Jeopardy!...It sucks!...

...and with apologies to Rusty, Alex Trebek is a smarmy little prick.

And here's why:

A friend of ours, well, a friend of Christine's...not sure how much she actually likes ME, (in fact, Christine's Maid of Honor, who shall henceforth be known as D.), has a fiance' who was just, tonight and last night, on Jeopardy!. Don't forget the exclamation point, or else it would just be this sort of lackadaisical "Jeopardy", instead of "Holy shit! It's fucking Jeopardy!!"

Anywho, D's significant other, Will, actually can say now, until Jesus comes again, that he is a (Holy shit! It's fucking...) Jeopardy! champion. That's right. Champeen. Here's Will:


Although he was one and out, he has my undying respect. Here's two reasons why:

1. Will got 4 out of 5 questions right on a category called "Beer". Surely, the one question that Will got wrong had to do with some skank-ass beer like Natty Light or something. Who could blame him?

2. The other reason, which absolutely kicks the most ass ever kicked by someone not named Chuck Norris, is because on the (Holy shit! It's fucking...) Jeopardy! website, they have this thing called "Hometown Howdies". (Hurry and click...the link's only good for a week!) One would think the people in this section here would excel on such brain-warping categories as "Farm Fun" and "Most Amorous Bovines". But, alas, no. "Hometown Howdies" is an on-line place where (lackadaisical) Jeopardy contestants give "shout outs" to their "homies". No shit, here's Will's:

"Hi, I'm Will Love from L.A. I'm going to be on Jeopardy!. Keep your eye on the track. Love Train is coming your way."

Now, I, Dim, have kicked major amounts of ass in my life. I'm kicking an ass-load of ass as we speak. But of all the ass I have ever kicked, it does not equal 1/7th of the ass that this statement kicks.

Now, onto more pressing topics. Like how Will got screwed by the show. First of all, that smarmy prick Alex Trebek, in all his Mensa glory, calls Mr. Love, "Will", "William", and "Bill" during the course of the show. In fact, the only names he didn't call him were Consuelo, Dimitrius, and Bernadette. Way to throw our boy off his game, Trebek. Are you on the take, you formerly mustachioed megalomaniac??

Second, Will and this quick trigger-fingered wench Eleanor (who I personally don't think is swell-a-nor) were neck and nape, closing into Final Jeopardy when Will hits a Daily Double in the category of Islands. Now, a nanosecond before Will is going to wager his Jeopardy life, friggin' smarmy-ass Trebek announces, "We have some bad news, Betty. The judges ruled a previous response incorrect. You said, 'Du-mah' instead of the correct answer, which everyone knows is 'Du-Moh', so right before the biggest wager of your life, we're going to financially castrate you to the tune of $3,000. Now how much do you want to bet on the category "Questions We've Rigged So the Quick-Fingered Chick Would Win"? Gee, thanks. A little late on the uptake smarty pants. Hey, while you are at it, Trebek, do you want to warn JFK that there's a sniper in the book depository? Horse? Gone? Barn door? Well, NOW it's closed, you hero.

Will gets that one wrong (understandably) and then incorrectly guesses at Final Jeopardy (the category could have been: Jeopardy Contestants Named Will Love and it wouldn't have mattered, though he did make some of the best "I couldn't give a crappin' ass less if I get this wrong" looks I have ever seen), and thus, relinquishes his brief but galactically important reign as Jeopardy! Champion.

So, to our friend, and D's future husband Will Love, congratulations. Jeopardy Champion is quite an entry on the resume and you are infinitely cooler than Ken Jennings, who I still claim would have lost in his first game if the Final Jeopardy category was "Girls I've Kissed".

To the commies behind Jeopardy...go screw. You might have the greater American public fooled, but I am privvy to your Will-less agenda. A: A pox. Q: What does Dim wish you on, you bastards?

Suck it Trebek,

- Dim.

Uh-Oh.

I'm in deep shit now, Francis.

I've been blogging (man, I hate that term) for a few months now and haven't gotten a strong reaction to anything I have written until about a week ago.

I managed to hit the big time and made it to this blog, which seems intent on breaking the world's record for having the string "Rachael Ray" in a webpage. Two can play that game, grasshopper:

Rachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael RayRachael Ray

Anyway, in addition to appearing on that blog, I'm getting TONS of hits from its generous link to Dim City. But good lordy and jumpin' jehosaphat, I'm scared them Rachael Ray folk are going to hunt me down, toss me in some EVOO, saute' me in a hot pan, stick me in a broiler, and eat me in under 30 minutes or less. And giggle maniacally whilst doing so. However, I do have to give props to "Resident Expert" for relenting: "But I do see som (sic) legitimacy in these 'it cannot be done in that amount of time' criticisms." Thanks Resident Expert.

But now, I feel like I have to do a huge ego-stroking piece about Alton Brown just to get these maniacs off my trail. Though there is no way I think he'd look better than RR in an FHM pictorial. (Heh, I'm not giving you the link to her pics. Find them yourself, perv.)

Eating my $4 sandwich for lunch (I have $36 left to spend on dinner, booze, and hookers!),

- Dim.

I (Heart) Apple...Sometimes...

For the longest time, I avoided getting an iPod for much the same reason why I avoided doing a blog. Everyone else seemed to have one and overhyped it and if everyone jumped off a bridge, I was certainly not going to follow them. At least not again. What would my mom say?

Anyway, last February, Christine and I sat down and had a long talk and I fretted for about two weeks straight like I usually do when I purchase something that's more than $50, and we decided, as capable adults, that I was ready for an iPod. (Note: I made the decision to start a blog independent of Christine and did so 1) because it was free and 2) because I was drunk.)

So, the thing arrives in the mail and let me tell you....it really is something else. Probably the best device I have even owned. Even better than the kick-ass meat pounder I just got from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Quite possibly the best device ever created by man, or dare I say, God. Because surely divine intervention came into play here. "And on the 134,864,846,975,754,865,653,863,864th day, God created Steve Jobs who created the iPod decreeing, 'Go forth and listeneth to the White Stripes in your recreational vehicle, domicile, and place of employment!'" And little do people know that the actual 15th Commandment is "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's iPod Nano." And even lesser known are Commandments 11-14, which I believe are:

- Thou shalt not tuggeth on Superman's cape.
- Thou shalt not spitteth into the wind.
- Thou shalt not pulleth the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger.
- Thou shalt not messeth around with Jim.

What can I say?...God digs '70s folk rock.

So, I get all of my tunes on there and rock out for 7 months, loving life. The only negative to the iPod that I could tell was that it didn't give me a "Warning: Shitty Music. Cannot download." message when Christine asked me to put some John Mayer on there. Whatever.

Then, the friggin' world ended.

We came home from a nice 1-year anniversary vacation in Mystic, Connecticut, after listening to many songs on the aforementioned iPod, to find a friendly message from Apple, saying, "Hey Dim! You rule! How about updating to a new version of iTunes?" iTunes, for all you cavefolk, is the music storage program Apple has that houses all of your songs and communicates with your iPod, getting the stuff on there. So, always wanting to have the latest version of everything, I click the "Hells yeah!" button. Little did I know, I should have clicked the "Piss off." button instead.

What happened next was a clusterfuck of gargantuan proportions.

EVERYTHING ceased to work. My computer was messed up. The iPod wouldn't even turn on. I couldn't get the cowlick on the back of my head to stay down. It was utter bedlam. So, I call up my buddy Muj, who is a master of all things computer-related. When I tell him of my musical apocalypse, he responds with a "Oh yeah. They're having all sorts of problems with that update. I didn't do it. It's a mess."

So, I hang up from Muj and check my e-mail. Nothing from him warning of impending catastrophe. No voice mail messages. No carrier pigeon at my door. Nothing. Gee, thanks for the heads up Muj. What's next? Not letting me know that an unmanned spacecraft is re-entering the earth's atmosphere and has a bull's-eye on Dim City, so I might want to carry an umbrella if I go out?

So, I bring it to the Apple store and some "Genuis", as they are dubbed, took my iPod, pressed all the buttons, fiddled something on his Mac, went out into the backroom and produced for me a new (or, more likely, rebuilt) iPod! I'm back in bidness! The world is right again.

Until this past Friday.

I'm listening to a Nickel Creek song, which is one of the 9,203 songs I have on it (no, that is not a typo and that actually represents probably 5/19ths of my entire CD collection) and the thing suddenly freezes. I can't go forward. I can't go back. And this atrocity most certainly did not occur because I was listening to it at work with headphones on and got the headphone cord unknowingly tangled in the armrest of my chair and when I push my chair back, the tethering wire pulled the iPod from the sanctuary of my desk onto the carpeted floor. That most assuredly did NOT happen.

So, I rebooted the iPod, which usually cures most maladies. But upon rebooting the iPod, a display appeared which shook me with such anxiety, I swore I was back watching Bumbles. It looked like this:


I'm not Bill Gates, by I know my icons, and that to me says "Warning. I'm dead." I'm surprised they didn't code in some flies to buzz around the iPod's carcass. But on the Apple website, they say that this icon means the iPod is merely "sad." Sure, the frown can be interpreted as sad, but the x's for eyes? No tears? Come on. I'm not Quincy, but I think I can discern that the thing is dead. Don't patronize me with this icon when the thing shits the bed. I'd even prefer something like this to appear:

At least, then, I'd know where I really stand.

So, Christine and I trek off to the Apple store AGAIN. I plan to get there at 10:01, right when the place opens up, so I can get seen and saved. We get there, only to be informed by the disgustingly large flatscreen TV's near the "Genius Bar", that there are no geniuses available to help, as all appointments are taken, and to try again later. Wha??

Having an infirmed iPod is roughly the equivilent of me carving out both of my eyes with a cake frosting spatula, so I decided to wait on "stand-by". We were there for like a half hour, waiting behind a woman who informed the "genius" helping her, in a Bea Arthur-esque husk, that she couldn't get the iPod to work (probably depriving her of listening to Barry Manilow's "Mandy" ad infinitum) before James, a shaggy, redheaded genius whom we will name our firstborn after, be it a boy or girl, takes pity on me. Much like the other "genius" I encountered there (I think I might be able to handle this job), he fiddled with the buttons for two seconds, did some Mac work, went in the back, and produced for me, another iPod! When explaining the modest reprocessing fee, he asked if I was in college (as I believe college students get a discount). Not only does this wonderful boy give me back the gift of music, but he also thinks I'm about 13 years younger than I am! I have a small man-crush on James, I'll have you know.

So, we go home and I go through the time-consuming task of transferring all of the music from iTunes onto the iPod and five hours (literally) later, I'm back in bidness.

Until the next time...when an unmanned spacecraft is re-entering the earth's atmosphere and smashes right on the friggin' thing in the middle of Queens of the Stone Age's "Sky Is Fallin'". I hope the warranty covers that. Apple taketh away, but then Apple giveth. Dim liketh Apple.

Oh, and random internet search string that miraculously landed someone on Dim City: "samoans and gayness". I shit you not.

iHappy,

- Dim.

Rachael Ray Is On Crack

OK, I really don't mean that literally. It is a tad harsh. Let me rephrase.

Rachael Ray is on crystal meth.

I used to like watching her 30 Minute Meals show on the Food Network a lot. She was spry, perky, energetic. Now, I watch it and see her for what she is...wired, incapable of being quiet for 2 seconds, a boldfaced liar.

I have a litany of complaints about Rachael Ray and most of them revolve around her seemingly superhuman ability to make healthy meals in a mere 1,800 seconds, or, as she emphatically mistruths while smiling the biggest smile in the history of smiles: "In the time it takes you to watch this show."

Me and Christine tried this recipe one time after seeing it on her satanic program. I curiously noticed that everything she uses doesn't have conventional measurements. I scoured Bed, Bath, and Beyond for spoons and measuring devices labelled: "some", "a fistful", "a tad", "a good amount", and "turns of the pan." No luck. But wait! There's more! When you go to the website, they turn the lights on for you! There are measurements! But wait! There's more! Guess what? They're wrong.

I'm not blaming Rachael Ray for this herself, as I doubt she is the webmaster for the Food Network, but some little HTML nerd is laughing his ass off while Christine and I "eat" our smashed cauliflower through a crazy straw because they told us to put THREE TIMES the needed amount of chicken broth. I'm not Emeril, but that seems to be more than just a slight oversight. I wanted a carb-alternative vegetable, not a porridge that had so much sodium that the blood pressure machine at Target automatically called 911 when I used it. Weird thing is when the EMT arrived and hooked me up to the defibrillator, he said, "Bam!"

I also get pissed off that everything is within her reach at all times. That goes a long way to her having the meal ready in 30 minutes...some kitchen elf sneaks in and moves all of her ingredients to the front of the fridge, the front of the cabinets. I can't open a cabinet in my kitchen and have the friggin fire extinguisher within my grasp, but she opens up hers and, BINGO!, there's the cumin she needs! I don't care if you're Aladdin. You shouldn't have a thingful of cumin at your fingertips at any time.

So, ultimately, not having Rachael Ray's superhuman ability and not having all of the ingredients at my disposal, causes my 30 minute meal comes out slightly over in duration. Let's just say, in order for my meal to only take 30 minutes, I would have to don my Superman outfit, fly into the outer atmosphere, and fly around the earth in the opposite direction to reverse it's rotation. Welcome to Dim's 115 Minute Meals! In the time it takes you to watch this program, you could have trained your half-senile dog to dial a phone and call for a pizza.

We try to make 30 minute meals and we don't smile the biggest smile in the history of smiles. We don't laugh at our own semi-humorous anecdotes. We bump into each other constantly, while yelling such constructive questions as "Where the fuck's the stove?!?"

And the next time she takes a bite of whatever she made at the end of her show and makes a face like she just kissed the face of Jesus and it tasted like prosciutto, she's getting a swift smack in the ass with an iron skillet.

Yum-o,

Dim.

Best of 2005 - The Superlatives

March and I are complete music geeks. Every year, we do a "best-of" list, as if anyone other than us would care! Anyway, look for my top 20 of 2005 to appear here soon. And I promise to make the write-ups more brief than in past years. In the meantime, cut your teeth on these superlatives for 2005...those releases that don't qualify for the "main" list, but deserve their props nonetheless.

Top 3 Live Discs of 2005:

3. R30-Rush
Previous list appearances: VAPOR TRAILS (#9 in 2002), FEEDBACK (#2 E.P. in 2004)

Bundled with a DVD of a Germany show on their 30th anniversary tour, this is a great representation of how tight and how heavy this Canadian trio still are. A must for fans of the band and maybe anyone else who wants to hear if they ever did anything after "Tom Sawyer".


2. OVER THE YEARS AND THROUGH THE WOODS-Queens of the Stone Age (Interscope)

Also bundled with a DVD, this showcase of the best band in the world right now falls a tad short in that the CD version of the recorded London show isn't complete. But Josh Homme and company delivery psychadelic stoner rock riffs that undoubtedly melt March's face.


1. KICKING TELEVISION-Wilco (Nonesuch)
Previous list appearances: SUMMERTEETH (Honorable mention in 1998), YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT (#6 IN 2002), A GHOST IS BORN (#1 in 2004)

OK, maybe Wilco is tied with QOTSA for the title of best band in the world right now. All future live discs by all bands should use KICKING TELEVISION as a measuring stick. Pristine, glossy, yet real, Jeff Tweedy may have just found the best live incarnation of his band yet.


Best Boxed Set

B-SIDES & RARITIES-Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (Mute)
Previous list appearances: NO MORE SHALL WE PART (#16 in 2001), NOCTURAMA (#12 in 2003), ABATTOIR BLUES AND THE LYRE OF ORPHEUS (#11 in 2004)

A comprehensive 3-disc collection surprisingly void of throw-aways. Here, Cave shows how he is the master of goth/folk/rock. Acoustic versions of such heavy tunes like "The Mercy Seat" show the bands diversity while also giving the listener a peek at some songs that never found their way onto an official release. For a 3-disc set, this is amazingly all meat, no fat.


Best E.P.

EAST GRAND BLUES-the Greenhornes (V2)

Wow. These midwesterners manage to sound very retro and still sound very fresh. If you close your eyes, you hear 60s Brit-pop sprinked with 21st century songwriting. An offering so excellent, it made me get their older stuff and really look forward to a new release.

Work Birthdays

Well, I just got it handed to me. The dreaded Folder of Fake Sincerity. Within which contains a birthday card for someone in my work group, which I must sign, wishing whoever's birthday it is a...happy birthday.

If you think greeting cards themselves are all lame (and they are), just wait to read what people write inside a work birthday card. Part of the problem is that you probably don't know the person very well (so, penning "Get wrecked!" probably isn't the best idea). And another part of the problem is that the card gets passed around and displayed proudly on the recipient's desk, like a combat medal, so wishing someone "Get laid!" on their birthday is probably not the most ideal thing for work environs either.

Instead, what's left is a bunch of sentiments that are so sterile, I could smear the card all over gaping wounds on my body and not even feel the need for Bactine. So, the recipient is treated to such heartfelt expressions as:

"Happy Birthday!"
"Have a great birthday!"
"Have a wonderful birthday!"
(the two above sound like drill sergeant orders. What if my foot gets run over by a garbage truck on my birthday? Do I still have to have a great/wonderful one?)

Then you have greetings that are slightly less bossy, but also filled with skepticism:

"Hope you have a happy birthday!"
"Hope you have a wonderful birthday!"
"Hope your birthday is/was great/fantastic!"
In other words...you might get your foot run over by a garbage truck, but I really hope that doesn't happen. But you never know. Or, in the case of the past tense birthday, "I didn't hear anything, but I hope you didn't get your foot run over by a garbage truck on your birthday."

Then you have the obligatory, contradicting commands from various people:

"Don't eat too much cake!" (usually followed by some sort of smiley face drawing)
"Eat lots of cake!" (also followed by some sort of smiley face drawing, especially if the author misspells the word as "lot's").

Then, you have people who try to be funny:

"Happy birthday! You're still young! But older than me...HAHAHA!" They have to include the "HAHAHA" at the end, because then the person knows it is an uproarious joke at their expense and they are cued to laugh uncontrollably while half-stale birthday cake comes out of their nose.

Then you have someone who is either the person's best friend forever, works for Hallmark, is drunk, or any combination of the three:

"You are such a wonderful person! Have the great time you deserve on your 27th birthday! May all your wishes come true and may the happiness you give to everyone in your life come back to you tenfold; not only on this, your special birthday, but on every day for the rest of your life!"

This vomitous message is usually signed "Love," so-and-so and usually refers to the receipient by some nickname that you never in a million years knew they had.

If I ever leave this job, the last birthday card I sign before I quit will be something along the lines of "All right! Blow and midget porn for everyone! Just like last year! Woohoo!!!!" That ought to raise the bar on birthday card greetings just a tad.

Looking like a monkey and smelling like one too,

- Dim.

Shall We Play A Game?

OK, thanks to March, I too hopped on the "cluster maps" bandwagon. This thing is skyrocketing in popularity and is now nestled in hits somewhere between Chuck Norris Facts and the much ballyhooed Kevin Federline musical effort. And while, at first, I thought this thing was cooler than the other side of the pillow, I'm starting to have second thoughts.

First of all, my map is looking a little feeble. It looks more like a representation of who voted for Andre Marrou in the 1992 election, which isn't exactly stroking my creative ego. So far, I haven't gone out of my hemisphere (unlike Rusty...bet your ass, I'm jealous) or even international. I have giant blobs pretty much right where I live, another big blob in the middle (I'm big in the Nebraska area! Thanks all you Huskers!) and some smaller blobs in the vicinity of my Pennsylvania pals and the Pacific Northwest. Can't help but think that some people got to my blog through the "blogs that mention Bo Bice" link and that depresses me greatly. Especially considering they took me off the main page. If I was a believer in emoticons, I'd be inserting a big-time frowny face right here.

Second, uh, can we make the dots larger and more vague in terms of location? I really can't tell if that reader in America's heartland is logging on from Oklahoma City or Pierre, South Dakota. Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, but when the damn thing's been attacked by the Cavity Creeps, I'm gonna complain.

Finally, not sure why, but I have orated this entire post the whole time I have typed it and started referring to my laptop as "Joshua". Barry Corbin just appeared in my living room and said "I'd piss on a spark plug if I thought it would do any good" and Dabney Coleman just called me on the phone telling me to go to Def-Con 5. Unfortunately, no 1983-era Ally Sheedy for Dim, though I'm not giving up hope. Dunno, man, I get the creeps from this Cluster Map thingy because it looks a little like the displays on this:



I just want to find out if anyone is reading my blog. I really don't want to irradiate Delaware.

How about a nice game of chess?

- Dim.

Jimi Hendrix and the Nine-Fingered Nun

Not sure why I felt the need to post this story as it is neither very funny nor topical, but in reading this post by Rusty, it called to mind some of my own mischievous actions in high school.

You see, throughout elementary school and even junior high, I was a TOTAL dork. I dressed badly (Toughskins, anyone? Husky size, no less). I got what was "in style" about two years too late. Everyone laughed at my Nikes. Then, they laughed at my Pumas. Then, they laughed at my absurdly thick sneaker laces. Then, they laughed at my black Reeboks. They did a lot of laughing at my expense, but I can't blame them. I did really well in school and was a friggin' crossing-guard for crying out loud.

But when high school came around, I ended up going to a Catholic school while most of the people from my junior high continued to the public high school. I took this as an opportunity to shed my dorky image and try to be a tad cooler. Well, as cool as you can be when dressed in a Sonny Crockett jacket. Hey, cast stones if you must, but this was the 80s and we students were trying to push the dress code to its limit, so it was lightweight blazers, white pants after Labor Day, and skinny ties galore.

My trouble-making in high school was mostly good natured and other than the couple of detentions I received, I didn't get slammed too much. My problem was that I was kind of a wise-ass (as you can probably tell from my blog entries). Teachers hated to really stick it to me because I kicked ass in high school (except for Calculus, mainly because my teacher was so bad, she would work on problems on the board, get herself stuck, and tell us to finish it at home). But there was one time, I got in quite a bit of trouble. And it was all because of Jimi Hendrix and the Nine-Fingered Nun.

By the time I got to Catholic high school, most of the teachers there were lay. Get your mind out of the gutter. But there were a few nuns left over from the Pope Sixtus IV days (1471-84) and I came to find out that they not only didn't have the capacity to remember their students' names, but also were a little lacking in the sense of humor department. The whole celibacy thing probably goes a long way in contributing to both of those things.

Anyway, this one nun, Sr. G., was older and crustier than most of the nuns there. And she happened to have 4 fingers on her right hand, which she would always carefully interweave with her complete meat hook to give the illusion that she had all digits. Any efforts to get her to play "This is church; this is the steeple" would have resulted in there being fewer people when you open the door, no doubt. No one quite knew how she lost that finger, but I suspect that it happened when she was throwing a student into a wood chipper because he had hair that went past his shirt collar (another offense that I was busted for).

Anyway, G. had two main personality flaws. One, she was terribly condescending in her tone of voice and two, she had the aforementioned brain lock when it came to students (read: my) names.

Among the names to which I was referred were:

Mr. Hendries
Mr. Henderson
Mr. Henders
Mr. Hendricks (at this point, I told her to call me "Jimi". No lie)
and, inexplicably,
Joseph.

None of these are my name or any combination of my name.

And one of her favorite condescending things to say was, when we would come back from lunch, "What did you have for lunch today, students? You are all so rambunctious..."

Every single time we had lunch during her English class, she would say the same thing in the same condescending tone. I was pissy enough in high school. I didn't need this crap from a servant of God.

One particular day, I, Jimi Hendries, had enough.

We come back from lunch and as everyone is getting settled, the Nun o' Nine Fingers wryly poses her "what did you all have for lunch"query.

I, Joseph Henderson, raise my hand.

She acknowledges with a "Mr. Henders?"

And then my response:

"Finger sandwiches, Sister."

Now, I know it is cliche' to say this happened, but I swear it did. You know those scenes in the movies when there's a big commotion, a din, lots of people talking, and two people are having a conversation about a sensitive topic and two nanoseconds before you announce "So, I was thinking of having my testicles laminated!"*, everyone shuts up and that phrase reverberates throughout the room and everyone hears it? Well, that's what happened with my finger sandwich comment. *Thanks, George Carlin.

A gnarled paw consisting of a thumb, an extended index finger, a middle finger, a nub, and a pinky extended to the door. "Out!", she growled.

I slinked off to the Principal's office, fully knowing that death awaited me there in the form of a non-deformed, ten-fingered nun.

While sitting there, contemplating the hellfire I was sure I would experience both in this life and the next, my law teacher walked by and did a double-take. He came into the office and said, "Dim, what are you doing in here?" I was on such good terms with this guy that he let me call him by his first name, Joe. So, I tell Joe about what I said and he just busts a gut laughing and leaves me hanging there. The Principal comes out and gives me some soliloquy and sentences me to detention. Which never was so bad because all of the naughty girls who violated the dress code were there and that certainly took the sting out of it.

So, Rusty, don't let the ankle-biters get you down. And don't worry about the skin thing. That will clear up. Though I highly doubt that Sister 'All right! Gimme Four' will sprout another digit.

Now playing: "If Six Were Nine (fingers)" by the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

'Scuse me while I kiss the sky,

- Dim.

Campbell's Soup is Mmm Mmm Sucky

As much as it pains me to knock Amy Adams off of my latest post, I just had to rant against this abomination. I saw a commercial for this...this...thing:


Now, this is just dag. First of all, it comes in a container whose shape should only contain one of two things. I pick up something that is shaped like this and put it to my lips, I either want to feel the tingly carbonation of soda pop, or the tingly carbonation of beer. I don't want a mouthful of Oodles of Noodles.

No frigging way am I eating soup out of a damn sippy cup. Just "heat and sip"??? Are you out of your mind??? It's Blended Vegetable Medley for crying out loud!!!!

Not to mention, it's just a total mind-screw to boot. Have you ever ordered a drink in a restuarant and you thought you ordered something else? And when you take a sip of it, it totally throws your body off? Like your body is anticipating tasting Sprite, but instead you get ginger ale and your body reacts like you just downed a pint of ipecac. Strange thing, the brain.

And that's not a world of difference either. Sprite, ginger ale. Big whoop. Now, grab this thing, anticipating a nice mouthful of Molson Export and instead you get cream of broccoli. Real nice.

Thanks, Campbell's, for actually over-complicating soup. SOUP!!!

Popping open a tall pasta e fagioli,

Dim.

Amy Adams? HOT.

OK, to defend my comment in association with this Rusty blog entry, I submit Amy Adams as being hot.

This, of course, operating under the assumption that she does not have a "wireIMAGE" tattoo going across her neck in real life. That would knock her down a few pegs.

Loooovin' those redheads,

-Dim

I Need A Remedy...For Idiot Concert-Goers

Honest to God, if I can only get one thing of mine published, it’s got to be my Concert-Going for Dummies thingy. Not necessarily because it is good, but because it is TRUE. It should be given out at the door at every live music venue in the galaxy. Ticketmaster should charge you an extra $6.50 per ticket, just for the fuck of it, and print it off and include it in your ticket order.

Here’s why. It’s a long story. And it’s not pretty.

A few weeks ago, while recounting the best live shows I saw this year, I was lamenting the fact that I dropped the ball on Black Crowes tickets. I was so distraught, that when their video for "Remedy" came on VH-1 while I was channel-surfing, I watched like three seconds of it, before I had to change it. I’m a whiny baby like that. Anyway, they were playing a warm-up gig for their Madison Square Garden New Year’s Eve fiesta at this smallish club in Providence.

Shortly before Christmas, a friend of mine noticed that Ticketbastard released a few more tickets and I was on that like me on Kate Beckinsale. I also got an email from my buddy Marino who also snagged tickets for himself and his wife Katie. We made plans to meet up (he lives in Vermont) and take in the show. The four of us were really looking forward to it, because we love the Crowes and haven’t seen each other for a long time. The evening turned out to be a lot of fun, but, let’s just say we ran into a few people who didn’t contribute to us having the most enjoyable concert-going experience possible.

We meet up ahead of time and drive into Providence together. We scout out a watering hole a little off the beaten path and settle in for some beers and some food. Great time at the joint, though as good as my burger was, the pulled pork sandwich was definitely the way to go. Perhaps this was a harbinger of things to come.

At this joint, I realized that I am gay. Well, not literally "gay" as in "happy" or even "gay" as in "homosexual", but "gay" as in…well…"gay". So, I’m in the men’s room before we go and it was here that I discovered my gayness. No, THAT didn’t happen! So, I’m standing there, taking a leak, and Bon Jovi’s "Livin’ On A Prayer" comes on the piped in music. There I am, in a townie Providence bar, giving the lip-synch performance of my life for the tiled wall. What the hell is the matter with me?! And to make matters worse, I actually did a fist pump during the "We’ll make it, I swear" lyric all while still doing my business. I never felt more gay. I slinked off and felt shame in my reveling in a Bon Jovi power ballad. In a men’s room, no less. George Michael laughs a familiar laugh.

OK, so we get to the venue, which is a decent place to see a show. Not great, but I have been to worse. We settled in right above the floor level, about three steps up, on the side. We were right next to a staircase that led up to a VIP area that was chained off and being guarded by a bouncer who not only had a mullet (yes, a mullet), but also bore a striking resemblance to Barf from Spaceballs, or at least claimed Christine in retrospect.

I notice that this bouncer dude (who wasn’t very big at all) was wearing a cool t-shirt of the venue, which is called Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel. It had a silhouetted profile of Elvis with the name of the venue on the shirt. You bet your ass I bought one…it was 10 beans and Elvis is the MF’ing KING! I couldn’t find a picture of it online, but Christine snapped a photo of me wearing it on New Years Eve. Once I get my dumb computer fixed, I’ll scan it and put it up here. Seriously, the shirt rules.

So we settle into our section probably 20 minutes before the Crowes come on. Shortly before, a wafting scent of incense permeates the air. As does the smell of hair gel and stale cigarette smoke. It’s going to be one of those friggin’ nights.
The Crowes come on and launch into "Virtue and Vice" from their much-maligned "By Your Side" CD. They are just clicking on all cylinders and it is great to see the band as it really should be…the Robinson brothers, Marc freaking Ford, Gorman on drums, Old Weird Ed tickling the keys, and some random shamoke playing bass. For this tour, it was Sven Pipien, who bore a freaky similarity to former Guns ‘N’ Roses guitar player Gilby Clarke, which prompted Marino to quietly yell out requests consisting of all 786 songs that are on "Use Your Illusion I and II".

No more than 5 seconds after the start of the show, we are treated to this stout woman to our immediate right who is gyrating like she has a colony of fire ants in her granny panties and producing an ear-piercing scream in 10 second intervals that I’m sure made German Shepherds in Pittsburgh tilt their heads to the side. She seemed to be with a guy with 80s hair who was determined to set the record for most alcohol consumed by a person without losing control of his bodily functions. And he was about to be disqualified. OK. Let me get this straight…you love a band SO much, that you are going to scream during their songs so you can’t hear them. That makes sense. Why don’t you just pump your fist to "Livin’ On A Prayer" while you are at it?

Half-way through a pretty good first set, we start to get a constant influx of people leaving the floor and an even greater amount bum-rushing to the front (much to the chagrin of the guy standing behind Christine who insisted that I, Dim, of the bathroom behavior of questionably masculinity some one hour earlier, should be able to barricade people from moving to and fro the stage area). Included in these assholes was someone who looked just like a young Wild Samoan Afa from the World Wrestling Federation. On the top of the list of people I give a LOT of leeway, are Wild Samoans. So, I kept my yap shut as this guy proceeded to stand in the exact space that I had been in for 45 minutes. Marino, who is only interested in justice, meanwhile, doesn’t give a shit if the guy is Samoan or a head hunter from Gilligan’s Island, or what. He taps Afa on the shoulder and says something along the lines of "You can’t stand here. My friend has been here all show long and you can’t stand here. Go down on the floor if you want, but you can’t stand here." The Wild Samoan must have misheard this as "Let’s go down to the floor and you can eat me later", because he gave Marino the hand-clasp handshake and tried to drag him onto the floor with him. Marino luckily escaped his evil clenches by smashing a coconut on his head Rowdy Roddy Piper-to-Jimmy Snuka-style. One asshole crisis averted. But, alas, there were more to come.

The show continues and the band really does sound fantastic. Their set was a little on the obscure side and not really designed for the casual fan. They did some cool covers (the Rolling Stones’ "Street Fighting Man", Pink Floyd’s "Fearless", sung by Rich Robinson, and George Harrison’s "Beware of Darkness"). Not too many radio hits were played, but I went there to hear one song: "Wiser Time" off of their brilliant "Amorica" disc. And did they ever make me sweat. About four songs into their second set, they played a bit of a jam while Marino and I literally crossed our fingers. He said to me, "If you’re gonna hear it, it’s gonna be now." And sure enough, they launched into the tune that caused me to have a smile on my face ten miles wide (just like Jani Lane in Warrant’s "Cherry Pie" video). Hey, heaven isn’t too far away.

It was shortly after me experiencing my audio nirvana for the evening that we all started to notice this foursome starting to encroach on our modest little standing space. One of the alpha males had a visor on backwards (natch) and another was wearing a baseball cap. They had been standing on the floor with 2 women who were sometimes with them, sometimes not, but because one of the women was a little vertically challenged, they decided to get up on the steps, one at a time, and then, ultimately, right into our area. One of the women, dubbed The Slutty One, by Christine, seemed to be encouraging Marino to dance with her. And after he snubbed her, she decided to allow some real goofy-looking guy to grab-ass on her, despite her appearance of being with Backward Visor Guy. Not a bad gig for the Freaks and Geeks kid, but it was about to get rocky for us cool dudes.

The other chick was gyrating like she caught some of the other woman’s fire ants and was definitely getting into our little personal space. Baseball Hat Guy went to put his arm around his wife’s "ass" (his words) when he brushed against Marino’s crotch because they were so close. Marino laughingly said, "Hey, buddy, watch the hand there!", trying to lightheartedly let the guy know that he was getting a little close. But Baseball Hat Guy turned and said something along the lines of "My hand is on my wife’s ass, so I hope you’re not anywhere near that!" Said, of course, with eyes three-quarters closed because of the 13 Bud Lights he had and probably because he just woke up an hour ago and stumbled out of the frat-house. Marino started off by trying to give her a little room, but that just resulted in her pushing back even more. Running out of space to go back, Marino held his ground, which caused gyrating girl to smack into us. At which point, she turns around and accuses Marino of having a problem with her because she was the height of an Oompa-Loompa (my words). Marino insisted that he had no problem, but thought it would be best if she just stepped down, since we were in this spot all night and they just decided it was where they wanted to stand. This resulted in a pissing match between Marino, the Gyrating Girl and The Slutty One. The two guys they were with, for the most part, stayed out of it, though I swear I saw them mouthing the words to "Livin’ On A Prayer" to each other. Marino insisted there was no problem and just wanted them to go down to where they were before, so we could all enjoy the show. Meanwhile, The Groper was sweating more than a whore in church because the whole time, we were unknowingly running interference so he could grab-ass The Slutty One. So while everyone was barking at each other, Christine and I silently seethed (we’re pretty non-confrontational and Marino was 1000% right in saying what he said, but you can never get obnoxious people to say, "You’re right! Sorry! We’ll go away, now.") So, in the middle of this, who makes a cameo, but Barf.

Barf is now the irate parent who really doesn’t care "who started it", he just wants everyone to "shut the fuck up". This attitude, which would completely disgust the Justice League of America, resulted in Barf telling Marino to "take a walk". Tons of room to just wander around, guy, thanks! Marino and Katie asserted that they did nothing wrong (which is correct), but Barf was steadfast that they (which meant "we"), needed to go to the back of the venue. Marino’s interpretation of "back of the venue" was "five inches to the left", and there we stayed til the encore. Meanwhile, The Groper chats me up by saying, "Do you know that guy (meaning Marino)?" I reply, "Yeah", to which The Groper, incredulously replies, "That totally sucks. You guys have been here for like two hours!" Which actually means, in geekspeak, "That totally sucks! I can’t grab-ass anymore! At least I can go home and tell my gamer buddies that I touched a girl, though. Black Crowes are even better than Vertical Horizon!"

So, between the last song and the encore, we started making our way to the back of the venue. Leaving all the assholes behind. Thanks to the Crowes for a great show. But grades of F- go to: Fire Ant Granny Panty Girl (who disappeared at the setbreak), Alcohol World Record Holder (who reappeared after the setbreak, only to spend much of the second set falling down), Overestimating Dim’s Influence on the Crowd Guy, Afa the Wild Samoan, Barf, The Slutty One, Three-Quarted Eyes Closed Baseball Hand On My Wife’s Ass Guy, Backwards Visor Guy (who really didn’t say or do much, but he was wearing a backwards visor, for Chrisssakes), and, especially, Gyrating Girl. I give a hearty high-five to The Groper, though. Nice effort…we all need a remedy. For what is ailin’ me, you see.

If you go to a concert, please, PLEASE try not to be a dick. Is that so freakin’ hard?

The union’s been on strike. I’m down on my luck; it’s tough. So tough,

- Dim.