In-fat-u-a-tion

Me. Yep.

It's the little things that bring on infatuation. The unexpected messages on IM. The smiley faces in emails.

I cannot wait to see her again.



I know she's gonna leave my broken heart behind her
I dig what she's givin' though
I know she's gonna leave this broken man behind her
I dig what she's givin' though.

The Maggie Misadventure

She is terrific. She is fantastic. She is highly addictive. She is Maggie.


(My hair looks like feathers. Bloody hell, I stole this outfit from the Beatles during the Sgt. Pepper years.)

I thought that it was game over with Maggie. After talking a few times, we met for the first time, had sushi (in Fort Collins, and it was remarkably GOOD), talked a few more times.

Then Thanksgiving. Then complete radio silence. Phone calls went unanswered and unreturned. After the brilliant time we'd had together, I was shocked. Shocked and saddened.

I'd written her off as just someone who wasn't interested. Which is fine; frankly, I've been on the wrong end of that equation enough to A) be used to it, and B) not really get bent out of shape about it anymore. So there I was, square 1.

Then, last night... missed a call on my way home from watching the Broncos suck it up in another loss, and after getting home, checked the phone to find it was Maggie who'd called.

Now.

If I was a game player, I would not have called back. I would not have responded at all. I would have let the sleeping dog lie.

I called. She answered. We talked.

It was... terrific. Like a breath of air for a drowning man, I felt refreshed; reinvigorated.

And though I'm not getting my hopes up, though I've been down this road too many times to really believe that something could come of this... here I am.

Hopeful.

The Boom King is Dead

... Long Live the Boom King.

Rest In Peace, Sean Taylor. Say hi to Darrent for us, now that you two are playing in God's secondary.

REAL football teams have PLAYOFFS.

Fuck yeah.

Desperation is a stinky perfume...

Fuck it. Deal. The three people who read this blog need to vote for my band. here are the details...

WE NEED YOUR HELP! This is big, everybody. KTCL, 93.3 fm here in Denver, has selected "Anything Left" as one of the top 35 tracks it received from hundreds of submissions. We believe it's one of the top ten tracks they've received, but we need yoru help to prove that to them.

The first leg of this journey is the online voting, which starts on Monday, and requires that you be a member of Area93, their website. Signing up is simple, and only takes about a minute, and once you're done, you never have to do it again.

You can only vote once per day, but you can vote every day, and we hope you'll consider stopping by Area93.com to vote for Anything Left once a day.

Here's how you help:

Make sure you are a member of Area93.com and get Channel 93.3 Music Surveys. Members will choose what songs get on the air and Music Survey picks the top 3 bands.

Not a member? Sign up here for Area93.com! After you sign up for Area93, you'll be redirected to the Music Survey site. Sign up on both!

Sign up for Area93 and Sign up for Music Surveys.

Once you've signed up, starting monday, PLEASE come back to the site to vote for "Anything Left" in the top 10. We've got some great competition in this thing, and really want to show what we're made of with this contest.

Thank you so much for all that you do. We love you very much. And if we become rich and famous because of this, we promise to send you a postcard.

Love,

Lazyface
Sam, Mike, Aaron, Dave, Andy

Holy. Fuck.

Watch the whole thing. Seriously.

Does it have a point? No. But I'm kind of under the weather and feel like I've now gotten my fever dream out of the way. All without the inconvenience of having to leave my job and go to sleep in my bed.

Sigh.

Anything Left?

We were in the studio last night, recording what we thought would be just one song (the ever-popular "Anything Left") for a radio contest we want to enter. Ended up recording four songs total, and actually working through most of three and got Anything Left almost perfect. All in all, a very successful undertaking.

We're still going to enter Anything Left for the radio contest, but I'm more than a little impressed with our work on "The Score," a rollickin' good time of a song that has just enough dirt to make it feel pretty grungy. A true, straight-ahead rock song, if I do say so myself.

At first, I wasn't convinced that we'd have a shot in this contest. After working with Jamie at Module Overload Studios - easily the best value in town as far as recording studios go - and working through a lot more than we were expecting and still staying on-budget, and hearing the clean, clear, delectable sounds that came out, I'm fully expecting delivery into the top 20. Anything Left is THAT GOOD.

Now I feel like an asshole for blowing my own horn, but... fuck it, it's true. I'll be sure to post if we do make the top-20 so y'all can vote for the song and try to get us in regular rotation on KTCL.

NP: Cake - Motorcade of Generosity

Cursing, and the cursing cursers who... uh... curse... them...

Some days, this is just how I feel.

Mighty Mangina Monologue

One of the coolest things I've learned about are the little subsections of blogs that link to each other throughout the internet. Despite being on seemingly different topics, all of these seem to have one or two things in common, and though they get there in different ways, I've read some pretty awesomely terrific writing through these little communities.

One of the best, and I mean this, is BlogHer. A collection of bloggers from across the country (and around the world, I would imagine) who have two things in common: a vagina, and breasts. I guess, technically, that's three things that they have in common. (Note: I do not think they share the same vagina and breasts. That would make them one person. Or maybe lesbians, I think. And then I could no longer call them, "Them," as "they" would be a singular entity. And then they wouldn't need a community, because they'd all be right there, busying themselves with their shared vagina and breasts. I need a nap) ANYWAY, I think they're terrific; they're funny, smart, interesting, apparently drink a great deal of wine (witness Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino in the links), and possess a certain amount of awesomeness incarnate with being really, really smarmy. I truly believe that A) Leslie, she of the Librarian Intelligence Agency, should be a member, and B) coming up with something as simple and descriptive as "BlogHer" is awesome.

So then, what would we call it if I wanted to start a blog community for men? BlogHim sounds lame (and a little gay, or religious, which is ironic).

My ideas:

PenisMightier (as in, "The Pen Is Mightier." Get it?)
Ball-log
Testiblog
Testostiblog

Your ideas in the comments. Together, we can make this shit happen.

Friends don't let friends...

...Vote Hillary.



Which is it, Hillary? I can't believe people still prefer her over anyone.

And know this: if she wins the Democratic nomination, she will lose in a general election. Period.

DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. VOTE OBAMA.

Upon further review...

It appears my backing of Ron Paul for president in 2008 was remarkably premature. The guy claims to be a Libertarian, wanting less government interference with everyday life, but he's pro-life? Hello? It just speaks to a huge disconnect in his decision-making process.

Unreal. Back to the Obama camp for me.



I just hope he can win. Hillary scares the ever-lovin' shit out of me. Edwards seems to say all the right things, but I am nervous about his past professional career. Gravel is a crazy old coot.

Obama seems like he has such a better hold on what people want, and unlike Hillary, doesn't seem like he'll say just anything to get elected (I feel like Hillary is a soundbite machine. Annoying).

Obama. 'O8. Let's go.

The one where Sam throws his hat in the ring...

... For Ron Paul. A Republican. Hot damn, smart man.

Genarlow Wilson to be freed

Sometimes sports are just less important.

But sometimes it is sports that brings attention to a person who needs it.

This is the case of Genarlow Wilson, a young honors student and former high school football player who was locked up for getting oral sex from another high school student at a New Years Eve party. Genarlow was 17 at the time, the girl was 15.

Somehow, in the ass-backwards state of Georgia, this was considered such a serious crime that Genarlow was sentenced to 10 years in state prison.

Lemme run that one by you again: 10 years. For getting a hummer at a party.

For this horrific offense, Genarlow was removed from school, removed from football, and sent to prison. His future - he was being recruited to play football at several 1-A institutions, and was an honors student - was tarnished forever.

And for what? Because he got head from a girl at his school, consensually, at a party.

If you think I'm not carrying around a love contract these days, you're fuckin' crazy.

Congratulations to Genarlow Wilson. Here's hoping that you can get life back on track after having everything - everything - taken from you. Cheers.

A fan comes clean

Note: This bout of honesty comes due to the writings of one Dan Shanoff, who had a great blog post today about becoming a fan, and what really matters. Made me think. It is highly recommended reading, and is available HERE.

This is hard for me to admit, as by merely admitting what I'm about to admit, I will be admitting to lies that stretch back to my teens, at least, and maybe farther. Here goes.

My father was not a Red Sox fan.

Which means I didn't inherit my love of the Sox from my father. Didn't spend sun-drenched days in Fenway, watching the Sawx do battle in the middle of summer. My father wasn't from Worcester, Massachusetts, like I always claimed. We didn't have the wonderful father - son relationship, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Dad was from Scottsdale, Arizona.

His team was the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Dodgers.

Don't get me wrong: I love the Boston Red Sox. I do. But I didn't come by them in the usual ways.

My mother is the one responsible for my love of the Red Sox. It's true.

I never lived in Boston, or on the Eastern seaboard. I'm a Western US kind of kid. I can't imagine living in a place so small, so cramped, and without mountains (and with the big dig. Ugh). But when I was young (somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11, I believe), mom and I went out to Boston to see her college friend, her husband, and her son.

It was September.

The Sox were in contention.

And when we took the T down to Fenway, I was blown away.

Yawkey Way, full of people, with the smell of sausages and peanuts and popcorn and beer and baseball... the cheerful sounds of "Go SOX!" as you walked through the crowd. I knew then that I would always be a Red Sox fan.

And then I saw the inside of the stadium. My, that stadium. Fenway Park is the greatest ballpark on the face of the planet. It is baseball's cathedral. The size, the proximity of fan to player, the wall, all make it... well... the most special place on the planet to see a baseball game. You think that, at any minute, Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski or Jimmie Foxx is going to walk of the dugout to take a few cuts at the plate.

My life would never be the same again.

I brought home more merchandise than any 8-11 year old kid should be allowed. A Red Sox poster that featured the likes of Oil Can Boyd, Mike Greenwell, and the immortal Wade Boggs. A Sox hat. A tee shirt with "The Hunt for Red October" silk-screened on the front.

From that day forth, I was a Red Sox fan. And in spite of giving my dad all the credit for that choice, my mom is really who is responsible.

That said, it's tough to follow your team when you live 3000 miles away. With a 162 game season, it's damn near impossible. Remember, this was before DirecTV and the baseball package. The Sox became my "AL team."

My NL team? Why, the upstart Colorado Rockies, of course.

I'm a Denver guy. When we got pro baseball in Denver, it was a very exciting time. I finally made it to a game at Old Mile High, late in that first 1993 season. I don't remember much, except that I liked the uniforms, and I loved the team. These guys had come out of nowhere: Andres Galarraga, Dante Bichette, Joe Girardi... who were these guys?

Answer: they were the sign that Denver was finally moving beyond just a cowtown. They were a sign of progress. The National Pastime, in Denver! Pro ball! Major League City!

The Rockies fans set a record for attendance that year. More than 4 million people went through the turnstiles. We weren't very good, but we weren't supposed to be.

I've since kept my eye on the Rockies. I love going to the stadium downtown, and at one point actually worked at Coors Field. For my money, and I don't have much, there's nothing better than the baseball stadium on a sunny, summer day. Being bathed in sun with a great, upper deck view of the Rockies, enhanced by the view of the Rockies (and vice versa) has no equal, in my opinion.

Call it what you will. Am I a turncoat for rooting for the Rockies in this World Series? Maybe. But when someone asks from now on who I root for, it'll always start one way:

"I have two teams."

We're coming for Favre.

See what we did to Ben Roehtllaekjfjlkjdfajewkaljflbljkaberger this weekend? You like that shit? That's how we treat guests in our house. That's how we throw down now. That's how we tell people that the Predominantly Orange Monster is back.

FUCK YOU, Pissburgh.

Next? Brett Favre and the Packers on Monday night.

I'm of the belief that this guy:



... got what he deserved. You don't wear a Favre jersey. Ever. See how he's holding his head oh-so gently, after receiving a shot to the back of his dome? Well, Elvis Dumervil is the chair, and the guy in the Favre jersey is Favre.

FUCK YOU, Green Bay.

Taste my pain, bitch.

Brilliant!

I've been loving on the Coors Light coach commercials, where they splice footage of NFL coach press conferences with shots of guys (like me) drinking beer and asking smartass, smarmy questions (like me). They're awesome.

And many people have seen the video of the Oklahoma State football coach yelling at a columnist for being mean to one of "his" players. It was absurd, and kind of funny.

Now the two have been brought together.

Let us enjoy the enjoyment.

Rocktober Rocks On

Big ups to Jonathan for sending me the link.

Well, that's the last time I take advice from Troy Aikman

During the Sunday football marathon, or what I like to call "my stories," former quarterback-turned-punching bag and current football analyst-turned-douchebag did a promo for this new Fox show, "Back To You." It's got Kelsey Grammar. It's got Patricia Heaton. It's got Fred Willard. It's about a local TV news team in Pittsburgh.

In other words, this show sucks. I know that going in. And yet I listen to that mutton-headed fuckstick Aikman when he says "That show is so funny. I mean, so good. That Kelsey Grammar's character reminds me of one of my coworkers. Dick Stockton."

Me? I can't resist getting an inside look at Dick Stockton's life and his apparent mis-treatment of a dumbass like Aikman.

Naturally, I DVR'd that shit, and tried to watch it this evening before bed.

I made it roughly 4 minutes.

What an awful, awful show.


Kelsey Grammar and Patricia Heaton? Troy couldn't help but whip out his sausage.

I'm not sure what the point of this entry is. I just thought it was a good time to make fun of Aikman's concussed ass, because I feel like being an asshole tonight. Aikman, you inbred dipshit licker of assholes: thanks for nothin'.

Love just leaves you bruised

Before you ask, I don't know what Jim and Pam from The Office have to do with this song. But the song properly wraps up how running into Lauren changed my weekend.

Love just leaves you bruised. If you want to know, you find something to lose.

I did not see that coming...

Beer fest. A time for guys to be guys and girls to serve us beer. Met up with Patrick, Thom, The Deuce (Thom's brother), and assorted others, and proceeded to the Colorado Convention Center to partake in some one-ounce-at-a-time fun.

And fun, it was. Tons of beer from all over the US, some great samples, some bad samples, and surprisingly nothing from Missoula, home of three great breweries. At learning this, my excitement was suddenly tempered, if only because the familiar is comforting, especially in the face of 400 brewers making everything from very good barleywine to an absolutely atrocious pomegranate beer. Sometimes, you just want a taste of Cold Smoke from Kettle House, or Moose Drool from Big Sky, or Dancing Trout from Bayern; they bring you back to center, let you find your happy place again for a moment, before setting out to conquer the rest of the booths.

Alas, none of these brewers showed up.

I should have known this to be a bad sign.

Just when I was getting past the Big Sky slight, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the best friend of a wonderful ex of mine. Lauren's friend, Karen, spotted me, and my thoughts immediately went to panic mode.

Karen: "HI!"

Sam: (Oh, FUCK.)"Um. Hey. Oh, hi Lauren."

Lauren: "Hi."

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and I have to admit, it was a lot less awkward than I'd ever expected it to be. Consider for a moment that the last time we saw each other was nearly a year ago. To think how long a time ago that was, realize that the Rockies weren't even within spitting distance of the playoffs, the Broncos were, and Allen Iverson wasn't a Nugget yet.

And consider that there was precisely zero closure between the two of us. At least, not for me. I was told in an email that she was no longer interested, and via phone call that she was seeing a new guy, the dreaded Gil.

Despite all of this, seeing Lauren was good. And she looks great. Looks very happy. Which made me happy, and sad, at the same time.

After a few minutes, they walked away, and I figured we wouldn't run into each other again in a giant room full of 10,000 people. Naturally, I was wrong.

But it wasn't "running into them" I should have been worried about. I should have been more concerned with busy-body Karen having the great idea of "Let's introduce Sam to Gil!" Oh, can we please?!

Sure enough, up runs Karen.

"So, you wanna meet Gil?"

"No, not really."

"Well, he and Lauren are on their way over here right now."

And as I looked over her shoulder, sure enough, there was Lauren, arm in arm with my new nemesis. The dreaded Gil.

And as we shook hands, and I desperately searched for a reason that Lauren wouldn't be happy with him, I was quite upset to know that there was nothing. She's found her man.

And I'm happy for her. And I'm happy for him, because she's so fucking awesome, and if he's smart, he won't make the same idiotic mistakes I made, and disappoint her, and hurt her.

Because if he does, I'll break his kneecaps.

What bothers me most about this whole scenario? The fact that Gil is actually a pretty cool guy. If the circumstances were different, I would probably hang out with this kid.

Circumstances being what they are, I will break his kneecaps if he hurts Lauren.

That, my friends, is life. More specifically, my life.

The Dreaded Dry Spell

It has happened.

I'm not sure when, and I'm not sure how. But in some way, between ending things with Jenny and where we are now - wherever that is - I have lost track of what it was that made me a desirable person.

Is it my attitude? Does my smile now give away some deeper insight into my life, my soul? Is it my unwillingness to change, to settle?

I don't know where I am anymore. I've been on Match for a few months now, and despite getting a few nibbles here and there, it has been a rousing disaster. If Shakespeare was writing it, this would be a great tragedy.

What's worse, the headline of this particular blog ("The Dreaded Dry Spell"... pay attention, slackers) is already out of date. It's more of a dry desert at this point, which is worse. Shit, I'd kill for a dry "spell."

28. Washed up. To paraphrase Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, "We were frightened of being left alone for the rest of our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 28, and we were of that disposition."

How completely unreasonable. How completely, emotionally lewd. How fucking true.

I'm at a point now where I'm meeting random (albeit, pretty) women at parties, and getting their numbers a few days later, only to call and receive no call back. I'm calling old flings and flames and trying to get together for a drink, a beer, a cup of coffee. And, if I'm lucky, a clue.

A clue about what I keep doing wrong. I know it's me, and I know it's the same thing every time. I know I'm lost and I just keep walking through this forest of bullshit, trying to find answers that may or may not even be real. I'm searching for some reason to stop loathing myself, my issues, my reasons, my justifications.

I'm not finding much.

The problem is, as mentioned, the lack of a call-back. But why should they call me back? I'm a distant memory; the guy who wasn't quite good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting enough to want to tie themselves to for a significant amount of time. Instead, they found the good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting guy shortly after I exited stage left, and they haven't looked back.

Me? I'm allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll about the look-back.

Kim is, as she has always been, in Missoula. I'm in Denver. That's a no-go. I'm at the mercy of fate, hoping that our paths cross again. But, like that lyric from The Format:

we are parallel lines
we’re running in circles
we're never meant to cross

And that's how it feels. I'm on one line, and the rest of the world are on another, and we're never meant to cross.

And I miss Kim.

Miss? Maybe not. Do I know her well enough to miss her? Were my feelings for her just part and parcel with having a great time on vacation, her smiles and jokes and soft skin just plunging me farther into a dream world where the two of us find ourselves together? Or are they real?

(I think that's the problem, by the way. I never know when I'm happy. I figure it out long after the person has gone, and as the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" plays in my head, I'm violently angry at myself for becoming a part of the cliche. Fuck me, and fuck my stupid brain and emotions. What the fuck is wrong with me?)

So, I'm going to experiment with some self-therapy. Over the next several days, I'm going to discuss several of the great loves of my life in this space in the hopes of figuring out why things ended. The five of you who read this blog can help me figure out an answer to that age-old question:

What The Fuck Is Wrong With Me?

More Montana Pictures...

Oh, pretty good...












He probably had this coming...




Last night in Missoula. This was just before the dreaded John - Her ex-boyfriend and my new nemesis - showed up at McKenzie River to ruin my momentum in the "I think she's starting to like me" sweepstakes. I wouldn't call it "cock-blocking," because that would suggest that I was merely trying to get her in the sack. The fact is, I was really trying to get to know her, and sex honestly didn't enter into the equation.

It was later in this very night when I found myself with an opportunity to make a move and realized I have the testicular fortitude of an infant. Awesome.

Bowker always says, "You define the moment, or the moment defines you." I think it's from Tin Cup. Anyway, several moments defined me this weekend. Shitty.

I have more pictures, and will post them when I can.

Pictures, as promised

That's us. From left: Me, Kim, Laura, Thom. Naturally, I look like a chode.

This is the only photo I ended up getting with Kim in it, which is absurd considering from the moment I arrived in Missoula, I wanted to hang out with her. And I did. I just forgot to take pictures, I guess. I suck.

Got an email from Thom today. He is advising me on the Kim '07 project, which is now the official project name (in case someone asks). He said to push it back to Kim '08, essentially, and that I should move slow on this one.

So, people, I ask you: how the fuck do you move slow without A) alienating her, or B) feeling like you're not moving towards your goal? I've never been good at games, and I hate games, and this... feels like a game. Like if I don't call, she's going to think I'm playing games, and if I do, she's going to think I'm desperate.

I fucking hate this.

San Diego

Dear San Diego,

Fuck you.



Love,
Denver

Wednesday - Quickly

Okay, I promised photos and they're still coming. No need to worry there. However, the last two nights have been upended by baseball (Rockies on Monday) and laziness (me, last night), so you'll have to forgive the tardiness.

Just a quick update: I'm not going to Missoula. For one thing, a ticket up there is nearing $600, and that's pretty spendy for a dude that just spent about that much total on his last trip. I can't afford to drive it again, and adding to the complications, The Girl (Kim) is working all that weekend at the hospital (she's a nurse). She works nights, which would lead to me doing absolutely nothing while she worked, and it just doesn't sound like all that grand of a time.

I'll get back up there, and perhaps more importantly, she might be coming here.

Pictures and full update TONIGHT.

It was a magical weekend...

Montana was beautiful. The Grizzlies won. I saw the new UM Journalism building (it made me jealous; photos coming soon). Had a great time with my friends. Drank a ton of beer. Checked out all three local breweries (this just in: they're fucking awesome).

And I think I might just have fallen in love.

I know, absurd. I agree. I'm completely retarded for this girl, though, and I don't know how else to put it.

She's beautiful. And smart. Funny, interesting, dog-lover, lives in my favorite city on the planet. Drinks beer. Smokes pot on occasion. And all the little things that usually bother me about girls are the kinds of things that I find annoying about all women, I don't find even remotely repulsive when it comes to her. I don't know how to explain it.

For example: Saturday, we were all getting ready at The Girl's house (late... we were severely hungover, especially Thom, who was a complete and utter mess... there will be pictures... just not tonight) for the football game. Putting on our gear, getting psyched up for the game (and tailgates), Thom and I were ready in about .8 seconds, and the girls (Thom's girlfriend Laura, and Kim, our hostess who I ended up crazy for) were in the bathroom, of all things, curling their hair.

Now.

I'm not against having the ladies curl their hair. I find it very nice most times, even if I don't really notice it when I notice it. But that morning, it struck me as odd that the girls would be curling their hair, just to stuff it under a baseball cap and go to an outdoor, in the elements football game. And Thom and I discussed, both of us rolling our eyes at the situation. Our drunkenness had made us late for the tailgates, and now the girls' vanity was making us later. Suck.

But a funny thing happened at Washington-Grizzly Stadium that day. Aside from Weber State taking an early 10-0 lead and making me worry, I found myself standing next to Kim, this striking, slightly-wavy-haired blonde in the Student Section, and was astonished at how nice she looked. And as we bumped elbows, and flirted here and there, and joked around, I wondered...

Did she curl her hair to impress me? Probably not, but how sweet if she had.

Was this really happening? Is she maybe, kinda, sorta into me?



I'm so hopeful. I know it's absurd, I know she lives 1000 miles away, and I know that it's fucking retarded that I couldn't get her off my mind all the way home. And I hate myself for letting her get to me. And I hate her ex, the dreaded John, for showing up just when things were really getting off the ground for the two of us, and crushing any momentum I'd built up with this whole day of goodwill. Fuck the fuck off.

Thom asked, "Are you smitten?" And the answer is yes. Yes I am.

The thing about being smitten is, you have no control. You cede control to the other party, and because you (I) can't hide your (my) smitten-ness, you let them dictate the situation. Which effectively keeps you from doing anything. Like making a move of any sort. Like pulling her in for a kiss when you're up at 1am, your friends are in bed and it's just the two of you, watching Weeds and talking. Like telling her that you can't stop looking at her because she has an electricity about her that is completely irresistible.

Colleen, my friend from a million eons ago, is getting married in two weeks...

In Missoula...

Which is where Kim lives...

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

Perhaps that's good. Maybe you can tell me.

Because I have no idea.

So I will put it to you, my (5 or so) loyal readers. DO I make plans and go to Missoula, check out Colleen's wedding with Kim as my date (I've already asked, in the event that I make it, and she said yes)? DO I pursue this any further (she does, after all, live a 13 hour drive away)? DO I cut my losses and walk?

Tell me what to do. 'Cause I haven't got a clue.

VAY CAYYYYYYYYYYY!

I'll be in Montana from today, through the weekend. Don't expect any posts. But, should I actually manage to get 10 minutes to pound out a blog (and by "pound out a blog", I mostly mean "poop"), I demand comments.

I'll be buying a disposable camera at some point, and if I have a few minutes I'll get them developed and throw them up here.

Montana: It's Debauch-a-riffic!

Curses, you cursor!

You motherfucker.

Yeah, cursor, I'm talking to you.

Sitting there blinking at me, mocking me, making me feel self-conscious about not having anything to write on my blog.

That's right, bitch. MY blog. This isn't "Cursor Versus World," so fuckoff.

I'll write what I want to write when I want to write it.

Don't judge me. You can't even do anything but sit there and flash. Oh, cool party trick, Cursor! Your blinking line is really settin' this place off! Douche.

You can't even have a party. Because nobody would come, except for WoW freaks and other no-friendo, sun-fearing bipeds. Where would you have it? In a chat room? You're such a loser!

Cursor, you should know that you're nothing without me. Nothing! You can't even write your ow blog. Know why? Because you're a fucking cursor.

Fuck you.

Love,
Sam

Peetza.

defending your dumb girlfriend

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Speed Dating? Seriously?

Generally speaking, if I'm saying something that sounds authoritative, I'm either making it up (the key here is to sound confident, even cocky, about your knowledge) or I read about it somewhere. Option B is far more common in my little world, as I run across several pieces of information (called "articles" or "content" in said little world) about which I had no prior knowledge each day. This is good. I learn things, new things, each and every weekday.

I appreciate learning.

But I also like to learn. As such, I've always wondered about those speed-dating things, and being a single humanoid myself, have wondered how I would fair in such a setup.

I no longer wonder. Thank you, Jason Love of Associated Content.

Thank you for going through this, first hand, so I don't have to.

When you can't sleep...

Your brain starts asking crazy questions. On the heels of last week's incredible showing at the Bluebird Theatre for my band, I started thinking about fame. And famous people.

Here's the question of the day, kids: how famous do you have to be (either musically, or athletically, or whatever) to have the newscasters mention A) you and B) your talent or skill, on the 10 o'clock news? What I mean is, if you robbed a bank, would it just be "a man robbed a bank today in Denver," or would you get the proper, celeb treatment? Would you get "Local musician and citizen Blah Blerblah was arrested this evening under suspicion that he robbed the First Federal Bank. Blerblah, the guitarist for the band Bloobleeebloo, yadda yadda..." THAT kind of treatment.

I was thinking about who in the Denver scene might fit the criteria for number two. Not me, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, there's reason to believe that my arrest would result in either A) cheers or B) yawns.

Here's the list:

Isaac Slade - The Fray
Anyone else - The Fray
Jake Schroeder - Opie Gone Bad
Someone from Earth Wind and Fire

The "maybe they'd mention the band in passing, but they wouldn't be "person associated with band" person" list:

Brice Hancock - Rubber Planet & The Toad Tavern
Patrick Meese - Meese

The Anonymous-and-loving-it list:
Me.
My band.
Pretty much everyone else in the scene.

For whatever reason, as I lay in bed last night, this seemed like it would be a deeper post. Sigh.

If there's anyone else you want to put in one of the three categories, hit 'em up in the comments.

Not all bad...

I know I sounded negative about the whole weekend due to the rough experience with Ally, but all was not lost. We played on Saturday night at the Walnut Room, and did very well. It was a great show. Re-connected with a friend of mine I haven't seen since my junior year of high school, which is absurd. And got to hang out with a genuinely cool girl named Amy.

Oddly enough, Amy asked what I was doing for the game on Sunday, and instead of inviting her to Lindsey's house, which I could have done, I told her I didn't know what I was doing for the game. Then, I didn't call her. And hung out with Ally. I'm awesome.

Hope I haven't completely screwed the pooch on that one.

Shit. Even when I think I'm making the right choice, I'm usually not. I feel like I should pull a Costanza and start going the opposite direction of my instincts at all times.



Well, there's no telling what could come from this.

On being insincere

I was just in bed. I'm exhausted from the day, which included drinking (beginning at 9am... oof), football, and more drinking.

I also hung out with a girl called Alison, who goes by Ally, who I met at Jon's wedding in Winter Park. Jon and Jess had set up this little meeting, as apparently Ally was taken with me at the reception, where we spent a good five to ten minutes talking. The entire night. Which explains why she was interested. Any longer than 10 minutes and I reckon my conversational skills begin to falter a bit.

Anyway, the word from J&J was that Ally is tired of dating assholes, tired of the scene of dating, and wanting to date a "good guy." Enter, Sam.

After really hanging out with her for the better part of three hours, watching the Broncos' 15-14 fart-fest win over the Buffalo Bills, I've come to realize that this woman who I thought I would be very interested in has absolutely nothing going on. She's melodramatic, over-the-top, not very bright, and honestly, kind of annoying. I do not feel all that bad about saying these things.

Annoying Girl Singing in the Office

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That's not her. But it could be.

And yes, I wish I was kidding.

Where have I gone wrong?

A few weeks back, I was housesitting for my mother while she went to finish cleaning out her mother's house in Laurel, Iowa. During this housesitting stint, I water flowers, hang out with The Dog, and just basically putter around the house, like my grandfather used to do; shuffling around in a robe and slippers (and nothing else... lllllllllllllllllladies...), reading books, watching movies, doing the crossword... just being a total bum for the most part.

But it's so strange, being back in that big old house. There are a bunch of pictures all around, of me when I was younger, in high school, etc., and there I am, in a big house all alone, and everywhere I look, there it is.

My past. My future-is-just-around-the-corner, gonna-show-this-world-a-thing-or-two, how-successful-do-you-think-I'll-end-up-being, wide-eyed, idealistic past. I had so much going for me. I thought I had it all put together.

And it just went away.

I had hopes and dreams and aspirations. I was gonna do this, and that, and the other. And instead, I've wound up where I am. Doing okay, but not successful, not by any stretch of the imagination. No girlfriend. No money. Sweet apartment, but... where did I go wrong?

When did the road I was on curve to this little slice of normalcy that I call my world? When did a band - a fucking band! - become my last shot at being great? When did the one in a million shot become my best shot at accomplishing something truly special, something to be remembered for, something to be celebrated for?

I look at those old pictures of me. Thin. Tall. Athletic. Huge smile. Ready for anything.

I compare them with pictures of me now. Heavy-set. Tall. Certainly less athletic. And a smile that betrays my lack of knowing what's going on around me.

At what point did I end up on this road, as opposed to that road? At what point did food and work and rent become more important than dreams? And hope? And passion?

I don't know anymore. Perhaps I'll figure it out. I have another shift at the old house next week. Perhaps by then, I'll have it all figured out.

Or perhaps I won't.

(Leslie: we'll work on Super-Secret Project Vulcan soon, I swear)

Songs named after people

I've never been a fan of songs that have girls' names in them, like a little black book of music. Shit like this...



...irritates the shit out of me. No joke. Die, Darryl Hall. You can live, John Oates, but only because you have a super-sweet mustache.

Ben Folds coined the term "emotionally lewd," with regard to using I and Me too much in his songwriting, and although I do that a lot in my music, I've never even been tempted to get so personal with a song that it uses someone's name. If you come right out and say it's for a specific girl, how are you going to be able to lie to other girls so they think it's about them? And if you can't lie, how the hell can you get laid?

I'm (mostly) kidding.

Thing is, the Guys and I have finished writing one hell of a song, and because a certain person has been on my mind a great deal lately, she made it into the song. Into the chorus, even. Can you believe it? How... emotionally... lewd!

Thing about it is, it's not even someone I care about that much. Maybe that's the key; you write about the disconnect with the person instead of writing about the actual person. Surely, people will hear this new "Jenny Song" and think, "He's so complicated... I can't believe he's used her name in that song! Do you think she knows? Who do you think Jenny is?"

I'm probably over-thinking it. Fact is, nobody talks much about my lyrics... which disappoints me, truly. Almost every song brings back a vivid memory, where I can remember the exact time of day that led me to write those specific words.

Anyway, the person I should have written about is Ashley. Thing is, if you write a song about someone that you really do care about, you can't take back anything. With Jenny, I wouldn't take it back because it's all true. With Ashley, I might want to... if things don't work out... which things never do.

I spoke with Ashley tonight. She's one of my best friends, and someone that I feel a very deep connection with. We can not talk for a month, then see or talk to each other and pick up where we left off immediately. And the thing about it is, I don't see her that often. And I miss her.

In this way, she's completely opposite of the woman in the "Jenny Song." Jenny, as sweet and wonderful and pretty and smart and funny as any woman I've ever met, never left me wanting more; more time, more nights together, just one minute here and there... But with Ashley, there's a whole different energy involved. Part of that comes from being friends for so long, almost 10 years at this point.

Unfortunately, that train has likely sailed. We've had our moments, when things went right or hard drugs were involved. And each time, left me wanting more, and her wanting less.

Love is hard. Falling completely head over heels for someone who doesn't feel the same way is probably the toughest thing I've ever had to endure.

But now I know what it's like to be on the other side, on Ashley's side. Because of Jenny. Jenny, who the song is about. Who was (is?) head over heels for me... is playing the role of me, head over heels for Ashley.

What a twisted web we weave.

They knew it all along.

I swore up and down that this blog wouldn't get political, but when I received this in my email today, well, I couldn't resist.

Cheney was right. Sure, it was 1994, but watch this video and tell me again that they didn't know what kind of a toll the war in Vietraq would take on our country, our soldiers, and their families.



Yup. He said it. Feel free to be angry, I know I am.

Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful?

These sappy lyrics brought to you by Stevie Wonder. Dedicated to my friend Leslie, she of four appearances TOTAL in my life, and the hostess cupcake of the Librarian Intelligence Agency. Anyway, she gave me a shout-out and a link, which is the first anyone has ever done for my blog - and it only took a week! Woot!

This is for Leslie. She's hot, like a Curry. I wanna tell her how hot she is, but she'll think I'm being sexist. She's so hot she's making me sexist. Bitch.



Enough small boom, let's boom the boom.

Lies, damn lies and statistics

Do you know what this is?
That, my friends, is horse shit. In a bike lane, apparently.

More horse shit comes from the Denver Post, which is trumpeting this weekend's "Underground Music Showcase" featuring "The 300 Best Bands in Colorado," which, yes, they ranked.

I know, I know. I can't be mad every time my band gets passed over for something like this, and I'm not. Could care less about being overlooked for Monolith Festival for being the "wrong" kind of music - even though Meese, who is more "wrong" than we are, got in - and because the folks at Monolith took our cash but DIDN'T EVEN OPEN OUR FUCKING PRESS KIT. A little more angry about being passed over for the People's Fair, thanks to some meaningless politics in the system from people who have never even seen us play. But this "ranking" of the 300 "best" bands is just a little too much.

For one thing, every band on this list has kissed ass from the hi-dive to the Larimer, two rooms which combined might pack as many people in as my band does at the Gothic and Bluebird Theatres. They've gotten more political play from the "scene-makers" at Radio 1190 and the ultimate indie-hipster, Ric Baca at the Post.

Now. I know Ricardo Baca. He's a nice fella. But if you're going to rank these bands and you're not going to look outside your little circle to find them, your ranking is 100% flawed. Some bands on that list have a grand total of three live shows under their belts. THREE!

Being friends with bands is cool, but when you're making a ranking like this based on those friendships, then call it what it is.

Horse shit.

In the following clip, the fruit vendor is the Denver Music Scene, and the New Zealanders - Bret and Jemaine, for clarity - represents my band.



Too many mother uckas, uckin' with my shit.

Shalom, y'all.

Call this number. 205.322.9002. Seriously.



Also, call your mother.

Thursday morning - quickly

Rush concert last night. Awesome. It was like this:



They say it's a gateway drug.

Also, great conversation with someone from my past. We'll be getting together next week, and I couldn't be more excited. Not even sure what I'm excited for. But I'm excited.

Some would say that going back to revisit old relationships is a bad thing, equivalent of making the same mistake twice. I disagree. I think going back helps you learn to move forward, and shows you where you made your mistakes before, hopefully with the end result being that you don't look like as much of a moron, right?

Uh. Right?

Minesweeper: The Movie

This was simply too good to pass up. Thanks to the spectacular Kissing Suzy Kolber for posting it, and to College Humor for making it and making it available to us. A grateful nation is in your debt.



"Why are you here, soldier?"
"Because I'm bored!"

Amen.

The Grand Opening

Tuesday. Damn.

Went to a grand opening of a new Mexican restaurant, which is located in Cherry Creek North, called Tambien. It was muy bueno. Great margaritas, good food, fun, young atmosphere. And it was free. So all told, it really should have been awesome.

It was less than that. Damn.

I love the folks I work with. We go out, we have drinks, we laugh and joke a lot. So don't get it twisted.

I don't love hanging out with work folks that are dating each other. It's odd. And being the only single person in our office, if not our company, lends itself to some pretty awful situations.

I have this thing, where I feel like I'm being watched and judged all the time. Bizarre? No question. But true, nonetheless. So imagine my discomfort as Mike, Tori and I were seated, and I was once again the third wheel.

A little background here: I'm actually quite adept at being the third wheel. Jonathan, my best friend, recently got married, and I found myself on a lot of dates with him and his now-wife, Jessica. I didn't mind; I liked both of them very much, have known both for upwards of 10 years, so it was really like hanging out with two friends.

Tonight? Well, tonight was different. Damn.

Mike and Tori are dating, and that's... you know, whatever that is. Personally, I don't date people at work, but I've recently found out that I might be in the minority there, so whatever; let them do what they want.

However, hanging out with Mike and Tori, while fun, wasn't like hanging out with Jon and Jess. I felt the need and desire to entertain them, even though we were just out at dinner and drinks. What the hell is my problem??? I wasn't on stage, wasn't expected to perform, and yet there I was, doing my retarded Chris Matthews impression and yelling in a crowded restaurant. Just what the hell is the matter with me?

Which leads me to the following list of "Don'ts" for SDW.

1. Do not ask me, "How's your love life doin'?" unless you are A) female, and B) have immediate plans to change said love life from "stagnant" to "active." This is not up for debate.
2. Do not ask me to dinner if you're going with your significant other (and no one else). Just remember, it's hard enough being single without having all your friends remind you with actions at dinner just how single you are. I won't forget. I swear, I won't forget.
3. Don't ask me questions like, "Hey, which girl are you dating these days? You've got quite the roster." Even if I told you that I had quite the roster, it's likely that none of it is true. Just because I talk to a lot of girls does not mean any of them are interested in dating me. At all. Trust me, I've done the research.
4. If you just met a "really cute" girl and you think that we'd "be perfect for each other," save it. No, really. Introducing us is one thing, but if there is pressure going in, I won't be able to close the deal, so really all you've done is wasted your night, her night and my night. Introducing us is fine, but do not tell me what your intentions are. If I'm interested, I'll be sure to let you know.

The only reason I lay this stuff out for you is because I've experienced a rash of this crap lately, and it's gotta stop. Yes, I'm single. Yes, I'd like to date. No, I don't particularly want to date Jenny. No, I'm not entirely sure why. Yes, I wish things were different. No, I haven't met anyone new and interesting. Seriously. Lay. Off.

That said, it's not all bad. Being single, I mean. At least I can come home, take my pants off, and write a blog in the comfort of my own apartment, without worrying about offending anyone.

Fuck it. Maybe I should just stay single. As if it's up to me.

stunning coincidence

I swear to Jeebus, this happened.

While working today, I came across a writer with the first name of Efrain. Immediately, as if on cue, thoughts drifted to a night last fall in Boulder, with my then-girlfriend Lauren, at a restaurant by that same name. The special on the menu? "The Efrain," a mysterious combination of meat, beans, tortilla, cheese and chili that had my taste buds dancing and my stomach doing backflips. Thankfully, Lauren was quite, um, forgiving, regarding my tummy issues. Mr. Giggles - yes, I've named my stomach in lieu of naming my dick - was noisy and annoying that night.

The odd thing about "The Efrain": they refuse to tell you what's in it, and if you order it, you are prohibited from sending it back. This seems dangerous from a food-allergy standpoint, but also a strange battle to wage against the people who are coming to your restaurant to pay for what truly isn't all that great of a burrito.

Anyway, Efrain led my mind astray, back to that night in Boulder. And who should appear for the first time in months on my messenger? Lauren. Naturally, I put on my happy face just in time to learn that she's moving in with her almost-a-year-now boyfriend, a mysterious man named Gil. I immediately regaled her with stories from my dating life, how nothing's working, how the women I meet either like me more than I like them or vice versa, how I continually screw things up in this department. More than anything, I think I came across as more pathetic than was necessary, especially when speaking to an ex. I want so badly for her to be happy, and yet, for whatever reason, feel that my happiness will be directly compared to hers.

Lauren, you are my satellite. At least, I can hope.



"Maybe you will always be/just a little out of reach."

Edit: The video may make you sick. If you have trouble watching spinning things, either don't watch or grab a trashcan.

Oui, oui! Baguette!

Parle vous le Francais? Eh. No.



Yeah, like I needed more incentive to buy an ascot.

Good mercy. Patrick came over, bearing gifts of a Red Sox Fathead for my home office. I'll post pictures as soon as I get my camera to work. It is rad, and I haven't even gotten it up yet. He also brought by a sick CU football jersey. CU sucks the fat one, I know, but we're discussing getting season tickets for the home schedule in Boulder this season. They're fairly inexpensive, and since I'm not going to do my traveling until the spring - when football is over - I have time to spend Saturdays getting drunk with coeds in Boulder. Solid.

Anyway, Patrick is a good buddy, with whom I have a standing arrangement to watch the best show ever, or Flight of the Conchords as its known in the real world. Terrific program, and you can tell I'm quite keen, as the only two videos I've posted here on Sam Versus World are from this two-man novelty act from New Zealand. It really is some sort of transcendent, brilliant comedy, and I thank the folks at HBO for coming up with something that will replace the now-tedious Entourage.

To follow up on earlier events, Jarvis Moss is going to be fine, and should be back on the field tomorrow. Our company website came back up, so I got lots of work done. And my burrito from Chipotle was outstanding.

Arivaderci!(sp?)

Monday, monday

What else can you really say about a day that:

-began with my company's website being 100% down, meaning I could do no work
-continued with the Broncos' first round pick, Jarvis Moss, being taken down by that damned practice grass at Dove Valley (see the picture above, compliments of DenverBroncos.com)
-has not yet reached lunchtime

Clearly, not my day. Now here's this:



Me? I think I'll attempt suicide via Chipotle. Mmm, chicken.

Hello.

There ya go, world. I'm now in cyber-whatever.