Man v. Baby

So I just watched this video about teaching babies to survive in real-world drowning scenarios. It was creepy and weird, as my brother who introduced me to this video suggested it was. Needless to say a number of thoughts ran through my head regarding my own survival skills. Naturally, I am thinking of more real life situations, like, say, dropped off the coast of deserted island-type-things, not this bullshit backyard swimming pool stuff. Anybody can survive in a pool. People jump in them things for fun, right?
Anyways, I am not a strong swimmer by any means, nor am I particularly buoyant. So who would survive between me and one of these ISR trained babies? Let's look at the facts. I understand tides and currents,at least in a very basic capacity. The baby does not. I am fairly confident in my ability to eventually start a signal fire, which also aids in warmth and cooking. Not the baby. Speaking of cooking, I can cook, and I'm sure I would be able to gather some edible plants and/or berries to eat, if not hunt or trap some local wildlife for consumption and therefore, survival. I could, to some extent, dress my own wounds, search for or build shelter, and avoid or make diplomatic relations with potentially angry, restless natives. Baby is totally fucking striking out over here.
But, if of the two of us, only the baby would be able to swim to dry land, you may find yourself asking, "How the hell is any of this relevant?" I am completely aware of the one survival skill I lack. The skill of graceful navigation of/above water. Nonetheless I see me as the overall survivor of our little dilemma. Knowing full well that only one of us can possibly survive, and that once on the aforementioned island, I am the only one with the necessary skill set to etch out sustainable existence, there is but one logical move. I would flail my way to shore using the baby as my personal floatation device. And survive. Boom.

WE ARE THE WORLD, pt. 1

So it has been quite awhile since I've updated this thing, and I have decided that it's time to get back to business. Only days ago I was thinking to myself that I might never BLOG again, but then something strange happened. I received a phone call from The Macho Man himself, Mr. Randy Savage. He was calling from his cell phone while driving down the highway. "Adam" he says. "You gotta listen to me, brother. This heat down here in Florida is killing me. The locals are crying out for relief, and only Space Jaws of Doom can provide that relief."

"What the fuck?" I replied in bewilderment. "Nobody outside of West Michigan reads this stupid thing."

"Not true, my man, not true at all. Why, I've got sources that tell me you've got readers as far away as Australia!" said The Macho Man. "The world needs your razor sharp wit and cut-throat views on society and pop culture." This was all getting pretty weird. I was still speechless, so once more Mr. Savage came back with, "By the way Adam, I recently had some DNA tests run, and it turns out that I am your fa----------." Then he was cut off by the sound of smashing, crashing, and burning. I assume he simply went into a tunnel and lost reception.

I have no idea what he was trying to tell me that day. As far as I can figure, he was informing me that he is my fastest growing demographic, representing readers over the age of fifty who were once pro wrestlers. Anyhow, I was inspired and have decided to write a few words down today.

This brings me to the point of the day: clearing up some inaccurate stereotypes about Americans. Now that I am internationally renowned, I feel a certain responsibility to my readers and my nation to break down the walls between us all. One love, brothers and sisters, one love.

It has come to my attention that some people think that all tattoos are simply a sign of low class, poverty, and trashiness. Not so, not so at all, I say. Like the Dayaks of Borneo, or the Maori of New Zeeland, these tattoos represent a rich culture, defining a person's tribal heritage, and rank within that tribe. I, of course, am of the SpaceJaws tribe, and have reached the rank of Charles Bronson, first degree. Are we seeing how this works yet?

Another interesting thing I heard recently is that all American musicians are rapists. I don't know where you people get this shit, but it is pretty wild how things become twisted and tarnished across language barriers and international borders. I'm sure you are simply hearing about the phenomenon or people being blown away by tasty, American jams. If that's the case then I, myself, have raped many a pair of ears and eyes, with my blazing riffs and stunning on-stage presence, respectively. I hope I have dispelled any rumors on that subject. Remember, some of the people hearing this live almost ten thousand miles away, and probably eat dogs and cats. So we, as Americans, must be patient.

Lastly, word on the street is that some citizens of nations far and wide are under the impression that everybody in the U.S.A. lives in some sort of run-down trailer. Shit. I guess this is pretty much true, although I would like to point out that some of our trailers have been around a really long time, and have actually grown basements.

I think that's all for today, folks. I may have some more on this subject in the next couple of days, so stay tuned. Now I'm off to Chicago, home of the tallest trailers in the world. Feed the sharks some hot dogs, buy some comics, who knows? It's just good to get away. Peace.

Adam out.

p.s. Hey Matt Dwyer: Go eat your own dick. Or if you're not hungry, feed it to a Kangaroo.

REV FUCKIN' X!!!

Hey all. It's been a long time. I haven't been writing on this thing lately. But that doesn't mean I don't have a shit load of things on my mind. for starters, there's this shit at my work called RevX. It's some sort of bullshit oil additive that guarantees improved horsepower and torque just by adding a few ounce of it to you motor oil. Now granted, there is no documented proof of this, nor is there any evidence that anybody has ever used it. I like the idea of this product because it's manufactured right in Grand Rapids, MI, but I know your thinking the same thing as me; this is a bunch of snake-oil-bullshit. Oh and did I forget to mention it costs $38 for 4 oz.?

Well due to the lack of real stats on the performance or RevX on the internet, my associate Josh and I did a little of our own research. As you are about to read, the results were nothing short of spectacular.

Our first test was adding 2oz to a Toro 6.5 horsepower lawnmower. Within seconds of firing it up, the machine began mowing the lawn completely on it's own. We just sat back and watched the show. Needless to say, we were blown away. So we decided to add 4 ounces to the oil in a four-wheeler. Goddamn if right before our eyes, that Yamaha four-wheeler didn't instantly transform in to a five-wheeler! What, you may ask, is the advantage of five versus four wheels? Don't be a retard. It's obviously one better. 25% increase in wheel-having? Do the math, Einstein.

So we realized we needed to step up this experiment considerably. I had three 4oz. bottles of RevX left, so we picked up a Lamborghini Countach down at the Lamborghini store and poured the rest of our stash into the engine oil. Josh was navigating, and had to get home to Muskegon to put his roommates to bed, so he directed me to head down I-96 West. I'll tell you what, we weren't on the road long before we realized we had actually left the road and we were fucking flying! Josh was all like, "I wish surfer dude could see me now! She'd flip her lid, man!" I was just trying to reach my Joe Satriani cd to listen to on our way to the moon.

About fourteen minutes later we arrived at the moon and parked near the Sea of Tranquility to gather our thoughts and figure out a game plan of what to do next. I looked over at Josh only to see him with a big old shit-eating grin on his face. I was all like, "What the fuck are you grinnin' at, dude?" Then he reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out---you guessed it--one last bottle of REVX!!!

We dumped that shit in and took off and you won't even believe where we went next. We actually flew up to the moon's moon. The MOON'S MOON! The fuckin' Moon has a fuckin' moon! I always knew that moon was a sneaky cocksucker.

So RevX is totally the dope shit. Come out and buy some from me. $38 for four ounces. 16 ounces will get you to the Moon's moon, as long as you've got a Countach. Maybe I'll let you borrow mine, for a price. I accept handjobs and Springsteen bootlegs, mainly, but everything's negotiable.

Peace out

Adam

Writers' Block for dummies.

And at the end of three days, he awoke. The dream was over, the sweating, the shaking. The euphoria and bliss gone right along with the fear and pain. Who's to say if any souls were saved, after only three days, in that sweet hellish place. The sulfurous fires of heaven cast such an unnerving glow across the gates that seal you in. But now he's returned, returned to this place, to live out his days, through the blacks and the grays, in this comfortable malaise, that we call eternity. It was only a dream. Goddamnit, it was only a dream.

A Slight Departure

I dreamed I was far away, south, away from everything. I dreamed that along an old county road I came upon a magnificent magnolia tree, it's full blossoms exploding like the fourth of July. That is all. The dream didn't need a resolution, it was perfect in it's simplicity. There I was, basking in the brilliant shade of this timeless moment.

Now I look to a time, at the end of this road, when we meet again, for the thousandth time, still feeling like the first. And I will reach into that dream, and I will draw forth a single, lovely flower, and it will be our compass to guide us down paths untraveled, and we will know when we reach our destination by the long-grown shadows embracing us like a home.

And this evening can last forever, if only we allow it, if only we accept that this is real, that the fine line between asleep and awake, between dream and reality, is the road we were meant to be on. We never need to fall asleep again, we never have to wake up from this dream.


ACR

It's a Hard-Knock-Life

Whoa. Holy Shit. I just watched a whimsical little movie called "Annie" and it really blew my mind. I know I saw this flick when I was a little kid, but I think I missed all the true brilliance of it back then. For those of you who haven't seen this delightful little treasure, it's about a tough little super-posi red-afroed freckly orphan who gets adopted by a Rockefeller-type billionaire to improve his public image. He's a little rough on the outside, but could not help but to fall in love with that rambunctious little scamp. Great cast includes Tim Curry, Madeleine Kahn, and Albert Finney as the aforementioned tycoon. You can't go wrong.
Anyways, what I always failed to realize as a child was the fact that much of this beloved Cinderella story was just a bunch of loosely veiled Socialist propaganda. FDR's New Deal, the cold unfeelingness of capitalists, etc. I don't know, maybe it's just me. Also, the rich guy has a butler named Punjab who is amazing. They dress him like some sort of Maharaja, but make him do strange Egyptian-like dances, and he is always spouting the wisdom of Buddha. Talk about mixing up your stereotypes. I'm into it. I'm pretty sure he would have been giving Annie karate lessons, too, if he didn't already own a Chinese man to do that. I don't remember if the Indian or Chinaman piloted the autocopter, but he had one of those, too.
The jist is, this movie has everything. And it's a musical, so I fucking love it. That's right I'm a straight man and I love musicals. Andrew Lloyd Webber rules. Fuck off.


I got promoted to the next phase of probation this morning. I think the Judge likes me. I am pretty fucking adorable. Now I have to piss in a cup before work a little bit less often than before, so I guess that's pretty awesome.


Hmmm.... What else? I'm slowly getting some more work done on the Telecaster that I'm building. Pretty stoked about finishing up a new axe to jam on and melt faces off. Been writing a lot of lyrics lately, need to write some tasty riffs to go with them now. I wanna start a 3-piece punk rock group. I've been talking to a few people about joining me in this endeavor. We'll see what happens. I think I wanna play bass, too. It's been awhile.


Well, I don't think I'm particularly pissed off at anybody specific right now, so no rants... Wait. Just one. My friend's roommate who is a total piece of shit already brought it to a whole new level this week. He already owed her money for bailing his ass out on a bunch of utility bills, and now he is going to court for driving a car with no insurance, and like a ten fucking year old license plate. Oh yeah and he is a truck driver for a living. How can one person be so goddamned stupid. I can't believe he remembers to fucking breathe. I hope he reads this. Wake the fuck up, dude. You are a fucking moron. Snap out of it! Jesus. OK, that's done. Goodnight.


Love Adam
xoxoxoxoxo


p.s. The new Young Livers album kicks ass. Go buy it.

Is anyone else tired of whites?

I haven't written in a little while. I don't think it really matters, either. The five of you that read this probably talk to me everyday anyways, so you don't need to read it. Anyhow, getting back to it, I noticed last night that local white college-looking kids are starting to take on stereotypically urban (black) behavioral patterns. I suppose this has been happening for awhile, what with the bad gangsta rap blaring out of shitty car stereos, and hip hop attire(I dig gangsta rap and hip hop attire, but c'mon, you know what I'm talking about). But last night I noticed the classic walk-in-front-of-a-passing-car-very-slowly-and-glare-like-you-belong-in-the-middle-of-the-road move being practiced by all the twenty-something drunk white kids and got kind of pissed. Anybody else notice a spike in this activity? No? Fuck it, I don't want to come off sounding like a Mel Gibson-assed hate monger so I'll move on to other subjects. I think I just hate everybody younger than me now that I've quit drinking. Fucking arrogant pricks with their beer bongs and cross-culture meanderings. I think I might just be jealous. Fuck.


So my friend still isn't over his chick that dumped him and it's beginning to piss me off. I'm sober, impatient, and already kind of an asshole, so this mopey sad bastard shit has me at my wits' end. There I go again. Ok, posi, posi, posi. (Deep breaths) What is good?


Oh, hell yeah! The new Coliseum record is pretty tits. Same goes for the new Crooked Fingers ep (kinda sad bastard, but still kick-ass. It's got a Thin Lizzy cover). I started making mix tapes this past week for a handful of people, that will be mailed out whenever the fuck I remember to send them and feel like that is a priority. An awesome friend out of town has been sweet and we talk on the phone and mail things and I guess I'm pretty stoked about having a pen pal even if I would prefer being much closer and having the option of naked roll-arounds with her. All in due time, I suppose.


I got nothing. I wanna go ride bikes. I'm gonna go make that happen. If you read this shit, tell your friends about it. I would feel like writing a lot more if I knew a shit-ton of people were soaking it all in and judging me everyday. I love those of you who I love, and the others can fucking die. Listen to Pantera when you're sad. It works. IT FUCKING WORKS!


Love Adam

suck it