I make this happen? Fuck it. I'll make a special trip to Austin when he gets back home to play. It's not like I have any other hobbies. Or a life whatsoever.

Here's a taste of what I can expect:

The end of an era

It was only yesterday that I didn't share an office with my supervisor. I shared an office with a fellow Cubs fan and was preparing for April when we could pull up the ESPN Gamecast and pretend to work while watching the little dots round the bases. And today would have been Journey Friday. I don't know if I can justify listening to Journey by myself.

All good things come to an end before they begin. Wait. Is that a pro-life slogan? If not, I'm copyrighting it so they can't use it.

Now my former office mate is training the new guy, so our boss asked me to switch offices with the new guy, who was sharing the office with our supervisor. It all happened so fast and doesn't feel right. Like the first time I had sex. And the second. And the third. And the most recent.

It might be a good time to move to Austin. Gainful employment be damned. Goddamned.

Notes

The all-new me starts Tuesday. I'm talking diet and exercise. And that's not all. I'm also going to eat better and be more active. ...
Actually, I guess that was all.

I made a cameo appearance in Austin this weekend. Coincidentally, former President Bill Clinton was also in town. One coincidence is that it was Presidents Day weekend, and I was voted "most likely to be President" when I was a senior in high school. But the main coincidence is that I work on the assembly line of a company that makes vagina-flavored cigars.

My roommate gets back Friday after a month-long absence to record with his band. I'll be glad when he gets back because I can give back the gun I borrowed from him. I wouldn't need the gun, but killing spiders by stepping on them doesn't always work if the spider is quick. Or the stepper is a slow, fat cracker.

I'm glad Sports Illustrated does a swimsuit issue because I like to keep up with fashion. But I wrote them a letter requesting that they not waste valuable pages on bodypainting and strategically placed sand dollars. Those are impractical ideas, and summer is too close around the corner to be fooling around.

Fuck all this. I'm going to bed.

Using the whole fist, Doc?

High blood pressure. High cholesterol. Meds coming soon.

Heart ok. Lungs ok. One more thing to check out in a week or two.

Oh, and the prostate is ok. Now I know what it feels like for someone to put on a rubber glove, lube up a few fingers and shove them up so far inside that you can bite them off. I would like to apologize to all the people I victimized in the past. I now know that all surprises are not pleasant.

God, I feel traumatized. Maybe this will take my mind off that violating experience:

A word on prostate exams

Uncool.

Give it to me straight, Doc

Eleven hours from my second physical of the decade. The last one didn't go so well. The doctor said I need to change my lifestyle. And I did. Based on my own brand of medical science. I figure that if I'm eating unhealthy food, nothing would cut through the cholesterol and other poisons better than a detergent. And what's the best disinfecting detergent? Alcohol! So I increased my alcohol consumption from 4 days a week to every waking non-working hour. After further study, I'm not sure that was the best decision. Sure, I've got a lot of memories. Like that one time I got drunk and passed out and forgot everything I did. And then there was that other time I did that. And another time. Oh, I have so many memories of nights I forgot. Anyway, it will take some time to get the results back on my blood work, so I'm going on a 96-hour Presidents Day weekend bender that will cover the state of Texas from Denton to Dallas to Austin. Then I'll return to this blog with a slew of stories I will have forgotten. Cheers.

Here's a blog entry

For some reason, a year later and after many months of sitting on the shelf, the Vampire Weekend album is really growing on me.

But that's not why we're here today. We're here to start the 1.5-day countdown to my physical. I predict I'll be put on various meds, be told to avoid delicious foods and mind-altering beverages, and then given six weeks to live. If that happens, I'm selling all my CDs, including Vampire Weekend, and taking up a wildly expensive heroin habit. I'm talking about some shit handmade by the Taliban themselves. In between highs, I'll relaunch my research into a long-range rifle that can shoot angels and deities out of Heaven. So far, I can shoot only as far as the moon. But I think that's pretty good for a half-wit.

Car hole

Don't cry for me. I'm already dead.

I'm going for my once-a-decade physical on Thursday. I know I have high cholesterol because I've had it for 10 years and ain't done nothin' about it. I know I have high blood pressure because my dentist(!) takes my BP every six months, and it's been high for over a year. I assume I have prostate cancer because I have what old-man prostate-medication commercials call "increased urgency." I also have a lump in my chest that I'm pretty sure is not love-related.

So here are my short-term life goals:

1. Survive to see the April 5 Springsteen concert in Austin. If he pulls me onstage to dance, I can die immediately after that song and be happy.

2. Survive to complete the rockumentary my friend MWing and I are producing about the defunct rock band Bigloo. But if I don't make it, I'm counting on you, my loyal readers, to make sure MWing doesn't leave me out of the credits when he finishes the film. That guy can't be trusted. More than a few of his past filmmaking partners have mysteriously disappeared from the film credits. And from this Earth.

3. Survive to spend at least two weeks gloating about the Longhorns football team winning a national championship next January.

4. Survive until January 2011 to gloat about back-to-back championships.

5. Survive until December 21, 2012, so we can all die together at the end of the world.

But again, Springsteen is the most important thing on the list. His music will probably cure what ails me. Until then, enjoy my life story:

Twitter

So I'm trying out this Twitter thing at the behest of my friend Chad. I'm still skeptical, although I've found a couple friends from my college newspaper days. Not to mention burgeoning comedian BG, who you might recognize from the performance below.

So Twitter is a way for people to know what you're thinking at any given moment. I expected it to be a brain implant that siphoned my thoughts and zapped them up to a satellite and back down to all of your brain chips. But apparently, I have to go online and type stuff. Like here, but shorter.

Supposedly, you can update your Twitter site using text messages, but my phone doesn't want to cooperate. My phone is much cooler than me. While I'm writing blogs and Twitters, it's out riding Harleys and getting laid.

If you're on Twitter, I go by the name surlyz. Because I'm surly. And getting surlier by the second. For I have only begun to surl.

Anyway, here's that performance. I hope you like sexy stories about cat rape.

LATE UPDATE
BG removed the cat rape video because the higher-ups at his company may be cat rapists and not amused by such jokes.