I would like to formally announce that is my first semicolon ever used on this website.  It makes me happy to show off.

People remember my awesome name.

We had a show last Friday night and Jessica was coming in the same evening.  If you’re in a band there’s this crappy thing you have to do called “load-in.”  Clubs will book three to four acts for the night, and because of all the equipment, they ask you to show up hours ahead of curtain.  This means I end up sitting around a bar at eight o’clock playing with my phone nursing a second Sprite.

This night it worked out well because I had to go pick up Jessica from the airport precisely the time our band would be loading in our equipment.  I would be getting out of some serious lifting.  Let the other band member haul the bass cab!  Suckers!

I arrived at O’Hare, the big Chicago airport, just as her plane was landing.  O’Hare has five terminals and I believe is the busiest or second busiest airport in the country.  Jessica was flying Delta, so I headed to terminal two.  We’re talking and she mentions she’s outside waiting.  I don’t see her.  Oh well, I’ll make another pass.  It’s about five minutes per pass.

I end up making three passes before shouting into the phone, “You are NOT outside at the Delta station!  Go ask somebody where the f**k you are!”

Then, as if right out cue, as a perfect response to getting yelled at she says calmly, “You’re at Midway, right?”

Holy dick farts.

Not only am I at the wrong airport, I’m a good hour away.  And we’re scheduled to go on stage in an hour.  And I just yelled at an amazing woman who really likes me and has just spent several hundred dollars to fly here.

I unleash about seventeen f-words directed at the ceiling of my sedan all while she is on the phone.  I am attempting to show her what I do to myself when I make a mistake.  If I can’t scream at myself for screwing up, I certainly can’t yell at someone else when they do.  The goose and the gander thing.  Plus, I want her to feel less attacked as she can hear how I treat myself.

Then I composed myself and went into apology mode.  I spent a good five minutes telling her I was so incredibly sorry, that I never checked the airport, and that I would make it up to her.

I also told her to take the subway.  This is an hour-long ride.

Thankfully our gig was exactly one hundred feet from her subway stop.  I met her outside, apologized again, took her bags to the car and bought her a drink.

Well, I used one of the free drink coupons they had given me.  That counts, right?

She forgave me.

I arrived at the office prepared to talk (read: complain) about what’s going on in my life.  I do this every Tuesday at 10:15am.  I started in about something, probably how I’m too amazing even for myself, and how hard it is to just be me.  You know, my problems.

All of a sudden I got this tightness in my chest.  A pressure that started pushing from the inside.  There’s a feeling attached to it, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Happy?  Sad?  Angry?  Afraid?  Shamed?

I had no idea.

So, I stopped whatever I was talking about (probably my hair), and told her about the feeling.  For the record, traditionally I’m not one of these people that thinks everything means something.  I don’t wear crystals, I’m not interested in the color of my aura (which is mauve by the way), and I have never felt “at one” with the universe.

Actually, one time I did feel at one with the universe, but it turned out to be a mushroom trip and those trees weren’t actually breathing.  I was 19 and stupid.

As I start to explain what I thought was going on, she immediately commanded me to shut up.

I’m super-verbose.  I’ll talk about anything for as long as I can.  When I’m at home I constantly speak to my pets, or am on the phone with someone who will listen.  Basically, I’m a spaz.

She knows that when I start to intellectualize or wax philosophic or try to explain things in any way, it moves me away from my feelings.  Apparently feelings are where it’s at.

But I’m a dude.  I’ve never felt much of anything in my life, and when I do I distract myself with things like television, internet, food, etc.

At her direction, I dove into the feeling and sat with it.  With basically no talking for the rest of the session.

Maybe three sentences were uttered.  Other than that, we just stared at each other.

Occasionally I would touch my chest to see if I could actually “feel” the sensation.  I couldn’t.  But it was there.  It’s here now as I write.

What is it?  No idea.  After sitting in silence for forty minutes staring at my counselor, I was no closer to deciphering this message.  It, however, felt totally normal and natural.  It was an uncomfortable feeling, but I didn’t have any judgment about it.

One thought that did occur to me was, “I can’t believe I just shelled $120 to sit in silence.”

Since many of you are ladies (I love that word – so much better than “birds”), you probably sit with weird crap like this all the time.  So, I’m one of you!  With better hair.

Special bonus – this photo was taken of me this weekend while I slept.  Note how it looks like I have lady parts in the middle of my chest.

The lack of muscle definition and presence of shoulder hair is unfortunate.

Check out the awesomeness here!

It's like seeing a female version of myself. That's very sexy.

The big monster spear toe.  The second one from the inside.

If you didn’t read that post – click here and prepare to get fouled out.

While Jessica The Reader (aka Jessica) was in town this weekend, she forced me to get a pedicure.

Quite frankly, I don’t really understand the attraction.  I mean, obviously I don’t paint my nails or long to get my cuticles pushed, but the whole thing seems way unnecessary.  The foot massage is lame, the whirlpool effect I can get by passing wind in the bath, and I don’t read Redbook.

However, I will say that those back massage chairs are pretty fantastic.  I was moaning like a preacher’s daughter the whole time.

My girlfriend apparently has insanely ticklish feet.  She burst out in uncontrollable laughter during the pumice stone.  It was pretty embarrassing.

Being totally normal

You're embarrassing me in front of the Vietnamese!

Fast forward to the end.  My feet are cleaned, trimmed, and less nasty.  I guess that’s good?

Even though it doesn't look like I have a nail on the far right toe, I absolutely do. It's super normal. I promise.

One of my first readers, Karen, became very special to me when I started writing regularly.  The reason?

She made me feel like I was doing something good for our county.

Karen is in the Air Guard and over in Afghanistan doing the things that troops do during a war.  She works on planes and wrenches most of the day.  I was sort of disappointed that she didn’t control predator drones dropping bombs on people she disliked, but whatever.

This was my first armed forces reader, or at least the first that reached out to me.

And you know what?

I decided in my head that I’m helping the troops!  Or, one troop at least.

Since I don’t know anyone else in the wars, I decided to send Karen a “Kare-N” package.  When I was in college my parents sent a lot of care packages, and I appreciated every one.  Getting a personal note or a package is still a highlight for me.  Probably for most of us.

I asked Karen what she wanted and she told me:

• Ramen (okay, her taste sort of sucks)
• Beef Jerky (I take that back – she’s got taste)
• Candy Corns (nope – back to bad taste)
• Double Stuf Oreos (taste redeemed)

Still better than a Charleston Chew.

I burned a few DVDs of classics because when I asked about her favorite movie she mentioned Can’t Hardly Wait.  This bitch needed to see Citizen Kane and Evil Dead 2.

And just because I thought it would be funny, I made a Certificate of Friendship.

She’s coming home on leave in a few days and although I don’t want her crazy ass coming within five counties 0f me, I’m glad that she’s safe.  And, I’m proud to call her a friend.

Now, go kill some guys and end the war, okay?

I just finished a seven person dinner party.  I cooked a 15 lb turkey.  No gravy – gravy is for pussies who don’t know how to cook a turkey.

Okay, going to bed.  Exhausted.

Most amazing post ever, D.J.!

If you’re new to the site, you may want to read the back story of how we met.

I’d like to mention a golden move she made in preparation of this trip.

Hey, since I haven’t yet met all your friends, let’s throw a dinner party at your place!

That never would have occurred to me, and demonstrates a real initiative and willingness to meet the people in my life.

She’s also follows the clothing line that my mom manages, even though she doesn’t buy $700 purses.  Again, initiative.

I’ve learned that somebody who takes an interest in my friends and family is incredibly important to me.  She even reads books on ADD to get better insight into my thinking.

I probably ought to take a page from her book and do a better job with her friends and family.  But, see, that doesn’t satisfy my need to think about myself.

This weekend is slammed with events.  I’m going to try to post each day, and we have at least one funny thing planned that should make for decent blog fodder.

I’m playing a show tonight, and she’ll get to see me perform, which will be disappointing as I just stand there not thrashing about like a real rock star.

But at least I’ll have someone to look at.

I love ending sentences with prepositions, by the way.

This is what I saw when I woke up this morning.

We're good AND quite handsome! Our mothers tell us so.

For the rest of you who don’t give a shit, please keep reading.

We have learned that a producer will be in attendance to watch our performance.  Apparently she has her own studio and just finished an album for a pretty big blues singer.  I was told the name but don’t remember – let’s call him Lefty Jenkins.  That sounds about right.

This is Big Bill Broonzy - a fantastic blues name. Not sure if his music was any good. Probably was.

So we rehearsed tonight to try to tighten up our songs, arrangements and vocals.

I have no stage presence.  I stand and don’t move for the whole set.  Part of that is because I have a lot of background vocals to do and need to be near the mic.  Also, we try to play very precisely, so jumping around and slamming the fretboard with my pick would screw up the songs.

I’ve learned from playing live that the loudest bands are usually the shittiest.  There’s a lot of overcompensation for bad songwriting in playing and singing loud.  Now, if you’re Mastadon, feel free to sing and play loud – you’ve made it.  But if you’re a local band and your songs are crappy, then yeah, play loud.

Also, we don’t all wear sunglasses on stage, dress any differently that we do lounging around the house, or point at the audience and wink.  We don’t even talk between songs except to say, “Thank you.”  Which I’m happy about because nothing is worse than being in a band with some douche who tries to rile the crowd in between songs.

Then there’s the issue of eye contact.  Where am I supposed to look?  I have absolutely no idea,  even after playing a lot of shows over the years.  The easy move is to stare at the fretboard.  But that bores the audience and disconnects them.

The other move is to look directly into somebody’s eyes.  But that’s potentially creepy.  And since I don’t like staring at men, I pick a woman.  After two seconds I look away.  I don’t want to freak her out.  However, I have to look somewhere.

What I do is stare six inches above everyone’s head.  I’m not sure how it reads from the audience.  People aren’t checking me out anyway.  They’re talking with their friends, drinking beers, and checking their smartphones.

But hopefully they’re listening.

But what about all the amazing Scottish comedians we worship?  You know, um…  well…  hmm.  Isn’t Craig Ferguson from Scotland?  He’s sort of funny.

Admit it - you've never once watched this show.

Okay, it’s a short list.  I responded back with, “Thanks for reading!” and, “Nice to know that Scotland’s still a thing.”

The second email I received was from a woman from my own hometown.  And she apparently had no idea I was from there until she saw it in a post.  She had been reading the story where I pooped my pants and wrote this to me.

Peoria? I live in Peoria! And I used to live in Chicago. I found you through The Bloggess and I have to say, you’re quite hilarious. The best one was, um, three before this one. I’ve been drinking, but I’m pretty sure it involved…POOP! Yes, that’s right, you pooped your pants. Awesome. I once pooped at the bottom of Glen Oak Park because I was too lazy to drive up to the bathrooms. See? Everybody poops. Awesome blog.

Our high school was too poor to have their own tennis courts so we practiced and played all our matches at Glen Oak Park.  Nice to know she was shitting there.  Also, when I used to drink, reading wasn’t high on the to-do list after four tumblers of Evan Williams.  Whatever happened to passing out to Married… With Children reruns?

I checked my Google Analytics account to see where my traffic comes from.  In the past month, I’ve been visited by readers in 111 countries.  Least visited on the list is Yemen.  I got nothing funny to say about Yemen.

So, where are you from?  Sound off, and let me know so I can determine if it’s a better or worse place than Chicago, IL.

How can I clean my place just enough not to let anyone know just how disgusting I live?

I’m a master at cutting corners when it comes to sanitation.  Nobody knows better how to kick things under beds, toss shit into closets and you pray are not opened, and use what magicians call misdirection.  A good example of misdirection is shining up the granite counter tops or waxing the hardwood, all while where the baseboards are caked in cat hair and dead skin cells.

Case in point – here is a photo of my guest bed.  Now, if I didn’t tell you otherwise, you would think I was a slob.  And I’m not really a slob.  Sure once in awhile I pee in the bathroom sink while shaving.  That isn’t a crime.  Hey, I swirl around the water to make sure it all goes down.  No, the clothes on the bed are a donation to the Salvation Army which has been sitting there for over a month.  Since I won’t be able to get there before the dinner party, it will all be tossed somewhere, probably under the bed.

Bums are gonna look awesome in my sweater vests.

The last thing I want to mention about my inability to keep up my condo is the guest bathroom.  I’m absolutely not kidding here, and I have no explanation, but…

I somehow lost the toilet paper holder thing.

I only have 1250 square feet.  It’s not like it’s stashed away in my basement storage like Charles Foster Kane.

If you don't understand the reference, just pretend you do.

I have spent exactly nine minutes looking around the place for the missing silver coated holder thing.  I swear to Allah that it rolled right out the door, down four flights of stairs, and onto the #81 bus heading west.  It’s gone.  And yes, I have a cat, but I’ve checked under the couch, two beds, and even the litterboxes.  Oh yeah, one cat, two litterboxes.  That’s class.

I will need to make a run to Bed Bath and Beyond to see if they sell holders.  God I hope so.  Or else I’m going to just put a roll on top of the toilet like a jerk.  It’s been that way for over a month, too.

At this very second I’m saying to myself, “If you don’t dust, everything will have the same appearance and people won’t be able to tell.  Unless they touch stuff.”

Haven’t decided yet.