Dearest Aamy

[Ed. Note: About a month ago, I received a spam email from Aamy. This is what I wrote her back. As of press time, I am still awaiting a response from my true love.]

Dearest Aamy,
I hope I'm spelling your name right. I suppose it could simply be that you accidentally made a typo with the two "A's", lord knows when I've been taking a few tokes from the lightbulb that I keep (for safety's sake) under the dumpster behind my local McDonald's, I start to get a little loopy, too. What I'm hopeful for though, is that your spelling is correct and that you are perhaps, A Foreigner. Not a member of that pompous, chickenshit '80s band, but actually from a different country with a different skin colour; a different language; a different set of hopes, beliefs and family values; a different definition of personal hygiene. Although, now that I think about it, Foreigner did have one decent song: "Waiting for a Girl Like You". I'm listening to it now. Because I have been, Aamy. I've been waiting a long time. A very long time.

For years, I've been unable to form any sort of connection with a woman. I guess it all comes back to my childhood. I lived with my mother and six sisters. My story is common, of course: my father fled the scene only a few years after I was born. He was bound for California, drawn by the allure of riches, fame, suntans and fake breasts and (most especially my mother and sisters believe) by a nearly-psychopathic yearning (only physically, you understand) for Jennie Garth, who you may remember, played the role of Kelly Taylor on the original 90210 series. I don't remember my dad as the father, the man, but I guess that's why I find myself living in the 90210 zipcode today, searching for the father I can't remember, never even knew. But I've gotta say, Jennie Garth is one fine piece of ass.

But I digress.

As a result of my father's abandonment of us kids and Mama, I was the only boy in a home of women. We lived in a far north-eastern area of Quebec, Canada. As a result of living on the Quebec/Labrador border, I quickly became fluent in the Acadian dialect as well as a smattering of dirty phrases in Finnish. This however, was my only exposure to the outside world, seen through a haze of fiddle jigs and reels and the groping sweaty hands of the fisherman who brought tales of the lands far away and learned me in the customs of other cultures.

You'd be amazed at what the Dutch use as a greeting between a young boy and his elder.

When I finally was able to branch out on my own it was with limited skills although, as you can imagine, living with six older sisters I became an expert at pleasing a woman orally-speaking. However, I found my experiences growing up not entirely conducive to attracting a female mate on my own. And so, I made my way to California, bumming rides when I could. Being bummed when I needed to drink on a miniscule budget.

Finally I ended up here, confronted by all the things I'd heard, discovering it all to be true, but on a grander scale than even I could imagine. And I can imagine a lot of things, Aamy. For example, I can imagine what I'd do to you after we'd downed a couple bottles of mountain whiskey when we're all alone in the middle of no where, with only each other and the livestock in the barn...

But I digress.

I spent a couple of years desperately searching for Jennie Garth. Hopeful that she might have heard from my father, whether from having read the thousands of letter he sent, or perhaps she watched the literally hundreds of VHS tapes he recorded in the basement for her. I was only three or four-years-old when he left us, but I remember our basement filled to the ceiling all with those fucking tapes. He was an artist. I'm an artist, too. I'd love to show you some of my pieces very soon. I keep them in the woods, away from the eyes of those who don't appreciate real culture. In the end, I never found Jennie Garth or my father and so I hit rock bottom. I gave up, willing to accept my bleak (and probably not very lengthy) future of heavy abuse of high-altitude mountain brew and methamphetamines.

And so, needless to say, your incredible email hit me like a ton of bricks shot straight from Cupid's bow out of a clear blue sky on Christmas morning. I guess it's true what they say: you find love where you least expect it. Now, I'm not saying that it's love already, we've only just met. But I know the signs, Aamy. I know that nervous butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach; the grin I can't seem to get off my face; that sense of lightness as I walk around as if on a cloud; and, of course, the half-erection that I know I should try to hide as I saunter through the office where I deliver the mail. But I just can't hide it, darling. It's too large, despite it's 50% flacidity. And to be honest, Aamy, I don't want to hide it. Love in any form, be it spiritual, emotional or erotic should be expressed out in the open on view for all to see at eye-level as they sit at their desk.

To wit, that here stands a half-cocked stallion of manly-eroticy, nostrils flaring, testicles pulsing, chest rising and falling to the beat of a pounding heart. This is the beginning of Love Aamy, my love for you.

I hope to hear from you soon. Perhaps your phone number so I could hear your precious voice speaking my name in your foreign tongue. Perhaps enjoying your invitation to touch myself as you do so. Or maybe your address? I could be there in just a few days, a week at most. And we could begin my lovely, foreign, darky Aamy. We could start our life together.

We could be happy.
Sincerely,
Your sweetest Julio

This post clearly rips-off...

Today after work I was playing a game with myself (and before any perves out there start, this was AFTER I had beaten off, and I did it tastefully into the cat’s litter box, so you gross freaks can fack off!) wherein I was trying to see how many guitar riffs I knew. After I’d gotten through the usual suspects—‘Ruff Ryders Anthem’, ‘What if God Was One of Us ’, ‘Wannabe’, etc—I naturally began scraping the bottom of the barrel, getting into less familiar territory—‘American Jesus’, ‘Minor Threat’, ‘Stickin’ In My Eye’, etc—until finally I came to an obscure title: Pennywise’s ‘Bro Hymn’.

Digression Alert!!

To me, ‘Bro Hymn’ is exactly what the title suggests: a song of hope and promise, an affirmation of the true meanings of friendship while also having a tinge of bitterness and anger that the subject of the song wasn’t able to see and feel those meanings as the singer expresses frustration and disbelief that that were even possible. It is without a doubt, some damn fine song-writing thanks to moving lyrics and a frustration-fuelled, chorus that is catchy as hell while also saying a helluva lot more, a helluva lot clearer than the shitty ending of Point Break (“Ever fired your gun up in the air whilst shouting, ‘Aaarggh!’?” …look it up).  But it also is a song that could never exist today. Well, it could (and in fact does) but never with that title. It was born in an era not too long ago when the word “bro” was part of a world that could hardly be further from the one it resides in now. I’m not sure I know exactly what I’m trying to say about the hijacking of the word “bro” other than that I know that when Jim wrote ‘Bro Hymn’ his mind was nowhere near the likes of The Situation. Huh, right? You know what I mean? Yeah. Anyway…

Digression Alert Lifted!!

So I’m going through all the songs I know, making reverent nods to ‘Genie in a Bottle’, ‘Country Grammar’ and ‘Boom Boom Pow’, when I finally make my plucky way to ‘Bro Hymn’. This, of course, reminds me of two things: 1) My cat is the shittiest back-up singer ever, and 2) Fat Mike, at least in the past, has seemed to enjoy getting drunk.

This, of course, reminds me of two auxiliary things: 1)a) Expertise with the clarinet, oboe and most other woodwinds (while impressive) does not make up for shitty back-up singing and if this keeps up, she’s out of the band, and 2)a) Fat Mike, at least in the past, has seemed to enjoy getting drunk and crashing Pennywise’s set.

Because I’m lazy, I won’t provide a link to any of the numerous videos that show his crashing, or the related videos of Fletcher doing likewise to NOFX, but I will provide a quick snapshot of what typically occurred in those videos and, I presume, in real life to this day:

Int. or Ext. – Night
Pennywise begins the end of their set by playing ‘Bro Hymn’.
Cut to:
Mike stumbling onto the already crowded stage, grabbing a microphone and, with the accompaniment of that well-known intro, singing “Atom Bommmmbbbb!!! TNT!!”

As we all know, this is not just youthful hijinx fuelled by the responsible and minimalist consumption of a small glass of pinot grigio with his porterhouse at dinner. This is also a satirical comment of the fact that the chord progression of ‘Bro Hymn’ is remarkably similar to that of the song ‘Atom Bomb’ by well-known neo-classical jazz quartet Social Distortion which in turn brings me in my typical brief and pointed way to the subject of today’s post: musical rip-offs.

Remember a few years ago (or months. I have no concept of time looking backwards.) when Coldplay put out that song called _____ (I’ll be honest, I can’t remember what it was called) and many haters of Coldplay/conspiracy theorists/anyone with access to an internet connection said, “Yo, man... that shit is surprisingly similar to that song by Joe Satriani entitled _____ (see previous parenthetical note). What’s with that? Coldplay sucks!!” Sure you remember. Some of you very likely opened a youtube account specifically so that you could find a video of the song _____ and reply to those haters/theorists/fellow internet users with something akin to, “Yeah! Fuck Coldplay!”

Well guess who else has been ripped off… Papa Roach’s ‘Between Angels and Insects’ vs. Iron Maiden’s ‘Prowler’; Tom Delonge’s ‘Anthem Part II’ vs. Tom Delonge’s ‘Everything’s Magic’; John Lennon's '_____’ vs _____’s ‘______ on a dog while you ____ twins with ______ no handcuffs needed because they’re ____’.

Admittedly, that last song was pretty cheesy and clearly was just a label request so they’d get on Seacrest.

But let me say this, kids: What do you expect?

A guitar is a finite thing. If you are aroused sexually in any way by probability and square roots (and who isn’t am I right? …Guys? …Guys? …Am I right?) then you have to accept the fact that eventually, we will run out of combinations as far as chords go. And if you choose to stick to purely the major and minor scales (and since I have very little technical terminology, I’ll just say that to assume that you’re not dipping into those crazily awesome Asian scales and melodies) you have even fewer. This means that eventually we’re going to run out of original melodies/arrangements/chord progressions/beat-able pornography.

But here’s where my point comes in to play (in my typical brief/nail-on-the-head way). No one is complaining that ‘Bro Hymn’ has a similar chord structure to ‘Atom Bomb’. You’ll find tons of examples of how Coldplay has shit themselves into a coffin of scatty crap in which they must be buried in a turd crypt because they borrowed some material from Satriani (if you believe that to be the case; lor’ knows I ain’t trying to sway you one way or the other) but no one says a peep to Pennywise. It’s obvious that even Fat Mike doesn’t believe it. And you know why? Because the words are good, folks.

Those fucking lyrics in both songs are what people hold onto. Eg. “If you die, I die. That’s the way it is.” I mean, goddamn, ladies and gentlemen. Gaw’damn! That just goes to show that the further we advance into the further, the fewer options will be at our contemporary musical disposal to venture into unheard territory. But you know what makes it kinda fun? Words haven’t caught up with music. We’ve got way more combinations of words than we do with the standard-tuning, major/minor mindset of the guitar. So how about you stop bitching about when a band borrows a couple notes from someone else, whether intentionally or not, and start paying a little more attention to the words. After all, if music was only worthwhile on its instrumental merit, Mozart would be kicking the shit out of Kesha (fuck that dollar sign).

Although, “Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat/ just show me where your dick’s at” is pretty compelling stuff…
- Neil

You enjoy your silky blouse, I'll keep my memories

“Pearl always said the scent of Gain detergent made her weak in the knees.”

Really, Pearly Girl? Really? That’s all that it takes? You just need a deep huff of a little Spring Mist or Citrus Rain (great name for a psychedelic dub band) to get those gelatinous, post-menopausal loins a-quivering to the point of climax?

Because I’ll level with ya, Pearlster I just don’t see it. I have yet to ever open the top of a detergent for a quick nosedive (especially in public) and if I have, it hasn’t been the wafting fumes of steamy, ‘70s mustached sex that I’ve experienced (that’s only at Christmas). It’s been the wreaking concentrated peroxidial gases of a chemical burn/clean’s sword that my brain cells have fallen to: a heinous blend of vinegar, gasoline, fermented Old Spice and a dash of liquid carbon monoxide whenever I crack a bottle for a load of darks.

“…New Gain detergent with fabric softener. Better get ready to hold onto something, Pearl.”

That’s right, ole Pearl Necklace, better bust out the silk ties and bedposts for that silver bullet of stain-removing pleasure. Pick your Safe Word now, because it’s going to be a long night at the Laundromat, baby. But go slow. I’m saving myself for the Delicates.

Or maybe we can forgo the silk ties/bedpost fantasies. If fabric softener is the big seller for you, then you’re probably too goddamn weak and breakable to take much more than a gentle flamingo feather brushed softly around the areolas.

What the fuck have we come to?

Is our pussification finally complete? Have we sunk to the lowest rung of Vapid Hell? I am by no means a tough, rugged, burly, callous-and-mud kind of guy, but how haemophilic do you have to be whereby the only way to survive is with fabric softener? That cotton blend too rough? Those jeans not bending at the knee like they should?

Fuck you, you puss.

Life is struggles and sacrifices. It’s about working through shit that you hate because you have a glimmer of hope—whether it’s tangible or not—somewhere in the back of your mind that says that whatever you’re doing today will lead to something slightly less terrible tomorrow and something pretty goddamn awesome at some place down the line.

You know what would be pretty great right now? Doing heroin. I’m talking serious Mother Theresa (look it up) shit. Honest. I’ve heard a lot about it and am curious to see if it’s all they say. You know why I don’t? Because I know it would fuck stuff up for me later on. I am making the sacrifice of not mainlining murder (look it up) because of that faint glimmer of hope that says that maybe I’ll go on to do something awesomer (like getting a Wild Turkey IV straight into my trachea). And you know what? When I finally get that whiskey pumping directly into my throat, I’m going to look back on today and be glad I didn’t debate the merits of the various James Bond actors while a dead baby lays in the other room (Jesus H, look that shit up!) because fuck man, I’ve got a booze IV!!!

So how am I going to bring a discourse on my drug and booze-themed life-goals back to fabric softener?

Awkwardly.

When you pussified assholes buy fabric softener, you’re missing out on the whole concept of having “favourite clothes”. Not just ‘I always put on my favourite grey v-neck with the pink graffiti down the side whenever it’s t-shirt Tiiiimmme!! (don’t look it up)’. No, I mean having a bond with a pair of pants that is more than just sexual.

Do you have a bond with a pair of pants that is more than just sexual? I didn’t think so.

I do.

I have a pair of jeans that I bought five years ago. I’m wearing them now. I have no idea what brand they are, but I can absolutely state that they were no more than $19.99 since that is my ceiling for slacks.

Do you have a slacks ceiling? I didn’t think so.

These five-year-old jeans are the jeans of angels. They are a safe harbour in stormy trouser seas. They are raggedy-cuffed like the lines in an old sailor’s face. They are my anchor when I drift too far from home.

They are my campground when I pitch a tent.

I could’ve had this type of comfort years ago. I could’ve doused them in fabric softener and had them reach this stage within a matter of washes. But I chose to wait. I chose to work them in, to let them age and gain wisdom as their wearer did. We had some rough times. Some chaffing times. Some times where I was ready to pull them off and cast them aside but others said, “No. Keep them on. Let them stay. I’m calling the cops.” And so they stayed.

So now, I have an incredible pair of jeans with a million stories to tell about them and in their waning years through the worn places, the cuffless places, and the stains not of my own making, I have a friend who earned their place in my heart.

Good luck holding onto that, Pearl.