Hot Dogs and Hand Grenades

 

As most of you probably already know, I live very close to Hess Village. So close in fact, that when people get the crap kicked out of them, my street gets taped off while questioning ensues.

Upon one of my many adventures through Hess Village this past month, it dawned on me that I am not a typical “girl”. No no, I am not. And what is this “typical” I speak of? Well, I envision the stereotypical Hesslut to be of regular height without heels, which they do wear, with utter inability to walk gracefully. That might have something to do with the level of intoxication, but I have a feeling it’s because they’re impossible to walk in regardless. Stupid heels; but they make your butt look sooooo good!

I have never been one to dress up in a fashion in which my father would have announced, “You’re leaving the house in that?” but for some reason, that’s what Hess is all about from Wednesday to Saturday.

Our adventure took my friend Ro and I from the Corktown Tavern where we sling drinks and shots on a nightly occasion to the Lazy Flamingo where most of our friends tend to frequent. After a quick drink there, we headed to Che and my, oh my, did I feel old. I’m 26 and I felt old… is that old? I guess compared to a 19 year old, (and I’m taking they’re presence as that of legal age) I am old.. heck, I’m almost 30! And I just used heck in a sentence. Upon shotgunning our drinks so quickly to just get the fudge out of there I was slightly tipsy by this point as my liver has deteriorated since my drinking Olympics days. Off to Absinthe Lounge where the d.j.’s d.j. and the bartenders bartend and the atmosphere is always welcoming. I loves you for that Absinthe Lounge, and your outdoor patio bar has enabled my laziness of opening a door to get another drink for about a year now.

The best part of my evening was an encounter with a lady, (using term lightly) outside of the Caliegh House. (I’m sure I didn’t spell that right).

She wasn't this bad... but it was getting there.

Literally, STUMBLING down the side street of Hamilton’s infamous strip of bars, Ro and I check the time and it was far too early for the level of retardedness of this girl. Like really? 12:30 is way too soon to be almost pukey drunk.. just sayin. A group of her appropriately intoxicated friends ambled behind her while she raved about the deliciousness of a hot dog she was snarfing back like it was the first meal she’d had in months. Sad. I mean, not that hot dogs aren’t a meal, ’cause they are for a bread and butter budget, but you really shouldn’t be talking about how much you love hot dogs around single horny men. A word of advice.

Then, she dropped it. I still laugh as I picture this in my mind. In a pile of leaves went her beloved hot dog, with all the fixin’s as well. Falling over to where we stood, she slurs, “Do I have ketchup on my face?”

Now, if I’d been witty, I would have taken this opportunity to embarrass the crap out of her, but having realized quickly she’d already done that for me, I told her she was good and she stumbled down the street reminiscing about her hot dog and the love she once shared with it in street meat glory.

Now, this is just ONE of the many stories that I have about girls at Hess Village, and as I move tomorrow, I think I might be missing out on more random nights like these. Oh girls from Hess… If I were a boy, you’d be way too easy, and if you were a lady, I wouldn’t like you to begin with, cause that’s not what Hess is about. Hess is about getting shittered to the point where recognizing your best friend is few and far between due to double vision. Thank you Hess for all the good times and all those other times that seemed good  until the next day when it wasn’t so much fun.

Yours truly, Amberley

The (Secret) Diary of Jesse Dore

Jesse Dore; General Manager and booking agent of the Corktown Tavern (Hamilton, ON) and all around nice guy. Side jobs include, door fixer, rain preventer, sound maker AND theatrical performer.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Jesse? OUR Jesse? Our own Jesse Dore? I had freaking NO idea! Since when?” Well.. since Saturday August 29th at approximetely 8:55pm.

I’m dishing the dirt Jesse. I’m sorry, but I feel that this new talent of yours is great enough to be shared with the world.

His grace wilst dancing is a sight to be saved on memory cards for cell phones and cameras across our great city and beyond. It’s as if his movements are captured and overtaken by the Earths elements. The passion oozes with every fluid motion. Oozes people; oozes. His ability to become any character is a feat many attempt to aquire within long careers of rejected auditions and failed series pilots.

While sitting at the Corktown on the previously mentioned date, Jesse was busy. Not too busy though to comment on the unkempt styling of Max Wray’s hair following a down pour that’s become all too familiar this summer. With several gestures, Jesse became; literally became the leader of the T-Birds, with a “swoosh” through the hair mimiking a comb running through either side of his fine coiff. Simultaneously his effortless feet barely grazed the floor mimicking the dance that made John Travolta famous in Grease.

I wish you’d been there. For realsies. All within these few seconds of displayed talent Jesse also accomplished a massive burn at the cost of Max Wray’s ego. Well done Sir!

As I sat in disbelief and awe of both instances, I requested to know the next production that he would be performing in. Without disclosure of such information, I threatened to write this blog in order to get it out of him, (as threatening is the Hamilton way to get what you want I’m told). His reply was “It makes me feel that you’re just <going to be> telling everyone that reads your blog that I’m gay.” To which Max replied, “So… what… 4 people will think you’re gay?”

Burn Max. Burn.

Keep your eyes peeled on stages across the GTA. This boy’s gonna be a star!

  

My Tattoos, Shockingly, Aren’t for You.

Hey! So! I got a new tattoo. It’s on the knuckles of my middle fingers and I heart them. Now when I give people the finger, they will get a surprise! I like surprises! Wait… no I don’t.. I actually hate surprises. It’s not so much the moment of surprise, but more the element. I hate the waiting, and most people that have attempted to surprise me have failed.

There’s also a type of element that I am not fond of in the least. Those wacky tattooed people that think that because they have tattoos and I have tattoos, it means that we’re automatic best friends. WRONG! The tattoos that I have accumulated over the years have a story, and just because you have some tribal arm band does not, I repeat, DOES NOT mean that I want to talk shop with you. Sometimes I’ll play along if you’re cute and genuinely interested, but really, at the point where my arms are almost covered, it would take hours to get through each one and the background story.

I was in Oakville last night, and some 40 year old drunk man was at the same bar as I was. He was in front of me heading up the stairs for a smoke, and when he saw me, he slurred, “Hey, nicccceee innkk ggirrll.” (I don’t know how to spell to make it sound slurry…) I thanked him and continued up the stairs. Upon hitting the patio, he asked me what they meant, and I politely replied that they all have a story, and most of them are personal, but thanks for asking. He got so mad that I wasn’t obliguing his curiosity that he asked why I would get them for…. Well…. I got them for me… not… you…. duh! He was even more insulted, not that I really cared and stomped away.
This is not the first type of incident I have been involved in. Constantly while out with friends, and usually by drunk boys, I will find myself being grabbed by the arm and demanded to spill the beans on what the map is on my right forearm. Which one is the newest? Which one has the most meaning? (Like,… really?) Which one hurt the most? “

“Oh my god! I love them all! Can I just look at you for a minute?”

No. No you can’t. You have to pay for that sort of thing where I come from. Hamilton.

So. Moral of the story is, that anyone you see that has a tattoo, doesn’t mean you can touch. You may look, cause it’s hard not to, but enough with the grabbing. Please. I’m liable to break the ligament that does the touching. For realsies. Thank you.

EAT THE FOOD!!!

I often am hungry as I rarely plan out my eating routine. What with work, the gime (gym for all you non Simpson’s watchers) music and drinking, I hardly have time to cook, bake or take out. HOWEVER.. when I am desperately hungry and my stomach can no longer take the empty feeling inside, I oblige with my favourite meal. Sandwiches.

When I was a kid, my mom had a record player. Yes. I’m THAT old.. Now, I remember distinctly one song in particular on my very favourite vinyl. It was “Sandwiches” by Fred Penner. You all remember him eh? Judging by your confused face about the term “eh” you are not Canadian, which you kinda need to be in order to know who Mr. Penner is.

LEGENDARY!

But that’s not the point. The real point is that I was discussing a drunken meal I made on my return home from Hess Village last weekend with my friend. I recently hopped back on the wagon of party-ville, and am doing well considering.  While at the bar, I think I drank my body weight in rye. And not of the bread variety, but we’ll get to that in a minute. I was totally that girl; stumbling home, drunk texting … someone … (probably more than one) and hobbled back to my apartment just in time to feel the pang of a guilty pleasure arise. Looking in my fridge, several things happened. One, I must get more fruit, and two, it seems that it was sandwich time. Now, eating before bed is not a normal tradition for me, however, this time, I made an exception as the bread and toppings seemed to be crying at me for love. I obligued.

Now, I’m not sure what it is about eating hammered, or eating other people’s food, but it always seems to taste better; and let me tell you: this sandwich was Ah-maze-ing. I can’t even described the dance my tastebuds made whilst the preperations occured. Maybe it was the jager… maybe it was the tangy zip of Miracle Whip, but let me tell you, the addition of cucumbers lightly seasoned with salt and pepper was the shize.

(Oh god, I’m salavating)

Here is my recipe for helping a hangover cease to be a hangover.

1. Use fresh, whole wheat bread, preferably of the organic variety. (Shmamberley does not soley support the brand “Arnolds” bread, although I’m sure he’s a very nice guy)

2. Spread a generous layer of Miracle Whip on both slices of said bread, toasted if desired, although this takes a lot more time and seems like EONS in a drunken stuper.

3. Add shaved turkey to the mix… I don’t eat much cow or pig these days, but if I trusted myself to cook some bacon, this would be a very different flava. (You heard me)

4. Slice tomatos and cucumbers with a dull knife and place over turkey. Add salt and pepper to taste.

5. Grab a stick of cheese.. and not that processed crap. Get like, some amazing old chedda from the Farmers Market, but my top fav would be brie. Grate that bitch and let it make the mountain-sandwich rise.

6. Lettuce would be good, but I didn’t have any.

And there you have it! I highly suggest slicing it in half and just because you’re THAT special, why not skip the crust and go right to the good stuff? The middle.

Upon waking, I had no recolection of said sandwich. Not even a bit. I was tipped off by the mass amounts of crumbs on my bedspread and upon furthur investigation, my kitchen was a frackin’ mess. Turns out, I rather enjoyed that sandwich whilst watching the end of Aladdin on VHS.

I hope you like my recipe. Next one will be for disaster, as I’m rather partial to those and it makes for a much better journal entry. I shall leave you with the song that prompted my love for this meal. Thank you and enjoy.

‘Till Death Do Our Opinions Part

You are blonde. No offence.

You are pretty, up until that 5th shot.

You are really smart, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying.

You are drunk.

It’s summer. I can tell cause there be bitches pouring their hearts out on the patio and I can hear you from across the way. I don’t know what it is about nice weather, good music, close friends and specially made drinks that makes you so sad, but it makes me laugh, and I’m sorry.

The pain that you are enduring right before a packed audience will be embarassing tomorrow I dare say. I’m sure that on any other day that ends in y you would be different, but tonight, you are the scene.

And the stage is yours and set.

Let me guess. Your boyfriend was checking out another girl. At a bar. Holy crap, never would have thought. Are you so terribly insecure that you’ve forgotten to gauge out his eyes before exiting your parents den? Honestly, get over yourself. He’s probably just looking at what a professional drinker looks like. This, coupled with the fact that he made out with your best friend the other day stirs up what scientists call, “depression”.

Consider this: the depression is fueled by the downer of the alcohol, so it kinda makes you act like the girls bartenders often refer to as “a piece of work”. That’s right, there’s a heading.  You kind of make them sick as if everyone around you is in clear and present danger of losing a ligimant if anywhere near the “hot zone” when ignited.

Honestly though, it’s not all your fault. You can blame it on the rain, you can blame it on the stars that shine at night, or you can blame it on the drink. That’s not necessarily a bad idea, but I’ll tell you what is

GIVING YOUR CRYING GIRLFRIEND MORE BOOZE!

Come on lameoid! What the f*ck are you thinking? You kinda deserve being yelled at now cause that bartender’s only waiting for some more entertainment in the long evening ahead of them. So, if you’re gonna fuel the fire, pick something that won’t burn when she pukes it up. That means no jager, or tequila, or straight up anything. Pick something fruity that will remind her of the plans of a beach and some fruity bitch drinks that you’ve promised before all this went down.

Until next time boys and girls, play safe. Ok? Thanks. Until I see you next, I’ll attempt to not trip your drunk ass girlfriend, but it won’t be easy. Just sayin’.

To Those of You That Have Loved…

Disclaimer: If you do not live in the 905/Hamilton area, this won’t make any sense, but I encourage you to personalize this blog and tell me how I have helped you through a tough time.

It’s been a long time coming kids.. I thought I’d get over it.. I thought that the pain where my heart is would have stopped hurting at this point, but alas.

I miss him.

I miss the smell, and the comfort he brought me…
I miss the warmness that encompassed my entire being and the lack of restraint I had when he was around…
I miss the fact that we never had to say a word and knew exactly what we were both thinking…

Yup. I miss Che’s 2 4 1 burritos.

Gone are the Tuesdays where I don’t eat all day just so I can save enough room to eat 3/4’s of my two bipolar choices of wrapped goodness.
I’ve been forced to say goodbye to the clever tinfoil packaging that brought me pleasure when I crumpled it up as I worked my way through the tortilla encompassed pleasure.
I now have to choose 1… !!!!!!!! ONLY 1 of my favourite groupings of tasty options printed on a menu of check-boxes.
When I travel, 2 4 1 burritos will no longer be a strategy to get people to move to Hamilton. We must now rely on the music scene, or convince them that 1 burrito is sufficiant. Which it’s not.

Question…Che..? What happened?
Not only have the options wilted before my eyes, but you’ve taken all purpose for Tuesday’s.
2 4 1 Tuesday’s at Che was a reason to get up in the morning, even though you’re not open in the a.m.
It was a chance for good aquaintences to become lunch buddies.
It was a social mixer intertwined with a better substitute for what’s around the corner.
It was a reason to call those you know are culinary massacres and teach them that sometimes, simple is better.

There is NO point to Tuesday now. You have abolished an entire purpose for a day by taking away 3 numbers. Every other day has a reason, like:

Monday is linked to Office Space, “Someone’s got a case of the Mondays!”

See below for your “optional” pieces of flare.

Wednesday is hump day. ‘Nuff said.

Thursday has really no rhyme or reason, but it’s close to Friday, so we let it slide.

Friday and Saturday are pretty self explanatory…

and Sunday is Get Drunk Sunday, or hangover day, or both.

So, where does that leave Tuesday?
NO WHERE!
BRING BACK 2 4 1 BURRITO TUESDAY AT CHE!
If you don’t, I shall continue to complain everytime I’m in there for Burritos, as I make a point of being there on Tuesday’s just to piss you off.

Love, Amberley

Amberley, your mother is usually always right most of the time.

It seems that within the fourth day of this random trip out West, I have come to the realization that I know nothing.

Not  in the cute, “I just turned 18 and realized that my mother is always right” way, but in an embarassing, demeaning “I have no idea what I’m doing with my life and probably should ’cause I’m an adult now” kind of way. I just found out that I know nothing about where I want to be in 5 years, and even more than nothing about where I am now. And where the shit should I be in 5 years? What a stupid goddamn question! I mean, come on! I barely remember where I was 5 years ago. Geez. Don’t ever ask me that or I’ll punch you.

Anywho, I more meant that I know nothing about what kind of person I am, what good is coming out of the the decisions I’ve made, and what actually makes me happy. This, I find incredibly sad, don’t you think? It’s like.. I should clearly know a bit about that at least.. and honestly I thought I was completely self aware and on the path to enlightenment.

I was having a great discussion with a chillin’ cousin last night about life and how I got to be where I am today, and I realized that I’ve said the same things every time someone is trying to get to know me. I’m talking in circles without any new realizations to come out of it, which completely defeats the purpose of living in my mind.

So, with the intent of moving forward, I have this to offer:

I live in Hamilton. I live on my own with 2 cats downtown by all the bars. I don’t drink much for now, although I will probably go back up to my alcoholic tolerance in about 3 months. I love to sing and heart my band. I am a secretary at a tattoo shop which gives me a free tattoo for a days pay. I like being close to the farmers market, eat well and go to the gym regularly. I’m volunteering with the Heart and Stroke Foundation when I return from aforementioned trip. I hate liars. I hate addicts, and I hate fighting. I love drama when it doesn’t include me cause it’s funny. I’m currently listening to a kareoke night a floor below me at a hostel on the mountain wishing it weren’t so cold so I could go lie outside and watch the stars. I hate growing up. So far, it sucks. I have no clue what people think of me and for some god forsaken reason I actually care. I want off this ride. I want to escape everything and never look back. I want the unfamiliarity of new towns and faces. I want to be able to say that I’ve done something no one else has. I want to hop on a plane tomorrow to Tawain and help make some tshirts in a poorly tailored fashion, (no pun intended). I want to climb the mountain I know is sitting through the darkness just as I sit here, both completely stagnant within ourselves.

I guess in the great scheme of things, unfamiliarity scares the crap out of me. Lack of control and failure to change is a piss off. I have no clue what the answer is, or going to be for that matter, and I know that the only person that WILL have any idea is my mom, and as much as I love that woman, I doubt very much it’ll be an answer I’ll be happy with for longer than that 3 months span… Looks like by the time I realize my mom has great ideas, I’m back to drinking them away.

Oh how I miss the early 90’s.

The early 90’s I think takes the cake for a bunch of headings including, best t.v., best fashion and best music. I’m not lying! Seriosuly! Think about it!!! We’ll start with fashion:

I just googled 90’s fashion and I can’t stop laughing! Why can’t we bring this back? Don’t know what I’m talking about? Think 90210, the original.  Anything they wore was pretty much the epitomy of couture at the time. hahahahahahahahahahahahaha oh god… sorry….

Suit jackets with shoulder pads, tie dye with plaid pants, overalls!!! The best part I think for me was the hypercolour tshirt. You sure you don’t remember hypercolour? I’ve been looking for one of these shirts for almost a year now, and can’t find one that hasn’t been put in the dryer yet. I really wish I could explain the many months of popularity that we had as children if you had one of these awesome t’s. Kids all over the playground during recess lifting their shirts to their mouths and blowing on them in order for the colour to change… classic childhood memory for those of us born in the 80’s.

Like, oh my god! Like, totally krossed out! Check this vid! It’s like… emo kids with a ‘tude man! like for real and junk!

Now that you know what hypercolor is, we can be friends.

ONWARD to …. T.V.!!!

Seeing as though I’m Canadian, the early 90’s were the SHIT (which is a good thing) for Canadian television. Don’t believe me? Keep reading!

Who remembers Kid Street? Anyone??? ANYONE!?!??! COME ON!!! That show had the best clap ever, and no… not the STD variety… an actual clap, and every time I bust that bitch out, people wonder about my sanity. Do it with me:

Step 1: Raise hands above head

Step 2: Push elbows out like you’re making the ‘A’ in YMCA

Step 3: CLAP HANDS TOGETHER!!!!

Congrats guys! You have now participated in the Kid Street Clap!! WOO!!!

There was also “You Can’t Say That on Television” which had one of the greatest concepts for a t.v. show ever. Who doesn’t want to see green goop purged onto those early 90’s fashionable children from butt fuck no where Canada? I know I do… still… You tube is a great invention.

Degrassi, Degrassi, Degrassi… that show taught me so much.. such subjects were addressed that my mother would never be caught dead talking about. These included, but not limited to, Acid trips that lead to flying off bridges, wet dreams, (seriously, that episode is hilarious) teen pregnancy when it wasn’t considered “cool” and shoplifting.. another one of my favourite episodes, but I digress as Degrassi could be a whole blog on itself.

I loved Spike. She was rad.

SOOOOOO That brings us to the best of the cream of the bestest crop. Mussaak!

Off the top of my head, the following artists and/or bands come to mind:

Kris Kross, Vanilla Ice, Snow, Mr. T (yea, he had a couple hits), Alanis Morrissette (the original) Moxy Fruvous, TLC, Monica, Brandy, … shall I continue or do you get the point that popular music in the early 90’s RULED!?!?!?!??!?!

I still have tapes and actually blew the speakers in my first car playing the third remix of 2 Legit 2 Quit by M.C. Hammer. Then I sold the car to my step dad and then he sold it to his pastor. Oh M.C. Hammer… little do you know the impact you’ve had on Lutheran’s in Burlington.

Phew!!! Well kids! I hope you learned something!!! Maybe….? A little bit….? no??? meh. All I’m saying is that I wanna go back to that.. I think I fit in more in the early 90’s than the … early… 2000’s? does that even make any sense? That sounds stupid… next blog will be about that. If I remember. Which I won’t.

Got something to say about it? Let me know! I heart hate mail!!!

amberleybaggett@hotmail.com

I’ve Got to Praise You Like I Should

It has always been a dream of mine to go down to Utah and mess with poligimists heads. I mean, come on.. what other religion is so awesome that you can have more than one wife at a time!!?!! That could never screw up any of the children mentally, as it’s clearly the opposite of a broken home. It’s like a…. mulitple home.

One down side, and the only one I can think of, is that it only works for the male species. I find this really sexist, so what better way to screw the system than to screw with the very religion they call so dear? Well, there really isn’t a better way, so this is my plan.

If you didn’t know already, I’m in a band. I’m the lead singer of a 4 piece, (including me) and the only girl. WHICH MEANS: If I were to go on tour with the other three gentleman (and I use that term lightly, as I’m no lady either) our first order of business would be to hit a greasy spoon All Day Breakfast place in Utah and begin the mindfucking.

We sit down at a table, preferably one close to other patrons as they are most likely part of the cult. Whoa!!! I mean religion.

I say, “They’ll have coffee, but we’ll need a minute till we’re ready to order”.

After the coffee is delivered and the sugar and cream is on the table, “I’m sorry, can I please have some Splenda and milk? They’re watching their weight.”

Then some sort of fight will erupt over whether or not I think they’re cholesterol levels need the extra bacon on the side.. which I don’t think it does, but I can have the extra bacon cause I’m all sorts of awesome.

As soon as Wife #2, disguised as waitress is within ear shot, I’ll whistle her over like cattle, and order for the table. “I will have bacon and eggs, toast, hashbrowns AND cheesecake. They will have oatmeal. Thank you.” Handing the menues over and making sure that I never look her in the eye cause I’m a dick like that.

While we wait for our food, (me more excited than the rest) we begin discussing the fact that Paul wants to get a job because he feels his talents are wasted on changing diapers day after day, and besides, Scott is much better at the cleaning anyways. With an air of disgust, I slam my mug on the table and hope to God that it breaks, (whatever God is in charge of Poligimy) and angrily point out that I work my ass off so they can have an easy life and that they don’t appreciate how hard it is for me to support 9 mouths everyday and they should be God Damn grateful that I do so they don’t have to live in an igloo. (As we’re Canadian, and clearly all own snow shoes in the summer)

Then Scott pipes up about how he doesn’t think it would hurt if Paul got a job and how he will take over Paul’s responsibilities at home if it will make everyone happy. See, ’cause Scott’s the peacemaker in the family…. I then corrupt them into thinking that if Paul gets a job, people will find out about us and we might as well just MOVE to Utah because Canadians are so much less likely to accept out faith and shun us!

I then slam money on the table and storm out to the short bus that we have. (Cause we’re on tour, but more because there’s 6 children apparently)

And that is how I’ll screw with Utah. WATCH OUT!

Newsflash!

Hey, so it’s been a little while since I last wrote one of these thingys. Since I began my work with punkradiocast, I’ve written 3 and Aaron, has written like, 80… not that we care what Aaron has to say other than that wicked post of the Kangaroo. I really really wanna be a kangeroo for hallowe’en now.. Actually, I was at the bar last night, and it’s Turkey Weekend, so everyone’s home for free food, and my buddy had this beer costume, so I decided to wear it around the bar. Shocking that people thought I looked out of place, but then again, aren’t I always?

Whew.. that was a tangent…

The D.J.’s at Punkradiocast were invited to a special Barfday Celebration for PRC in which we networked and admitted to strangers that the reason why we were there was to basically get free stuff from them in some form or another. Now, I realize that’s what industry stuff is, but I’m only a d.j… there’s really nothing I can do for most of the people that were there other than me being awesome and being your friend. Now THAT is priceless! There’s nothing else you could ever need in life than me on your side.. right? Uh.. yea.. agree to disagree.

Aren’t we sexy?

Anywho, while wandering aimlessly in the Gibson Showroom, I stumbled upon the very guitar that makes me melt… yes, the Gibson Les Paul custom WHITE… (and that’s important) with Gold inlay.. Now, I must admit that the black IS sharp.. not quite as sexy as the white. It seems I would have stolen said guitar from said showroom, but my buddy Sumak already scammed the one that graced Burlington with it’s presence at Long and McQuade this summer.. Before I could rationalize the $4000 it would have taken for me to name it and have that name actually stick, Sumak bought it. Little does he know that that guitar will either go missing, or have a sticker on it by the end of time…. WATCH OUT SUMAK… Did you know it comes with a list of how to take care of it properly? Like… this is one serious guitar… which clearly my epiphone is not as it’s head completely snapped off the other day due to running Chickens….. I am sad…

SPEAKING OF MYSELF… I have just finished my brand spankin’ new website, where you can find links to pretty much everything I do for a “living”. I’m even thinking of putting up embarassing stories of myself, but then what would we talk about on the radio show? Uh.. that’s right! NOTHING! It’s all about content people.. content..This is the best blog ever