Electric Grandmother

This blog entry is written in two parts - first part was written in October 2011, second part in January 2012 Part One: Moments ago I was in one of our local DC grocery stores, and "Only in My Dreams" by Debbie Gibson was playing over the loudspeaker.  This song always brings up a happy memory tinged with sadness for me.  The happiness comes from thinking back to Summer of 1987, when my sister and my cousin Katie did a choreographed dance routine to the song in my cousin's backyard in Maryland (Ya know Tom from "Tom's Girl," his sister).  It was a presentation for our families before a backyard cookout, and at the end of the dance routine we all applauded.  The ladies subsequently asked Tom and I if we wanted to do a dance routine, so later that night we wrote them a note on a typewriter saying "We're not doing any stupid dance routine," or something to that effect.  (If memory serves, I think there was a part of me that actually did want to do the dance routine, but that's not something you admit to your cooler and older cousin). What makes me sad about hearing that song, is that the dance routine now stands as merely an old and forgotten memory.  I say "forgotten," because there's no way either of my cousins would remember that.  (I'll put my sister down for "maybe.")  They don't particularly care about nostalgia, or being sentimental, or even remembering the past much at all.  One summer (that same trip maybe?) when my family and I were visiting, Katie was on a tire swing connected to a tree in their backward, when the attached rope broke, sending her tumbling down a hill and causing her to get whiplash. Part Two:  The point of part one of this story was that my cousin Tom didn't remember this incident of his sister being hurt.  People don't stop to notice their memories, thoughts, or their minds enough.  There's so much good in there that can make ya jolly.  (Even though the previous story about my cousin was indeed bad, it was an important event that should have been remembered by all those involved.  It was only 20 lousy years later.  Debbie Fucking Gibson). I was reminded of this unfinished work of art while reading a blog entry by one of our favorite musicians, and all around cool dude, Dr. Frank.  He relayed a story from another person's blog about how their fantasy of what went on at the offices of the recently defunct Lookout Records was more fantastic and enjoyable than the actual bland and often confrontational reality.  It made me happy and sad, because it's exactly the type of thing that I like to think about.  This happy, warm community where all these amazing scenes and adventures take place.  Even though what "happens" is not often the reality of what is taking place, our fantasies about what it could be or might have been are just as important, because it's that safe and happy place in our minds that belongs just to us.  If sleeping dogs are left to lie, maybe 20/20 hindsight isn't so important. I often think about one particular moment where I was walking with two good friends across a parking lot at night back in Solon, Ohio.  We were between the ages of 16-18, and were all fashion-punked out.  I knew as I walked, talked, and laughed with them in the cool night air that I would never forget this moment, and that the moment itself was very important.  I told both of them my thoughts, as best I could express it to them, and they both acknowledged the importance of the moment too. I guess that's why I do what I do, and it's what Electric Grandmother is all about.  Try to enjoy your memories and good thoughts, and don't stop creating new ones. Here's what I'm saying:  

A lot of things go viral in this, the era of the World Wide Web.  Above are two pictures from a website I ran for about three seconds, bloodycelebrity.com.  I posted these two pictures, then got mad that I wasn't offered a book deal.  They call this America?

Today marks the 25th anniversary of The Drive, John Elway's legendary 98-yard drive in the 1986 AFC Championship Game which prevented by beloved Cleveland Browns from their rightful place in the Super Bowl. The day was January 11, 1987.  I was 8-years old, and a brand new wide-eyed Cleveland Browns fanatic.  The previous week, the Browns had orchestrated a mind blowing comeback against the New York Jets, defeating them in double overtime in the Divisional Round.  I'll never forget what I thought to myself early in the day - "Poor Denver."  I felt bad that their dreams would be crushed at the hands of my mighty Browns.  But later in the day, I caught myself - "What if it's Poor Cleveland?" I wondered aloud.  My mom reassured me, "Yes, that's right." I don't remember much about the game, and I don't even remember "The Drive."  But I do remember that goddamn kick (see video above).  I know it's grainy and hard to see, but he fucking missed.  They had a short retrospective of the game on ESPN today, and Tom Jackson, who played for the Broncos, openly admitted that he has no idea to this day if that kick was good.  I'm here to tell him, it wasn't. 25 years later, it still hurts.  I have great respect for John Elway as a player, but as a Browns fan, FUCK him.  I tweeted to him today "Karlis missed that kick."  I even thought about tweeting to his daughter, "Tell your dad Karlis missed that kick," but thankfully I didn't do it.   Someone else can though. HE MISSED!!!

Hi everyone!  This is a demo called Grandpa's Grave.  It's based on a story that was told to me in second grade by a kid named 'C.B.'.  ('C.B.' to protect his identity, and it's also what they called him). You see, C.B. was a compulsive liar, and I don't mean the type of "liar" that describes all kids in second grade.  This kid was creatively insane.  He told everyone these outrageous, often times supernatural stories that were in no way close to believable.  A story he told once seemed plausible, it involved a GI Joe guy doing a flip on a hang glider. I offered out of sympathy that I believed him.  He then blew it by telling me that I was there when it happened. I only remember one other story he told - the story of his steel hand (see above).  You see, some (presumably) mad scientist (or something) made him a steel hand to wear.  He then said that his grandpa was buried in "_____ Mill(?) Graveyard."  I can't remember exactly what the name of the graveyard was, but it was scary and creative.  For the purposes of this song, I called it "Blatback Mill Graveyard," which is a reference to a song by our friend, the legendary Weird Paul.  He then claimed that one night he went to the graveyard, and he cracked his grandpa's grave with his steel hand.  Not sure why he chose to do that, but I've always just assumed he knew what he was doing. So here's the story of C.B.'s steel hand, Grandpa's Grave.

When I was in 8th grade, I used to listen to hip-hop music and imagine that I was in a successful rap group called "Tender & Juicy" with this other guy from school, who was one of two black kids that were in my grade.  I was "Tender," and he was "Juicy." I would listen to whoever was rapping (usually LL Cool J), pretend it was the guy from school and I rapping instead, and divide up the rapping duties evenly in my mind.  Got it? These fantasies especially came in handy during long car rides, often times on family trips.  The LL Cool J album I most often used during these times was Walking With a Panther.  I'd sit quietly in the back seat of the car with my headphones and cheap-o cassette player, and drift off into Tender & Juicy-land.  I, Tender, was the undisputed leader of the group.  Juicy didn't do bad either. There was a duet on the WWAP album called "Two Different Worlds."  I used to image me singing/rapping the LL Cool J part, while the girl singing on the song was a girl from my church who I had a crush on.  I used to think how we too, were from two different worlds.  I even had a music video pictured, complete with a split-screen where our pictures would fade in and out while we sang. It wasn't just limited to LL Cool J, though.  I also used Kris Kross's Totally Krossed Out.  There were no duets with girls though, just sometimes Jermaine Dupri.  

So remember (see below) that I told you my turn to provide a music playlist at work was coming up?  Well, here's how it went: I'm just going to copy and paste my retelling of the story from my post on the notorious Pop Punk Message Bored. So at my place of work, every employee was recently asked to bring in a playlist of "their" music to listen to while we all worked as a group.  My turn came today, and it was mostly punk, sprinkled with some hip-hop and other assorted goodness.  I started off with some hardcore stuff (Suicidal Tendencies, Adolescents, Bad Brains, DRI, Dead Kennedys) just to playfully irritate them, but it made them turn against me.  They hated everything I played, even the more mainstream stuff they already admitted they liked on previous days.  It was an amazingly horrific 7 hours.  When I told this 26-year old that I thought Wesley Willis was more honest and genuine than someone like Bruno Mars, he asked me "Oh yeah, well how many Grammys has Wesley Willis won?" You forget sometimes, ya know?  Think twice before you offer your music to the squares.

This week at work, every employee (with the exception of me, I'm next week) brought in a musical playlist for everyone to listen to while we were working.  Monday was mainstream alternative/emo; Tuesday was slow sexy jams; Wednesday was Top 40; Thursday was old school hip-hop/R & B.  With the exception of Thursday, I wanted to shoot myself in the fucking head during the entire goddamn fucking week. That's when it dawned on me - bad music greatly raises my level of anxiety.  Some people may consider me a snob for thinking this way, but it's the truth.  Maybe some casual music listeners can have an "It's all good" attitude about this type of thing, but I can't.  Some people know fashion. Others know food.  Maybe some fancy themselves a movie expert.  But I know music, and I'm right, and the sucky people suck at it. Much like that of a serious foodie, my ears have a sensitive palette, and when they hear crummy, soulless, shitty music, it's like they are being crammed with liver and onions.  I feel that I have the best taste in music, because it's mine.  If you think you have poor taste in music, then you're not doing it right. So maybe some of us music connoisseurs aren't snobby, we're merely sensitive.  But there are others that are actually snobby for the sake of being snobby, and those people suck.  Like music reviewers; they should go get a real job.

If you had been attention, you'd know that we've been sitting on an exciting announcement to make.  But since you weren't, we have an exciting announcement to make!  And here it is, in this next paragraph. Starting in 2012, The Electric Grandmother will have a monthly residency at the Dynasty, right here in our new home of Washington DC.   That's right, on the first Saturday of every month, we will be performing/hosting bands at the Dynasty.  As you know, we had a blast last Friday (12/2) performing at the Dynasty, and are excited to commit to a long term relationship.  The contracts are signed, the t's crossed, the i's dotted, and the u's created. We already have commitments from some out of towners and locals to play some of the dates.  If you or your musical combo are interested in joining us, hit me up at pete (at) electricgrandmother (dot) com.   Sugar in return is encouraged, if ya know what I mean.  Ya know, "sugar."  Get it? Since you don't get it: If your band from Wilmington, Delaware wants to play with us here in DC, consider offering us a gig in Wilmington.  That'd be nice! The dates are as follows: January 7th (no January show), February 4th, March 3rd, April 7th, May 5th, June 2nd, July 7th, August 4th, September 1st, October 6th, November 3rd, December 1st. Oh boy!  Many thanks to Dave Mann/STPP for helping us put this shindig together!  Neat, huh? Also, it's been a whopping 24 days since my last blog post.  That sucks!  Hopefully I'll have more time soon to regale you with more traumatic stories from my childhood. And you haven't yet, check out the latest EG song from the INS 10-Year Anniversary sampler!

Hey fine dudes and sexy babies, the Infinite Number of Sounds Recording Company is celebrating their 10-year anniversary and their 25th official release!  (Not sure why a label that has been around for 11 years would be celebrating their 10-year anniversary, but OK!)  You can download for free and (PLEASE) share the Anniversary Compilation RIGHT HERE. And guess what, stupid?  There's a brand new Electric Grandmother track on the compilation, get it while it's hot!  You know how in the 80's, people would get mad at something they saw on TV and threaten to write/call the station?  Yeah. So Mary Alice and I are extremely proud and honored to be part of the INS family, and there's really no way we could ever adequately thank Dave and Brent for all they have done for us.  Congratulations boys, and let's get naked!

Those who know me well know that I've been a huge Cleveland Browns fan my whole life, always been there for the few ups and many downs since the 1986 season when I first started paying attention to football.  By 1987, to say I was obsessed with the game would be an understatement.  Now, I've always been known for my photographic childhood memory, but my memories of the minute details of my experiences during this particular Cleveland Browns football season goes beyond weird.  So here they are, in five parts (with no cheating or embellishing): Week 1 - September 13, 1987 @ New Orleans Saints I was very excited for the new season to begin, and I dutifully sat down to watch the first game of the Browns' season.  Sometime during the first or second quarter, I got a little bored and decided instead* to play a game called "Summer Games" on our Apple IIgs computer.  Later on that afternoon, I turned the game back on just in time to see Bernie Kosar throw two Hail Mary passes into the end zone in the final seconds of the game.  After the first pass fell incomplete with a few seconds left, I asked my dad** if an incomplete pass counted as a down, to which he replied, "No. Wait, yes, YES."  As Bernie went back to launch a second pass, the clock hit :00, which prompted an "Oh no!" from me, but my dad reassured me, "As long as the ball's in motion, they can't stop the game."  The pass fell incomplete, and the Browns lost 28-21.  Later on that day I went to my friend's house, and his weird motorcycle uncle commented to me how "We came close, but we'll get 'em next time (or something)." *Only time I've ever turned off/away from a game in that manner.  I was just 9 years old at the time, of course. **My dad has a rudimentary knowledge of football. Week 2 - September 20, 1987 vs. Pittsburgh Steelers Week 2 of the 1987 NFL season came with a scheduling conflict for our household TV that would last until mid-season; My mom and my sister had been planning to watch and record on VHS a series of Gilbert & Sullivan movies on PBS that were being show on Sunday afternoons from 2-4 PM.  Since we had only gotten our first VCR a mere few months before, we were unaware as a family that it was possible to record on one channel while watching another.  As a result, I was subjected to watch the first of several '87 Browns games on a small black & white television while they lavished in the luxury of our color TV set.  (And ya know, it's ok in retrospect.  I managed all right with the B & W, and whenever I hear Gilbert & Sullivan songs to this day, it gives me happy Cleveland Browns memories). I watched the Browns pummel the Steelers, 34-10.  In stark contrast to my Week 1 restlessness, I was beside myself with energy and excitement throughout.  I kept wishing that my one close friend was there watching with me, because we'd of had a blast together.  I got to see the final touchdown, a Clay Matthews interception return, on the color TV after 4 PM.  I remember the football field looking so damn green on the screen. Week 3 - September 28, 1987 vs. Denver Broncos (CANCELED DUE TO 1987 NFL STRIKE) I was remarking to my dad at the dinner table during the week about how I was excited for the Browns to enact revenge on the Broncos for their heartbreaking playoff loss to them the previous winter.  My dad chuckled, then suddenly stopped himself.  "Oh, wait, the NFL is on strike!" he said.  I didn't know the specifics of a workers' strike at that time, I just knew that I was sad that there would be no football for the foreseeable future.  The game was going to be on Monday night, so I wouldn't have been able to watch too much of it anyway.  But still, the Broncos.  I always wondered what would have happened in that game. Week 4 - October 4, 1987 @ New England Patriots Football was back!  Of course, they were using replacement players, which only struck me as a little strange at the time.  Instead of Bernie Kosar, our quarterback was some guy with a mustache, and that's all I remember about the Browns "scabs."  (I do remember that the older brother of a girl in my 4th grade class was a replacement player for the Cincinnati Bengals).  Looking back, the whole idea of supporting the owners by watching those games is disgusting, but I was 9 years old, so I was willing to settle for the mustache man. I was presented with the option that afternoon to go roller skating with my sister and cousin, but I opted to watch the game instead.  The Patriots scored the first touchdown of the game, and I felt guilty because I got a little excited.  I guess I was just itching for action after the time away?  The Browns came from behind and won 20-10.  During the game, the announcers made jokes about how the stadium crowd was dissipating throughout the afternoon.   At one point with the Browns up 13-10, they showed a before and after shot of the seats, one from the start of the game and then one from the point they were at.  The difference was alarming, and I couldn't figure out why the home crowd was leaving with their team only behind by three points.  I suppose they were just disgusted by the performance of all the replacement players in general.  That afternoon, I had a bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup, and it was really good. Coming up in Part 2: When will the regular players come back?  And I would I be allowed to stay up to watch the Monday Night Football game against the Los Angeles Rams?  Stay tuned.  

Our friend and tyrannical label-head Dave Mansbach emailed us some interview questions, which we promptly answered!  Check out the full interview here at the newly revamped Infinite Number of Sounds Recording Company website. And yeppers, that's us up there with The Weasel himself!  Gave him one of our CDs and told him about Purple Shit.  He seemed intrigued!

This past Saturday, we went on a Haunted Farm-Pumpkin Pick Adventure sponsored by Living Social.  This was our first "adventure" of this kind, and we both went into it thinking it would be a fun, romantic time.  We were already a bit wary of the Living Social culture, as I had already applied for a job with them since moving to Washington DC, and was met with strange results.  I was given a phone interview, and the first bubbly question from the female recruiter (who couldn't have been more than 20 years old) was, "So, why are you stoked on working for Living Social?!"  It caught me completely off guard, and I gave a stiff, paused-filled interview that probably made her think I was a total ungroovy lameoid unfit for their totally awesome job. But anyway, back to the misadventure to be had... After getting off of a subway in Virginia, we were greeted by a bouncy girl wearing a kitty ear headband who advised us we could get wine for the trip, because there was going to be a lot of "down time" at the farm.  We bought a $5 bottle of Pinot Grigio at a Rite-Aid, along with some snacks for the road.  We were greeted by several more happy youths who directed us to Bus #2, and we were off.  Shortly into the bus ride, it became apparent to both of us that the young and exuberant Living Social staff was not just there as guides, but rather tour guides of in-your-face fun.  They yelled event rules and suggestions over a loudspeaker, passed out candy, and asked us to participate in a Scariest Halloween Name contest.  This woman seated next to us, who seemed to be enjoying herself a bit too much, offered loudly, "Damien! Chucky!," to which the staff cheerfully reminded us that we should feel free come up with our own scary names as well.  Somebody shouted "Sarah Palin!" from the back (hardy har har), and they won the contest by a vote of applause. The hour and fifteen minute bus ride to West Virginia felt like an hour and forty-five minutes, but we eventually got to the farm.  More yelling came over the loudspeaker from the staff, advising us about our assigned numbered group.  We then proceeded to the pumpkin pick area, where the pumpkins had already been pre-picked for our convenience, and scattered haphazardly across a grassy field. After we picked out our pumpkins, we headed over to some picnic tables to decorate them.  Here's how they ended up looking, you can easily guess which one is whose. Also, we stole that piece of corn. We met a friendly couple while sitting at our picnic table who also had similar expectations to ours.  They also thought it would be a fun date-type outing, and not so much a day camp where you could easily beat the crap out of the obnoxious, younger counselors.  Some time during the midst of our conversation with them, I looked around and saw that we were the only table not eating food.  We walked over to where they were dishing out dinner, and proceeded to get our plates of baked bread, weird salad, cold pumpkin soup, and peanut butter cookie.  After downing the food in less than five minutes, we busted open our bottle of Pinot.  We initially told the couple that they could share with us, but then conveniently forgot to offer any before we downed it ourselves. After "dinner," we sauntered over to a camp fire where people were making s'mores.  Most people seemed to be way too into it, and we figured that a lot of them probably had never been to the woods before.  We were to be called to go on our haunted house/hayride/corn maze adventure by group, so Mary Alice and decided to head over to the pirate ship (yes, pirate ship) over back by the picnic tables.  (See the "King of the World" below): We must have stayed at the ship a bit too long, because by the time we went back to the camp fire, our group had already been called.  We rushed over to our first stop, the Haunted House.  We were greeted by the head of the farm, a man in all orange who had obviously been drinking. We entered the haunted house which shrouded in complete darkness.  I had my hand on Mary Alice's hood, but then lost it.  It seemed like a maze of walls, and it was just pissing me off as opposed to scaring me.  We then had to squeeze through these fabric-covered tunnels, while someone was banging on a wall.  I kept on until I saw light, and Mary Alice holding open a curtain for me to exit.  I was ready for the next part of the house, but then realized there wasn't any, and we were now outside.  The whole thing maybe took 90 seconds. We waited a while for the Haunted Hayride, because they seemed to be running behind schedule.  When a tractor pulling a wagon finally drove up to retrieve us, there was a Living Social employee wearing a cowboy hat who kept hootin' and hollerin', and there was another wearing one of those Rastafarian dreadlock hats.  There was also an employee of the farm (who we saw being scolded earlier by the orange guy) who was just standing around holding a Star Wars Lightsaber. Shortly into the ride, some guys in masks started jumping on the side of the wagon, screaming at us and what not.  Then after a couple minutes in, the tractor stalled, or "stalled" as we originally thought.  But it wasn't part of the presentation.  We got out and walked while the driver struggled to get the engine going again.  He eventually did, and almost ran us over passing us on the ride trail.  We were told to get back on the wagon, and while I was climbing up the wagon steps, some guy in a mask came out and scared the shit out of the girls behind me.  They began shoving me and rammed my knee into the stairs.  I stumbled in pain over to where Mary Alice was sitting, and made a snide remark about the waivers we were made to sign ahead of time. After the hayride, we entered the Corn Maze, which was easily the best part of the whole adventure.  It was legitimately scary, complete with dudes in zebra masks (?) and devil masks jumping out at you.  Plus it was a dark and difficult trek, and we went in circles trying to find our way around. Eventually we gave up trying to find the exit, so we just left the way we came in.  While trying to exit, some dude in a devil mask scared the shit out of Mary Alice, and she yelled in his face, "Screw you, dude!  We're just trying to get out of here!"  When we got back to the beginning of the maze, the guy in the cowboy hat was there, and he said, "They're leaving the wrong way, Yee-haw!," or something to that effect. Mercifully, we got on our bus to leave, but were delayed 15 minutes because they couldn't get this one idiot out of the maze.  We listened to Halloween music, combined with hipster rock and contemporary pop all the way back to Virginia.  When getting off the bus, I refused eye contact with the Living Social employees (which no doubt certainly showed them).  We went home, and got drunk while watching an episode of Mystery Science Theater, which Mary Alice suggested to cheer me up. A couple of days ago I filled out a questionnaire about my Living Social experience, and I gave mostly poor marks - go figure.  So yeah, don't do it.  If you're gonna go somewhere, do it without Living Social.  They're lameoids.

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Like most little 1980's boys, I collected Garbage Pail Kids trading cards.  My collecting experience was perhaps not so different than that of other little boys who had parents that would overreact to any widespread Moral Panic.  But my (3rd grade) memories about my experience with the phenomenon have stuck with me, so here goes -

The first I heard of GPK was from my cool older neighbor friend, who just knew what the deal was with everything.  He had the famous 1st series cards, featuring the iconic Adam Bomb ($999 for a mint condition on ebay, you gotta be fucking kidding me), among others.  I was instantly sold, but also realized that there was already an outraged parents movement against the cards, and that my parents would no doubt be among the faction.  Over time my friend's collection grew and grew, until he was the undisputed GPK king of our school.  "How many do you have?!" I asked him.  "I dunno, something like 400," he replied casually.  Something like 400 - the monumental number rang around my head with an envious and crazed excitement.  Shortly after, I remember showing someone my stupid baseball card collection and offering "I have something like, 400," not caring that they didn't ask.  I also remember appearing at my friend's house one afternoon holding a stack of trivia cards sideways so he couldn't see them.  "Those aren't Garbage Pail Kids," he declared from approximately 10 feet away. Where can i cheapest Xanax online, Lo and behold, I ended up eventually getting my hands on some GPK (3rd Series) from my friend, low dose Xanax, Online Xanax without a prescription, as I think he was beginning to drown in the excess duplicates he had.  I initially only had about 25-30 cards, and I would hide the cards at the bottom of my sneakers before putting them on so that my parents wouldn't see.  My plan if I got caught was simple: I would play on their sympathies, Xanax description, Xanax pharmacy, and dramatically cry "I only did it so I could be taller!"  One morning before school, I came down from my bedroom into our kitchen with muddied sneakers.  My mom told me to change shoes, Xanax pics, Xanax blogs, and told my dad to take the sneakers off for me, so I wouldn't track mud on the way back up to my bedroom.  I shrieked "NO, about Xanax. Xanax brand name, NO!  I'LL DO IT MYSELF!," which caused my mom and dad to start yelling at me simultaneously.  There was noisy chaos from all sides as my dad wrenched the shoes from my feet, after Xanax, Buy Xanax online cod, followed by complete silence.  The cards had slid from the back of my sneakers to the front, and my dad hadn't seen them.  I put the cards back in a clean pair of sneakers, Xanax price, coupon, Xanax without a prescription, and went off merrily to the school.

Garbage Pail Kids, where can i order Xanax without prescription, Xanax cost, Garbage Pail Kids, Garbage Pail Kids.  They were EVERYwhere, Xanax reviews. Order Xanax from United States pharmacy, If you weren't around and/or paying attention in the mid-80s, you missed what I think is probably the craziest fad I've seen in my lifetime, buy cheap Xanax. I remember our local drug store hung an angry sign in their window which stated, "NO, we do not have Garbage Pail Kids."  There was a short, and I mean SHORT-lived GPK animated series that was utterly bludgeoned to death by parents associations and concerned citizens.  There was a live action GPK movie that was barely promoted on TV due to outcry from the aforementioned groups, and it shitcanned at the box office.  (This movie is now a cult favorite, we own it, and it's likely the worst movie I've ever seen.  It's not "good-bad," it's "BAD-bad.")  Nevertheless, my collection went on unabated by parents due to my sneakyness, and it was going just fine until "The Bag Incident"

I must have got cocky with my illegal GPK-trafficking, because it all came to a head one morning as I was getting ready for school, Buy Xanax Without Prescription. Taking Xanax, I had my cards in a sandwich baggy in my pocket, and it apparently was a bit too visible.  "Whatcha got?, is Xanax addictive, Xanax schedule, " my mom cheerfully (and typically nosily) asked.  "Nothing," I nervously replied.  I can't remember what was said next, order Xanax online overnight delivery no prescription, Order Xanax no prescription, but we all know that kind of crap doesn't fly with parents. I pulled the cards from my pocket and gave them up.  My mom sorted through the cards, Xanax from canadian pharmacy, Xanax maximum dosage, making the appropriate mortified mutters.  She then told me that she was more upset that I had lied to her, as opposed to my having the cards in the first place.  (I don't why saying "Nothing" is lying, real brand Xanax online, Buy Xanax online no prescription, per se.  Aren't we being a little too literal?)  She then said, "Well, doses Xanax work, Order Xanax from mexican pharmacy, I suppose you want to show them to your friends," and gave me a rubber band to hold the cards with.  Later that night after my dad came home from work, Xanax dose, My Xanax experience, my mom said to me "Do you want to tell him about 'The Bag?'"  So I told my dad I had lied to my mom; I can't remember his reaction, he was probably mostly wondering what Garbage Pail Kids were, Xanax dosage. Cheap Xanax, A few months into the craze, my friend was sitting on his front porch one afternoon with me and few others going on about how valuable his 1st Series GPK cards were, where can i find Xanax online, Herbal Xanax, when his older brother and friends overheard.  He angrily confronted my friend, calling him stupid for believing that the cards were valuable.  "See this?!, Xanax no rx, Get Xanax, " he said, picking up the New Wave Dave (Graffiti Petey's twin) card, rx free Xanax, Xanax from mexico, "This is PEANUTS!"  He went on to imitate him, saying snarkily "Oh, buy generic Xanax, it's SO valuable!," among other belittling insults.  My friend looked like somebody had just shot his dog.  I guess that's when the cards Jumped the Shark for me.  If my cool friend's cooler older brother said the cards suck, then they must.

For a short time after this incident, I gave away my GPK cards during random moments.  I would sanction races in our school's gymnasium between boys, and the winners would get a card.  I remember told a boy I would give him a card if he jumped six times in five seconds, but he angrily said "I can't do that!"  That's pretty much my last memory of the whole thing.  I think I gave/threw away the rest.  It's too bad, because that 1st Series is apparently pretty valuable, and not so much "peanuts.".

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Here's a cover of a song by the band NOFX Buy Lorazepam Without Prescription, , called Always Hate Hippies.  It's dedicated to my pals Brian McConville, Dan "King of Punk Covers" Pantzig, and to Mary Alice, because she says I don't write/we don't perform enough cover songs.  Go figure.

Mary Alice and I like NOFX because they play great drunk music, ordering Lorazepam online, Lorazepam long term, they're hated by hipsters (and hippies), and they annoy people.  Sure, Lorazepam mg, Australia, uk, us, usa, their frontman and label owner Fat Mike has more money than Oprah, but what can ya do?  They've always stuck to their scruples, order Lorazepam online c.o.d, Lorazepam street price, so good on 'em.  In true NOFX fashion, this took me less than an hour to record and mix.  Here's Always Hate Hippies, Lorazepam pictures. Buy cheap Lorazepam no rx. Purchase Lorazepam online no prescription. Buy Lorazepam without a prescription. Purchase Lorazepam. Lorazepam duration. Where can i cheapest Lorazepam online. Lorazepam canada, mexico, india. No prescription Lorazepam online. Lorazepam from canada. Cheap Lorazepam no rx. Buy Lorazepam without prescription. Canada, mexico, india. Purchase Lorazepam online. Effects of Lorazepam. Lorazepam australia, uk, us, usa. Lorazepam forum. Lorazepam online cod. Lorazepam recreational. Where to buy Lorazepam. Lorazepam without prescription. Lorazepam natural. Lorazepam use. Lorazepam trusted pharmacy reviews. Where can i buy Lorazepam online. Lorazepam for sale. Lorazepam wiki. Lorazepam overnight. Lorazepam interactions. Comprar en línea Lorazepam, comprar Lorazepam baratos. Buy no prescription Lorazepam online. Lorazepam no prescription. Lorazepam images. Discount Lorazepam.

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For about the past three days, Mary Alice and I haven't been able to stop talking about Martin.  This is the beginning of a blog entry that goes nowhere.  Let's talk about Debbie Gibson.  Here is an excerpt from an unfinished entry from late July. Xanax used for,

Moments ago I was in one of our local DC grocery stores, Xanax class, Xanax price, and "Only in My Dreams" by Debbie Gibson was playing over the loudspeaker. This song always brings up a happy memory tinged with sadness for me, generic Xanax. Xanax steet value, The happiness comes from thinking back to Summer of 1987, when my sister and my cousin Katie did a choreographed dance routine to the song in my cousin's backyard in Maryland (Ya know Tom from "Tom's Girl, japan, craiglist, ebay, overseas, paypal, Buy Xanax from mexico, " his sister). It was a presentation for our families before a backyard cookout, Xanax over the counter, Buy Xanax no prescription, and at the end of the dance routine we all applauded. The ladies subsequently Tom and I if we wanted to do a dance routine, so later that night we wrote them a note on a typewriter saying "We're not doing any stupid dance routine," or something to that effect, Xanax For Sale. (If memory serves, Xanax gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release, Buying Xanax online over the counter, I think there was a part of me that actually did want to do the dance routine, but that's not something you admit to your cooler and older cousin), what is Xanax. Online Xanax without a prescription, What makes me sad about hearing that song, is that the dance routine now stands as merely an old and forgotten memory, buy Xanax from canada. Xanax coupon, I say "forgotten," because there's no way either of my cousins would remember that, Xanax photos. Low dose Xanax, (I'll put my sister down for "maybe.") They don't particularly care about nostalgia, or being sentimental, Xanax samples, Online buy Xanax without a prescription, or even remembering the past much at all. One summer (that same trip maybe?) when my family and I were visiting, Xanax results, Xanax dangers, Katie was on a tire swing connected to a tree in their backward, when the attached rope broke, is Xanax safe, Xanax treatment, sending her tumbling down a hill and causing her to get whiplash.

*********

And that's the end of the entry.  I think I got tired, or ran out of inspiration.  You'd think sitting around the house all day would give me all the time in the world to be creative, online buying Xanax hcl, Fast shipping Xanax, it only gives me a little extra time.  I spend a lot of time feeling agitated and stressed about not having a job.  Not that I think that jobs rule, but I need money to do things, Xanax alternatives, Kjøpe Xanax på nett, köpa Xanax online, like put out records and pay for our out-of-town gigs.  We're definitely making it here, and there are advantages to my house-husbandry, purchase Xanax for sale, Xanax duration, but I tend to be a busy-body when it comes to life, music, canada, mexico, india, Xanax coupon, and the what-have-you.  Like-using-hyphens.  I actually am most creative and productive when I'm cheerful and busy.  That's how it goes.

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Come the Summer 4th grade, Japan, craiglist, ebay, overseas, paypal, she promised me that I would be able to play baseball.  I signed up, and was chosen to play for the mighty Classic Homes team of Aurora, Ohio.  I still remember the excitement and relative normalcy of our first practice.  I had some friends on the team.  It was a bit cold and rainy.  My backyard baseball skills were put on display, Modafinil reviews, at one point slamming a double to center field off the coach's pitch.  Things seemed promising, Modafinil use, and it was normal.   Then came our second practice...

It was quite a bit warmer for our second practice, the Sun was beating down on us hard.  I got in the batter's box, Modafinil gel, ointment, cream, pill, spray, continuous-release, extended-release, and this particularly strong kid drilled me in the left arm with a pitch.  And that was it. Modafinil for sale, I looked down at arm, swollen and bright red, and an assistant coach took me to the coach's truck to get me some ice.  I was obviously shaken as I iced my arm; the assistant looked down at me and encouraged me "not to cry, Modafinil treatment," which of course caused me to burst into tears. Australia, uk, us, usa, As I mentioned, that was it.  I was never the same player after that.  It wasn't so much that I was scared of the ball hitting me, I was just scared.  It's hard to explain, Modafinil pharmacy, it's just the kind of thing that happens to an already-sort-of messed up and very small 10-year old.   Before our first exhibition game, Herbal Modafinil, the coach announced that I was going to lead off, which if you know anything about baseball, is kind of a big deal.  (I guess that first practice still lingered in is mind).  I was tentative, Modafinil description, but also ready to go for it.  I was also ready to go in general - the coach advised us that we only needed to show up in street clothes, Is Modafinil addictive, but I chose to show up in full uniform.  I was the only one who did so.  I got up to bat, and I walked on 5 pitches.  The bat never left my shoulder.  I remember thinking about how easy it was, and how I didn't have to do anything but stand there.  Thus began a trend that would last my entire baseball career, online Modafinil without a prescription.

As that first season wore on, the coaches would get increasingly frustrated with me being content to stand there holding the bat as the pitches whizzed by, strike or no strike.  (The lead off position did not last very long, suffice it to say).  I would just get up to bat, stand there like an idiot, on hope to get on base by a Walk.  What's funny is that I was generally ok in the field - I was a Catcher for a good part of the season, and I did all right.  It was just a mental block when it came to batting.  In the backyard, I was still the same as I ever was.  But when on display in front of a crowd, I just plain crumbled.  My first season is easily the season I remember best.  I actually remember having a pretty good time overall, and I probably should have just left well enough alone.  But I kept coming back, Modafinil For Sale.

My second season, Modafinil cost, I know I played for 1st Nationwide Bank of Aurora (pictured above), and I remember sucking even worse than my first season.  Puberty was starting to set in pretty hard with the other boys, and they would often act pretty shitty towards me.  I remember my mom embarrassing me by walking into the dugout to talk to the players (that's trauma for another time), Modafinil over the counter, and I think I played right field and batted last the entire season.  I think I might have foul-tipped one pitch that year, Modafinil brand name, which drew applause from the dugout.  I felt extremely short and bespectacled.

It's kind of strange to me that I can't remember much from playing in 6th and 7th grade.  I think I might have had the same coach for my 2nd, 3rd, online buying Modafinil hcl, and 4th year, Modafinil samples, but I can't remember.  I don't remember the names of our sponsors, I do think I played for another red-uniformed team.  I guess it really doesn't matter, as it was all kind of a blur anyway.  I played some decent second base, Modafinil use, actually might have gotten a base hit here and there, Online Modafinil without a prescription, but that's about all I got in the ol' archives.  I know I still wasn't growing very much.

8th grade would mercifully be my final year on the diamond.  You had to "make" the team come high school, and I knew that wasn't happening.  I felt strangely optimistic going into the season, Modafinil overnight, as my best friend at the time was on the team, Modafinil coupon, and his dad coached.  I blew smoke up their ass about how I was a good player, but I think my friend's dad would have picked me to be on the team anyway.  I think he thought I was a funny little kid, and I think he probably looked at me as a lovable underdog.  As usual, Modafinil brand name, I played decent in the field that year, Modafinil interactions, mostly at second base.  During one game, I was put at the third base to replace a kid who didn't show up to play, and I played spectacularly.  When the guy showed up for the next game, Modafinil maximum dosage, he was infuriated to find out that his old position was now mine.  He intimidated me so much with his anger that I made four errors that day.   The next game, Modafinil duration, he was back at this old position, and I believe he continued to taunt me even after the fact.  I was still pretty short.

That season from the plate was the usual mix of waiting for the walk, where can i buy Modafinil online, swinging when I felt like it, Buy Modafinil online cod, and squeezing out a hit or two when lucky.  We made the playoffs (hell, I think every team made the playoffs), and we traveled to Twinsburg, order Modafinil online overnight delivery no prescription, Ohio to play our first postseason game.  Somehow, Discount Modafinil, the other guys convinced me to crouch down to my knees while batting during one plate appearance - ya know, so there'd be no strike zone and I'd automatically get a Walk?  The umpire admonished me when I did it, and called me out on strikes (guess that's why everybody doesn't do that).  And lo and behold, order Modafinil no prescription, just like a stupid coming-of-age-I-was-a-loser book for Young Adults, Is Modafinil addictive, I ended up coming to bat in the final inning of the game, down by one run, with two outs, purchase Modafinil online no prescription.

I knew I was going to strike out.  Everybody knew.  The bench was more or less silent as I picked up my aluminum bat and headed toward home plate.  The coach, Modafinil description, my friend's dad, stopped me and put his arm around me.  "No matter what happens," he said to me quietly, buy Modafinil without prescription, "I still love you."  Tears began to well up in my eyes, Modafinil schedule, and I got in the batter's box to face certain doom.  "Hey, it's the sitter," one of the boys on the other team said.  "We can get him."   The pitcher was a pretty good hurler, Modafinil blogs, and I unceremoniously let two strikes go past.  I stepped out of the batter's box, Buy no prescription Modafinil online, and thought "Well, I have to do something."  I got back in there, and just like Mighty Casey before me, canada, mexico, india, swung and missed for the third strike, Where can i cheapest Modafinil online, thus ending my baseball career.

I guess there's no moral to the story, except for "You shouldn't live in fear."  But you can't tell that to a kid middle school.  Just think of it as part of the ingredients that got mixed to create the me as you know it today.   I often wish I could have had another chance to do the baseball thing again the right way, Modafinil online cod, knowing what I know now about not being afraid.

Eh, what can ya do?  Enjoy the game, everyone.

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Buy Modafinil Without Prescription, The first time I booked the Treehouse for EG was in late-2004, and it was so easy.  I called the bar, and described the act to a guy named Quinn Fallon, and he said "Sounds interesting!  How about December 4th?"  The rest, as they say, was the rest.  Thus began a torrid 7-year love affair with the bar, which included 45 EG performances, countless drunken nights, and many, many friendships made. Purchase Modafinil online, It didn't take long for the us to establish a presence at the bar, both personally and musically.  After seeing us perform a couple times, Modafinil street price, Where to buy Modafinil, Quinn said that we could play there any time we wanted.  He kept his word, too - any time I asked about an open date, Modafinil dosage, Modafinil price, coupon, he would scan the calendar and say "It's yours!"  Perhaps my favorite memory of Quinn is when he called me after a local publication gave Pee Sells a bad review, and said, Modafinil dangers, Where can i find Modafinil online, "First of all, fuck (them)!  Second, taking Modafinil, Buy Modafinil from mexico, do you want to play this Saturday?"

After performing at the Treehouse on April 1, 2005, Modafinil from canada, No prescription Modafinil online, Joe Peppercorn made a post on a local music message board that arguably put us in the Columbus music scene consciousness.  We became fast friends with Joe, and we would often would go to the Open-Mic he hosted Wednesdays at the Treehouse, buy Modafinil from canada, Get Modafinil, where I would sing EG songs while he played piano/guitar as "Child Abuse at Wal-Mart."  By late 2007, Mary Alice and I both had full time jobs, where can i order Modafinil without prescription, Kjøpe Modafinil på nett, köpa Modafinil online, and we weren't able to continue going to the open-mic nights at the same rate.  It's something that still makes me a little sad to this day.

We also forged a friendship with Kyle Sowash in 2005, Modafinil class, Modafinil without a prescription, and he would often keep us in mind wherever he would book shows, especially at the Treehouse.  He was always a very kind and vocal proponent of EG, buy Modafinil no prescription, My Modafinil experience, and we were in turn for his band(s), in whatever form they took.  After Quinn and Andy sold the bar in 2008, fast shipping Modafinil, Modafinil natural, I was somewhat worried about the future of EG performances, despite it generally being "kept in the Treehouse family" with new owner/bar regular Phil Palma.  Kyle announced shortly after that he would be taking over the booking, purchase Modafinil for sale, Rx free Modafinil, and it put us at ease.  (That's what Kyle does for people, makes 'em comfy and happy), order Modafinil online c.o.d. Cheap Modafinil, Of course, prior to 2008 The Treehouse was "Andyman's Treehouse, low dose Modafinil, Modafinil for sale, " as it was co-owned along with Quinn by the late great John Andrew "Andyman" Davis.  We actually performed at the Treehouse the day Andy died, on July 17, online buy Modafinil without a prescription, Modafinil results, 2010.  It was easily one of the saddest moments that we experienced while living in Columbus.  We didn't know Andy as closely as many of the Treehouse employees or patrons, or those at the local radio station CD 101 where he was a beloved DJ, Modafinil over the counter, After Modafinil, but I consider myself lucky to have conversed with him on many occasion at the bar or elsewhere in Columbus.   I can still see and hear him bellowing "Waddup EG!" at the bar, shaking my hand while balancing a beer in his.  R.I.P, Modafinil trusted pharmacy reviews. Modafinil recreational, Andyman.

There were certainly some rough patches during our relationship with the bar.  In November 2005 (before Mary Alice was an active stage member), I drove myself to exhaustion by performing a weekly "residency" at the bar.   In 2006, we played a disastrous show the night before my college graduation, where we had to drive home right before our performance because I forgot some important cords.  After arriving back at the bar, I proceeded to perform in a toga (never do this), and I had to beg our friend Shaun Duff (the first EG superfan) to retrieve my T-shirt from the green room due to my overheating.  Then came the "coup de grace" in September 2010, where I was unable to perform because I drank too much and kept falling over.  Hilarious, Buy Modafinil Without Prescription. Yes.  Still regretful, cheap Modafinil no rx. Modafinil long term, Absolutely.

But fuck that, Modafinil images, Modafinil photos, the times were mostly splendid!  We set the attendance record for the bar on January 12, 2007, effects of Modafinil, Modafinil no prescription, at Mary Alice's birthday show.  (Yeah, The Lab Rats also played, Modafinil from canadian pharmacy, ya think that might of had something to do with it?)  We played a triumphant final show before we moved to DC with one of our musical idols, Kepi Ghoulie.  We played a ton of fantastic shows with bands/friends like Fat Girls By the Snack Table, Your Favorite Assassin, and Take No Damage.  Our friend Derek Stewart made many awesome show fliers for us, some of which are no doubt still hanging in the now abandoned back room.  In fact, the splendid times are too many to count.  As Mary Alice said to me recently, "That place was my 20s," and the same obviously goes for me.

Though we here at Electric Grandmother are deeply saddened by the closing of the bar, it had indeed been on a steady decline since it was sold by Quinn and Andy.  I'm definitely not going to point any fingers or place any blame publicly as to the "Why," because perhaps it was just it's time to go.   Maybe it will reopen again one day, or maybe it won't.  But one thing is for certain: There's a damn TREE growing in the middle of the place, and it's covered in Christmas lights, or some shit.  What the-

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