Monthly Archives: October 2010

Beard Trimmings

Pardon the extended absence – just returned from another profitable speaking tour pitching my radically successful life strategies.

Perhaps you were smart enough to catch some of the magic:

“Overindulge in wine, women and song, sleep in, gather bad habits like a snowball just barreling down a goddamn mountain…and still RETIRE in 2 YEARS!!!”

“The good news is you can EASILY do this!  But unless you’re ready to change your financial and personal LIFE, you better leave now!  That’s it.  Go on.  Get the fuck out of this Marriott conference room and don’t look back.  And if you so much as grab a free coffee from the snack area, I will tear off your head and turn it into my latest get-rick-quick juggernaut.”

“Tony Robbins is an amateur, a mere intern of Life, while my strategies will finally make you the CEO of your dream life.”

But I’m back now. I returned home to a relatively new apartment, which I’ve been meaning to review on this very blog for two months.

I live with someone I met on craigslist, and she appears to be gone quite frequently.  The other weekend, for example, she was gone Friday through Sunday, allowing me to indulge a pantless-ness unknown in recent or even long memory.

But that’s between me, my bare legs, and God.  And the accent wall.

Apartment facts:

  • There is a nearby unsecured wireless network called “shortygetoffthat.”
  • The two attractive young ladies from the apartment’s promotional brochure are nowhere to be seen.
  • The showerhead comes up to my tits.
  • An empty, overturned pint of Ben & Jerry’s sits in front of my neighbor’s front door. It has not moved in two months.

What others are saying:

  • “Whoooooooo!”  – Person outside my window at 2 am.  Probably not professional wrestler Ric Flair, but maybe?
  • “No stabbings yet.” – Roommate, Abby
  • “Get the fuck out!  This is my muthafuckin’ place!” – Next door neighbor, apparently informing a gentleman about the particulars of her rental agreement

It’s been a wonderful homecoming. I can return to my collection of tiny porcelain cat figurines,

and perhaps more importantly, I can end the painful neglect of my beard. It valiantly endured the rigors of touring, and with little to no fuss.  Sure, I slept on it wrong a few times and walked around with a cow-licked beard all day, but sometimes that happens.

To reward its patience and hard work, I took my beard to a full-service spa. The hot towels and beard bubble bath were only the beginning.

A purified-water beard steam and deep beard massage (w/the smooth, hot basalt stones) followed.

Next, a complete mustache pampering, with detoxification and healthy glow restoration.

Full beard replenishment came after a powerful antioxidant treatment incorporating a Vitamin C concentrate, algae biomatrix patches and a Deep Sea thermal mud mask.  Afterward, the mere sight of it melted hearts, inflamed loins, started regional conflicts. A dove wrote it a love letter.

I have a beard.  Or does my beard have me?  What is “my?”  Who is beard?  Can either truly possess the other? Can a man capture a river?  Am I Beard?


One of the beard’s many benefits/downfalls is to serve as a built-on bib. This recently proved itself true yet again.  The other evening, while practicing my X-treme yoga, I scratched my beard, and a piece of granola fell out.

I ate that granola bar for breakfast – ten hours prior.  Eight of those hours were spent working customer service at a print & copy shop.

I should now remind the female readers that yes, remarkably, I am available.  In my defense, it was a very sticky granola bar.  Very sticky.

But, as a friend suggested, I should make a game out of it, maybe even make bets with the ladies on what one could find and/or fit into the beard.

Yes, when life hands you lemons, you turn those lemons into beard-ade, or more specifically, a romantic beard potion.  You could hide a rose in your beard for a special lady!  And one day – are you ready for this? – a wedding ring.  That would be such a great proposal.

Furthermore, I was reminded of the beard’s great storage abilities.  The next time I’m walking from my car to my house, and my hands are full of grocery bags or the like, I will try to conveniently stuff my keys in my beard and shake them loose when I get to the door.

I must leave now – I have to host a webinar, and prepare with my vodka power shake, much of which will cling to the ends of my mustache.  At key points, when I pronounce words like “power,” shake particles will leap from my mustache for emphasis, like delicious, flying exclamation points.



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Hot Buttered Jesus and his Sweet & Sour Soul Batter

Welcome to the inaugural music/mp3 post from the Fat Fingers of Justice.  From now on, I will occasionally regale you with audio offerings.  Some will be like the soft fur of the panda cub’s touch – delicate, indoor-music to sleep to or to fall asleep crying to.  Others will be like a belligerent brute, noisy and raw.  There will be much funk and soul.  Still other delights will not even be music, but speeches, obscure former disc jockeys, or spoken word performances.  On holidays, perhaps fart sounds and showtunes.  In other words, in maintaining the consistency of this blog, there will be no consistency.

Hot Buttered Jesus and His Sweet & Sour Soul Batter would be a great name for a Christian funk band.  Unfortunately, it is a name which will never be applied, ever.  The reason is simple:  there is no Christian funk music.

While there is a Christian version of nearly every musical genre, funk and Christianity simply do not jive.  There is Christian rap, rock, punk, dance/techno, folk, heavy metal and ska.  There is probably not Christian noise rock, but that’s another beast entirely.

Jesus funk?  No way.  Impossible.  Funk is inherently, well, just too funky.

And this guy?  I’m pretty sure George Clinton missed today’s church services.

Stop being so stingy with the funk. Give it up. Don't make him ask you twice.

Speaking of, you should not fear giving up the funk.  Just because you give it up does not leave you funk-less.  Funk is a renewable resource, much like solar energy, and one’s capacity for funk storage is bound only by one’s ability to get up and/or down.  If the oil companies did not have our nation’s leaders on the payroll, this country could be running on funk as an alternative, albeit nasty, energy source.  But I digress…

Today’s musical selection comes from Funkadelic, the psychedelic soul band led by George Clinton.  Before Clinton made the full sonic leap to p(ure)-funk with Parliament and Parliament Funkadelic, there was simply Funkadelic.  Formed in 1968, the band was more psych-rock than funk, with Jimi Hendrix and LSD as obvious influences.  The band’s sound was a revolutionary mix of Eddie Hazel’s gnarly guitar solos, mutated Motown soul (Clinton was once a staff songwriter for the label) and Clinton’s trippy funk vocabulary and otherworldly one-liners.

“What is Soul” is the final track on their eponymous debut album, released in 1970.  It’s truly a mess of a song, and completely dense with awesome shit, and Clinton dropping classic lines with a madness.  I’m not sure I could regurgitate the true meaning of soul, but some sample lyrics:

What is soul?

I don’t know

Soul is a ham hock in your corn flakes

Soul is also “the ring around your bathtub” and “a joint rolled in toilet paper.” 

Listen, and take notes.

Funkadelic – What is Soul

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