Captain Gaylord Changes Into A Woodland Beast

I can remember how it happened, but documenting the process seems very unimportant now. A flicker of my life darts behind my eyes, but then I'll start running and forget. Moving forward from darkness into more darkness. Not searching for clarity, but accepting uncertainty and shady trees. When my paws touch earth, stone, root, or moss, I ask new questions that don't need modern answers. In fact, they call me "Son of Gun" because of the weapon that first knocked me down.

What can I say about 2008 that hasn't already been said? Thus far, it has been a year of healing, self-evaluation, and all sorts of other gay cocksuckery.

Here's some pictures of my band's first and last show as a two-piece: Full Gospel Gun Show charms the pants off of Checkpoint Charlie. Thanks, Kirk. You're my boy. Even if you did steal my spicy meat pie idea.

I'm going to Italy at the end of this week. Unfortunately, I don't know when I'll return. All I'm taking with me is a suitcase, my passport, my credit cards, my laptop, an unlocked RAZR handset, sunglasses, a new wardrobe from Kenneth Cole, a camera, a money belt, my iPhone, running shoes, rubber underpants, a Rambo knife, a pup tent, a portable toilet, and a small English-Italian dictionary. This does mean that I will miss the Ladytron show on June 6th. I will also not be able to continue resenting all you other smug fucks that have already been to Italy. Send me your address if you would like a postcard!

Seriously, what is the deal with women getting married and then hyphenating their last names? I know it is a controversial issue, but how confusing is that going to get after a few generations? I prefer the idea of a couple selecting a new last name together to continue their life together. I know an Indian couple that did that. So instead of "Gandangaran-Toke," they became "Sandilya." Awesome.

Speaking of awesome, someone tried to break into my apartment Sunday afternoon. While I was there. Sleeping in my bed three feet away from the window he was crawling through. What ensued might be the most badass thing I have ever done. Since he couldn't see me through the blackout shade, I stood up and kicked his head, causing him to fall back out the window into the alley. He got up, CLOSED THE WINDOW, and ran. I ran out my front door to catch him as he came out the alley, but apparently he found another escape route. Something tells me I haven't seen the last of this goon.

Things that can make me happy on a Monday:

1. Four new Nine Inch Nails records being released spontaeneously on the internet for free in one day.

2. Discovering that I really like the band Killing Joke. If I still went to 80's Night, I would have to demand that they played "Love Like Blood" on repeat.

3. Finding out that we have acquired a new practice space in the same building as the old one, less than a week after getting kicked out. Also, the band we are sharing with is also a three piece guitar/cello/drums.

4. Doing Uttanasana in yoga class and realizing that I could put my palms on the ground comfortably.

5. Realizing that I am going to fail spectacularly in the facial hair growing contest I entered during a bout of drunkedness on Friday night, and being OK with that.

5. A violent pounding rain to help me fall asleep. (This entry would be 10x more interesting if I took out the word "rain")

My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism

I've always had an appreciation for good booze. I wouldn't call myself an aficionado, but I might toss around terms like "enthusiast" or "frequent drinker" or "lush." Let's just say that I like the sauce, but always within the confines of health, relationships, budget, and sobriety. (Pfft)

Anyway, I feel as though I've graduated to a new stage of alcohol appreciation in my "discovery" of single-malt Scotch whisky. Generally eschewed by those of my generation as being overly pungent, expensive, and "just plain nasty," this product has captured my nose, taste buds, heart, liver, wallet. As a close conspirator recently related during a late-night Scotch heist gone awry, "Damn, son. This shit just got real."

There is a wealth of information about the creation, geography, bottling, and appreciation of decent Scotch available on this World Wide Web. After a few months of doing "field research," I've come up with a short list of four "must try" bottlings that I've found are available in finer drinking establishments:

1. The Macallan 12 Year (Speyside) - This is the one that I recommend for novices, and also happens to be my favorite readily available malt. Smooth, fruity, spicy, and delicious.

2. Lagavulin 16 Year (Islay) - It's like a campfire in your mouth. Smoky and sweet. The Laphroig 10 Year is a good approximation if this isn't on the shelf.

3. Glenmorangie 10 Year (Highlands) - The way I remember that I like this is by thinking, "Orangy? I like oranges. Hey now." Sure enough, it's got a nice orange/tangerine nose and taste.

4. Johnny Walker Black (Blended) - Because it's pretty good and I'm not ballin' hard enough to shell out $60 a glass for the Blue Label.

Merry Christmas! I wish I could be there to say it in person to you, friends. Or better yet, I could leave you a cryptic letter that I wrote with my left hand so that you wouldn't recognize my handwriting. Then, while you were reading the letter, wondering who the hell would write something so disturbing, I would jump out of my hiding place in your pantry dressed as a Christmas elf, but with my ski mask over my face so you wouldn't recognize me. It would be so funny! You'd probably pass out from excitement, so I would take the opportunity to wrap you up like a big present, except I wouldn't have enough wrapping paper, so I would use garbage bags and duct tape. Then I would drive you out to the woods in the trunk of my car and unwrap you, except I would leave the blindfold on. Then I would start singing "Silent Night" in a low, gravely voice.

Wouldn't that be the best gift ever?