Boogie Visits Manti Utah II

When I wrote the original piece on Manti, I was pushing hard. I was already burnt out from the environment and the workload I was enduring while I was there. And since I wanted to make sure there was something here on TBMS to read on your blessed Friday, I forced the post.

Well, after careful review, I decided that a good chunk of the piece was a pile of garbage. Wandering dialogue, unnecessary jokes, and an excess of profanity. Granted I like profanity.... a lot. But dropping F-bombs in literature like this is something that must be done with a certain sense of class. We are intellectuals after all, are we not?

So, I did what any professional would do when glancing upon their own personally composed pile of filth: I fixed it.

So, the original post has been cleaned up and modified for a more uniform reading experience (since, that's really what it's about right?) And I thought I'd use the space today to list some of the other experiences I had in Manti that didn't fit in the overall work.

Enjoy.

• A pimply faced young man walked past me in that slouched and indifferent posture that screams to the world "I'm a virgin." He had on the standard issue CTR ring, as well as a black hoodie that had the word "LUST" on it in big white letters. Seemed ironic.
  

• These kids here seem to have no way of venting the high amounts of teenage rebellion that exists in the young spirit. The typical escapes such as smoke, alcohol, angry music, and pitiful sex all appear to be forbidden. The streets are uncomfortably clean. Never does one hear the sounds of thumpy rap or aggressive rock eminating from the passing cars. In fact, you barely hear the cars at all. Like the car engines are legally required to be somber and polite, they almost seem to ride on a cushion of air. It's hard enough growing up in a small town with no stimuli, believe me. So I can only imagine the strain it puts on the adolescent mind when one must not only be young and bored, but also considerate and godly. However, there does seem to be one untapped form of rebellion that hasn't been squashed by the powers that be: Hair. And these youngsters take advantage of that form by utilizing the most ridiculous hairstyles you can imagine. It was almost as if early 80's MTV just barely started transmitting in Manti. The number of perms, poofs, and intentionally bad dye jobs was astronomical. Still, I can't fault them for it. If I had to operate under the kinds of regime these kids did, I'd have my hair three feet tall, flourescently colored in all varieties of the rainbow, and moosed up so thick, you could land a plane on it.
  

• The rural world is typically a place where Apple computers still exist in high quantities in public schools. And it's not that anyone here subscribes to the whole persona of being a "Mac user," in fact I would dare say that no one in this part of the world even knows that such a persona exists. The abundance of such things is mostly due to the fact that Macs were once the most cheap and effective way to stock a school with computers. And while the rest of the world has come to acknowledge Apple has a premium (or at the very least, overpriced) brand, and stocked up on ultra economical Dells and the like, the country still houses the brightly colored Apple relics from another time. It's an interesting experience to wander through a school and see teachers toting Macbook Pros, and entire computer labs packed with shiny new iMacs. For some strange reason, you just feel like the kids are going to be better off. I'm sure a lot of it is my newfound bias, but I can't help but be swayed. Knowing that these youngsters are going to be utilizing a roomful of computers that cost anywhere from $1600 - $1800 dollars, you just figure the rewards of the experience are gonna pay off. Admit it, those low resoution screens with a wallpaper-less, pixelated version of XP filling our urban classrooms don't fill you with hope do they?
  

• I passed by the smallest museum I've ever seen in my life today. It was an old stucco structure that was just a little bit bigger than a Tuff Shed. The inside couldn't have been much bigger than the average living room, I kid you not. I really wanted to go inside and see just what kind of exhibits they could possibly have. But I figured that would be reinforcing a bad habit and kept moving on.

• I was sitting in a restaurant when I overheard a group of people talking. One of them used the sentence "you gotta work the shaft when you're hunched over like that." Nobody, not one person, cracked a smile. What the hell is wrong with this town?
  

Boogie Visits Manti Utah

Manti, Utah, is just not my kind of town. And I felt perfectly comfortable saying this without ever having been there before. I try to be open minded when I stop by new towns and places, and give everything it's fair shake, but there was just something about Manti that I knew I would dread. It could have been the location, far detached from the apex of urbanized life, or it could have been the reputation that a certain religious organization has in that town, but I had no interest at all in visiting. I felt quite confident that if I pissed away my entire life without setting foot in Manti, I wouldn't be too regretful.

But, powers beyond my control have guided me to this town, so I have gone along for the ride.

I began to suspect that my fears were well founded the night I pulled into town. It was 10:30, and pitch black outside. I was exhausted from a long day, and barely functional. Certainly in no condition for managing curvy country roads with nothing but headlights and a poorly scribed map to propel me.

So, imagine my surprise when in the distance, I see a bright radiating light. I've been in situations like this before, and am pretty comfortable in identifying light sources. And I can tell, that this is no mere street lamp or billboard. No, this is something far grander. And it's only growing in size as I get closer. After 3o minutes of driving towards this guiding light that is ever increasing in size, I finally reach the town limits where this spectacle that has caught my gaze is truly revealed. I have been lead here by the LDS Manti Utah Temple.

My god, it looks like fucking Disneyland.

Manti is the home to the traditional Mormon. Those who follow the code without too much interference from the outside world. And while Salt Lake has the reputation for being "The" place, and "The" heart of Mormonism, the truth is that it's mostly a draw for the tourists. If Salt Lake were Jerusalem, then Manti would probably best be compared to Bethlehem. And admittedly, there is a certain "Christ child in the manger" quality to this whole scene. I can see how devout followers of the faith can see themselves being guided here by a holy star or some nonsense like that. Since I am not of said faith, the whole imagery just fills me with dread.

But, I know I'm to be here for at least two more days, whether I want to or not. So, I try to stay positive about this. "Maybe I won't kill anybody" I think to myself.

I pull into the lot of my motel , which has the words C.T.R labeled in happy font under the tall sign in the parking lot. Anyone who knows this state knows full well what those letters stand for and what they imply. If you don't, well don't worry about it. You're better off, trust me.

I throw myself into my room, and immediately start to get comfortable. Shoes off, music on, and a cocktail mixed in a cheap motel plastic cup. For a second there, I start to feel like I can make this work. That is until, I open up the laptop, and flip on the complimentary internet connection. After a long day of travel, one needs something that is both intelligent, and vulgar. South Park, usually fits the bill just fine for me. So imagine my surprise when I go to South Park Studios, and find that it's been blocked.

Yes blocked. Cut off. The path has been impeded. Guarded by some nanny system that prohibits the viewing of Adult Content on the signal. Apparently, wholesome living and a positive attitude are very much required in the privacy of one's own motel room.

So, I start typing in the names of clearly vagrant sites into the ol' search engine just to see what happens. Violence, swearing, pornography, all of it blocked. Then at some point I started typing random curse words into the search engine. Not so much to see what was going to be or not be rejected anymore, as a means of venting frustration. The Manti safety net caught each and every single one.

Truly I'm in an evil place.

I understand the purpose for this, really I do. By ridding the free spirited internet waves of filth, the followers will not be led into temptation. Hard to fall into a bad thing you can't even access. But men like me need our vices. Smut, guts, and profanity. And one tends to get mighty ornery when they are denied. Thank god Strongbad hasn't been put on purity watch here in the heart of Utah, or there would be no place to tame my fury.

On the next evening in town, I start walking down main street Manti. It's 9:30 and all life here apparently stops right at 9. The place becomes a ghost town, where passing cars and teenagers walking the drag are nonexistent. Nothing is open here, not restaurants or gas stations, all is quiet. This is a place where Wal Mart still has working hours. It's a nervous thing to be walking these streets. The lack of life is almost unsettling. And the few vehicles that pass by stare curiously at your presence. As though people being conscious at this time of night is an unusual thing. I might as well have been chain smoking and shooting a firearm into the air while donning a Hell's Angel jacket and a bottle of whiskey. The attitude would have been the same.

The buildings here are eerily similar, one looking like the next, which looks like the one before it, and so on and so on. There's a certain Stepford quality to the whole town. There is no graffiti on the walls, no cigarette butts or trash littered about the streets. I can't even find an oil spot on the sidewalk. Not one. I walk past a home with a sign next to it that says "engine repair." The house has no garage. Nothing that indicates hands have ever gotten dirty in the pursuit of refurbished internal combustion repair. Everything is asleep, yet one always feels like they're being watched. I glance over my shoulder and see the towers of the Manti temple following me like the eye of Sauron.

God's definitely left his mark on the town. Religion is the only thing that seems to be well preserved here. I noticed a LDS church on my walk down main street that was seated right next to the city building. The church was cleaned and well maintained, clearly the product of recent renovation. The city building on the other hand, was wrought from architecture from the 80's. The fading brick, and falling window adornments a clear indication of what takes precedent.

Eateries stand out like a sore thumb in the sparkly Manti landscape. Greasy spoons all with dirty windows and the faint smell of burnt peanut oil. The decor in these places is very 50's. Not so much 50's retro as the 50's was the last time this stuff was renovated. With the small handful of meals I've had here, I can comfortably say that Manti is not the place to be if you're a food person. This is a burger and fry town, and not in a good way. Everything comes from a package, And nobody seems terribly interested in changing that. In my travels across this place, I saw five greasy burger stands, and six pizza joints. The one higher end meal I had was quite the disappointment. A fine piece of cow that was beaten on a grill, and thrust on a plate with stale pepper and an overcooked potato. A clear injustice to a mighty animal.

The one saving grace to places like this are that the people are kind. And the folks who live here did not let me down. Everyone I met was very decent. Granted, I could see the staleness in their smile when my usual swagger and attitude came out, but they tolerated me. I have yet to fear pitchforks and a stuffed effigy of myself being lit on fire. One of the saving graces of the mormon religion is that people may dispise you and everything about you, but they'll be civil to your face while they do it.

It's my last night in town now. I'm locked away in my motel room counting the hours. I can't wait to get out of here. This place was not built for people like me. There is a status quo that must be observed, whether you walk the streets or peruse the internet in your own private way. Things go according to plan. And since I'm not one to agree with plans, I have no place here. Not that it's all bad, I've gotten enough out of it to document this little trip away as an interesting side note, and nothing more. No, I don't figure I'll be back here again. Not force nor gainful employment could ever sway me into returning. Clearly, we are a pair not designed for each other. We are two creatures set in our ways, unchanging and unflinching with what the modern world does around us. Manti was a form of torture for me during my stay, but I would never ask it to change. Clearly, the people there have made a type of life that works well for them. And while I may not understand it, it is something that must be respected.

But only at a distance.

Employee Assistance (The Crazy Man)

My work thinks I'm crazy.

My job, like many other jobs, offers a free-0f-charge counseling service for its employees. It's called "employee assistance" which is just a dumbed- down, family-centric way of saying counseling and crisis resolution. It's the kind of place you go to discuss with professionals that stunted marriage, that pain in the ass co-worker, or that broken carburetor that's been bringing you down. By talking it out with smiling, well paid people in a plastic office, you're less likely to bring a chainsaw to work and start eviscerating the patrons. Win win for everyone involved.

When you start a job, you usually get a little brochure during your first week. This brochure informs you that such a program is available to you, and goes on to describes the types of services provided. Typically, they are colored in a non-threatening off-white and feature lots of pictures of happy smiling people and families surrounded by rounded and harmless Arial font. And the average person flips through it, considers the possibility of talking out some things, then gets involved in the day-to-day of the grind and completely forgets this service exists.

To date, I have received three of these brochures.

At three week intervals no less.

And I know I'm the only one who gets them. My inbox is in a stack with everyone else's inbox. I can plainly see what other people have received recently. And it's not like I have to snoop through the evaluation forms and time sheets of others or anything. It's a brochure for Christ's sake! They tend to stand out! This is all getting to be far past minor coincidence. Two of them I can see. Maybe they forgot to give me the first one, and they're handing me a second just to be safe. Perfectly reasonable. But three? No, that's a message.

I will admit, that I am not quite right in the head. I favor a lifestyle that is indeed uncommon, a bit strange to be sure. Perhaps, I'd even go so far as to call myself socially fucked. I don't play ball the way the rest of the mortals do. Call it a lifestyle choice or just sheer laziness, it is what it is.

And I'm okay with that. I enjoy being a bit off. It makes for an interesting life. I'm rarely bored when left to my own devices, and I almost always have a story to tell. But I do admit that with my particular zest for life, being part of the norm is tricky. Dealing with the regular masses of individuals who like being average, has lead to some mixed results. Disastrous even. It's made me the outcast in many circles. The weirdo, the bastard, that guy who brings unsettledness. I stick out in a big way.

But I'm not crazy. Granted, clock towers and heavy artillery have crossed the mind, but I've never actually done it. And yeah, the notion of slamming an annoying person's head into a table while singing Cumbaya has entered my thoughts on a bad day, but doesn't it to everyone? Temptations and frustrations aside, I still managed to stay ahead. I went to college, walked out with a degree. I've held respectable jobs. I haven't taken a bat to anyone's knees. This is socially acceptable. Even with the off tendencies, high levels of testosterone, and the vicious mean streak, I integrate well.

If there was a problem, it's that I'm expressive. I tend to say a lot of shit. I like to bitch and moan about things in the world as a form of therapeutic recuperation. Things like this blog are my zen baby. Burning calories into the nights trying to think up new and exciting ways of telling the stupid people of our time that they suck. It's what I do. But I'm smart enough to know when I can do it. And I know that when I walk into my profession, that needs to stay off. So, I stay in boyscout mode, talking proper, and focusing on what needs to be done. It's my job, so be it.

However, it tends to be a bit off-putting when I need to do this more than I should have to. When dealing with patrons and students, civility is part of the gig. But having to do it with colleagues and coworkers too? Then it gets to be a bit much. I can only sugarcoat so much before my teeth start hurting and I start getting mad. I have limits people, and the day gig tends to push on those limits like poking on a scab.

So, in an effort to try and retain the civility, I go quiet. Shut down and run silent. I've got nothing nice to say and I know it. So rather than blow up in some innocent being's face and tell them what I "really think" about their lame-brained ideas or their stupid optimism, I take a deep breath, swallow my natural tendencies, then walk away to go do some mindless repetitive task far far away. And typically this works, except when these same people start following me. Because, of course, they're caring and optimistic people. And people like this could never leave someone alone, that would just not be nice.

Even when that person is me.

So, I tend to start boiling Elmer Fudd style. Steam coming out of the ears, face turning red, all of that. And naturally I still can't say anything. So, I endure. And when my time is up, I race out the door, pushing people out of my way. I hastily climb into my vehicle and start swearing at traffic. Even if I'm not being cut off and getting all green lights, I'm still swearing. "Thank you very fucking much!" I'll growl. "Hey lady, you're a real nice fucking driver, you know that?" Expletive after expletive fire out of my jaws until I finally feel equalized.

My colleagues clearly can't understand this, so they keep slipping me one employee assistance brochure after another in the vain hopes that I'll take the hint and go help myself. Maybe I'll resolve my drinking excesses, or dabble in anger management, or finally cry to someone about how mommy was mean because she never bought me that G.I. Joe with the kung-fu grip. Whatever it is, I can go bang it out with people who care so I can come to work every day saying "Yay! Let's have fun!"

I don't know. I don't think I need counseling. Sure, there are things I wouldn't mind to get off my chest, and a neutral party is never a bad thing. But I'm not sure I'm doing it for the right reasons. If I'm doing it because I want to do it okay. But to feel pressured to do it so that strangers can feel like you're less of a shit to be around, well that's pushing it.

If there is any serious problem with my work ethic, it's this: I'm too nice. I'm too goddamned polite to the things that irritate me. Rather than tell someone they're a pain in the ass, I grimace then leave. Because despite being an idiot in my eyes, I acknowledge that these dumb fucks have feelings. And I try way too hard, at the expense of my own sanity, to protect those feelings. I'm too goddamn nice, that's my big issue here.

And you know what? It's making me crazy.

In The Bathroom

Here's one of the more embarrassing things to happen to me in recent history.

I was at one of my regular haunts, writing some form of madness or another, when nature, as nature often tends to do, called. It was time for a trip into my friendly local public restroom.

The restroom was your standard, albeit cramped, fare. On the south wall was a sink with the soap dispenser above it and a decently sized mirror. The north wall had the toilet which was an average bit of porcelain of above average. cleanliness. And next to the toilet was a paper towel dispenser. One of those newfangled automatic numbers with the infrared lens that detects movement.

So, I perch myself atop the throne, and tend to business. As I start to relax, muscles begin unclenching and returning to a state of rest. And when muscles relax, the rear end, as rear ends are oft to do, relinquished all the gases from my body. . I tooted, a loud unashamed fart that echoed off the walls of the small room. The kind of toot that makes a man proud.

Suddenly, I heard a noise coming off my left shoulder. I glance over and look squarely at the paper towel dispenser. Apparently something, in that victorious fart of mine was so massive, so intense, that it was able to trigger the infrared sensor and convince it that someone was standing there waiting for a dry towel.

I'm currently reevaluating my diet.

The Chair Thing

Written on a legal pad during a staff meeting:


You know what would be really satisfying right now? Throwing a chair.

Just grabbing any random chair in this room, and hurling it as hard as I can. There's enough chairs in here, so it wouldn't be like finding one would be hard. And I don't even need to throw it at a person. The wall over there will do just fine. I just think seeing one inanimate object colliding with another inanimate object would be fucking amazing right now.

And you know what would make this better? An audience. My co-workers perhaps. They wouldn't even need to push me over the edge or prompt me into the act in any way. They just have to be there. To observe me go all Incredible Hulk for a few seconds as I commit an act of destructive violence against nothing in particular.

Perhaps if they saw me throwing a chair around, they would realize that they work with someone who should be taken seriously. They would know that I'm a man's man, a competent individual with some measure of intelligence and decent aim. The loud yell that would precede the throwing of said chair would probably be enough to remind these people that the person they work with is both passionate and assertive. People who aren't dedicated would never throw a chair. No, only a committed individual is capable of such a thing.

In fact, more meetings should have "chair time." A five minute break where, after the usual routine of self serving brown nosers making pointless observations and added adjustments to already futile rules, where everyone picks up a chair, and flings it as hard as they can at a stable, stud-laden wall. Think what this would do for morale. Decent hard working people would look forward to weekly meetings. Hell, they'd be lining up ten minutes early picking out their chair for the day. And you'd never have to worry about those fringe people. The ones who are a little too quiet and are probably cleaning semi-automatic pistols every night after work waiting for "one more thing" to push them over the edge before they bring that motherfucker in and start unloading on innocent people. Those people need to toss a chair more than anyone. Probably two.

And how expensive are chairs anyways? No business pays for good chairs. They always opt for those $10 - $20 pieces of shit. Cheap and flimsy. Perfect fodder for breakage. And the costs would be offset in higher productivity, and a better understanding of your staff. Think about it, a person who can put all of their force into throwing a chair into a wall is capable of some great things. That's the person you want firing people during downsizing. That's the person you want telling the client that they're wrong, and they need to get over it and quit whining like a bitch. Do people really want the little kiss ass handing the dirty stuff? Fuck no! Get the guy who's not going to be stopped by anything to break a cheap ass chair. He'll shake shit up and be happy to do it.

And it's not like chair tossing is gender exclusive. Chairs are light these days. There isn't a woman alive who couldn't pick one of the damn things up and put some fury behind it. I know that the ladies could make at least as a good a show of it as the fellas. Probably better. In fact, there isn't anyone of any race, gender, background, or preference who couldn't get some sense of satisfaction out of watching a chair explode because of adrenaline and Newton's second law. This is universal peace we're talking about.

And I don't want to hear anyone whining about us being a civilized race. Fuck civility! Words like please and thank you are nice, but they don't help tame the primal instinct. You can't have sex civilized can you? Of course not, that shit is supposed to be done raw. Going for civility in the bedroom only leads to soft muscle tissue and people laughing at you. We've got the urge, fight or flight response, and it needs to come out. And we can either run into the streets trying to catch pigeons with our teeth, or we can bust up a few chairs. And you civilized freaks are welcome to join in. I bet once that first chair makes contact with the wall, you'll be rethinking your posh lifestyle. Maybe you won't press those clothes as thouroughly anymore. Maybe you'll even let a bird and some harsh language fly when you get cut off in traffic. I'm down with it, and you know damn well that it'll feel good. So good, that you'll be waiting for "Chair Day" to vent on that failed marriage, forclosure, cold coffee, burnt fries, or whatever it is that's got you down. And I'll be right there next to you, with my own chair in hand. We'll bond between bits of broken plastic, cheap aluminum, and a sense of quelled fury.

Now someone hand me a chair before I start killing some overpaid, underwhelming superiors goddamnit!


End transcript. God help us all.

Another Conversation With Mrs. Boogie

Me and Mrs. Boogie were walking around our local library, enjoying a perfectly fine Sunday, when we stumbled across and event. A small crowd facing a smaller stage, where singers and musicians wore brightly colored clothes and sang angst ridden songs about a sad world, good coffee, and the lack of dedicated mates. We were definitely in the thick of hippies. The unshaven masses, adorned in bandannas, and thrift shop attire, collectively patting each other on the back for being so deep.

Naturally, me and the missus have little interest in intermingling in the collective, so we walked away posthaste. Upon reaching the parking lot, we see an older model Winnebago, spiffied up with fresh paint done in natural hues. On the side of the vehicle was this picture:

The conversation went as follows:

Boogie: Oh look, a happy colored Winnebago parked next to a hippie event. How bizarre.

Mrs. B: You'd almost expect there to be some muppets in crocheted hats jumping out with bongos or something wouldn't you?

Boogie: I know! Well, at least this one's been spruced up for public appearance. I was getting a little tired of the rusty VW's.

(A long pause while staring at the artwork)

Mrs. B: When did Mother Earth get a face?

Boogie: And why does it look like Jennifer Lopez?

While Listening To The Radio...

Seeing as the mp3 player was down again, I was again trudging through the wasteland that is the radio. During times like this, I usually set the dial to 90.9, so I can listen to the good people at KRCL, known to me as the "only radio I can stand." But for whatever reason, the station was down that day. No audio, no static, nothing. Now I'm in trouble. My one bastion for higher quality music is gone, and now I'm left out in the open all exposed and such. I reach for me SEEK button and hope for the best.

The first three hits start off well. Decent music, not too generic, it's almost passable. But, before I can get to comfortable with the music, the song playing breaks into a chorus where a choir starts singing sentences involving either Jesus or Christ. Clearly this won't end well, so I move on. The fourth hit turns out to be a an urban station, playing the best hip-hop and R&B. The kind of stuff I love to hate. Normally, I'd switch it as quick as I could, but I'm driving down the interstate at high speeds right now, and kind of need all my faculties. No choice but to listen, and hopefully stay sane enough to not start plowing minivans over the tops of the off ramps.

For the most part, this stuff is stale enough for me to ignore. I can almost pretend like I'm not listening to it, but then a song catches my attention. And suddenly, the dark cryptic voice of the MC starts to say words that hit me.

Not "hit me" as in enlighten me, or make me ponder the world a little deeper. No, it was more "hit me" as in, making my face scrunch up and say out loud "What kind of fucked up shit is this?" Popular rap and rappers are already something I have very little respect for, but this...well this was enough to make me sick.

So, I did a little investigating, and found out that these ridiculous lyrics were created by an artist called The Game, and that they were utilized on his song entitled, "My Life." And I'm gonna share some of these universally acknowledged brain-power lyrics for you all to enjoy.

They askin why, why did John Lennon leave The Beatles?
And why every hood n**** feed off evil?
Answer my question 'fore this bullet leave this Desert Eagle

Okay, so maybe the second line is a bit out of my expertise, but the first line? Seems to me the answer would be "Yoko." But I'm more curious about who's asking. Who's this "they" that's being referred to? Are there really a big conglomerate of individuals that this The Game knows who are troubled over the breakup of the Beatles? And if there are, why hasn't anyone pointed them to Wikipedia?

And what's with the threat? Why the point of answering your damn question if you're still going to shoot at me anyways? If you start squeezing off shots, rest assured the last damn thing I'm going to want to do is help you figure shit out. Put away the hand cannon, and maybe we'll talk, but until then, you're on your own buddy.

Moving on....

My life used to be empty like a glock without a round
Now my life full, like a chopper with a thousand rounds

Like a glock without a round? Are you fucking serious? You're comparing a difficult life full of trials to an unloaded firearm? Do you know what the rest of the world calls a weapon without ammunition? Safe! They call it fucking safe! It means that this particular weapon isn't going to kill someone needlessly, accidently, or otherwise. That's a damned wonderful thing for everyone, except maybe an overpaid, testosterone loaded rapper who can't even think of a word to rhyme with "round."

We are not the same, I am a Martian

No, no you are not. Martians are smart. Martians have mastered space travel, Martians can live in an oxygen-limited environment. Martians apparently don't need water either. You're dumb like the rest of us buddy. Deal with it.

Dear god, it's almost enough to make me crazy. I'm not going to fondly pontificate on the days when hip hop MC's used to have important shit to say, since everyone else already does it. But goddamn, just reading this shit makes you long for the days when all the MC's used to just make up words. I could almost go for some rappers who mumble perfectly good language into words like "thur" right about now.

The Moo Moo Queens

On any given day here in the real world, it’s inevitable that I get bombarded by the moo moo queens. Plump, bubbly women with short bob haircuts who wear bright colorful shirts sporting lower necklines than anyone should have to endure. These women typically push the line about 200 pounds, underuse the makeup while overusing the perfume, and have pumped out a healthy flock of kids. They never seem to be interested in their kids so much as using them for something to talk about with the other moo moo queens in the herd. These perky hulks are permanently locked into "baby talk" mode, and have a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Hey, look. You see that picture of a cheeseburger? This sign says that it's a bacon cheeseburger. Isn't that neat?"

A cheeseburger you say? Wowee, you certainly have your thumb on the pulse of the universe don't you?

How do people like this survive nature? Forget wolves and bears, I'm talking the basics of modern society. How is it that fatty acids or quick moving traffic hasn't removed them from the gene pool? How have they endured without someone like me wrapping fingers around that thick neck and squeezing until the knuckles meet? Because I guarantee you it's crossed my mind. And whether you'll admit it or not, you've considered it too.

And who would blame you? When they start shuffling about en masse, as the herd is prone to do, the annoyance factor can skyrocket. And while you have the option of turning and running in the day to day, when you’re stuck at the 9 to 5, dealing with them no longer becomes a choice. That is when the quirks of the herd become quite obvious.

First, there is the clucking. The constant barrage of mindless pointless banter that exists only to come out of the mouth of one, and bounce around the herd, growing in pitch and enthusiasm until climax. The climax being, a jolly round of laughter amongst the collective, one that is both jubilant and reserved. The kind of laughs that get those extended chins bouncing around like beach balls.

The topics of conversation are of course without merit. Usually revolving around things that are already well defined. If there was an apple on a pedestal with a sign next to it that read APPLE: COLOR RED, the conversation would go something like this:

“Hey, that looks like an apple.”
“It is an apple! See? It says it right here.”
“And look, it says that apples are red.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Me neither.”
“I thought I heard somewhere that apples were green.”
“Yeah, my cousin, you know the one who just had a baby girl, said she saw some green apples. Yellow ones too.”
“Really?”
“Wow, that is so neat.”
“It sure is.”
“I just thought of something funny.”
“Oooh! Tell us, tell us!”
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” 

“Tee hee hee.........”

This is about the point where the sane rational individual who has no choice but to be subjected to this shit puts the barrel of a gun under his chin and waits for the silence.

There is nothing to these people. No mark of personality whatsoever. These beasts exist to spread wide for some underweight sensitive man, spit out a few clones, then join the migrating herd to see the town. You never get the impression that they learn from their experiences. Nothing that is seen or done ever gets explained to another person later on, and the interesting elements of the universe that are within view, but have no choice but to be longer than a paragraph, are ignored like passing traffic. The world, in which there never seems to be enough time to learn about, becomes minute photographs where they can say, “Hey, that looks cool. Now I want a mocha latte.”

Maybe I’m harsh. Maybe Mr. Blood & Guts here has become a bit jaded in his years, but I can’t help but be a little pissy with this bunch. They’re mindless beings who learn and adapt to nothing, and somehow manage to consume four times the resources I do. You’d figure if you eat enough to be that jolly and have the time for herd drama and overpriced beverages, that you’d find time to read a fucking book. But they never do, they can watch Opera, but never buy the books she recommends.

I swear, some days when they walk into our libraries and zoos and museums, and other institutions for public learning for a bit of mindless gossip and amusing scenery, that there should be some kind of a test. Hand them a quiz sheet along with their ticket. On it should be a series of questions they have to research and answer during their stay. Call it a scavenger hunt if you like, but warn them that if they fail, we’ll be hefting their oversized behinds onto the world’s largest candlesticks, setting them ablaze, and seeing if all that tub and wax can stay lit longer than the olympic flame. And then we can see how well that bubble-headed mind can work when members of the herd are acting as the light source. Life takes effort damnit, prove your worth to the crowd or get out of the evolutionary chain.

Of course, this whole thing might be a testament to the reasoning that I should never write when I’m sick.

Paris Hilton Takes On Sarah Palin

Paris Hilton has apparently taken the gloves off and threatened to go mono a mono with the McCain campaign. In an interview with Harper's Bazaar, she took on running mate Sarah Palin by saying to her "My advice to Sarah Palin is, you’ve got a hot bod; don’t keep it to yourself!” She went on to say, “Why wear a pantsuit when you can wear a swimsuit?”

Wow, such harsh language. It's surprising this hasn't erupted into a catfight with pantsuits flying onto the back of expensive Mercedes Benz cars. Hilton has finally stepped up to take over where Abbie Hoffman and Huey P. Newton left off. The woman with the cooch seen 'round the world has finally made her stand. Tremble big business and dirty politicians, for soon the blond haired voice of freedom will be standing at your door. Donning military boots, a camo fatigue bikini and fake fingernails painted like little american flags, she will shine the light of truth upon the evils of the world, and she will make corruption fall. She will tell sleaze and greed that it is "not hot" and force them to see the era of their ways. Peace is just around the corner people. Our salvation is finally at hand.

Seriously, do you think Obama supporters can sleep at night knowing that she's on their side?

Jessica Simpson's New Commercial

I just saw a new Macy's commercial featuring my favorite bobble-headed dim-wit Jessica Simpson. The commercial featured some woman getting decked out in odd colored, slightly tawdry garb. Upon exiting the store, she is called upon by the doofus and told, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Then the doofus winks and walks away. End scene.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do she says. Well, this has the potential to be a very big list indeed.
Some of the ones that immediately spring to mind are:

.Date John Mayer
.Learn lyrics before singing them
.Bastardize a classic song to sell a disgusting pizza that looks like toes
.Read a book
.Act


Anyone else want in?

Even More Dreams

The other night, I had a dream that I was Batman.

Unfortunately I wasn't the cool Dark Knight Batman, nor was I classic cool golden era of comics Batman. I wasn't even Adam West-y. Instead, I was this backwater, sub-ghetto Batman who looked like his costume was a blend of goods from the Wal Mart Toy department and shoddy welding. I still had the gut, and I definitely lacked the genuine instincts. I didn't even have any cool tools or high end crime fighting technology. The one saving grace I had to my name was the Batmobile, which was this fucked up mid eighties Toyota Supra that I had spray painted matte black. I think I may have even glued some cardboard wings onto the thing. I took it out joyriding with a friend of mine, just so he could see how cool it was. The car stunk like dust and mildew, but he being a good friend, still approved of the ride.

In the next part of the dream, I was on a mission. I drove into this abandoned warehouse that was sure to be a front for something. I snuck into the shadows and climbed into the rafters. Sure enough, the enemy was present, an enemy that had to be dispensed.

And I was agile people. Speed and sneakiness were my allies. I wish only my technology was better. I didn't trust my martial arts skills (which I wasn't 100% sure that I had,) to dispatch of my foes, so I needed to use the gear, which was underwhelming to say the least. No smoke bombs, no gas pellets, no grappling hooks. All I had to my name was a veterinarian-grade tranquilizer gun and a bottle of ether. But, somehow I managed to make it work, taking out everyone and climbing onto the roof.

And there, on the roof, I found the Joker waiting for me. But, this Joker was a bit....unfamiliar.

First off, this Joker was a she. Yes, a feminine Joker, long legged, boobed up and everything. What also was weird, was that she wasn't wearing any of the standard Joker attire. No purple suits or green hair or even the white makeup. Instead, she was wearing a basic black dress. Oh, and no underwear. A fact which she exploited extensively as she lay on the floor writhing and making cooing sounds.

Naturally, I was a bit perplexed about how to handle this situation. On the one hand, this was the Joker, sort of. A vile criminal element that must have done something wrong. I mean, I wouldn't be climbing rafters and dousing people with ether if she hadn't done something wrong. But on the other hand, this was a moderately attractive woman who was spread eagle on the floor. Something you just don't get enough of in this day and age. While trying to make a decision about what to do next, I woke up.

So, there you go. Any ideas as to what this all means would be very much appreciated, since I am completely lost.

My First Review

Looks like ol' Boogie is starting to hit the big time. I was browsing the spam box in the Gmail account today, mostly because I was bored , when I stumbled across an email from the good folks at Peloop. They addressed it to Mr. Boogie Man Montoya of "The Boogie Man Speaks." And apparently, they would like my fine publication to do a review on their product for either a monetary sum, or the honor of owning one of their quality products.

Wow, my first offer into the world of commercialism. It's all Maserati's and fancy hotel rooms from here on out.

But seriously, I'm not actually gonna do it. Money isn't so tight here around Mello-Drama that I need to consider writing a review on a bogus sex product to get by. It's the principle of the thing really. If I even consider writing a single one, my reputation for brilliant nonconformism goes right down the drain. Despite the fact that no one reads this dribble, I still have to look at my ugly mug in the mirror and admit to myself, "I wrote a sex ad." It's a hard thing to live down.

So, I was just going to chuckle before standing by the guns and pressing delete when I had a thought. I said to myself, "You know, what if I didn't take the offer, but I still published the review, Boogie style. Might make for a fun read, and at the very least it would amuse me for twelve minutes." So, here it is, my unbiased and totally pointless review on the Peloop.

Enjoy.

Are you like me and enjoy a healthy sex life, filled with quality erections and satisfied partners? if you answered no, then you are a loser. But, it's not your fault. Studies show that high quantities of preservatives combined with a stressful modern lifestyle and copious masturbation have led to a weakened sexual drive. Erections don't last as long, splooge doesn't fire out of your member like a skyrocket on cocaine, and all your mating partners are calling up your parents to tell them they did a horrible job raising you.

But it doesn't have to be this way. Not if you have Peloop. You see, Peloop is a non patented, completely unproven system that uses magnets to enhance erectile response. Magnets people! We're talking science here, and scientists all around the world know that magnets are good for absolutely nothing. Nil, Zilch, Nada. Because if magnets did anything medically interesting, then you'd see them being sold by medical supply companies instead of in really chintzy bracelets sold at gift shops across the southwest. This worthless magnet is fitted to an uncomfortable looking plastic strap that is quite reminiscent of those bracelet things doctors put on you when you go to the hospital. No cushioning, no support, just hard plastic with highly advanced chafing abilities. We've also colored the Peloop a bright fluorescent orange, so that other users of our fine product can identify you as part of the collective. A group of successful people who are failing the genetic race. This product is guaranteed to do nothing but make you really uncomfortable and afraid to whip it out in public bathrooms.

But you're desperate you say, well then let's talk features. The Peloop uses a rare earth magnet to produce a strong magnetic field around the base of your penis. That's right, a rare earth magnet. This means you can't just go to home depot, grab a package of craft magnets and slap them on your peter. Nope, this is special. A unique type of magnetic field that helps to open up the arteries and allow more blood into the shaft, creating much more massive and impressive erections. And that's not all! The creators of Peloop have also including the minerals Tourmaline and Germanium in the creation of the device. Sounds fancy? It's not. Tourmaline is typically found in basic rockstuffs like granite and marble. It's pretty, and makes for great tabletops, but otherwise useless. What about germanium? Very useful, in fact we use it all the time. For semiconductors and transistors mostly, you see a lot of it in Radio Shack. Not so sure it's so good for the scrotum, but hey you are desperate right?

And Peloop has all the answers for your desperation. You see these minerals add some powerful side effects to the act of erecting. Magic side effects. The Tourmaline creates the influx of negative ions (also known by no one as "air vitamins,") while the germanium produces a high concentration of Far Infa Red Rays into your member. What are air vitamins you ask? I'm glad you asked. You see, vitamins are sourced from minerals. And since germanium and tourmaline are technically minerals, and we've already guaranteed your little solider will be at full attention by using this product, these minerals will be airborne. Hence, air vitamins, get it? It was on National Geographic, but you probably missed it.

Far Infa Red Rays haven't made it to television yet, but they are still quite impressive. They harness the power of a spectrum of light we can't even see. Then how do we know it exists? Because we feel it in the form of heat. And yes, we make tons of heat just by being alive, but remember this is magic heat. Heat that gets those blood cells jumping like crazy to produce large scary erections. Where does the heat come from? Well it doesn't. Germanium's a conductor remember? You have to plug it into something. I suppose a car battery could work, but that would probably mean you're into the weird shit. You probably wouldn't need Peloop if that's the case. But, there are other energy sources out there, like the sun for example. Of course, you'd have to walk around with your package out in the open to get any kind of real benefit from it. And that may be illegal. But, that's okay. When the nice police officers escort you to jail for indecent exposure and they ask, "Is that a Peloop?" You can say, "Yes, yes it is."

So, why be a failure in the bedroom when you can be a failure in the bedroom who's also gullible? We've got testimonials by proud users of our product pouring in. Granted, they gave one sentence answers and won't let us use anything other than their first name, but it's a clear indicator of the success people are having with Peloop. Hop on the train to success, and strap yourself in for some odd colored, slightly uncomfortable non-arousing action. Don't wait, order now!

Keep those ad requests coming boys, Boogie's on a roll!

The Old Musician

As I’ve been transferring music onto the new computer, I’m starting to see my age. Not that the bands I’m listening to are pot bellied geriatrics, who sustain on colostomy bags and royalties smaller than social security checks. Well, some of them do I suppose, but that’s not where the age issue comes from.

In this instance, the sense of age comes from the songs I choose. You see, I’m not the sort of person who can dedicate a day to moving every last bit of audio I have from one device unto another. It’s just not what I do. For me, it’s a very slow, almost agonizingly intricate process, where I start with the songs that I deem absolutely necessary for survival. The songs that I know I cannot live without, will always get placed into the new medium for easy access. And little by little, I start adding the stuff that’s a little less essential until I finally get to the stuff that pleasantly fills space. It’s clean, it’s accurate, and it insures that I will never be in a tough spot without that song I so desperately need.

This is something I’ve done plenty of in my life. I’ve been through two MP3 players, one external hard drive, and two desktop computers before starting my life anew with this laptop. I’ve moved me some audio. So, it’s not the physical act of dragging and dropping that reminds me of my age and maturity, nor is the speed at which my newfangled gizmo does it (though admittedly, it does it pretty damn fast.) No, what startles me in this instance is What I am moving.

And What, happens to be the list of albums I consider essential. Jeff Buckley was one of the firsts on the list. Neko Case was there too. Then there was Mark Knopfler, Nick Cave, Morphine, The Ether Orchestra, Beck’s “Sea Change” album, amongst others. Now, this is all fine quality music....but it’s not necessarily the music I would have picked a few years ago.

Those who have known me might realize that there are a few artists that did not appear on this short lists. Bands like Type O Negative, or Faith No More, or even Tool. These were groups who I was dedicated to and could not function normally without the knowledge that I could get doses of their greatness any time I needed it. Type O’s “October Rust” album was about as near to perfection as anything could be. I worshiped that album, listening to it and nothing else for months at a time. That album sung as closely to my pain and my heart as anything. Of course, that was then. Now, I haven’t even pulled the CD out of the case. Every time I think about grabbing it, I get distracted in my hunt for a missing Tom Waits album.

Same thing with Faith No More’s “King For A Day, Fool For A Lifetime” album. Here are 14 tracks that have affect me to this very day. Billy Gould was one of the first guys who ever got me thinking that maybe playing a bass would be kind of cool. Hell, Mike Patton even got me thinking that being a frontman would be pretty damned awesome. A rare thing for a solitary musican like myself. And even now when I compose stuff for the BGO, music that is far removed from anything FTM would have ever done, I can still hear the influence they had. Sometimes it’s in the sutble way I hit a string, or the notes I reach for when I sing. But I can hear it, it’s definitely there. And yet, despite the powerful influence it had on lil’ ole me, it still hasn’t been transferred over. And it’s not like it would be hard, it’s already on the external hard drive. It wouldn’t require much more than clicking, dragging, and dropping. But still, I feel there are other things that need to come over first.

In fact, I’m not even sure I have one heavily distorted guitar driven album on here yet. Not one. The closest seems to be Nirvana’s “MTV Unplugged” performance. A band that started me on the path to musical success has taken precedence over the bands that carried me the furthest.

And now I’m sitting here, realizing how much my musical tastes have changed. You see, when I started taking in new sounds, I treated it like I always do: more ingredients for the stew. Just different flourishes and ideas that add a base to what I already was. And as I pursued this musical exploration, I never once realized that my preferences would shift without me realizing it. That one day, these great artists and albums that helped carry me through adolescence, would find themselves being left behind in favor of others. And I never would have expected that I wouldn’t even be that sad about it.

I’m not dismissing them. I’ll never go on record saying these artists weren’t as great as I thought they were, because they were great. I still cherish them, and still get a big smile on my face when I hear them. But, they don’t sing for me anymore. This isn’t the music that talks about the life I lead now. The music that speaks of an older, more weary Boogie. When I hear Type O in all it’s detuned glory, my hands don’t instinctively reach for that power chord in the air guitar clouds. I don’t roll my R’s all Dracula/Pete Steele style when I sing along. My personal musical sense just doesn’t move that way anymore.

And I guess that makes me a little sad. I remember thinking full well, as I composed dark depressing material long into the night, that one day my stuff would be good enough to have me touring with Type O, or getting to meet Ozzy. Today, it’s just me, an old jazz and blues guy who knows that will never happen. That the days of long hair, black clothes, and loud impassioned music are done for me.

And perhaps that’s why I’m not so quick to pounce on this albums of my youth. Because that music is no longer fueling the same dream. Not that the dream has changed, but my approach is definitely different. And as such, these songs, songs that have carried me through literally half of my life, speak now more of nostalgia than purpose.

But I know they’ll get there eventually. Music like this isn’t something you let go completely. It may not be what I go running to when I need the rush, but it’s still needed. I still know, that no matter when I hear them, that shock of adrenaline hits my spine, and I can still yearn for the days when I wanted nothing more than to be like them.