"We Represent the Lullaby League, the Lullaby League, the Lullaby League...."

Have you ever felt compelled to do something just so you can say you have? I'm not talking stupid, physical shit like bungee jumping or cliff diving. I mean something really strange, something that would generally speaking be totally out of nature for you? I mean something like dressing in drag and going to a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or maybe partaking in a Sing-A-Long screening of The Sound of Music.

Well, friends, your fearless author just last night participated in such an endeavor. Looking back, I now realize I didn't even do it for myself. I did it for each of you (or you if only one person reads this). I knew I owed it to my readers/reader to report on this phenomenon to hit my hometown in mid-Missouri. So sit back my faithful followers as your author tells you a little something about....midget strippers.

The story really begins last weekend, when some friends of mine and I stormed the local gentlemen's club in support of feminism. While there I noticed an ad for a young lady coming soon to the establishment. Her name you ask....was Tiny Tina. Seems young Tina stood no more than three feet off this ball of dirt and water each of us travels along each day.

Now apparently, and I didn't know this, if you're a midget (or little person for the p.c.-type or even creepy little fucker for the pragmatic type) you can only get work in a couple of different industries. Now Tina apparently had no interest in the manufacture of Everlasting Gobstoppers, so squiggle-vision became the way to go. Now she was bringing her "immense" talent to Columbia.

Frankly, the idea shocked and appalled me. I knew if I were to ever crouch down to look my friend Fuller in the eye again I would have to rise to the aid of his people.

Incidentally, Fuller isn't a midget, but bro, you are short.

Ooh, further incidentally, Tina is staying at my hotel....OK enough of the charade...this fuckin' rocks!

I knew I had to go, and I started the ball rolling when Tina and her handler checked into the Holiday Inn. I was my constant caring self and immediately secured a special invite to the show. Interestingly enough, following Tina's set, I learned the "gentlemen" from Girls Gone Wild would be in attendance looking for a new crop of talent.

[Editor's note: The author is re-thinking his position on religion and the presence of a higher being.]

Now, in all seriousness people, Tina was very nice when I spoke to her. And boy is she little! It's like, her head is kinda normal sized, but everything else is little. Ooh try this.....

Pull your arms into your sleeves until just your hands are poking out. Now, and this will be harder, do the same thing with your pants and feet. No, don't do that! Pants don't really have the give for that kind for that kind of thing.

Wait, take your shoes off and put them on the floor in front of a mirror. Now get down on your knees, with your knees resting on the part of the shoe your little footsie would go. Now pull your arms into your sleeves. Turn to the mirror. Make a sexy face and dance!!! Hell yeah!

OK, now she is very nice...I shouldn't make fun. But I shouldn't huff cans of whipped cream either now should I?

So I'm clearly going to the bar and I have several of my co-workers in tow. Shout outs to Kandi, Margaret and Tiffany (you know why girl!)!!

The place was packed! Everyone was into this. I felt like making the I believe in America speech from the beginning of The Godfather. You know, the one where the undertaker tries to justify why he never became a friend to the Don Corleone, but now he needs his help to teach the boys who raped and beat his daughter a lesson? Anyway, I resisted the urge to make that speech and instead sang the first couple of lines from America the Beautiful.

I mean, for real, how great is this country? As long as midgets can dance nude to a packed house, I know the terrorists will never win. Land of decadence rocks!!!!!

[Editor's note: The author has just been re-instated into the Coalition of the Willing.]

At this point I even had my own theme song for the night. It goes like this

Midget Porn
Midget Porn
Lots o' fun
With Midget Porn

(Higher Voice)
Midget Porn
Midget Porn
Lots o' fun
With Midget Porn

It's not a ballad, but I do like to think of it as a love song. The tune to be used, if you ever feel inclined to sing, is that tune Darryl Hannah was whistling in Kill Bill Vol. 1. You know, the part in the hospital where Elle Driver is going to kill Beatrix Kiddo, but then Bill calls her off. That tune is perfect for this song. Oooh, but don't record it because someone owns that tune.

[Editor's Note: And the author owns the lyrics assface!! Write your own damned midget porn song.]

By the by, I know it's probably, technically not pornography...it's performance art.

So the "show" had all the conventions of a typical strip club routine. I would assume anyway, as I've never been to a strip club. I have far too much respect for the female gender as a whole.

[Editor's Note: You can lie in blogs right?]

Tina danced about and collected her ones and fives. She favored country tunes for the most part. I heard something about saving horses by riding cowboys. The end of her set was punctuated with a game called Boobieball. You see Tina holds a cup between...well, her boobies and guys (or girls...I'm a year 2000 kind of guy.) try to shoot wadded up dollar bills into the cup. You make one and you get a free Polaroid with Tina. And what's the great thing about Polaroids kids?

That's right! Instant developing! You can takes pictures of anything you want. Including naked midgets humping your leg!

Ooh, by the by, Tina had a nice set of jugs on her. For a midget I mean, but they were well proportioned to her body. She had normal-sized girl ass on her though. Which means it was big, because hey, she ain't normal sized. She is, in fact, Lilliputian.

You know I was really hoping to see a midget support group there. You know, like they'd be celebrating one of their own making good. Cause for real ya'll, how many midgets hit the big time? What you talkin' bout Webster? Go back to burning down George and Ma'am's apartment building.

[Editor's note: The Ma'am referred to here is not the ma'am with whom the author became acquainted with in Springfield.]

So Tina's first set ended and the girls decided to leave. I chose to do further research into the gentlemen's club atmosphere so that I would know best how to topple it when the Matriarchy Rides Again! (Imagine that in a Harry Kalas type voice.)

Plus two of my fellow Holiday Inn Boyz showed up. They were Will Smith (real name) and Cash (probably a nickname). We settled in for what was a shocking display of filth and depravity.

[Editor's note: In an unrelated story, the author is now a Platinum Member of the Club.]

Oooh, guys in Columbia, you know the club I mean. Go check out the girl wearing the pink with black polka dots outfit...Smokin'! This girl could raise Liberace from the grave and then make him dig chicks.

[Editor's note: The author realizes sexual orientation is not a cavalier decision, but this girl was that fuckin' hot.]

So Tina came back out for the 2 a.m. shift. Did I mention you can't buy booze in this place? Missouri has this totally provincial law stating clubs where chicks are all naked can't serve alcohol. Fully naked women or liquor? Uhh...that's like asking which of the first two Alien films could I do without.

So I was drinking on my $3.50 bottle of water and chasing it with my $5 Red Bull when Tina made her reappearance. Nothing new to report except Boobieball was replaced with Rides for Fives. That should leave even less to the imagination.

So finally came time for the Girls Gone Wild what-have-you. There were only a handful of participants, despite the local talent having come out in droves to bask in Tina's diminutive radiance.

Most of the girls were up there and you could tell they weren't totally into it. I could only surmise this meant they too were noticing the lack of booze or perhaps they had some level of education. One girl though, the only girl to proclaim herself a native of Columbia incidentally, began workin' one of the poles for all she was worth.

The MC asked her if she was a naughty girl. Now a simple "yes" here would have sufficed.

Her answer: "I'm a whole lot more than that."

She then proceeded to earn Missouri its status as the Show-Me State.

All in all, friends, it was a night of firsts. My first midget. My first naked midget. My first naked midget with girls. It was a night of successes. And only in America.....

For Amber Waves of Grain
For Purple Mountain's Majesty
Above the Fruited Plain.......

Midget Porn
Midget Porn
Lots o' Fun
With Midget Porn.....

I love you guys!

The True Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I like to fancy myself as being a true connoisseur of film. When reviewing a movie, I like to be wordy, believing in the more is more theory of film criticism. However, there are times when profundity can be found in a just a sentence or two.

Last night I saw "Me and You and Everyone We Know" for the first time. As a currently failing, yet still aspirant writer, this film left me with just one pervasive thought....

I wish to God I had written this.

A couple of years ago Alan Ball wrote this totally masturbatory script which became the film "American Beauty." Now I enjoyed the film, but genius it was not. However, there is a line from it which so totally describes Me and You. It comes during Kevin Spacey's final monologue, a voice over as the camera sweeps over the town:

"But it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst."

Miranda July, making her directorial debut, directing herself no less in a starring role from a script she wrote herself, is able to show us the total beauty that probably happens around us every single day of our lives but we are all too self absorbed to ever possibly see it. That she has this incredible insight, and is further able to express her ideas in actual words would really piss me off if I weren't so totally blown away.

I'm rambling....I am actually without any real words, I just can't let this movie pass without comment.

John Hawkes ("Identity" and HBO's "Deadwood") is Richard Swersey, a shoe salesman who has just separated from his wife and trying to maintain a relationship with their two sons.

Miranda July is Christine, a performance artist/cab driver to the elderly who becomes fascinated with Richard from the moment she sees him in the department store where he works. Thus begins the strange courtship.

We see Richard and Christine walking from the mall to their cars, using the city block as a symbol of the life they have yet to live together. The dialogue is absurd to the point of either hilarity or tragedy and for some reason I never stopped believing in what they were talking about.

Richard's sons are 14-year old Peter and 7-year old Robby. Peter is tormented by the "Heathers" of his school, looking for something more in a relationship than emotionless gratification. His bond with 10-year Sylvie, who comparison shops for handheld appliances to put in her hope chest, reaches a level of maturity that I've yet to see in one of my own relationships.

Robby is the precocious 7-year old who visits chat rooms and talks to random strangers about scatalogical sexual endeavors. His naivete allows us to forgive what would be a...well, a sorta creepy quality that surrounds him at all times....

You know...nothing I could say about this film could possibly do it any justice, with the possible exception of my first statement.

I wish to God I had written this.

Please, see this film.

I Ink Therefore I am

Hello, my constant caring friends, time for a quick one while he's away as Roger and company might say.

Just thought I'd let everyone know a little more about me by taking you on a tattoo tour. It's not a perfect way to get to know someone, but it is a start.

Tattoo #1:

I got my first tattoo when I was 19 years old at the old Alternative Art location in Columbia, MO. For those of you who are in Columbia and not in the know, Apop Records used to be Alternative Art. I think the building still says "tattoos" on it.

The tattoo is on my left calf and is the face of Gene Simmons in full KISS makeup. I picked a picture of a devil from a book and asked the artist, whose name I forget sadly, if the horns could be changed to hair as the devil's face looked just like the Gene Simmons makeup. The guy got excited and let me know he could definitely do that.

Why was I picking a picture from a book? Well, I had been talking of getting a tattoo for some time and the succubus I was dating at the time finally told me to stop talking and sack up. Such challenges cannot be ignored. I really hate that bitch now, but the first step in my tattoo career was taken because of her.

Tattoo #2:

I was either 20 or 21 and had some time to kill and a little extra cash. Such a combination has resulted in a couple of more tattoos already and will probably cause more in the future.

Now Mom and Dad still thought at this point I was a pretty good kid and were mortified by the Gene Simmons inking, so this selection was a shout out to them. I wanted some kanji, cause everyone with tattoos gets kanji at some point...I think it's tattoo law.

This inking also took place at the old Alternative Art location.

So to partially soften the blow of another defacing of my temple I got the kanji for "god" and "peace." This is roughly a breakdown of my name. Jeffrey mean "god's peace." Little bit of false advertisement there. It is located on my right calf. Balancing of tattoos both thematically and by relative locale you might say.

Tattoo #3:

This was the first out of town tattoo. I was in Memphis, Tennessee for the Beale Street Music Festival with a bunch of friends and we all decide to get either pierced or tatted to mark the occasion. Actually I got pierced and tatted to make up for the one bastard who backed out.

Now, we had been to Graceland earlier in the day and the only souvenir I wanted was a window decal of the Elvis insignia featuring a lightning bolt surrounded by the letters T.C.B. It stood for Takin' Care of Business in a Flash and Elvis put it on everything.

Well, naturally the idea became to get this same insignia which meant so much to Elvis inked for all times on my skin. Only I had already spent my body-marking money on an eyebrow piercing. Well, a guy who used to be a good friend of mine said we'd go to Tunica, Mississippi. If he could win some extra cash gambling, we'd both get the tattoo. He did and we did. His is on his right shoulder blade, mine is located just beneath my kanji tattoo on my right calf. I have vowed all my tattoos will be where I can see them without a mirror.

I forget the name of the place we got this done at, but I have a photo of the building somewhere. Check back later if it's important to you.

Tattoo #4:

The formerly good friend with whom I share an Elvis tattoo for all times got a gift certificate from a friend for credit toward a tattoo. He wanted someone to go with him, and I had the day off and some extra cash...uh oh.

Nothing fancy here. I got a generic barcode on the inside of my right forearm, just beneath the elbow. I tell people it speaks to the computerization of society and the loss of individual identity. It has a real "1984" feeling for me. It actually gets noticed most of all my tattoos. When I still shopped at Wal-Mart people would always scan it and laugh like they were the first one to ever try that.

"Yeah, good one. Got cancer in my arm now, but that was really fuckin' funny so it's totally worth it."

I like it. Even though you see it around now. Apparently some videogame guy has one on the back of his neck, so it's become cool for wannabe hardasses. Whatev...

This one was done at the new and current Alternative Art location in Columbia.

Tattoo #5:

I decided to commemorate as many roadtrips as I could with a tattoo of some kind. See the previous post regarding my trip to Springfield, MO.

All I can say is...thankfully I don't go to a lot of places.

This one took place in New Orleans. Again I was there with friends and this time we all got inked up. Greg, Amy and Leslie (Whom I was dating at the time. Unimportant detail, just want you all to know the ladies dig me.) settled in with the only two artists at the first place we found near the hotel, just off Canal Street, so Joel and I decided to make the long trek to the place I had found doing research on New Orleans tattoo shops.

Yup, research, that's how serious I was about the roadtrip tattoo thing.

Art Accent is just off the northern edge of the Quarter on Rampart St. This was many blocks from where we were, but Joel and I were determined and unwilling to wait all day.

A nice man named Hook inked Joel and I and we were able to walk back to the first tattoo shop and the others till weren't done. Leslie, whom I was dating at the time, was in the process of getting a large and complicated bit of artwork done. Looked good, but took forever. Not gonna tell you what it was though, because this is about me.

Anyway, my ink is a very colorful snake wrapped around my left wrist. I knew I wanted a wristband, and the snake idea came when I saw some of the other band-work Hook had done.

This one bled the most and probably caused the most pain. It has the colors black, green, red, yellow, orange and white so by the time he had done the outline work and the first couple of colors, the area was pretty sensitive. Still, I soldiered on.

Incidentally, I said this was about me, and it is, but Joel got a huge grim reaper tattoo on his shoulder blade that looks fuckin' sweet! I've been tatted with friends a few times, but this was the lone time I came away jealous of the other person's ink.

Incidentally, "tatted" is not actually a word, but you know what I mean. Plus, I'm an English major, we're allowed to work with the language.

Tattoo #6:

Another case of too much time on my hands. I had been looking at a map for some reason and took notice of the nautical compass. Liked it...decided to get it done.

This one is on my left forearm, pretty much centered between the wrist and elbow. It's also the biggest, the outer circle being about four inches across. I have a few tattoos, but none of them is huge by any means.

So this was done at a place called Hollywood Rebels in Columbia, MO. Yeah....never going back there again. The original idea did not include the previously referenced outer circle. It was to be the star of the compass and then in small letters the N, E, W, S.

Only when the guy was done I took a second to look at the completed tattoo and realized I had for years operated under the impression when north is up east would be the the right and west to the left. Imagine my surprise when my tattoo showed them the other way around.

Following me? He fucked up east and west. In his world California is the east coast and New York lies to the west.

I pointed out the man's error and he disputed me! Never east shredded wheat he said as he followed the points with his fingertip.

Yeah, I told him watch me and imagine the letters my way and I also indicated his mnemonic.

Luckily the owner was there as I wanted this fucking thing fixed and I didn't want this moron touching me with a fuckin' Q-Tip, let alone a needle with ink inside it. The only way to fix it was to cover the little e and little w with a big W and a big E, respectively. To balance the whole thing out, the now thrice mentioned outer ring was established.

Idiots....

Tattoo #7:

Wow....seven....still not done.

Anyway, back to New Orleans. This trip occurred just this last summer, the freshness of the trip making the surreal events of Hurricane Katrina even more painful for me. New Orleans is a town I love, and I plan to make it my city of residence, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Anyway, for about a year I had this burn scar on my right forearm. Ever play the game chicken? Well this guy I know named Ralph has a version where you hold your forearm against the forearm of another and toss a lit cigarette in between. The first to pull away is the loses.

Now Ralph has a few years on me and claimed to have never lost in all the times he'd played. The numerous battle scars should have warned me, but the booze and the bragging got to me and we threw down.

The result...we gave up when the cigarette burned out. Yeah.....much respect from Ralph and a nasty welt on the arm.

Well, once it healed the idea became to get it covered with a tattoo. The trip to New Orleans would provide the perfect opportunity.

Went down there with my friend Joy, who is cool and sadly living in Buffalo and Sara, who was a bit of a downer. Joy heartily encouraged the tattoo when I began to have doubts and made the walk to the parlor with me. As an aside, I found a statue of Ignatius Reilly on the way to the place. There's a picture of me with him somewhere. Everyone who has no idea who Ignatius Reilly is needs to find out tommorrow.

Went back to Art Accent. This time I got inked by the owner herself, Jacci. To date this is the only time I've been defaced by a woman. Scratch that, let's specify tattooed by a woman. (What can I say...most chicks dig me though.)

This one might be the most, depending on your point of view, insane. It is the famed portrait of Che Guevara. Now anyone who knows me well knows of my fascination/obsession with the man and the myth, so the tattoo should come as now surprise.

Also, don't get all moral majority on me. I admire Che for many, not ALL, of his ideas and actions and for quite a bit, but not EVERYTHING, his name and image stand for today.

That tattoo looks really great.

Tattoo #8:

This catches us up to date. In my previous post I noted Brook and I got matching tattoos while I was visiting in Springfield. The studio was Miller Cotton's and the artist was Geoffrey, which is a gross misspelling of my name.

I won't catch you up on all the details, that's what the last post was for. I did say I'd share the word with you at some point. Well your wait was brief, the word is....

ghost....very nice script on the inside of my right forearm, not far from Che. Double meanings everywhere.

Well, that my friends was the tour of my tattoos. E-mail me if you'd like pics of any tattoo in particular.

L8R

He Met a Girl Out There With the Tattoo Too....

[Editor's note: The author recognizes the title being used for this particular post is a slight variation on the words to a popular Johnny Depp/Faye Dunaway movie...what? Music video? Tom Petty, huh? Okay, anyway, the point is while the author typically likes to find a lyric that on its face can be used as the title, thematically I mean, it is sometimes necessary to take artistic license and change things around a bit. Therefore, the lack of quotation marks. ]

Okay, dear and faithful readers, I'm sure each and every one of you has been anxiously awaiting word on my trip to the quaint little hamlet of Springfield, Missouri. Well, wait no longer friends, for here is the rest of the story. Which is to say, the story, as I've yet to begin.

First, it is important to note that I had previously not been to Springfield. It became necessary to plan a route. Should you ever find the need I suggest the following path:

Hwy 63 south to Jefferson City then Hwy 54 west to Camdenton then Hwy 5 south to Lebanon (not the Qadafi one) and finally I-44 west to Springfield.

[Editor's note: Above route is not advised for anyone whose point of origin lies outside Columbia, Missouri. Also, the author knows Qadafi is Libyan, but the route goes through Lebanon and the author has no Lebanese points of reference.]

The drive went pretty well. I listened to some good cd's, of which I have many, and I saw some interesting things. Didn't see the Bagnell Dam, which sort of disappointed me, but I did see a bar at the Lake of the Ozarks called, and I'm pretty sure of this even though it was a passing glance, The Potted Steer. I have no idea what's it's all about, but if that is, in fact, the name I must go there. Anyway, that will be another story of another trip for another day. For Springfield approached.

First impression of Springfield? It is fuckin' big! Apparently Bass Pro and crazy evangelism bring the folk in droves.

So, I stayed at a Holiday Inn, natch. Was surprised to find the company actually has a mascot. His name is Johnny Holiday and he has a swashbuckling look about him. Not in an Errol Flynn way, but more like a Jonathan Pryce way from "Pirates of the Caribbean." Needless to say I was impressed and will be urging my employer to commission a statue of Mr. Holiday for the Columbia property.

The room was very nice, it had a sofa in it. But enough about interior decor, for that was not my purpose in the 3-hour and 20-minute jaunt. I was there to visit a friend.

When last we spoke dear friends, I brought to your collective attention the re-connection I established with my friend Brook. Seems that not only had the passing of time caused a breakdown in communications, but also Brook's move to the southwestern portion of the Show-Me State. As Brook is currently without car and license and I, on the other hand am missing only one of those (guess which one Amit), I decided to make the trip to see her rather than asking her to walk the two hundred plus miles to Columbia.

Also, while I had never been to Springfield, Brook had to date taken few opportunities to explore Springfield. Thusly, this trip was planned to ensure new adventures for all.

The first night was spent predominantly at a bar called Outland, or maybe The Outland. Its atmosphere was robust and its clientele salty.

[Editor's note: The author knows not what he means exactly by that, but is coming off a recent viewing of "Full Metal Jacket" and choosing to steal a line off Matthew Modine.]

After establishing a tab with the gentleman at the bar wearing Rocky Balboa's hat [Editor's note: The bartender was not actually Sylvester Stallone. It was his night off.], Brook and I settled in for a set from the band in the window who sounded as if they would love to wake up one day and be called the Dave Matthews Band.

Taking notice of my surroundings, two things jumped out at me. First, the collage on the wall next to our booth. It featured Polaroid photographs of people holding Polaroid photographs of people holding Polaroid photographs. Follow that? It's like the Beavis and Butthead butt tattoo thing. For a second I thought I was in an M.C. Escher drawing, only with photos and not all those fuckin' staircases.

The other thing I noticed was the ceiling. It was decorated with the paintings of various nations' flags. Stapled to the ceiling was an abundance of dollar bills, signed by patrons past. I noticed few if any dollars on the flag of Japan, but a great many on the flag I could not identify. Curious...

[Editor's note: Either the people of Springfield are more worldly than the author, or the flag of Japan was too far for drunkards to reach whilst standing on the bar.]

After a series of beers followed by jager bombs [Editor's note: The author's keyboard lacks umlauts.] followed by whatever the fuck shots Brook bought (they were opaque?) we decided to head back home.

[Editor's note: The Holiday Inn. The author lives two hundred plus miles from Outland, or the Outland and such a drive would have been inadvisable given the hour and number of intoxicants consumed.]

The next morning began in the early afternoon with a trip to Brook's home to say hello to her father. [Editor's note: Brook is temporarily living with her parents.] We then headed out for breakfast at lunchtime.

Said meal was had at Aunt Martha's Pancake House. Aunt Martha, who is actually named Ruth, was in fact there, sitting next to her signed photo of Willie Nelson. I had the French pancakes which consists of three lp-sized pancakes each rolled around the contents of an entire jar of strawberry jelly. Not only was I unable to finish the meal, I now have diabetes and since they were in fact the French pancakes I have been summarily dismissed from the Coalition of the Willing.

We next visited the local used CD store, from which I rescued a copy of Sonic Youth's Goo, which some moron with no taste sold to the store, undoubtedly to buy the new Trapt or some other such shit band. Brook bought a cd from some girl calling herself Annie. Wasn't sure about it from the cover, but it sounded pretty good. She had this Kylie Minogue thing going for her. I recommend it.

[Editor's note: The recommendation of Sonic Youth's Goo goes without saying.]

This is getting to be a long post...you still with me. No....okay I'm going on anyway.

We next explored Historic Walnut Street in search of a cool-looking bar which Brook had never been in but had seen from the street. I'm guessing Walnut Street. Historic Walnut street is an older looking neighborhood in which most of the homes have been converted into businesses. B & B's mostly, but there were a couple of restaurants and some offices. Brook says once a year, in the summer, the street is blocked off for a large art festival. The whole thing had a cozy atmosphere. And yes...there was a bar.

We found it. It was called Ebbets Field! How fuckin' great is that! It was an especially nice day out, so we had our drinks on the terrace. We listened to sorority girls talk about parents' weekend and dealing with the "parentals." The girls go to a school called Missouri State University, which I have never heard of but I think is somewhere near Southwest Missouri State University.

[Editor's note: The bar Ebbets Field is a converted home, so the terrace is formerly a front porch. Further, the other Ebbets Field no longer exists, so if someone asks you to meet them at Ebbets Field, try Walnut Street. Finally, I will never call it Missouri State.]

Dinner was had with Brook's mother, who asked to be called Charlotte but I just called ma'am. It was spaghetti, which I normally don't care for, but enjoyed. Nice little salad and some garlic breadsticks and we had a meal worthy of the picture on the box.

Incidentally, just as an aside, things between Brook and I seem to be going quite well. She and I share a history that is....well, it's something anyway. But hey, I'm older, she's older, things seem to be...different. Not ready to put labels on anything, but suffice to say I am pleased with how things are going right now and if you care, my faithful readers, I may share further details as they come to pass. Or I may not....stay tuned.

As night fell, the time came for real adventure. I wanted to do something that could only be done in Springfield. That actually is an idea I keep with me whenever I go somewhere else. I mean, I work in a hotel. Now I know Columbia, Missouri is not a hotbed for tourism, but it kills me when people come to town and want directions to the closest chain restaurant. Live people! Live! Well, lucky for me, Brook had an idea.

Brook claimed that, several years prior, she had seen the ghost of a bride under a bridge somewhere in Springfield. Before I could call shenanigans, ma'am, also know as Charlotte, said she had also heard of such a thing and knew where it was. Well...off we go! It's a ghost! After confirming the location with this thing called the internet, which I don't totally understand but I think was invented by Al Gore, we made our way to a local park.

[Editor's note: The author and Brook tried, but found no ghost. The story does not end there.]

Later on that night we found a piano bar that was much like other piano bars in that it was not very cool, full of some really drunk people, and involved the playing of every Elton John song not devoted to Diana or Disney. Now I love some Elton John. For my money the man was a genius from 1970 to 1975, but for the love of god can piano bars not play anything else?

[Editor's note: The author considers the parameters of Elton John's genius period to begin with the 1970 release Elton John and to conclude with 1975's Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Notable exceptions include 1973's "Crocodile Rock" which sucks and 1983's "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues" which is pretty good.]

Next we visited the Bar Next Door, which is not only a name but can also be a relative locale. It reminded me of Widman's. Don't know Widman's? You missed out. We played songs from the jukebox, which had a pretty good, albeit unusual, selection, including Cracker's 1996 release The Golden Age which may be their weakest album but includes the quite fun gem "How Can I Live Without You."

As the night wore on a bit and Brook and I began to recount our adventures, a plan began to emerge. You see, the night prior, Brook and I began talking of getting tattoos.

[Editor's note: The author talks of tattoos every time he gets drunk. Brook does not, thus the point in even mentioning this prior conversation.]

We had laughed off the idea, but almost uncomfortably. It's like we really wanted tattoos, but needed convincing. Then Brook had an epiphany. A word, not just any word, but one that would represent the time we'd spent over the weekend. A word that each of us would have inked on our bodies for all eternity.

So we did it. We now each have the same word in the same size and script tattooed on our persons. The word? Not now, get to know me, I'll tell ya.

The tattooing was done in the studio of Miller Cotton, who is apparently famous for both his tattoos and steak sauce.

[Editor's note: Cotton Miller is not famous for the Salem Witchcraft trials. That would be Cotton Mather.]

Saturday night concluded with a return trip to the Inn, some beers and a viewing of "The Wedding Crashers" which neither Brook nor I had seen, but in fact quite enjoyed.

[Editor's note: For those of you waiting for any details of intimacy between the author and Brook...shame on you perv!]

Sunday was spent with ma'am, also known as Charlotte, who had prepared eggs mixed with various vegetables and cheese. They were good.

I drove Brook to her place of employ, we said/shared our goodbyes and I began the leisurely drive back home.

All in all, it was a very good weekend. I had much fun, Brook, I hope, had much fun. She appeared to. She told me she did. I have no reason not to believe her, other than my being really neurotic of course. Ma'am, aka Charlotte, really seemed to like, which I've been told is unusual for her in relation to Brook's guy friends.

[Editor's note: That is NOT a label. The author is a guy, who is a friend.]

So yeah, I think I'll probably be back in Springfield again. Sooner rather than later I hope. Next time I hope to see the ghost or something even scarier. Springfield is the home of John Ashcroft!!!!

[Editor's note: Ashcroft really sucks.]

Til next time readers...I bid you farewell, with a fond HELLO!

"Casino Queen, my lord you're mean. I've been gambling like a fiend on your tables so green."

So the first thing I must mention is the title of this post will prove to be deceptive.

So the last time I spoke with you, dear friends, I was leaving the NIN concert with my friend Brook, baby brother Josey and his platonic friend Shannon.

So now comes the time for Brook and I to meet our old friend Andrew, whom we've not seen in lo' these many years. Andrew Hicks is like the Oracle of Comedy. He's like a comedy processor. You just put some thoughts in his head, spin him around, push down with that plastic piece and comedy salad comes out. Only hilarity can possibly ensue from this little get together.

Of course baby brother Josey punks out. So after another terror filled drive back to the hotel, he and his platonic friend Shannon bid us adieu. So Brook and I now take our lives into my non-license having, slightly blotto hands and off we go to meet the Hicks.

Now I don't remember the name of the bar, but you might as well call it Skeeter's Place. Now don't get me wrong here. I love the redneck bars. Few things are as much fun as putting the ol' double play of Skynard and AC/DC on the jukebox and making 13 new friends, all of who are named either Billy Joe, Billy Bob, Billy Ray....or DeAndre. Just kidding...are you paying attention?

Anyway, we find Hicks in his element. He is amongst cool people and he is singing karaoke. Again, don't ask for the song, just keep in mind I was more than a few overpriced stadium beers into my evening at this point. All I know is that bar had an endless supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon...each one served with a little slice of love.

So we have some more drinks, until that fateful time all drinkers fear...closing time. So Andrew, mad genius he is, suggests the short trek to the Player's Island Casino in Maryland Heights, MO.!!!! (Editor's note: Player's Island is not the Casino Queen. Yet it might be just as mean.) The drinks are cheap and the entertainment plentiful. Now who I am to argue with the man about town? I will say Andrew called my Honda Civic a Saturn nearly too many times. I think one more time and he'd have had me convinced I was part of the Saturn cult. And yes Saturn owners you are in a cult. Just like Wal-Mart slaves....I mean associates.

Incidentally, if you'd like a little taste of feel-good socialism, you should visit the blog of Mr. Hicks. He can be found semi-regularly at the following address:

drinkingjournal.blogspot.com

So, now we're at the Casino and the good times are rolling. Andrew, a former co-worker of Brook and I is entertaining as ever while making fun of our fellow former co-workers. The impressions and stories have been heard and told by us many times over and yet when there are enough of us together it never gets old. I have a White Russian in from of me and possibly a Bloody Mary. Keep in mind I'm now several overpriced stadium beer and several underpriced PBR, each served with a little slice of love, into my evening. I only guess I would have had both because when I get really drunk I love double fisting various colored vodka drinks. At some point the redneck bar also provided shots that tasted of whiskey mixed with other booze. ("He takes a whiskey drink. He takes a vodka drink....") You might want to question Andrew as the concoction's Christian name.

It is worth mentioning that several of Andrew's bar friends were along on this trip as well. I remember not much about them except to say Andrew and I began accusing one of them of being a pedophile. I had no evidence of this and probably owe the toddler-tickler an apology. Next time he's working the confessional I'll stop by. All I know is good times were probably had by all. I don't remember them exactly as I was now several overpriced stadium beers, several underpriced PBR (each served with a little slice of love), a few vodka drinks and a whiskey drink into my evening. ("He sings the songs that remind him of the good times....")

Yet sadly, the evening moves on even in a den of gaming and four dollar buffets. Yet, Andrew, knowing more angles that a geometry teacher, informs the party that we may order as many drinks as we care to at last call and will be given like 15 minutes to drink them. So of course we order a couple apiece. Actually, Brook and I in our collected memory think Andrew ordered a couple apiece for the group, but who's really keeping track of these things?

So to sum it all up, we had quite a few drinks and remembered all the things that made us enjoy each other's company. It was a fabulous ending to a great evening. I somehow got Hicks to his home and perhaps even more amazingly got Brook and I to the hotel, all without damage to my car or incarceration for myself. And friends, any story that doesn't end with jail may be boring on the first telling, but it is far more enjoyable on the second.

Until next time when I study the effects of Pitfall! on the video game culture of today.

"Wish there was something real, Wish there was something true"

Well now dear friends and readers, I bet you though ol' Jeffrey wasn't going to write of his experiences at the Nine Inch Nails concert. Well, luckily for all of us, wrong you both were and are. For in the following paragraphs, you will be given a minute by...well not really minute by minute, but I'll tell you some stories.

So I kind of made a weekend of it. And by weekend I mean Friday night and most of Saturday. Which technically would only compromise about half a weekend, but whatever.

I began that Friday by checking into the downtown Crowne Plaza and being informed my reservations were, in fact, for the Crowne Plaza by the airport. Zoiks! Compounding my embarrassment over this mishap was the fact I directed by good friend to the wrong hotel as well. Luckily the two Crowne Plazas were not more than ten minutes from one another and soon everything was set into place.

At this time, I feel it necessary to introduce two more of our characters. First there is the lovely Brook. Brook and I are friends from way back, or at least as way back as two twenty-somethings can go, which is to say about five years. This was a special treat as Brook and I had lost touch for sometime and it was only through some sort of Providence our paths crossed each other again. (Can there be more than one kind of Providence? Or does the word Providence suggest all forms of fate and good fortune? Please readers, get back to me on this.) Brook and I have a history that is long and much better suited for another blog, and actually is probably a little more personal than I am willing to be with you, my faithful readers, at this time. Maybe soon, probably more like later, but you never know. So yes, that would be Brook...that makes me happy.

With Brook was her friend Melanie. See part of the reason Brook and I lost touch was that she apparently is living in this other town far away. Like three hours away, which is at least three mix tapes. Or burned CD's for you non-romantics. Brook is also without her own means of transportation at this time, which makes our path-crossing even more fortuitous and her getting anywhere outside her new hometown problematic. So enter Melanie, who is also residing in this town hours away and not enjoying it on any particular level either. She has friends in St. Louis (Did I mention the concert was in St. Louis? Well, it was.) So Melanie was kind enough to bring Brook to the Lou and at the same time re-acquaint herself with her friends.

So now we have all found the proper Crowne Plaza (which was very nice by the by). We now found ourselves in the lobby bar waiting for the last two members of our cast to make their appearances. Enter stage left (which would be my right) they did soon after. Joseph is my little brother, and by that I mean he is younger. We are of nearly equal height, but I would have to guess he has some pounds on me. Both of my brothers are younger than I and both were tormented by me growing up. I think one of the few things keeping them from exacting revenge is the knowledge that I fight quite dirty.

Joseph is for the most an okay guy. He is a liberal, like his big brother and likes bands such as Nine Inch Nails. He also likes bands like Disturbed, Korn and all those other loud, shitty metal bands that lower your sperms.

With his was his platonic friend Shannon. She was wearing a shirt for a band whose name I cannot recall, but I was informed they are similar to the Insane Clown Posse. You might remember them from the Jeopardy! category "No Talent Ass Clowns." I was told this other band is part of the genre horror-metal. OK, you all might call that wit, but I just call it What? Let's move on.

So as the elder statesman I elected Joseph to drive us all around. Incidentally, I don't have a driver's license. (Long story...blog to come.) We took my car as he owns a pickup truck. Let me tell you something. If you're ever in St. Louis and a guy named Joseph offers you a ride in his truck, say NO! Because it might be my brother. Holy Fucking Shit!! I generally like to observe at least a two or three car-length distance between myself and other drivers. With him driving, I could have sat on the hood of my car and propped my feet up on the back bumper of the car ahead of us. He darted in and out of traffic like he was playing Pole Position. He'd jam on the accelerator and then slam the brakes. It's the only time I was ever in the back seat of my own car and didn't let it bother me, as I felt like there was at least a little more padding me from the impending crash.

Well, we finally got there and hey, look, it's the actual concert review from my concert review.

Opening up was Queens of the Stone Age. I have to confess I don't know a lot about this band beyond their song that name drops a half dozen mood altering substances, but I am now a fan. These guys rocked the fucking hizz-ouse, as the kids might say. (Or might not, I may have that word wrong. It's hard keeping your fingers to the pulse of young America. I blame that Red Bull.)

Finally the lights dropped and Trent and company came to the stage. For anyone who has never been to a NIN show, you are missing out. Just the staging and what Trent does with his video screens is impressive enough. Couple that with just balls out playing and you have one fine rock and roll show.

My one bit of apprehension going into the show was that Trent might pay too much attention to his latest album "With Teeth." The CD on its own is not bad, but I feel like it's the first time Trent has failed to progress or evolve with his sound. This sounds too much like an attempt to re-do "Pretty Hate Machine."

Thankfully we were treated to an assortment of NIN tunes, touching on every album at least twice. Even more of a treat was that Trent picked some of the best songs from every album except for "The Fragile." I would have liked to have heard the title track or perhaps We're In This Together. One treat was hearing Burn, a extra track that never made "The Downward Spiral" but did show up on the soundtrack to Natural Born Killers. Other greats were heard included Hurt, Head Like a Hole, Wish (great fuckin' song!), Sin, Suck and March of the Pigs.

Rather than give a blow by blow, I'll just run down the set list for you real quick like.

01.Pinion
02.Love Is Not Enough
03.You Know What You Are?
04.Terrible Lie
05.The Line Begins To Blur
06.March Of The Pigs
07.The Frail
08.The Wretched
09.Closer
10.Burn
11.Gave Up
12.Eraser
13.Right Where It Belongs
14.Beside You In Time
15.Wish
16.Sin
17.Only
18.Reptile
19.Suck
20.Hurt
21.The Hand That Feeds
22.Starfuckers, Inc.
23.Head Like A Hole

setlist courtesy of echoingthesound.org

Trent was pretty playful during the show. During The Hand That Feeds something started going weird with the lights, so Trent just sort of asked off into space if someone could please turn the lights back on. Finally, during Starfuckers, Inc. Trent stopped mid-song and commented they didn't do this anymore. Then he began talking about the first band of the night, Autolux, whom I missed and how much he liked them. Finally he just said "oh yeah, we're in the middle of a song." They finished and went into the finale.

Interestingly, the band did not perform an encore. Several remarked on their way out that Trent never does encores. Now this is the third time I've seen NIN. One of those shows was as the opener to David Bowie, so you can excuse no encore. The other time was in the same building as this show, only ten years prior and he did perform an encore then. Hmmm....

Anyway, it was a great show that I was fortunate enough to watch with a good friend, so life is good all around. Please check back and read about the shenanigans that took place following the show.

"Tomato, Tomahto. Potato, Potahto...."

Just a quick aside for this post faithful readers.

I was recently sent an e-mail by my good friend the Big O from K.C. It was a cute little internet game that computes one's speech as being either Yankee or Rebel.

The site incidentally, can be found at the following link:
http://www.alphadictionary.com/articles/yankeetest.html

However, for those of you disinclined to following said link and taking said test, allow me to sum it all up for you. By asking the way you might pronounce words like "aunt" or "creek" and by determining the generic word you might use for Coca-Cola (i.e. pop or soda) this test determines whether you might be better understood in say, Boston, or perhaps maybe Biloxi.

Now, I have long prided myself in having an accent and vernacular that is a hodge-podge of Americana. You see I was born in Kansas to parents from Texas, spent my youth in Minnesota and have spent the last decade in mid-Missouri. So I was not surprised to see my speech score come out to 60% rebel, which according to the scoring on the test, places me right on the Mason-Dixon line.

So feel free to follow the link and compute your relative Yank-ness. Please no lying, as you will only be cheating yourselves. Until next time dear reader I say....ya'll come back now, y'hear?!?!