Typically narcissistic blogging.


Let The Motherfucker Burn

With sincere thanks to my awesome friend SushiSpook for the inspiration:

The Roof

Guitar With Otto

This is Otto (and my guitar):

(Otto speaks in all caps.)

WP: It’s a guitar. You have seen these before.
WP: It’s a guitar, Otto.
Otto: DO I EAT IT?
WP: You can try.
WP: It’s a— Okay. Listen. *strums guitar*

And then he ran into the hallway and yelled at me from behind the door for five minutes before he forgot what had happened. The photo was taken at his second attempt to determine the nature of the guitar.


When I tell people I have a guitar, very often they say things like, “Are you in a band?” or “Will you play a song for me?” or “That’s nice, let’s watch TV.” And I have finally figured out why that last reaction is my favorite.

I love guitar, and I love music. I don’t love the fact that I am essentially unskilled, but I love that I can learn new songs by finding lessons on the internet and sing them to my cat and inadvertently to neighbors who are, I assume, pretty pissed off at this point. But I get major performance jitters even when there’s only one other person in the roomhouse. I have no intention of ever really performing. So, why am I bothering to learn and practice and even occasionally come up with new ways to sing covers?

Sure, there’s reward in all of these things—learning, mastery (for some definition of the word), entertainment, growth, creation and love. That’s the trite bullshit I’ve been telling myself from day one. But I realized today that I’m really doing this for one reason: potential hostage situations.

I’m doing this: learning new songs, and practicing semi-regularly because—and this could totally happen—I might someday be in a situation where I have to be able to play between one and five songs competently if somebody hands me a guitar and holds a gun to my (or somebody else’s) head. Alternately, I could find myself in a Goonies-related situation where every chord I play correctly helps get me and my friends across a booby-trapped floor. Or I could be surrounded by a horde of hippie zombies and have to fool them into thinking I’m one of them by lurching about and gently playing Bob Dylan.

This is why I do it. Music saves lives.

Sorry, neighbors.

Good News For Whiskeypants

Here’s my on-the-spot victory dance mix, since I got a job offer.

Today, Whiskeypants is happy.

Soothing The Savage Whiskeypants

Click to biggify:

Brining SexyBack

No, that’s not a typo. My dear friend Tanyamazon named our Thanksgiving turkey SexyBack. Puns aside, the real accomplishment was the bird’s new theme song, team written by me and her (mostly her):

[Verse 1]

I’m prepping Sexyback
get out the bucket, give that rump a slap
You got to brine him in a plastic sack
With salt and onions and the whole spice rack
Take it to the fridge


Dirty bird
I’m gonna cook ya
Yeah I think you heard
Gonna stuff you until it’s absurd
It’s just thanksgiving so it’s diet third.
Take ’em to the chorus


Come here bird
Go ahead, go carve on it
Come to the breast
Go ahead, go carve on it
Go ahead, go carve on it
Drinks on me
Go ahead, go carve on it
Let me see what you’re roasting with
Go ahead, go carve on it
Look at those ‘sticks
Go ahead, go carve on it
You make me sing
Go ahead, go carve on it
Gonna eat that wing
Go ahead, go carve on it
And get your turkey on
Go ahead, go carve on it
Get your turkey on
Go ahead, go carve on it
Get your turkey on

[Verse 2]

I’m herbing Sexyback
Chop up the thyme and give its ass a smack
With so much butter give you heart attack
Rub it so good your exes want you back
Take it to the fridge


[Verse 3]

I’m roasting Sexyback
Talk dirty to it there’s no room for tact
This turkey wants it, baby, that’s a fact
Lounging so sexy on the oven rack
Take it to the stove


Time Management

I don’t have to be anywhere. It’s entirely too easy to spend a day wandering around the house in pajamas, watching random tv on Hulu.com,  wondering if I’m too lazy to get up to get another beer–and then end the day wondering where the day went.

If I do that, how am I supposed to find a job, get my Night Elf hunter to level 60, learn yet another easy, camping-friendly song to play on the guitar, and keep up on my exercise routine?

Time management is important when one is unemployed. There are only so many hours in the day, but there are people to hang out with, television shows to catch up on (True Blood, Dexter, Mad Men,  Burn Notice, 30 Rock, etc.), quests to complete on World of Warcraft, vodka to infuse, bartending/babysitting/catsitting/other shifts to pick up wherever possible, guitar to practice–and of course, the incredibly frustrating and painful job hunt.

Sure, I make it sound like fun, but one does have to keep busy in order to not freak out or get too depressed about wondering where, exactly, next month’s rent is coming from (yet another reason to put together a decent repertoire of songs on the guitar–just in case I need to put out a hat on the sidewalk and sing my heart out for a few bucks).

Damn it. That means I have to have a heartbuy a hat.

I have got to remember to use this time productively. Like putting together a dark acoustic version of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga on the guitar.

Unemployed? What are you doing with your days?