jay busse's Open Salon Blog

Brett Favre Cuts My Heart Out and Tosses it for a Touchdown

Fri, 6 Nov 2009 04:11:57 -0500

Sunday was a day of terrible inner strife. Suffering through Brett Favre throwing daggers threw my (and my beloved Green Bay Packers) heart.

Like any divorce, love and hate ride the same train ready to get off at any stop.

The conductor hollered, "This stop: Love and Hate disembark on Lambeau Field."

Both sides feeling wronged, this was going to get ugly... I am the child caught in the middle of an UGLY divorce.

Even Hitler was displeased with Favre signing with the Vi-queens:

Evidently I was the only one who watched the first meeting between these two teams.

Brett Favre had all day to throw, their kicker kept us pinned deep in their territory.

Our special teams played like they were special needs people. Aaron Rogers was beaten to a pulp and still we had a chance to win.

Here's what I would've worked-on for the second game:

Tackle people wearing purple. Special teams units have only one thing to do. Stop the opposing teams runner from running. If you can do it deep in their territory with a little panache, so much the better.

Punters need to punt the ball farther or admit we can't tackle and kick it into an open area.

Kickers need to kick the ball deeper. Or we should get people who can.

Field goal kickers: Kick the ball through those big fucking yellow posts please.

For the love of spam (A Hormel Product that feeds the troops), protect Aaron Rogers. Quick passes gashed the Vi-queens in the first game, yet we went back to 47-step drops and let Aaron get lambasted. Good work!

By definition "Receivers" receive... catch ball. Most did a great job... someone dropped a gumball in the endzone.

Cut-back on Penalties. George Patton said he didn't like to pay for the same real estate twice. I said cutback on penalties because their are good penalties... use your large melons well.

Blocking would be nice. Run the ball or a screen or anything to ruin the timing of the opposition's pass rush... Call and tell them their mother passed away if you have to.

Get great looking or really obese cheerleaders wearing no panties. If you're an offensive linemen: Tell them you have a communicable disease...

At the very least: distract them with a sock puppet.

Or watch the tapes and get help where necessary so I don't have to fly back to Wisconsin to attend Aaron's funeral... next week.

Brett Favre still has a gun and we gave him all day.

It wouldn't matter if the best defensive backfield ever assembled played for the Packers... Given time, a mediocre QB would slice and dice'm. This is Brett Favre, a legendary master-chef preparing a feast of sitting duck.

"Must I suffer the slings and arrows"... of my beloved Brett Favre carving my heart out with a spoon?"

Et too Brettus?

The silver lining was Aaron Rogers once again brilliant performance in the face of overwhelming odds. The "odds" being foaming at the mouth, man-mountains, raining down upon him.

Tackle more better.

Block somebody

Run away from enemy on offense or into enemy on defense .

Run plays like real men have sex: quickly and selfishly.

Kick ball gooder.

The schizophrenia that was my Sunday need not be so painful. I can root for both my beloved Packers and the Brett of my youth without pain.

As long as Brett plays well and loses to the Packers.

Sunday, every time he faded back to pass, I saw my heart in his hands. With razor sharp precision he threw my heart downfield and it was grasped in the hand of my enemy. I watched the enemy celebrate in the end zone by taking bites from my still-beating heart...

To my beloved Green Bay Packers: Please stop the Vi-queens reign of terror.

My achy-breaky just can't seem to understand.

The Exodus - Meaningless Little Scenes of Trivial Pursuit

Sun, 1 Nov 2009 01:11:23 -0400

The Exodus

Blood dripped onto my bright white bathroom rug. It was only a flesh wound. I could self-diagnose due to the fact the new bullet wound was next to an old bullet wound.

"That fuck ruined my rug." I thought, leaning against the bathroom door-jam, readying myself for my big-push to the toilet seat.

With one great expense of energy I pushed myself from the door, grabbed a towel and landed hard on the toilet seat. Dammit, now I'll have to tighten the seat back down.

My anger swelled as I applied the towel to the wound on my left shoulder. I was lost in rage.

Once I flushed the burrito I had for lunch, I'd have the chance to be mad at the fucktard that shot me.

Right now my rage was directed at the sonofabitch that sold me the burrito. That thing sank so hard in my stomach, screaming to get out, I cramped-up just as I saw the guy's gun pointing in my general direction.

Not able to react to anything but the fucking burrito ripping through my colon like a roller-coaster, the guy got two crappy shots-off before I could fart in his general direction.

From the standing fetal position I was able to pull my gun and aim through the pain of the burrito, the burning sensation of the hole in my shoulder paled in comparison.

Now for my Exodus and then off to have the bullet wound sown-up and to have a chat with that bastard that sold me the burrito.

One guy's armed with a gun, the other a burrito. Who would've thought the incompetence of the burrito guy almost got me killed?

The burrito guy's gonna be doing his own exodus after I force him to eat his own work...

Raiders of The Lost Art/Writer Meltsdown/Kills Babies

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 04:10:54 -0400

I killed my babies and they deserved it...

Raining and overcast, a perfect day for a pleasant read. I settled-in and picked out one of my own screenplays to enjoy.

It was 1997, I'd been writing for about 7 years...

At first it was only a twinge of discomfort. The words were not arranged as I thought I'd arranged them. They lay stillborn on the page, dead on arrival.

With each word the twinge of discomfort morphed into an irritating, burning sensation.

I decided some wine would douse the flame before it got out of hand.

Oddly, the alcohol fueled the fire already fanned by vapid winds conjured by my own words. Flames swirled inside the cauldron sitting on my shoulders. Each word added to my disappointment, turning to anger.

I longed for the calming, simplistic beauty of the blank page. To my dismay I had continued to fill pages with lifeless words.

I had moved to a ghetto and lived in an inefficient efficiency three years prior, hoping to gain "perspective" for my writing.

I witnessed a new world, as strange as Man's first step on our Moon to a person from an idyllic bubble world.

A world devoid of hope, alive with anger and resentment.

I was, at best, depressed. I fanned through several more of my scripts, pausing momentarily hoping the words were not so inflammatory. One by one I tossed the scripts into a pile.

This new "perspective" was elusive. I hadn't written anything new in three years, just puttered along on old stories.

I wondered if my depression had killed my writing or had it been dead all along?

I continued to read my mediocre magnum opuses, the rain hammering the roof, growing ever more disappointed and ever more angry at the evil laughter taunting me through the flames in my head.

Through my bloodshot eyes my words turned to embers, floating harmlessly to the ground.

I remembered the wine and the rain as I washed the blood from my hand. The wine was not the fuel, the words were the fuel.

The glass in the frame I punched was the cause for the blood trickling down the sink to the drain. If bleeding am I not still a prick?

In a moment of liquid lucidity, I wrapped my hand in a towel and went to work maniacally detaching cords from the computer. Eyes glazed-over with rage, hand wrapped in a towel, I marched the computer down the steps (as though leading a murderer to the gallows, then unceremoniously dumping the body in a mass grave).

The dumpster/mass grave soon contained the monitor, keyboard, discs, printer and scripts... all complicit in the offensive writing I had just read.

The flames in my cauldron burnt bright.

Three years in the ghetto had finally given me the perspective I so desperately sought. The vast wasteland I had created was clear. The crimes against originality, the complete disregard for creativity or humanity in search of the habitat of the elusive and endangered Original Voice were my fault.

I had created worlds devoid of creativity, originality... life.

What I failed to notice was the flicker of originality that fueled this blitzkrieg on my own words. The perspective I had so desperately desired, the original voice I set-out to find, was dispatching the old words as though they were infidels.

I am not quite arrogant enough to set myself up as the Lord Judge and Jury for others. I am, however, the Lord Almighty of the worlds I create. Blissfully ignorant that I'd neglected to imbue my children with life and passion.

I was a false god, in my hurry for completion, I had created a Frankensteinian monster. My words were no more than dead-eyed zombies glaring back at me, mocking the typing I mistook for the craft of writing.

Worlds devoid of original thought or creativity: Genesis Not.

In this apocalyptic flood of disappointment there were no survivors. Noah drown.

The rapture came and went. The flames extinguished in a tsunami of ideas. When the waves pulled back from the shore, gone were the dead-eyed zombies.

In their place was a new world inhabited by living-breathing, bright-eyed characters.

My 450 square foot hovel runneth over with notes. At the end of The Usual Suspects they glance around the room and realize they've been played. I was played.

The new voice, the new script was there in the post-it notes. I dreamt it. I saw the movie (in bits and pieces over a year).

I bought a new computer and wrote more words (My apologies to the world).

~~~

We are all on a selfish somewhat delusional journey, we all think ourselves better and more deserving. This excerpt was part of my journey and I wouldn't change a thing.

Originality, creativity... striving to be the best you can be is to be commended. Civilization is created for the betterment of Man (in theory).

Shine a light in the darkness and we may discover things that amaze or confuse or destroy old dogma. Civilization gives the time for artists to thrive. If Leonardo da Vinci was a hunter/gatherer he'd have no time for art or science or discovery.

I've mellowed a tad.

~~~
If life seems jolly rotten,
there's something you've forgotten... (Whistle Now)

Thank you Monty Python

Raiders of The Lost Art of Creativity/Writer Kills Babies

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 19:10:50 -0400

I killed my babies and they deserved it...

Raining and overcast, a perfect day for a pleasant read. I settled-in and picked out one of my own screenplays to enjoy.

It was 1997, I'd been writing for about 7 years...

At first it was only a twinge of discomfort. The words were not arranged as I thought I'd arranged them. They lay stillborn on the page, dead on arrival.

With each word the twinge of discomfort morphed into an irritating, burning sensation.

I decided some wine would douse the flame before it got out of hand.

Oddly, the alcohol fueled the fire already fanned by vapid winds conjured by my own words. Flames swirled inside the cauldron sitting on my shoulders. Each word added to my disappointment, turning to anger.

I longed for the calming, simplistic beauty of the blank page. To my dismay I had continued to fill pages with lifeless words.

I had moved to a ghetto and lived in an inefficient efficiency three years prior, hoping to gain "perspective" for my writing. I had witnessed a new world, as strange as Man's first step on our Moon to a person from an idyllic bubble world.

A world devoid of hope, alive with anger and resentment.

I was, at best, depressed. I fanned through several more of my scripts, pausing momentarily hoping the words were not so inflammatory. One by one I tossed the scripts into a pile.

This new "perspective" was elusive. I hadn't written anything new in three years, just puttered along on old stories. I wondered if my depression had killed my writing or had it been dead all along?

I continued to read my mediocre magnum opus, the rain hammering the roof, growing ever more disappointed and ever more angry at the evil laughter taunting me through the flames in my head.

Through my bloodshot eyes my words turned to embers, floating harmlessly to the ground.

I remembered the wine and the rain as I washed the blood from my hand. The wine was not the fuel, the words were the fuel. The glass in the frame I punched was the cause for the blood trickling down the sink to the drain. If bleeding am I not still a prick?

In a moment of liquid lucidity, I wrapped my hand in a towel and went to work maniacally detaching cords from the computer. Eyes glazed over with rage, hand wrapped in a towel, I marched the computer down the steps (as though leading a murderer to the gallows, then unceremoniously dumping their bodies in a mass grave).

The dumpster/mass grave soon contained the monitor, keyboard, discs, printer and scripts... all complicit in the offensive writing I had just read.

The flames in my cauldron burnt bright.

Three years in the ghetto had finally given me the perspective I so desperately sought. The vast wasteland I had created was clear. The crimes against originality, the complete disregard for creativity or humanity in search of the habitat of the elusive and endangered Original Voice was my fault.

I had created worlds devoid of creativity, originality... life.

What I failed to notice was the flicker of originality that fueled this blitzkrieg on my own words. The perspective I had so desperately desired, the original voice I set-out to find, was dispatching the old words as though they were mediocre infidels.

I am not quite arrogant enough to set myself up as the Lord Judge and Jury for others. I am, however, the Lord Almighty of the worlds I create. Blissfully ignorant that I'd imbued my children with life and passion.

I was a false god, in my hurry for completion, I had created a Frankensteinian monster. My words were no more than dead-eyed zombies glaring back at me, mocking the typing I mistook for the craft of writing.

Worlds devoid of original thought or creativity... Genesis Not. In this apocalyptic flood of disappointment, in worlds of my own creation, there were no survivors. Noah drown.

The rapture came and went. The flames extinguished in a tsunami of ideas. When the waves pulled back from the shore, gone were the dead-eyed zombies.

In their place was a new world inhabited by living-breathing, bright-eyed characters.

Ready to start anew with a god that had learned something (although their request for freewill was denied).

~~~

A year passed. Computer gone, just post-it notes everywhere.

I had to write notes, they let me sleep. Racing-brain does not allow sleep.

My 450 square foot hovel runneth over with notes. At the end of The Usual Suspects they glance around the room and realize they've been played. I was played.

The new voice, the new script was there in the post-it notes. I dreamt it. I saw the movie (in bits and pieces over a year).

I bought a new computer and wrote more words (My apologies to the world).

~~~

We are all on a selfish somewhat delusional journey, we all think ourselves better and more deserving. This excerpt was part of my journey and I wouldn't change a thing.

Originality, creativity... striving to be the best you can be is to be commended. Civilization is a created for the betterment of Man (in theory).

Shine a light in the darkness and we may discover things that amaze or confuse or destroy old dogma. Civilization gives the time for artists to thrive. If Leonardo da Vinci was a hunter/gatherer he'd have no time for art or science or discovery.

I've mellowed a tad.

~~~
If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten... (Whistle Now)

Thank you Monty Python

2009 Battle of the Bartenders Fundraiser for Troops/Kids

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 03:10:17 -0400

The 2009 Sonoma Battle of the Bartenders is in the books. Debauchery in the name of charity, what could be better?

We had over 700 revelers helping us raise money for The Native Sons of the Golden West and The American Legion. Much needed money for our troops and children's charities.

In these tough economic times we were able to almost match our record year. Thank you to all the participants, donors, volunteers and revelers.

The Whiskey Thieves topped off the evening by rocking Sonoma to the core. Codi Binkley was pitch-perfect as master of ceremonies! Sorry I forgot the Jameson. I hope the Patron and Jim Beam Black helped you fight off the evils of sobriety. We love you guys!

Gloria Ferrer generously provided added fun with their: Glorious Gloria Ferrer Sparkling Cocktail Contest. Thank you Gloria Ferrer!

Carolyn Mulas doggedly worked to provide liquor sponsorship by Pernod Ricard (which was consumed in mass quantities and appreciated).

The competing bars and restaurants provided great libations and tasty food. The food was needed to combat the effects of the booze... Thank you!

We the little people of the world were able to contribute in a small way to bettering the lives of others AND have fun doing it!

There are just too many people to thank. But let me just say we would not be able to do this without the generous contributions and donations from our friends.

Roxanne you rock! A little name dropping to make us all look better: Thank you: Benziger Family Winery, Tommy Smothers, John and Nancy Lasseter, Steve Stricker, St. Francis Winery, Mulas Family Winery,The Native Sons of the Golden West, The American Legion... So many people contributed, it's all a blur.

We can now look back on all our hardwork and know we have done a little something to make the world a little better than it was the day before.

Thank you all!

www.sonomabarbattle.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know this isn't technically OS related, but it is one of the reasons I haven't had time to write. Also, posting it on OS gets linked to other sites, which reach more people I need to thank.