I don’t know if anyone has been listening to the radio much lately, but what the hell has happened to music? Actually, let me rephrase that. I know there are some phenomenal bands out there. Unfortunately, these are not the ones receiving airtime. The mainstream music industry has gone to hell. There is very little distinction that I can hear anymore between “pop,” “rock,” “rap,” or “country.” They all sound almost exactly alike. The only difference is that one is slightly heavier on bass, one is slightly heavier on twang, and one is slightly heavier on guitar.

I say we round up all the Nickelbacks, Shania Twains, Nellys, and their clones and ship them to China. Oh – and all the emo bands too. My favorite bumpersticker I’ve seen recently said “I wish my grass was emo, so it would cut itself.” Amen.

Also, it used to be that if a song had too many lyrics that couldn’t be broadcast, it wouldn’t be played on the radio. Who is the damn genius who decided that we should now play these songs, but replace the naughty words with silence, or worse, with sound effects like breaking glass or records scratching? We should also send him to China. Or her, I don’t mean to be sexist. I just figure that women are too smart to do something like that.

Enough of this tirade, I’m going to the beach to drink some beer. Enjoy your weekend, I’ll return sunburnt and hungover on Monday!

Alright, this is something that has been bothering me for years. A while back, I did something I’m not too proud of. I’m hoping that by coming out in the open and admitting to it, you can all find it in your hearts to forgive me. I know that, because of my actions, I have caused a lot of pain, anguish, and frustration.

I know that some of you will not be able to see past my mistakes, and that I may very well be dead to you. Some of you may wish that I had just kept my mouth shut, and left things as they were. Some of you may consider my confession a selfish act, designed to make me feel better, but hurting all of you in the process. I can assure you that, whatever the case may be, I can no longer hold my silence. I can’t stand to have one more cheerful conversation, looking my friends in the eye, but all the time dreading that I will be discovered.

You see, I let the dogs out.

One of the “discussion topics” we’ve had on our conference calls at work is first impressions. Specifically, the subject of professional dress. I should clarify, we haven’t been having this conversation because of any glaring transgressions in my office. No one has shown up wearing cut-off jean shorts and a tank top…yet. It’s just that we have to have a weekly topic and “professional dress” seemed more appropriate than “why I’m scared of clowns,” or “the best way to dispose of human remains.”

This brings up an interesting topic, which most males know very little about: fashion. Since I have no expertise whatsoever in this area, I’ve decided to provide you, my loyal readers, with invaluable (read: worthless) advice. The following questions have been selected at random from a non-existent survey of my imaginary friends.

1. Is it ever appropriate to wear cut-off jean shorts?
Yes, in two sets of circumstances. First, if you are also wearing a tank top and have a moustache. Second, at funerals, but only if they’re black denim.

2. What if it’s not black denim, but very, very dark blue?
Only after Labor Day, or in Canada.

3. Is the “trucker hat” fad over?
It will only truly be over when Ashton Kutcher is dead. Consider this a call to arms.

4. Are those mesh “muscle shirts” still in fashion?
Is your name Randy Savage? Then, no.

5. Is it okay for guys to wear pink shirts?
Is it okay to punch elderly women in the face? (Hint: If you think the answer to either question is “yes,” seek professional help)

6. When should I pop the collar on my polo shirt?
Anytime you want to look more ridiculous than the guy in the jean shorts and muscle shirt. Unless the shirt is pink, in which case, mission accomplished.

While all of the above questions are entirely made up, my answers accurately reflect my opinions on them. If you have a question you would like to see Lieutenant Fashion answer in the future, feel free to email me or leave it in the comments section.

Alright, this is addressed primarily to those of you who insist on playing matchmaker for me. Stop. Please. I’m perfectly capable of meeting people on my own. I’ve done it my whole life. I realize I’m not dating right now. It’s because I have leprosy. No, seriously, it’s because I just got out of a four-year marriage that was preceded by dating for over two years. So, if you’re capable of basic math, I just got out of a six-year relationship. I’m not looking for a serious relationship (because I’m not a glutton for punishment), and I’ve never really been one for quick flings (damn my high moral standards).

I’m truly enjoying this newly acquired single status. I go where I want to, when I want to, with who I want to, and answer to no one except for the bank who holds my mortgage, and Steven Segal. At the end of the day, I don’t have to worry about what kind of mood I’ll be coming home to. I know what kind of mood I’m in, and it’s usually tired and thirsty. I also don’t need to concern myself with making sure that the food I prepare fits the cravings of anyone but me (the downside to this is that I’m eating a lot of extremely unhealthy food). I can slather my body with bacon grease and cavort around the house while listening to the Talking Heads at full volume. I don’t, but only because that CD is scratched all to hell and my dogs would be upset with me for wasting perfectly good bacon grease, and may quite possibly try to eat me.

So, you see, I’m really okay. Better than okay, actually. Better than I have been in years. And if one more person invites me over to the house for drinks, and I walk into an ambush where the only two single people are me and Girl X, and we’re forced to sit beside each other all night, and you keep telling us how great we seem to be getting along, I will stab you and burn your house to the ground with you in it. Cheers!

I know that I repeatedly say that I won’t write about work. However, this isn’t about work, so much as the physical space that my workplace occupies. We seem to have an infestation of lizards. More specifically, of a lizard that I believe is known as a blue-tailed skink. I could be making this up, I’m not one for research.

However, this is not about my circumvention of research (which was good enough to bluff me through two AP classes in high school and four years of college.) This is about…Lizards in an Office! If a movie can be called Snakes on a Plane!, then a blog post can be called Lizards in an Office!. Just think of me as the Samuel L. Jackson of the blogging world. My wallet is the one that says “Bad Muthafucka” on it.

Awesome. Two paragraphs in, and I’ve successfully written about exactly nothing. I started out about a lizard infestation and then moved on to Pulp Fiction references. Sadly, this is not unusual. It’s just how my brain works. Welcome to my life.

Back to the lizard infestation…no one is sure where they came from, and we’re debating what to do with them. Most people want to catch them and just let them go outside. One lady wants to throw her shoe at them. I, on the other hand, want to get an aquarium and make them office mascots. I should also mention that by “infestation,” I mean “two lizards.” I’ve named them Steve and Earl.

Just in case anyone is wondering, I am alive. I was not devoured by a gang of Peruvian llamas after drunkenly climbing into their habitat to harvest their wool for a new sweater. Also, I have no idea if llamas are indigenous to Peru. So feel free to call me out on that one. I didn’t feel like doing the research.

No, Brew at the Zoo was rained out. Well, in truth, they held it anyway, but it was being held indoors because of the rain. I didn’t see much point in paying $30 to drink beer inside, away from the wild animals when I could spend less money and drink inside elsewhere in Columbia in close proximity to my friends and comrades, who are about as close to wild animals as you can get without the mauling. Unless they’ve been drinking cheap whiskey, in which case the mauling is included.

The most interesting story of the weekend was running into my friend Neil, who has recently come back from a summer in China, teaching English as a second language. Neil, to be polite about it, was not feeling any pain by the time I saw him. Neil, somehow, has more luck with females than most people I know. Every time I turned around, he was pushing some random girl towards me, and introducing me as “Shawn” for reasons known only to Neil.

Since I wasn’t looking to meet anyone that night, I would carry on polite conversation for a few minutes and then excuse myself to get another beer, never to return. This resulted in mass confusion when, leaving the bar at closing time, trying to decide where to go now, I kept hearing one drunken voice yelling “Shawn!” over and over again. It took me a minute or two to realize that I, in fact, was “Shawn.” At which point, another of my friends informed the poor girl that my name was Josh, which pissed her off because I had been lying to her all night. Which I really hadn’t. Other than my name, everything else I had told her was true. I didn’t see much point in correcting the matter, since she was

from out of town

leaving in the morning

way too young
Still, I kind of felt like an ass since I normally try to be a nice guy. Plus, she was kind of hot.

Also, Neil had brought back Chinese cigarettes, which he insisted I smoke with him, even though I quit smoking about 6 years ago. They tasted just like cigarettes, which was disappointing. I expected maybe some duck sauce or something.

link put on wax by JT @ 12:24 0 words of wisdom

Riverbanks Zoo here in Columbia is having a beer tasting this weekend. I am going. With extreme prejudice. For those of you who know anything about me, you all know that

Beer + Josh + wild animals = Not Too Good

But no one reads this little blog o’ mine to hear about insightful ways that I improved myself and worked towards the greater good. No, I suspect this is more of a Jerry Springer type of situation. You know your time could be better spent elsewhere, but you just keep watching to see what is going to happen next. In related news, I’m going to let a racist hermaphrodite midget guest host next Tuesday. Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!

Seriously, I am a bit concerned about who is working in the marketing area of the zoo. “Let’s see…we need some type of big summer event. We have the family friendly light shows at Christmas, and the child-oriented Halloween festival. We need something for the adults. (Author’s note: I still have a hard time considering myself an adult.) Maybe something edgy, like a wet t-shirt contest! No, too edgy…wait, I’ve got it, we’ll have a beer tasting! In the zoo! Next to the tiger habitat!”

See? If I realize something is a bad idea, it must be really bad. I’m the guy who shoots fireworks from a moving four wheeler…while drinking. No one has ever accused me of being a smart man. Which is why my weekend plans now involve getting drunk and riding a giraffe.

So, I finally broke down and got a new car. The old one had developed some serious quirks with the electrical system, it was using oil, overheating easily, and there was a suspicious vibration that I suspected to be the universal joint. It also needed some minor body work and one of the rims was fairly bent. It would have cost more to repair all of these problems than the car was worth.

I test drove several cars, all of them sensible four-door sedans, and surprised myself by choosing a new Galant. Quite simply, it outperformed the Ford 500, which was my second choice. It was more responsive and had much better pickup. The only area that the 500 excelled in was trunk space. According to the sales rep, I could easily fit eight golf bags in the trunk. He didn’t have any response when I asked if I could fit eight people in the actual car.

Anyway, the point of this is that I’m actually driving a car that I enjoy driving again, which is awfully important since I’m on the road all the time for work. My Galant already has close to a thousand miles on it, and I just got it last Tuesday.

In the course of conversation with a cousin of mine, I mentioned I had a new car. I, being grossly uninformed and determinedly not hip, was corrected. What I have, my friends, is a new whip. No, I don’t know why a car is now called a whip, either. There seems to be very little correlation there. However, that did not stop Kyle, Compton and me from working the word “whip” into conversation approximately once every twelve seconds on Friday night. We also made up new slang words for a variety of household items, and Compton taught me some Italian, but I forgot all of the above.

On another note, Kyle is apparently a ninja. He caught a knife in midair that a drunken Compton threw at him to see if he was asleep. No, you don’t have to reread that last sentence. Compton threw a knife at Kyle to see if he was asleep. A sharp knife. And Kyle caught it, because he is a secret badass ninja.

Also, my friend Aubrey needs a job. She’s awesome, and you should help her if you can. Anyone who can’t help her get a job should at least buy a shirt from Weekly Tissue. Remember – all the cool kids are doing it.