Saturday, November 29, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Chattahoochee

"Alan Jackson got it right"

Anybody that reads this blog with any sort of regularity will know that I lay at the feet of the idols of Automotivedom. To pull a quote from an earlier blog, "I'm libal to stick my dick in the tail pipe while giving head to a turbocharger love." It's just how I roll.

Except currently my rolling has turned into an unbridled passion for the gas pedal. I drive a Saturn SL2 with a plaid panda velcroed to the back window sill. For the past year and a half, at least, I've been trying to avoid getting that itch that starts at the tips of fingers, travels through my heart and finally ends in the frontal lobe of my brain. That itch that causes me to flog the Saturn up and down mountain roads till I pass out from stimuli exhaustion.

Associated with this itch, which I have dubbed the "Driver's Itch," also comes with the following symptoms: Increased sex drive, non-verbal communication with inanimate objects with four wheels and an engine, and acute un-responsiveness to naked women or pie. Yes. Pie.

The Saturn was talking to me today. She was nervous, twitchy even. Like a feral cat that's been caged for too long. She pleaded to be set free. "I've been stuck in a rut, get me out." I put on some black dress pants. "Take me for a drive, beat me like a rented mule." Black dress shirt, black tie. "Are you taking me to my funeral, or to my heaven?" Remove the non-essential keys, condense to one wallet, slip on the Deer-Stags. "Come on, hurry up, let's go!"

I set her free, I just held the reins as she took me for a long jaunt through the Yuba Foothills. Laughing with glee and exciment, crossing the double-yellow lines without a care in the world, running up to seven-thousand revolutions and beyond.

"It's been too long darling."

I smiled.

She came home wet, hot and satisfied.

Laid rubber on the Cali Asphalt,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, November 17, 2008

Trav:
Ok so my geekiness...but still

Ok this was too funny. Anyone read Any discworld novles. Some of htis stuff had me in stitches. I mean who comes up with this stuff.

Some examples:
Obama wishes Vimes was real so he could put him in charge of the War on Terror. Obama knows Vimes would end that sh*t in five minutes and then smoke a cigar.

Obama will bring peace between the Kirk and Picard factions.


Obama had to be talked out of appointing Captain America Secretary of State, and only acceded when he remembered that he was dead.

Obama is seeking to fill the position of the Secretary of Awesomeness. Bruce Campbell is rumored to be a strong contender for the new post.


And yes John, I'm a geek
Original site:
http://venice-diaries.livejournal.com/16382.html

Friday, November 14, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Things in my pockets

1) A set of car keys
2) A wallet
3) An ID wallet
4) A cell phone
5) A knife that is 4 inches long hilt to tip
6) A spare knife that is 3 inches long
7) A set of 3 throwing knife that are attached to my boots
8) A lighter
9) A spare lighter
10) A spare lighter in my belt buckle
11) A hip flask full of Scotch
12) A travel sewing kit with black thread
13) A Flash Drive
14) A Flash Drive Music Player
15) An Assortment of loose change
16) An assortment of safety pins

I used to watch MacGyver as a small child. All I need is a tube sock and a Richard Dean Anderson mask and I'd be set.

Jingle Jangle,

Johnny Rumble

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
The Moral Man-Whore

Call me fucking insane and stupid and mentally retarted.

No, please, do so.

I've set myself up into a very precarious situation with two different women that acctually know each other and do live in the same zip code. And they know ABOUT each other.

But first I feel that I must repeat the rules of cheating.

1) You shall not cheat
2) If you do cheat, you will cheat in a way that is dignified.
3) If you cannot be dignified, they shall not know each other.
4) If they do know each other, they will not live in the same zip code.
5) If they live in the same zip code, revert to rule number 1.

I have broken all of these rules in the past 5 days. And they know it. And for some strange reason, they are okay with it.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm not dating either of them...

Me Love You Long Time,

Johnny Rumble

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Trav:
College Life

So recently- Yesterday in fact, my mom came to visit so we talked and caught up then we went to Best Buy and I got the Clash Live at Shea Stadium which I thought was really good. I also got the Joe Strummer Documentry, The future is Unwritten and what a break it shows from the pubrock days to the punk scene, him not talking to anyone from that time period even though months sepereated the transition. Still super good music though, and everyones human, can't be perfect- which would maybe suck if you think about it cos you learn by what happens right? If nothing ever challanges you then where do you go from there?

Anyway now that I've done my history paper, and school in general has calmed down a bit I will be able to work on stuff so expect a bit more.

Cheers
Trav

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Boots

I love my boots. Correction, I fuck/love my boots. They're heavy, they're solid, and they're steel toed elements of cabinet destruction (amongst other things). I wear them to work, to school, to shows, around down, to play in the mud, and on Thursday nights.

My boots should be cleaned, but the dirt, the mud, bits of dog shit, and torn and abused leather top covering all tell stories abot where my boots have been, tell a story of what they have done, and the story of whose boots they've been knocking against.

I could tell you that Lee Hazlewood penned out the famous lyrics about my boots, but it was before thier time. My boots show an irreverence for shoes. They mock them at night.

One woman complains about my boots.

"Do you always wear your boots?"

"Three-sixty-four days a year."

"Well, take them off and come to bed."

Stamped and Oi! approved,

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
A Matter of Life and Death

I loath hospitals. The absolute sterility of the walls, the floor, and the air itself violates my senses and forces my brain to run wild with thoughts of "Life is born that way...and the dead go that way. I hate this place."

So I avoid hospitals and clinics like the Clap or the Plague. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the time, I won't even walk into a place of medical worship, even if my own health is on the line. Being sick for five months straight is not a fun time, but I'd rather take that (and have) than go be treated like a pin cushion by some nutjob that has the title Doctor in front of his name.

I had to go to a hospital the wee hours of Friday morning.

I wanted to vomit on the floor of the ambulance.

Yes, ambulance. I was not taken to the hosptial, so much as shuttled there with the pomp and circumstance of flashing lights and a one man band. One minute I'm playing pool, having a few drinks with friends, the next I'm playing TACAMO with the people around me, the barkeep, the EMTs and all the wacko doctors.

Fortunatly, it wasn't me in the gurney.

Stayin Alive, Stayin Alive

Johnny Rumble