Fuck C.D.s! It's The Mummies

Ahh, the Mummies. The band that got me into garage rock. The band that got me interested in playing in a surf rock band. The band that finally entrenched my belief that live music is best played drunk as fuck, fuzzy as shit, and not very skillfully, but with the energy of a blazing typhurricane.

I remember buying my first Mummies record. It was 2004 or 2005, I was already in a surf band, and happened to be on a surf trip to Tofino, BC. There's a little record store on the outskirts of town there, and after a few minutes of filing through Ben Harper, the Dead, String Cheese Incident, and the like, I came across their final release, Runnin' on Empty, Volume II. I never spend more than $30 on ANYTHING, let alone vinyl, but I knew right then and there that I had to have it. I took that record home and got drunk alone listening to it over and over and over again. They fucking cover Devo, ferchrissake. TWICE. If you consider yourself a garage rock fan and haven't heard this record, I'll fucking lend it to you. 

Ricardo Fumar, the foremost authority on the band, majestically postulated on the record's liner notes that "the Mummies were proof that you CAN eat shit - and live!"

Here is the song that started it all for me:

The Mummies. The band that, mark my words, will make me start another garage rock band.

What it do.

Yeah, I persistently neglect updating this blog. Whatever, I've been busy:

...Apart from competitive eating , I've been doing quite a bit. I've never blogged about my personal life, but it's been an exciting year. I escaped a poisonous and mutually damaging relationship, went on an epic and immeasurably worthwhile journey all over Southeastern Europe to cap off my time living in the Czech Republic, moved  back to Canada, and finally found a job I love working in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside.

I've recently promised myself I'll never again work a job that I can't feel great about. How strictly I'll adhere to that is anyone's guess and only time will tell, but to sum up, I'm poor as fucking shit right now yet I feel happier and more ambitious than I ever have in my life. It's really refreshing; for the past four or five months, I feel like I've been radiating joie de vivre in the same way that Lil Wayne emanates pure ineptitude at the guitar or that Babar exudes the spirit of neocolonialism. 

Unrelated to (though definitely not hurting) my newfound exuberance for humanity is my decision to have a 'So-vem-ber': one month without putting anything "bad" or "fun" into my body. The goal is to work on self-control, something I could always work on, and to generally be more aware about my consumption. In other words, no more of this:

Fuck, that was a rough night. I also started a tumblr page in a sort of lazy, stream-of-consciousness effort to (micro)blog more. As for this page, I'm hoping to continue writing about ridiculous things I see all over the place as well as reviews of anything and everything I find interesting. I'm planning on reviewing my kitten Chuck once I get to know him better, but we've only been hanging out for a week or so. So that's what's up with me. 

CONTEST: Who Am I?

First person to guess who I am in the comments section will get that crisp Hitler postcard personally mailed to them, by whoever I end up being. By the way, you can now comment on all my posts without signing in to anything.

CLUES:

I like American football. In fact I am an NFL star.

I love drugs. I was arrested in 2006 with a bunch of weed and have since claimed, on record, that I know how to beat the NFL's drug testing system.

I love women. Well actually this one is more of a love-hate kinda thing. You could say I have a penchant for spitting in the faces of women at nightclubs. Although there have been several incidents of this, the most recent was in 2006. Her story: motherfucker spat in my face for no reason. My story: bitch stole my wallet.

I love violence. A laundry list of misdemeanour assault and weapons charges litters my criminal record. Perhaps my fondest violent memory was the time a few months ago when I drunkenly assaulted some bodyguards who were personally assigned by my NFL team to keep me out of trouble. As a result I was suspended indefinitely from the NFL for the second time in my career. How many guys can truthfully speak that sentence?

I was also arrested a year ago for assaulting a female strip club employee in Atlanta. Her story: motherfucker reached over the counter and suckerpunched me in the left eye. My story: to quote Slim Thug, "I ain't heard a dat."

I suffer from autism, or if I'm not autistic, I simply have no concept of finances or monetary value. Outside of my football career, I am best known for walking into a Las Vegas strip club and showering 40 strippers with literally over $81,000. Club owner's story: motherfucker flipped out once my girls started to actually pick up the money he was throwing around. He repeatedly bashed a stripper's head against a metal bar and when confronted, threatened to kill our security staff. Upon leaving, two of his friends returned into the club and shot up the place, seriosuly injuring two people and leaving another paralyzed for life. My story: I'm a paying customer.

So? Who am I?

Moments I Wish I Spoke Czech: #1

A few nights ago I’m walking down the street. It’s Thursday, maybe 10 pm. I see this guy, around my age, lying in a dumpster full of brick roofing shingles. His white collared shirt is ripped open and he is not moving. Jesus, I think, someone should help this person.

I have no phone, I don’t speak Czech, and even if I had a fucking phone I wouldn't even know the number for an ambulance. Well, I think, maybe he’s just drunk. After a few minutes of standing there I decide this is a human being, and he's not okay.

Anyways, the rest of this story is boring so let’s just say he died in my arms and a car bomb went off at his funeral. SKEET!