Nevermind about August and everything after. I've got a licence to ill in this tragic kingdom. Ten-Four

Remember the blog post a couple of months ago regarding my musical nostalgia that was completely disjointed and vague? Me neither. So I've decided to revisit this subject in a hopefully more entertaining fashion. The title of this little diddy here might seem a bit ostentatious. It's not though. You see what I've done is take the titles of several of the cd's I own from the 90's and combine it into a sentence. This seems like a good idea for two reasons: a) I came up with it and it's obviously genius. b) I've seriously eaten an entire box of Mike & Ike's, two gigantic hershey kiss and chocolate chip cookies, and chugged three diet cokes. I couldn't lie about something like that.

There's this dude in my office named Jackson. He's a student worker and a pretty cool kid. I say kid because Jackson was born in 1989. Jackson has a lot of hair and one day the girlfriend of a roommate or something pinned his butt down and straightened his hair with one of those straighteners that girls with nappy hair like to use. He came into the office looking just like one of the Beatles. He also looked like the dudes from Oasis so I thought it would be a good idea to nickname him Gallagher. Apparently he didn't get the joke because he kept giving me weird looks every time I'd say the name, point, laugh, and then tell him Don't Look Back In Anger dude, which just made him more confused.

Jackson's boss Jimmy and I are the same age and share the same musical tastes. Jimmy has seen Pearl Jam live 15 times. We both started quizzing him on bands from the 90's that more or less defined our musical vernacular. Come to find out, Jackson and his fellow student workers had never heard Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Counting Crows, 311, Blues Traveler, Beastie Boys, No Doubt, Bush, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Red Hot Chili Peppers, STP, on and on and on. Does that mean that I'm just getting that much older or is it testament to the fact that music and radio is confined to the drivel that is Ke$ha, Black Eyed Peas, and Bieber?

I made it my personal mission to burn as much music for Jackson as I could. I went home that night and made him two 90's sampler cds with a song or two from as many 90's artists as I could find. I own a lot of full albums from that era from the bands that had a little bit of shelf life. I consider many of the albums to be classics but a lot of my self professed 'music snob' friends do not. I added some Alice in Chains, Jane's Addiction, and Candlebox along with the aforementioned menage-a-rock. I proudly presented Jackson with two cd's to blow his mind. I came back an hour later and he was listening to 'Alive' by Pearl Jam. He had that confused look on his face again and told me he'd never heard it. I non-verbally told him to go fuck himself and marched straight to Jimmy's office to let him know that his very own student worker doesn't know one of the signature songs of his favorite band. Jimmy verbally told Jackson to go fuck himself and ordered him to keep listening.

I gave it another hour and walked back into Jackson's office. This is a bold dude, man. He had turned off the cd's and I kid you not was listening to Hall and Oates. I was beside myself and walked out without saying a word. The battle was lost but the war, while probably lost as well, was motivating me to open this kid's mine even if I had to pry it. So here I sit at my computer burning him full albums. This is the list so far: 311-self titled, Beastie Boys-License to Ill (80's yet still classic), Blink 182-Enema of the State, Blues Traveler-Four, Bush-Sixteen Stone, Counting Crows-August and Everything After, Nirvana-Nevermind, No Doubt-Tragic Kingdom, Oasis-Definitely Maybe and What's the Story Morning Glory, Pearl Jam-Ten, RHCP-Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic; Smashing Pumpkins-Siamese Dream, STP-Core, Third Eye Blind-self titled, U2-The Joshua Tree (80's but he'd never heard of this one either and that made me really sad) I might throw an AIC or Soundgarden album on there just to really grit things up but these should suffice.

Those albums I listed are indicative of the type of music I love but are in no way a complete representation of what I wish I could put on there. I've lost Weezer's Blue album and Green Day's Dookie. I never owned a lot of the one hit grunge bands like Sponge, Ruth Ruth,Marcy Playground, Schtum, and Trippin Daisy. I use to have Self's album but it's scratched beyond recognition and me and two other people are pretty much the only one's that have heard of them. I love 2 Skinnee J's but that might be a little too out there for him. I probably should have put Dr. Dre's The Chronic on there but I don't want to send the wrong message.

I wish I had a musical mentor to guide me when I was young and malleable like young Jackson. I had to do it on my own. Now I keep the dream alive by traveling to different horse tracks and casinos to see my favorite bands of yore; now fat, bald and pathetic, fighting the good fight. Hey Jealousy? Yes please. Cumbersome? Always. Sex and Candy? Whenever and wherever. Here's to you 90's music. And all your flannel and angst. Rock on.

Craft Beer and My Boy Sergio

The night started off innocently enough. I had the noblest of intentions. We were going to meet a friend at a hippy bar called The Pour House so we could grab some food on the back patio and then watch a band inside later that night. Kristen and I got there and the patio was deserted with the exception of the bartender and some creepy looking 50 year olds.

Our friend Colleen arrived and took one look at the patio and agreed with our assessment that it was lame so we decided to head across the street to a Mexican restaurant called Zia's. Now my name is Chris, but once we were at Zia's I became "The Most Interesting Man In The World" because I started pounding Dos Equis while Kristen and Colleen each had a margarita. I knew the beer was starting to kick in because I told every person in the bar at least three times to "stay thirsty my friends." That's all well and good but it became infinitely cuter when I did the same thing seven different times to a table of tweens and their respective soccer moms on the way to the bathroom because I broke the seal. Seriously, seven trips creeping out 12 year olds. Colleen's friend Jeremiah showed up at Zia's and I felt bad because by the time he got there, I was already "That Guy." As an aside, let me apologize for all of the "s but I'm afraid it's just going to get worse. Anywho, Colleen convinced Kristen to order a second margarita which is just not a good idea. Her face was already numb and she did not need anymore alcohol so I did what any husband who looks out for the well-being of his wife would do: I chugged it for her.

At this point I'm lit, Kristen's buzzed, Colleen's feeling pretty good, and Jeremiah is wondering just what in the hell makes me so interesting. We decided to head back over to the Pour House. In order to do this we have to cross four lanes of fairly heavy traffic. The girls and Jeremiah made it with no problem but it looked like I was playing a cross between hop scotch and twister across the highway. The reality of the situation is I couldn't really walk. I persevered though and made it across the street.

Once we paid the cover and got inside, Jeremiah and I headed straight for the bar. I need to say that a reason to add to the list of why Charleston is so great is the sheer number of craft beers they have on tap. I've lost track of all the different beers I've had but I've also gained 15 lbs since I moved here so I know the volume is large. I got a Solo cup of something dark and immediately went over to the merch table to check out this band I would be patronizing. There name was Oregone and they're from L.A. Oregone plays a mix of funk and soul which pretty much defines me. (that's sarcasm) As I'm checking out the vinyl albums, I notice a tall dude with a big ass 'fro and a bushy ass beard. I'm all like hey dude, are you the merch guy? He's all like nahh man I play guitar....and my name is Sergio. I'm like hell yes what kind of gear do you have, and that is a badass name. He reluctantly starts discussing this with me and I'm completely oblivious to the fact that I've just 100% cock blocked this guy. He was macking pretty hard on a hippy chick but I would not be denied. That's how drunk I was. He was in the middle of telling me about his gear setup when I figured it would be a good idea to go tell my wife how incredibly hammered I was so I turned my back on him mid sentence. I'm a real jerk when I drink. That's actually not true but Sergio probably thought so.

While we're waiting for the band to start playing, I continued drinking and Colleen brings up another friend of hers named Paul. Paul is from the Ukraine and has an electrical engineering degree and a law degree. That's what he told us anyway. I was to the point that I'd believe anything but looking back on it, I'm pretty sure he was fucking with me. He even got me to do a fist bump grenade which I don't think I've ever done before in my life. Now that I'm reflecting, that was probably not the coolest thing I've done but it certainly wasn't the lowest part of the evening for me.

Did I mention I was three sheets to the wind? Oregone finally started playing and it was my time to shine. The Pour House is a bit of a hippy bar. If you've ever gone out in Baton Rouge, it reminds me a little bit of Ichabods. Since my hair doesn't really work anymore, I had a hard time pulling off the nappy haired hippy look but I had something they didn't have...fratasticism. Picture if you will, Chris Noland in Polo shirt, cargo shorts, and Sperry's. Yes sirrreee, I was fratastic. I stepped up to the stage, toe to toe with the singer and mere inches from the bongo player with the flat billed cap....and I danced. Nay. I hippy danced. Head staring straight at the floor, both fists up around my ears, shoulders swaying, and Sperry's firmly in place. I did this for an hour and a half without stopping. The only time I looked up from the floor was to make eye contact with my boy Sergio. Sergio looked pissed but I know that's because he wished he could be down at the foot of that stage dancing along with me. I say I had both fists up and that's true but I didn't realize I had a beer in one of those fists until Kristen pointed out that my shirt was soaking wet. Apparently in my meditative dance I spilled the beer all over my shirt. That's cool man because the music and I were one.

The rest of this story pretty much had to be told to me because I don't really remember it. Kristen managed to get me in the car and we started the drive back to the Creek. As some of you no doubt know, I'm a bit of a drunk dialer. Apparently I called my sister. She didn't answer and I let her know how much I didn't appreciate her not being at her phone. I've since had the message played back for me because apparently she wants to hold on to this one for posterity. I didn't know I had the ability to use the word 'motherfucker' in so many different ways. Verbs, adverbs, adjectives, proper nouns, formal names, locations, pet names, cars, my friend Richard W's mom, Sergio's guitar playing ability post stinkeye, etc. To make matters worse, after I hung up with my sister's voicemail, it made complete since to call my mother. Kristen was powerless because I'm so adorable when I'm on blackout. So yeah, I called Reva and I did the only possible thing that made sense to my inebriated brain when she answered. I talked about real estate. I don't really know the details of the discussion and quite frankly I've tried to pretend it didn't happen and haven't broached the subject since. I think some things are better off buried.

We made it home and apparently I wasn't ready to go to bed. Kristen feel asleep pretty quickly but the only thing I really remember was a flash of me sitting in the car and then blinking and sitting up in bed in the guest room, fully clothed, all the lights on, OD's ass in my face and the clock saying 8am. Needless to say I felt awful. I drank a bunch of water and then walked out my back door. I literally walked six miles because something deep inside me was telling me I needed to sweat out the alcohol. I don't know why that urge always comes because I don't think its actually possible/beneficial/sensical but never-the-less, six miles I walked. I spent the rest of the morning listening to my sister laugh at me about the message and then laugh even harder at the fact that I drunk dialed my mom. I'm 31 years old. This shit isn't suppose to happen.

When I started writing this I was aiming for some sort of epic comedic story. I think I waited too long to type it up because it sort of turned stream of consciousness. We all had a blast that night but man, Sergio was pissed. I sure hope that dude got laid.