Reader Submitted Content: That One Time I Lived With A Lesbian

I’m straight. I can’t help it. Older lesbians would try to recruit me when I was in high school. Apparently I wasn’t aware that having soccer mom short hair instantly made me a lesbian. Fast forward to college and I was even known to kiss a girl or two. But kissing is fucking fun, so I’ll kiss whoever I want - and if it gives freshman boys boners, all the better!

I was also that loser girl who lived in the dorms all the way through senior year, but there was that one summer circa 2007 where I subleased a room in a house. I knew one of the guys living in the house, but not the other guy. And, of course, the other guy was this annoying vegetarian who didn’t have to pay rent because his daddy owned the house and still ate chicken flavored ramen noodles with the DEHYDRATED CHICKEN seasoning packet…because that’s what his fucking daddy bought him. And his annoying-as-fuck girlfriend (who desperately wanted to be that chick from Amelie) practically lived there too. She got mail there and would leave her laundry in the dryer and her SHOES ON THE TABLE. Not to mention their fucking dog that shat everywhere… ugh.

Enough about that. Things got real interesting when the “it’s okay to eat dehydrated chicken and call myself a vegetarian” guy’s sister moved into our happy, dog shit-filled abode. She was a lesbian, and she was in love with me. It wasn’t a big deal at first. She was super cool and we got along really well. She would say sexy sort of things to me occasionally and I didn’t mind, because I’m all open minded and shit. Granted, not open minded enough to go muff diving anytime soon, but still fairly open minded. She drank Bud Light like it was water and had a tattoo of a dinosaur on her arm that some drunk 15 year old gave her. I used to go the gay bar with her on Wednesday nights because there was unlimited pizza and keg beer for $5. With bitchy drag queens lurking around the corners and gay boys waiting to ironically grind on me to Cher(?), I was practically in heaven! That is, until my lesbian roommate decided that I was going to be her fake girlfriend. It was all because she accidentally drunkenly fucked this really gross girl, and the gross girl - surprisingly - fell in love with her and was pretty much stalking her. Any normal person would just confront the uggo and be like, “Sorry lady, mistake! Now leave me alone!” But this lezzie was no normal person. She decided it was a much better idea to say that I was her girlfriend and to constantly make out with me in front of the gross girl…. Why the hell did I go along with this? I can be pretty naive at times. It must be the whole Iowa childhood thing.

This cycle repeated itself for awhile, maybe a month or two. But things culminated one evening when we had some people over to consume massive amounts of Bud Light. I let a friend sleep in my bed because I thought it was a good idea to sleep in my lesbian roommate’s bed... With another dude... Because we were all gonna do it. Lezzie bitch passed out after a couple minutes, so it was just me and the dude going at it. We were making out, all was good and fun, but then the dude felt this warm wetness creeping towards him. That dumb bitch managed to piss herself and ruin my good time in her bed! Seriously! What a bitch! He decided that was a good opportunity to make his grand exit, so I stepped upstairs to see what was up. My friend was peacefully sleeping in my bed. WITH THE SHITTING DOG. Gross. So I went downstairs and slept on the couch. The lesbian had no recollection of the event and I kinda wanted to pretend it hadn’t happen. There were a few more gay bar adventures but it just wasn’t the same. I moved back into the dorms at the end of the summer and that was it.

But at least now I can say I’ve been pissed on by a lesbian.

I'm Faster Than My Shadow

Send you're RSCs to bnb@hotdogdayz.com


'Midji Freight Flickin'

Bemidji, MN, 6/21/10

If flicking is your thing, hit me up at thee.n.o.b@gmail.com Let's talk.


3 for 30

Last weekend I ran into an old friend who is totes birthing a turd baby because he’s on the verge of turning thirty. I realize it’s natural for him to have the panic shits about this stuff, but eventually I grew tired and finally told him to STFU about it already; and just follow these 3 simple rules:

Choose the right location.
College towns are no place for any self-respecting 30-year old. Now, that doesn’t mean any town that has a college. (For example, many cities have colleges, and I can think of no better place to turn thirty than in the city.) What it means is any town that is defined specifically by its college presence. Basically if you went to a state university, you’d best not be turning thirty there. You’ll have absolutely no chance of getting laid on your birthday or ever again because you just became the old guy that never left. And that’s the depressing kind of shit that college chicks hate. It’s weird because it’s just the opposite in the city. Girls in their twenties love dudes in their thirties. Which leads me to my next bit of advice…

Stay single or, if need be, get single.
There’s this big myth that once you turn 30 you should settle down and start procreating. Absolutely do not fall for this load of garbage! This age-old falsity was created by people that made that mistake and want everyone else to suffer for the rest of eternity because they did. There are so many potential having-the-time-of-my-life years that you can easily blow by participating in premature monogamy. Your early to mid-thirties are your last chance to summon the vigor of your youth and deliver the ferocious poundings that twenty-something women crave. The older you get the more your back hurts and the smaller your boner gets, so take advantage of time while it’s on your side. If kids are in the plans, wait until you’re like 38 or something and then find a woman that’s five to ten years younger than you. This way you’re not missing your fun-having window and she’s not missing her baby-having window.

Stay young.
Most importantly, don’t abandon your youth. If you were one of the lucky ones who stuck with punk rock beyond 8th grade you already know this. If not, well then, perhaps it’s time you get reacquainted with your younger self. Find new music, enthrall yourself new artistic endeavors, pick up the guitar again (or for the first time,) learn Ableton Live, ride a bicycle, etc. In order to stay young, it’s also important to take time to reflect. You know; start a blog where all you talk about is the salad days.

Fuck, you’re only 30.

Also, it’s never too early to start a vitamins-fish oils-glucosamine-skin care-sleep-water and reverse missionary routine.

(pic-Portland, OR, early 00s)

found downtown in the land of crooks *

Recent found items.

*Digable Planets

Casual Fridays: wear it, and wear it hard.


trash, won't pick it up. *

Recent found items.

*New York Dolls

Mahi Mahi

Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, Jan, 2010


Reader Submitted Content: Mad Love For The Mad

I love crazy people. I’m still fairly new in town and I haven’t met any people who are sufficiently crazy, but not too crazy, for my tastes. If you’re gonna ask me to play favorites, I think I like Bipolar Schizophrenics the most.

SamMy friend Sam is a good example of this. One time, when he was between medications, he had a psychotic episode where he walked into the local hospital back home and started claiming he had the power to heal. The staff put up with it for a couple minutes and then gently asked him to leave, but he refused cuz he was on a fucking mission from God! So they called security and that’s when he really flipped shit. He blacked out and punched a lady cop in the face, then promptly fell on his back and, according to him, “A stargate opened and my soul returned to me.” Then he went to in jail. He really is a teddy bear of a fellow when he’s properly medicated. I was talking to him a few days after the episode and he was like, “Yeah… the police report is actually pretty funny.” If you wonder where Sam gets his crazy, his dad is even worse. Pappa Sam is full blown Bipolar and batshit crazy to boot. He’s missing the tip of his left index finger and when he gets real riled up he calls it his “devil finger” and slams it on the table repeatedly in an attempt to get the devil out. He’s a fun guy to talk to, but you have to be very patient, especially when he tries to sell you a TV or something… even after you’ve repeatedly told him you aren’t interested. More often than not, he’ll try to play really bad country music loudly while you’re watching a movie too.

Fat Baby
Next on my list of all-star crazy friends is a cat named Fat Baby. I have no idea why he calls himself Fat Baby, but he has it tattooed down his forearm. For the longest time I thought it was just constantly scrawled in sharpie, but it was just a really bad tattoo. I’ve known him for a long time. He used to do dishes at this placed I’d got for brunch on Sundays when I was 16 or something. Then he did dishes at Perkins where I would hang out and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee cuz that’s what all the cool 17 year olds were doing. He somehow always managed to find me and talk to me about madness. I used to play bass in a punk band when I was 15 and he saw me play once. So he was always telling me what a good guitar player I was and how we should jam sometime. Ehh? Whatever. I always had to dodge that question. Then fast forward a couple years and he finds his way onto the scene. Most of us knew better than to let him do any drugs or drink any booze, but every once in awhile there’d be that kid who’d hand Fat Baby the pipe and then he would get craaaazy stoned. I’m really glad I missed the one night the boys let him try Tussin… aye. So anyways, one night he’s stoned out of his gourd and decides that I’m the only person in the room worth talking to. And he says something to the effect of “I have to listen to all the words that are coming out of everyone’s mouths all at the same time. You know why? Because it’s the voice of God speaking through everyone all around me.” This heavied the shit out of my poor 18 year old self. In retrospect, it isn’t all that bad, but it made me nervous. Especially when his crazy eyes were staring into my fucking soul. Or at my tits… one of the two. He also borrowed my ex’s bike and somehow managed to throw it under a train. We’re still not quite sure how that happened, but Fat Baby’s mind works in mysterious ways.

This guy was a real piece of work. He was obsessed with the local Catholic high school’s football team. He would frequently wear their football jerseys and occasionally wear the helmet to match. He also had a band called Motley Christ which had a different line up every time they performed. This was because he would ask people to play with him right before the show. I even performed once on some other girl’s bright pink guitar. He would sing songs about Jesus from lyrics he had written down in a beaten up notebook. The only one I ever remember was about how he wanted to find a girl who was willing to get down on her knees. And pray. I don’t think he saw the same humor in it that the rest of us did. He’s just always been around, as long as I can remember. All the way back to when I first started going to local punk shows at the tender age of about 13. I haven’t seen him in years, but I imagine he looks exactly the same. Fat, short, and bad. Usually pretty smelly. Still wearing that damn blue and yellow jersey.

God bless the crazies in my life. They keep things interesting. I don’t understand why they all have this serious God thing going on. Perhaps there’s a strong link between Christianity and insanity. Either way, I feel like they’ve made me more tolerant of all our crazy differences. Some folks are just more vocal about the madness that goes on inside of their minds. And those people are usually on lots of medication - and lots more fun than all the normal folk.

Send your RSCs to


Ea$y An$wer$ *

Bellingham, WA, early to mid '00s



Castleton Building

When I was first shown the shitty studio apartment at 220 East 19th, there was a crackhead passed out in the building entry way with Fritos spilled all over herself. I knew right then that this was going to be an interesting place to live. Most people probably would have said ”no thanks” and walked away right then. But not me. Living with my relatives was making it increasingly tough to have sex with girls and I had grown tired of going for a walk every time I wanted to partake in the time-honored tradition known as smoking pot. Plus, I could have my dog, Dylan in this place. And it wasn’t the suburbs, which I had promised myself at a very young age that I would never live. Besides, Fritos aren’t a bad snack; and they’re probably like a pounder burrito to someone who hasn’t eaten in a week. Who am I to judge? I said fuck it and signed a lease.

Aside from three horrendous, whining-at-the-door-please-get-me-the-fuck-outta-here hours, Dylan never lived with me. I couldn’t do that to him. Despite it being one of the only affordable pet-allowed rental neighborhoods in the city, Stevens Community is no place for a dog. I always felt bad for all the dogs I saw around the park. Including the Rottweiler named Conan that bit me in the ass after an intense stare down betwixt us. (The pussy waited until I was walking away.) Several times I wanted to walk up to the just-once-around-the-block-take-a-shit-now!-so-I-can-go-back-to-watching-TV dog walkers and tell them they were fucked up assholes for forcing a dog to live in an apartment. (Or for letting their pussy-ass Rottweiler bite me in the gluteus maximus.) Of course, maybe they weren’t so fortunate to have a wilderness-bound mother willing to take care of their dog. Dylan went to live with Mom up north.

I stayed in Stevens.

For five long years.

Despite never getting used to the crackheads, crack dealers, crackwhores and unfortunate asshole dog-owners, I still had a lot of good times there. I got to have sex with some girls; and was finally able to once again get high from my own couch…which may or may not have resulted in the consumption of several bags of Fritos.

220 E 19th St, Mpls, Mn, '00-'01

Jesus, look at that vinyl spread. Atmosphere's Lucy Ford EPs, Lifter Puller-Fiestas & Fiascoes, Dillinger Four-Midwestern Songs of the Americas, Quincy Punx-Nutso Smasho and both the early Menstrual Tramps 7 inches. What a fucking scenester.


Blew Monday: Lablay

Winnipeg Folk Festival, Bird's Hill Park, Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, early July, 90s-00s ???


All The Guys Are Here

The t-shirts I was talking about said I Survived Beer Camp 2000 and we all wore them proudly...even though none of us had technically survived yet. Depending on which definition of survival you use, those t-shirts may have been false advertising. Come to think of it, there are in fact people I have not seen since. Hmmm? Anyway, everyone got exceptionally wacky, parents were sworn in front of, street dance stages were hijacked and there may or may not have been a late-night "joint subcommittee" on a trampoline. Also there was lots of beer back at camp. At least at the start of the weekend.

Beer Camp, Staples-Motley, MN, Summer '00

Casual Fridays: Sleep is the Cousin of Fucked With


You Being A Pussy Is Really Harshing My Gig

You know what really pisses me off? Fear.

With the one exception being success, I’m not afraid of a goddamn thing. (Ok, well, what I mean is besides Juggalos, Sur 13, real life Germans and going too fast down a mountain or really large hill on a snowboard or bike, success is the only thing I’m afraid of.) So it’s not my fear per se, but rather other people’s fear that piss me off.

Today a friend sent me an email titled this is what I would do if I saw a frog with a link to this video of overpaid, fairly hot, terrible actresses being scared of snakes. Other than the fact that the blonde one looks good in skinny jeans, the video makes me more irritable than Justin Beiber at an Australian TV taping.

The mere thought of people being so scared of something that they can't even think about it, let alone see it, fills me with blood-boiling rage. Why? I’m not sure. And I’m not ready to figure that out yet. Instead I'd rather bitch about a few other people’s fears for a moment.

My gf is afraid of tickling. Fucking tickling! Are you kidding me? Who the fuck is afraid of tickling? You’re fucking laughing for chrissakes. You know what laughing is? It’s the end result of fun. You’re laughing because you’re having fun, goddamnit! She can't even think about tickling. If I even pretend I’m going to tickle her she cowers in fear or runs away or screams at me to stop. Then I have to feel bad for trying to have fun. Basically she’s afraid of not only having fun but also pretending to have fun. I don’t get it. Gawd, it makes me angry. Seriously, what’s more fun than tickling?

Let’s back up a minute shall we...

Frogs? Gedafuckouttahere. You’re afraid of frogs? What did a frog ever do to you? I think you're real fear is the theory of evolution. Besides, do you know how easy it is to kill a frog? All it takes is a foot. You got a foot don’t you? If you're lucky it will only take one stomp. Prefer to get creative and watch it die a slow death? Pick it up and throw it on an ant hill. You should never be afraid of something you can kill. Plus, they are like so totes cute. And they definitely don’t deserve to die, so stop thinking that way and get over it, you creep; you’re pissing me off.

Yes, blimps. Believe it or not I know someone that is afraid of blimps. When asked why, this is what she said.

“They just aren't right! They explode, they look weird, they are completely unnecessary, and they hover around like some creepy lurker.”

Oh, my bad, I didn't realize "blimps" was slang for New Yorkers or Texans. Listen, I’m not a huge fan of either one myself, but there is no reason to be afraid of them. Their obstrusive, hey-look-at-me presence is just a way to cover-up the massive insecurities that come with living a bubble; albeit a large bubble, but a bubble nonetheless. Learning that they do not in fact actually live in the center of the universe is a hard pill for them to swallow. Truth is they are intimidated by you. And for crying out loud, it makes no sense to be afraid of something that is afraid of you. Now get a grip before I pop a blood vessel.

Oh, how original. Congratulations Indiana Jones, you’re boring. Let me guess, you’re afraid of spiders and mice too. What you should be afraid of is taking a long hard look in the mirror and realizing you’ve made it this far without thinking for yourself. Christ, find your own fear already. You make me so angry I could poop a hemorrhoid.

If everyone could just stop being a bunch of pussies that would be great.


Reader Submitted Content: Band Life-Scathing Sexpose!

I’m in a band. Big deal, right? Me and 75% of everyone else in this damn town play in a band. I swear my band has more drama than any other band in town. Probably because my band has more members than any other band in town. At the rate of growth we’ve hit, we’ll be folk Polyphonic Spree in no time! The other source of drama is that we have boys and girls in the band. Boys and girls who all either want to fuck each other or are actually fucking each other. I know this breaks the cardinal rule of being in a band, but some of us have very strong libidos and little common sense. Some of us--meaning me, for the most part. It also doesn’t help that we’re a bunch of alcoholics. But c’mon, I think it may be illegal to play country music sober. I’m definitely the worst culprit when it comes to the intra-band relations. At least I’ve stopped trying to get into my bass player’s pants. He’s too busy being in love with the violin player so he always shoots me down. Unfortunately, she’s also dating his best friend from college. And has been for like, 5 years. They’re practically married for Pete’s sake! But he cannot seem to get over her or realize that she’s never going to leave him. In his defense, she does nothing to alleviate his lust. They hang out all the fucking time and she emails him every morning and I’m pretty sure she just loves the attention. But I’m not one to judge; I love attention just as much as anyone else. I do have a serious problem with drummers. We just acquired a new drummer and he is fucking gorgeous. He’s also dumb as a box of rocks. Remember the overactive libido I mentioned earlier? It also comes paired with very little self control. And I happen to have a soft spot for both drummers and stupid pretty boys. So he practiced with us for the first time this week and after a few too many beers, his cock mysteriously ended up in my mouth. And most of my hand up his ass! I love when super hetero guys take it up the back door. I’d be down for future violations of his rectum, but only time will tell, I suppose. Now that I think about it, I appear to be the source of most of this band drama. Maybe I should quit the band. Maybe I’m what’s holding us back from fame and fortune. Or maybe I’ll stick around and we’ll just continue to fuck each other until the inevitable band orgy happens. Then we break up and never speak to each other again. Oh the shame!

-name & band withheld at author's request

If you'd like to contribute something (words, pics, flicks, reviews or anything really,) send your submissions to: bnb@hotdogdayz.com, subject: Reader Submitted Content, followed by the title. Remain anonymous or use your internet handle or real name or whatever. Feel free to include links as well.


Blew Monday: Closing Night

Nymore House Closing Night, Nymore-Bemidji, MN, mid 90s