Tuesday, September 18, 2007

What the hell, brochitches?

Dudes, my boy Roast Beef has got to get action-style on a wedding plan, 'cause he stone cold blew this year's weddin' season. I know it takes time to plan and all, but if that cat had lucubrated (yeah, I'm still subscribin' to Martin Song's Word-a-la-Daaay site) a little more they could of at LEAST done some quick thing out on the beach. Waves and sand ain't so dear as pews and a band, my old man once said.

What else is new...I'm hella rockin' some tennis elbow lately. I been workin' on it with Przepošc down at the club. He thinks I been servin' way too hard, and variatin' between too many serve techniques. He's sayin' all this stuff about how my serve was never properly molded in its early stages, and he may be right. I been servin' hard and loose since the first few years of my game—I'm talkin' kid ages—when I had my own ideas about how to wallop a mofo. Toss, wait, hop, twist, and SLAM. Or...toss, slam, wait, and jump. Sometimes: SLAM, wait, think, and pivot. Ray Smuckles could bring the heat, three times out of ten. And that's just enough to keep you alive...until your body gives. It's a hard lesson, but it can and will happen. Look at me. My wild technique finally caught up with my elbow. With my damn arm. Proof enough: don't wale unless you can assail. (Don't use that line - I may need it for an album. I call ™ on that shit.)

Other than that...gettin' damn good at cookin' eggs. I kind of made it a priority this summer. On just a basic day I'll get the griddle nice and warm and rock some sunny-side up under a — get this — pan lid! You put like a spoonful of water under the lid with some cookin' eggs and voila, they steam so that the top cooks real nice as well. People even been commenting. Hell of makes me happy. I ain't even know why.

Whoah, almost forgot Beef was comin' over to watch some Sopranos with me. That is a stone chill we ain't get to often enough now that he's tucked in with Molly. Got to run - we havin' spaghetti and meatballs from Spiedore's and I got a phone to find.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

On the plane to Australia!

I'm writin' this to you on the plane to Australia! We left the gate at San Francisco around four hours ago, and we're just about taxiin' for takeoff, so I am all kinds of jazzed. I'm six gin and tonics deep, people! They say the flight will be somethin' like three days, so I'm gettin' all set up for a nice long nap, maybe a couple hangovers, and possibly a birthday or a discreet fling. There's no tellin' when you're flyin' to the land down under.

Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United.

Oops. Bad news. The plane got to the runway but the pilots noticed they didn't have readings from their "Hackmer-Preda valve monitors," so it's back to the hangar. Gin and tonic, please!

Whoah, I just had a thought about Australians. Their reputation is that in, like, the eighteenth century, England sent all their "criminals" to live in Australia, and that's who Australians are based on now. Crooks. That's a rough one. I have a theory, though. You know how Australians are all about a big fat-ass crazy time, always havin' fun and crackin' twelve-inch lagers and just shootin' a gun at a big dirt hill? England exported all of its fun people! Stay with me, here.

That's right - the Church of England was hella powerful at the time, and they wanted everyone to be quiet and sit down and read that poem about roses. Future Australians were havin' none of it! They were like, "Awright, mate, if I 'ave to keep me arse planted through one more go of that poem about the bleedin' red rose, I'm gonna nick that copper's 'elmet and catch me the next dinghy t' perdition. This England 'ere's a right dud geezer."

Just like that, just like the Pied Piper, Australians got themselves taken outta' England and put where the sun does shine — and you know what? Australians have never produced a single poem. It's a point of national pride. England's loss? You bet. English people are sitting around eating cold trout dishes in a room where every single surface has a different flower print on it, and Australians are barbecuing whole lambs over the fossilized bones of a fifteen hundred pound paleolithic ant. The keg? An ice silo of lager. Back in the motherland, England is runnin' outta poems, and their pasty youth are dyin' of Jamie Oliver School Dinners starvation. (That information was on TV.)

Alright, Australia, here I come. I'm divin' in. I'm stoked. I got a book about drivin' with the steerin' wheel on the wrong side, and a computer keyboard that has that special key that prints out ", mate." When this 747 lands, I'm gonna open my arms during the whole descent! That's how much I'm already lovin' you, Australia. We gonna cuddle-scrum 'til the night is cashed.

Uh oh...the hangar ain't got no replacement Hackmer-Preda valve monitor cable. I may be writin' to you from this plane for another twelve hours, they say! That's...they gonna need to get more gin from SkyMeal or whatever that white truck with the lift is.