ME AND MY BOO/CUE

When's the last time I bragged about my pool shooting ability? Regardless; there are few things* that make me as competitive, and/or make unfortunate jokes about your mother, with the exception of shooting POOL! [*batting cages/texas-hold-em/whiskey-drankin' being other examples]

For the first time in far too long, I busted out my bitch, my boo, er...the cue that several of my friends bought me for my 23rd birthday. This object is less a pool cue and more of a fuckin' sniper rifle. To make sure she was all good, I used these various colored pieces of film to clean the shaft [according to the directions, in various speeds/churning motions] gave her/it the once over and threw it in my trunk [of my car...but if that ain't baitin', I don't know what is!].

Once at the pool hall, my baby blinded the waitress' eyes! WHOA! I was banking shots like...Madoff on a meth binge! I digress...but in between shots, I noticed this random tick of mine became apparent. When I apply chalk to the tip of my cue, I station the bottom bumper on the tip/shelltoe on my foot [see below] and TWIST.   

And then I strike...LIKE A FUCKING COBRA IN REHAB FOR METH! PSSSSSSSSSHHHH! I won the next, um....EVERY GAME! In your face straight-buddy-in-love-Mr. Texty-Text-man. Yeah, not a fair game(s), he's all in love with a girl, and I'm in love with a piece of wood (love you baby). And the Cubs lost tonight. Fuck...

SO...I'M KINDA OF A ROADIE NOW TOO

Not that I'm going on the road, which probably negates the "Road" part of "Roadie". Whatever. In addition to my once a week Bouncer/Doorman gig, I am in the temporary employ of a Chicago-based multi-platinum recording artist with a predilection for vintage musical equipment.  

This gig is courtesy of Mohawk's brother, who works for this particular Rawk Star, managing his vast array of equipment while also supervising the construction of his new mind-blowing awesome recording studio. 

Mohawk's and my new "gig" is to help his brother make sense of 20,000 square of musical equipment that needs to be inventoried, bar coded and moved into a new warehouse near the new studio. This sounded simple enough at first...

...but when I walked in to the warehouse today, all I could say was "HOLY SHIT - LOOK AT ALL THIS...SHIT!" Imagine, if you will, a warehouse will at least 50 road cases, perhaps 150 guitars, keyboards, pinball machines, drums and general SHIT all over the place. 

But what really got me horny was what rests in far reaches of this warehouse: a 69' Pontiac GTO parked next to a 71' (or so) Ford Mustang parked next to a late 60's-ish Plymouth (not a "Road Runner") of some sort. It was all I could do NOT to whip out my dick and rub my nipples at the same time!

After I stopped drooling, we got done to the task at hand, which was to transport a vintage mixing board that is as rare as it is expensive. This damn thing must have weighed, oh I don't know, like 80,000 fucking pounds. The damn thing was on wheels and us 3 grown men could barely budge it.

Anyways, after we moved a bunch of other HEAVY shit we went over to the new studio. Situated in a anonymous light industrial park, it looks like a typical suburban office/warehouse; but on the inside...WHOA! The master mixing board apparently used to reside in the Abbey Road studios and was purchased for $250,000. I was asked *not* to breathe on it. 

This isn't the easiest nor glamourous way to make my rent, but I'll be damned if I won't do it anyways.

Did I mention how sore my body is? FUCK.