of pins and needles

When it comes to drugs and Columbian contraband in general, some choose to abuse rather than recreationally use. Some carefully peruse only to accidentally misuse after a costly interfuse. Some simply refuse to use due to steadfast virtues and religious taboos. It's anyone's provocative prerogative and whether you choose to use or sell, or swear allegiance to the DEA or a drug cartel, in no way does that predetermine whether you are destined for heaven or hell.

What's my take on this issue? I'm teetering on the fence. No, my parent's didn't sell my Lego collection for drug money when I was a child, and no, I've never lost a woman on Spring Break due to drug lord related reasons, and no, the butch police dog who taught my D.A.R.E. class in grade 5 didn't have a profound impact on my drug-related decision making. I've never had to wander down that dark alley because as a child, I stumbled upon a different type of dark alley. A dark alley with strobe lights, glossy hardwood floors, and birthday parties. Where beer specials reveal themselves at midnight. An alley that plays today's best hits and reeks of cigarette smoke. An alley where instead of tying a cloth around my arm prior to getting my fix, I tie my shoes instead. I'm talking about my local bowling alley.

I would go to the bowling alley to get my personal high. Smoke a quick bowl with my Camp Breton Bowlin Bishes as we liked to call it, or just kick it all afternoon rolling fat one after fat one, pulverizing pins. Bowling wasn't always an upper for me. When I first started my score was shamefully low. Discouragingly low. Then I briefly experimented with bumpers. Then I bought my own ball. Then I ditched the bowling alley support bra and faced life with gutters. Once I started to roll my own, I started to get high. Bumper free, I started getting higher than I had ever been. I recall after my first perfect game I couldn't move. I soon developed a tolerance to that full body high, however the one aspect of bowling that never subsided was the munchies. Fortunately I discovered that the stoner dude who worked behind the concession stand had an unhealthy addiction to crack. This proved to work in my favor as I soon learned that I could exchange him drugs for unlimited quantities of nachos, pretzels, and popcorn. He slowly became my dealer for snack, and I, his friend. Never having to focus on my craving I was able to focus on my game pin paving, slowly inching towards my goal of becoming the bowling alley kingpin.

At that stage in my life however, bowling didn't prove to be a lucrative enough endeavor. I fell upon hard times; in order to keep up with my addiction and pay for games I was forced to steal from family members, sell precious heirlooms, and give bowling lessons. Sometimes I would have to whore myself out in the bathroom for a measly quarter so that I could call my parents for a ride home. I finally hit rock bottom when early one Sunday morning I used my tried and true blue ball to break into the bowling alley at 4:30 in the morning to get in a few dimly lit games before church.

What was once a healthy obsession had brought out the worst in me, and I was forced to enroll in a ten frame program sponsored by the PBA (Perturbed Bowlers Anonymous). With my life coach by my side, I stayed clean from all bowling related activities, sans one Silver Strike Bowling incident. And that was only after I saw that someone had replaced me at the top of the leaderboard.

But I've been clean ever since. 299 days. No bowling alleys, no lawn bowling, no skeeball, no bowling arcade games. I have burned all of my bowling jerseys, and donated my bowling shoes to Africa, where there are no bowling alleys. I wear my bowling ball around my neck to serve as a reminder of the adversity I faced, and the uphill battle it has been in an attempt to stay clean.

I will never be able to attend my children's birthday bowling parties, nor will I likely ever have the opportunity again to have a threesome with the handsomest three girls of the Camp Breton Bowling team. But I can't complain. I was able to rise out of the gutter and carry on with my life.

In retrospect, if I could do it all over again, there is no doubt in my mind that I would give bowling another try. Only I would have refused bumpers. Bumpers give you the false confidence that you need to succeed. They sugar coat the sport and motivate the novice in you to continue to play frame after frame after game, shielding you from the harsh reality that is the gutter of life. Had I never played with bumpers I would have gotten discouraged at an early age, said "fuck this", and taken up another past time instead, like Nintendo.

In life there are no bumpers. Face down the gutters. Roll your own fate.

And while I have your attention maybe I can persuade you to meet me in the alley, maybe spare me a match?

what would jesus not wear (lest he get himself crucified)

A Kashmir goat would never betray its wool coat for it to be made into a by product involving a turtleneck, or any other form of men's fashion that makes one's neck appear to be uncircumcized. Contrary to calling a dirty old man a goat and having inspired the goatee, these mammals hold themselves to a higher standard than most farm animals. While the scent of feta may suggest otherwise, the farmyard morals that goats abide by are second to only those of the cock. Doing their best to live above their name, goats really do not want to be seen anywhere near hickey territory, let alone be the scapegoat for such a heinous style.

But sheep. Never hesitating to sacrifice the wool off their back or backmeat under the wool on their back--whether providing the means to knit a masterpiece that has a neckforeskin or stuffing a rubust gyro--sheep do their best to maintain their exemplary Biblical status quo. Counting sheep to fall asleep or counting on sheep to provide the yarn to make a fugly Drummond sweater, a sheep's dependability is truly second to none. That being said, sheep are often referred to as "textile sluts", displaying no degree of pride or dignity when it comes to donating their wool goods for someone else's knitting pleasure.

Wool donors aside, with sweater season swiftly approaching it is important to take a moment and consider the implications that coincide with turtleneck sweater giving--whether you are the knitter or the knittee.

While sweaters serve to provide warmth and holiday cheer in the coldest months of the year, let it be known that the term "sheepish" was coined to describe the feeling one gets when forced to publicly don a particularly embarrassing sweater. Sweaters have the ability to self-deprecate an individual like no other article of clothing, to the same extent assless wool chaps would. The fact that a super model citizen can put on a sweater and suddenly feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing has to say something about the degrading nature of this garment. When you wear a turtleneck sweater you actually want to retreat back inside your turtleshell, cry reptile tears, then poke your head back out, tie a noose, hang yourself. Ironically, the sole benefit that a well-made turtleneck provides is protection from hanging oneself.

Select women can pull off a turtleneck sweater (when worn appropriately). However, men, truth be told, a turtleneck sweater looks best on the ground. And unless you are boys with Bazooka Joe, or have an extra long neck (in which case I strongly recommend neck rings), on the ground is where it should stay.

On a final note, if you EVER find yourself with a cold neck and a herd of sheep, tempted by Satan to shear the sheep, somehow make yarn, knit, knit and purl, knit and purl yarn into a turtleneck sweater, wear turtleneck sweater STOP. Ask yourself: What the Hell Would Jesus Wear?

Hint: he would not wear a turtleneck sweater. Homeboy had standards. Homeboy wore sheep bling instead. It's a shame nothing he did ever caught on.

warning: your reputation is at steak

Coinciding with the drastic advancement of television technology over the last several decades, the TV food technology we enjoy while fixated to the screen has graciously mimicked the same developmental curve. The standard that was was once grainy, 2D, and black and white is now defined as high def, 3D, in addition to coming standard with a magic wand with more buttons than the number of goosebumps on a cold Kardashian ass. What was once enjoyed as a four-course potpourri of your basic food groups, neatly segregated into their own compartments- has since amalgamated into bread-pocket form, capable of preserving unbearable molten hotness for the duration of a half-hour episode. While this may not seem to be a big ordeal when you are in full blown glazey-eyed zombie mode, don't tell the hard-working food scientists at Hot Pocket LLC that. Because it is. And even your grandpa knows it.

Stubbornly refusing to improve over the last 60 years ironically, is the technology of the microwave- the most crucial component in the eating-while-emotionlessly-entertained triad. With the exception of the "Swanson TV Dinner" button being replaced with the "Popcorn" button, microwaves still exist in their primitive form. This has left scientists with a catalystic constant in which generations of studies have been based upon. To microvent for a moment- scientists have identified the human genome, put a man on the moon, and cloned kittens, but heaven forbid you put a fork in the microwave you risk fucking up one of your most trusted household appliances, with nothing but guilty radiation rash to show for it. In addition to a Youtubey, potentially.

Society has grown to expect nothing less than the most up to date food technology when showing up for a TV dinner party. That being said, to offer a Swanson TV dinner to guests would be social suicide- only repentable by sticking your head in the microwave and pressing the "Ass Clown" button. In the day and age of Hot Pockets, Pizza Bites and flavor changing bubble gum, it is more acceptable to provide your guests with a self-contained entre infixed between microwaveable appetizers and dessert, than a faux four-course meal that needs both gasp, a spork and gasp, knife, hence, gasp, an apology.

Swanson may have revolutionized the microwave chef, however they also set the technological table for standards that even grandpa would nowadays demand.

Scratch the TV dinner. Opt for the T.G.I.Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Dip/Hot Pocket/Warm Delight combo instead. Commercial breaks were designed by the FCC for cooking up different courses. Years of scientific sweat and tears have been sacrificed to supply the general public with a fresh fusion of microwaveable flavors. Unless you are watching a movie Marathon on Lifetime, brought to you commercial-free thanks to a sponsorship from Swanson itself, in which an entire meal need be summoned in as few button presses as possible, take advantage of this exciting day and age where the TV dinner has evolved into la TV a la carte. If you are watching a Lifetime marathon, you probably have cats instead of friends. In which case a can of Friskies wet food will do.

If you were a cat friend, cloned or original, you would want the best. That means no dry food. If you were a human friend, the same can be said. That means no Swanson TV dinners.

make your music collection gay(er)

Sit on my lap and let me tell you how these things work