My Uncle Stan
Ask anyone you know who's got family in the greater Chicagoland area, and chances are they have an Uncle Stan. Maybe his name isn't Stan exactly, but most likely it is. He's pretty much a carbon copy of one of the characters on the old SNL skit
Bill Swerski's Super Fans . He smokes, drinks cans of Old Style, and chows polish sausage like there ain't no tomorrow. He's got a classic Chicago accent (think Dan Akroyd as Elwood Blues), tells crass, tasteless jokes, and he loves da Bears.
I had an Uncle Stan just like that. He passed away yesterday after several years of battling a failed liver. It ain't easy on a body being an Uncle Stan, my friends.
When my brother and I were kids, Uncle Stan was our favorite uncle, mainly because he always got us the best presents. What can I say, kids have their priorities. Uncle Stan never got us boring clothes or educational stuff for Christmas - he always got us awesome toys. Then, with instruction sheet in hand, he would assemble them for us on the spot. Often he would grapple with this chore until well after we'd gone to bed, and we'd find him on the couch the next morning, various toy parts scattered around him on the floor.
It wasn't until we were much older that we learned that he was usually drinking throughout the entire Christmas holiday, and when he fell asleep on the couch it was because he'd passed out drunk. Before it got really bad, his drinking was kind of just one of those Uncle Stan quirks. When we moved away from Chicago, he would mail us our presents, each enclosed in an appropriately-sized purple & gold felt Crown Royal bag to protect the gift wrap. We thought it was funny then, but looking back now as someone who enjoys a cocktail myself (to say the least), I'm astounded that a man could go through that many bottles of whisky every year. You just can't keep doing that when you're pushing 60 and not expect it to come around and bite you in the ass.
Of course that's not what I want to remember about Uncle Stan. I prefer to hold in my mind the rosy images from my childhood, when all I knew about Crown Royal was that they made purple bags. One of my favorite photos of Uncle Stan is a picture of him sleeping soundly on the sofa, my fully assembled Holly Hobbie doll high chair standing triumphantly in the foreground. He adored my brother and me, he was a great uncle, and I will remember him that way.
Im in ur blog, updatin ur links
Lest this blog degenerate into a cuddle fest of cuteness, I felt an obligation to let you know that
Retarded Kitten Funsies has been updated. (Thanks to Jeff for the heads up.)
Plus, a couple of new additions to the friends and family list:
Transnational Blueblood: The brainchild of Pete the Evil New Yorker who, armed only with an expense account, caused G-Train and myself to get completely schnockered and alientate and insult almost every innocent person who had the misfortune of encountering us one recent Sunday. Thanks for the surf and turf, Pete. Can't wait till you terrorize our fair coast once again.
And for those of you who can never get enough Ding Dongery:
fauxmacho.com, where among other things you can download all the sets that Donger has recorded recently (including yours truly's from the Halloween BTx Renegade). Fun Fact: did you know that in addition to sleeping with Stefbot, terrorizing San Franciscans with his evil bullhorn and occasionally providing Angels of bAss tech support, Ding Dong is also a DJ in the much maligned
Popular Breaks genre?
Let's chat.
Meow
Some
retarded kitten fun for your Thursday funsies.
Thanks to DD for the wetoddedness.
She's a Lady
So, I got a new car. Yes, it's the same kind as before, but things are going to be different this time. For one thing, whereas Lil Dub was a boy, this one is a girl (her name is Atta Girl. Atta from A Bug's Life, and Girl because she's a girl.). Lil Dub was red- the color of fire. Atta is silver- the color of ice. Her sound system is called "Monsoon,"* which is a very non-fiery natural disaster. And she's super cool- tinted windows, dark gray interior, sun roof. No way could a car this cool go up in flames.
Plus, Jeff pointed out that lightning never strikes twice. For that reason, to buy anything BUT a bug would be vehicular suicide. His logic is flawless.
Hmm, it just dawned on me that unlike lightning, ze Germans did strike twice. Atta is German. Sheise!
Ummmmmm...did I mention the sun roof?
*so named, I can only assume, because it's a bit muddy.
Proposition Unfuck the System
So there we are last night drinking crunk and poring over propositions for next weeks election, when it hits us. All these ballots can really be consolidated into one single overarching initiative - A unified measure that will curb energy emmissions, reduce election fraud, and aid all Californians, and it'll do it in one fell swoop.
We submit Proposition Unfuck the System.
This all-encompassing statute shall do the following:
-End corruption as we know it by appointing only awesome people into position of power. Qualified candidates will possess an impeccable sense of style and have great taste in music. Their closets will be meticulously rifled through and playlists will be thoroughly reviewed just to make sure.
-Money will be siphoned away from inefficient pet projects like Prop 89 that nobody understands, and instead will be put towards useful projects that will truly make a difference, like installing moving sidewalks and giving free jetpacks to everyone.
-Institute Head Start 2, a social program that gives Zima and trucker hats to teenagers so they get it out of their system early and don't embarass themselves later in life.
-Allocate $20 billion dollars to plant precision explosives to detonate along faultlines, causing the entire state of California to float away and drift back and forth between Nevada and Hawaii. We will pick up travelers on either side and ferry them across the Pacific for a small fee that will include refreshments, DJs in all major cities, and an open bar.
Of course there are still some minor details to iron out and we have to figure out where all the money will come from, but we're assuming that cover charges from house parties and our new ketchup tax on french fries should more than foot the bill. We are open to requests and ideas.
If you care about shit, then you will vote yes on Proposition Unfuck the System.
This must be the place...
6 years and about 1 month ago, 15 crackheads gathered in an apartment in San Francisco's Mission District. They were friends, some old, some new, and they were gathered together that night to plan a Halloween party.
The one they called DK spoke up first. He had an idea. An inspired idea. This idea was to shun the traditional party plan. Renegade, baby. And screw Saturday night. Everyone does parties on Saturday night. We would start our party Sunday morning. 4:20 Sunday morning, to be exact. Where? In the middle of the ghetto, of course. Where else would all of these crackheads feel at home?
It was decided. We would dress as ninjas to escape detection by both cops and robbers, haul our bass and bacon out to Hunter's Point, and throw a kick ass Halloween party.
There were maybe 100 people at that first party, but not many more than that. Now, 6 years later, we're still hauling our old asses out there- some of us even had babies in tow. And what must have been close to 700 cracked out, crazy ass, costumed San Franciscans followed along for what was most definitely the best Halloween I've ever had, bar none.
I wish I could do justice to the scene on Sunday in a blog post, but I just can't. You had to be there. I can say that while there may have been some changes in the past few years within BTx, we've never lost the flava. If anything we've seasoned, like a good cast iron pan. Or Maurillo's chili on the second day. We do this right.
All I can say at this point is thank god Halloween only comes once a year. Although Thanksgiving is already looking scarier than I ever could have imagined.
Gobble gobble.
(Pics by Marya, Doc Otto and Jenn Fiiiiiiineberg, in that order)
Ask anyone you know who's got family in the greater Chicagoland area, and chances are they have an Uncle Stan. Maybe his name isn't Stan exactly, but most likely it is. He's pretty much a carbon copy of one of the characters on the old SNL skit Bill Swerski's Super Fans . He smokes, drinks cans of Old Style, and chows polish sausage like there ain't no tomorrow. He's got a classic Chicago accent (think Dan Akroyd as Elwood Blues), tells crass, tasteless jokes, and he loves da Bears. 
It wasn't until we were much older that we learned that he was usually drinking throughout the entire Christmas holiday, and when he fell asleep on the couch it was because he'd passed out drunk. Before it got really bad, his drinking was kind of just one of those Uncle Stan quirks. When we moved away from Chicago, he would mail us our presents, each enclosed in an appropriately-sized purple & gold felt Crown Royal bag to protect the gift wrap. We thought it was funny then, but looking back now as someone who enjoys a cocktail myself (to say the least), I'm astounded that a man could go through that many bottles of whisky every year. You just can't keep doing that when you're pushing 60 and not expect it to come around and bite you in the ass.
