I’ve decided that any entry that I either can not think of a title for, or do not wish to title for any of the various reasons which currently escape me (but must certainly exist) will be named using a word that I will make up, as above.

Having said that, it’s right on to new business.

Tonight I played music, as you might imagine.

There were a couple of jackdicks present, as there usually are, which has prompted me to begin to compile my latest groundbreaking literary effort, the Musician’s Field Guide to Jack Dicks.

The most common type of jackdick is merely the drunken one. Naturally, this particular species is abundant in the wild, and as such, there are many sub-classes which I will not go into at present. However, tonight I observed two common jack dick varieties.

The first is the Name Dropper. This jack dick will drop all sorts of musical names to you for no good reason whatsoever. You will hear all sorts of names, but particularly names like Clive Davis or Mutt Lange or Tommy Mottola or any other famous star-makerish person. Does the jack dick actually know these people? Of course not. Would he introduce you to them if he did? Of course not.

What the Name Dropper jack dick wants from you is to engage in a Name Dropping Contest. This is a source of attention and validation for these sad, sad people, but merely a time waster for you, the musician. Once you spot one, end the conversation at once and find something else to do.

The second type I observed tonight was a subspecies of the Drunken Jack Dick, known as the Redneck Jack Dick. This species is known to fight with his date at the bar, yell loudly about wanting to hear some “GOD DAMNED COUNTRY MUSIC”, and generally make it widely known that he is an idiot. There is no good way to deal with this particular type of jack dick, but eye contact and polite conversation is a good way to find yourself with this jack dick’s arm around your shoulders and his beer-laden breath in your ear. He will want to discuss Merle Haggard. You, quite likely, do not. As always, the three most important rules in Jack Dick Wrangling are Avoid, Avoid, Avoid.

That’s it for this week’s installment. Check back soon for additions and a list of more jack dicks.

And remember, if you are out drinking and no one seems to be a complete idiot, the idiot may be you.

Fran and Mossimo and I all went to Tuscaloosa on Thursday to play a sorority party. We usually have a good time on road trips, and this time was no exception. Our last one to New Orleans ended with Francisco farting in the car 15 minutes from home and nearly killing everyone. In the words of Tenacious D, that’s fuckin teamwork!

This trip was a lot easier because it wasn’t that far away, and because I’ve been to the town before and I sort of know my way around. Tuscaloosa, by the way, is the town where the University of Alabama is located.

There are gallery pictures documenting the trip, for those of you who require more visual stimulation.

Francisco sort of has a musician exchange program with Italy. He met some Italians years ago in a bar here in Atlanta. That turned into a short Italian tour for him, and then some of them came and stayed here in the States for a while, and the whole thing has been going on ever since. Right now we have Mossimo, the Italian drummer, which means I am on bass.

Mossimo is a nice guy, he just doesn’t speak a lot of English. I have had to learn a few Italian words so I can tell him how to get through songs. Piano, for instance, means soft.

Friday he and I did an early gig at Ray’s in the city. This is a very upscale corporate gig downtown. They normally have a piano guy playing soft jazz or whatever, but sometimes they have us instead. I don’t know why, because their clientele are tres snooty, but whatever, a gig’s a gig.

I was explaining to Mossimo about needing to be quiet on this gig, so I told him “Piano, piano!”.

He nodded, “Piano”.

Then I plugged my mic in to my PA which was still turned up from Thursday night at the sorority party, and a sonic-boom-loud clap of thunder detonated from the speakers. Three lawyers immediately shit themselves, a fashion designer barfed up $50 of sushi, and seven tourists peed their capri pants.

“Jeem, Jeem…” Mossimo said, shaking his head.

Little Italian bastardo.

So yeah, I have a cell phone collection. It started out as just keeping my old ones around in case I needed to revert back to them in the event of a total phone failure, but as the numbers grew and I bought new ones I just kept them around.

Now I get ones from my friends and coworkers and stuff. I like it.

The only other thing I have ever collected is matchbooks, but I quit doing that when my sister’s friend used some of them to light a cigarette when she was sleeping over. That was when she and my sister were in like 6th grade, the little hoodlums. I was pissed.

She had to use the matchbook from France that my mom’s friend brought to me. She couldn’t use a regular kitchen match from the kitchen. Her name was Elizabeth and I am still mad at her. I hope she gets a bad knee rash and it itches severely for 6 days, 3 hours and 14 minutes. Unless she’s like a chronic head case and that would push her over the edge. Or has an abusive husband.

Other than that, a rash on your knee, Elizabeth!

So anyway, send me your old cellphones! I will pay for postage! The older/crappier the better. I like them even if they are smashed up, especially if they have a story. I especially want any ancient phones, like the old motorola brick or bag phones. I have no idea why I get excited about shitty old cell phones, but I do.

The best phone I have ever had is the ericsson r520M. At least, I liked it the best. I lost it when I took a turn in my 82 volvo wagon and it slipped out the side. I think it did anyway. Either that or someone ganked it from me at the restaurant I ate lunch at that day.

Either way, I don’t have it anymore.

I want to tell you all about a few things. Firstly, my gallery is complete, so check it out.

Secondly, I am deeply in love with Moe’s burritos. They have a vegetarian burrito called the Art Vandalay that is so fucking good I could eat it every day. Thank the lord, they opened a Moe’s by my house so I can go there all the time.

However, two things annoy me about their establishment.

First of all, their webpage is the extremely annoying kind with the music that you can’t turn off. I hate that. Don’t force me to listen to your web page, please, Mo.

Secondly, the restaurant has a gimmick where every time someone comes in all the cooks yell “Welcome to Moe’s!”. This is more annoying at some locations because the staff there gets lazy after having to yell it all day and just goes “Wmmmda Moe’s!”. At other locations they just welcome you when you walk in, without the yelling part. They all say the same thing, but delivery is everything, people.

Tomorrow afternoon we leave for a short road trip to play a frat gig in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, approximately a 3 1/2 hour drive. I will document all forms of foolishness, thoroughly.

Also, you should know that the word “Giblet” is now commonly held to refer to a persons genitals.

giblet (GIB – let) - The private parts of a human of either sex. giblets pl.

So, if you were down at the shore with your grandpa and his nuts popped out of his cut off khakis, you could exclaim “YOU REVOLTING GEEZER, hide your GIBLETS!”, or something of the like.

Further updates as events warrant, chilluns.

Apparently gay porn loves my site. It keeps posting comments on my entries like this:

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Message: just want to thank you :) Am dayli looking through your site

And this:

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Message: While reading this post I remembered Beethhoven music… What do you think about it???

So, apparently gay porn loves beethoven. Who knew?

Tonight I played with Francisco and the Italian drummer at Atkins Park. There was a new bartender and he wasn’t as nice as the usual one. It was raining and I was wearing my leather jacket. That made me sort of mad at myself for wearing it, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.

I paid my car insurance.

Apparently now that I am a self employed musician I have to pay my taxes quarterly, which is a real pain in the ass cheeks because the quarter is over and I have saved so far a grand total of zero money to pay my taxes with. Oops.

Having a day job really eases paying taxes a lot.

I’m mad at Buck 65 for the album I bought. There are a couple of songs on it where he talks about baseball games he played. What the fuck, Buck? Baseball games?

He does say “a fool is an outcast when he outlasts his money”, which I like, but the 2 or 3 songs about baseball games makes my nipples not tingle the way they should at a new Buck 65 cd. He doesn’t even tell us what happened at the end of the game, he just leaves it hanging in the 7th inning. What a ripoff.

I wrote a poem and it is pretty good, but I can’t seem to finish it, so I’m shelving it for now. One day it will be a song, but at present it remains a songlet.

And that’s how it works in the big city, my friends.