Hey...

Hey...

It's been a while laid a rap on y'all, but it's fuckin' fishtail season in Ann Arbor. I spent the morning whippin' shitties behind the Pick N' Save. Later on, I am going out to work on my high-speed four-wheel drift. Yeah, baby.

That's the thing most of you don't realize- it takes plenty of practice and hard work to become Anchower. You don't just get out on the strip and lay rubber like a champ on your first try. Fools like that only end up stalled at the green light, with the little grommets pointing and laughing. That shit takes hours of practice on deserted streets late at night. You don't just whip a fishtail around your first corner on the first snow of the year. You gotta know your ride intimately, and practice that shit on baseball fields and golf courses in the warmer months. Then, when the other fools are spun around backwards on The Strip, you whip an expert fishtail past them and kick up snow on the loseres pushing their car out of the snowbank. It's an Art, really. The Art of Anchower. 

Anyhow, I got a new gig that affords me a lot of free time and a lot of free shit. And if you know Anchower, you know Free Shit is practically my middle name. Except my shit. It don't mean I give away my shit for free. 

I work up at the Eagle's Wings adult manor as a janitor. That's right, an old folks home. Now, I know you're thinkin', "that don't sound very cool." Trust me, it's cool. First off, I can come to work stoned to the bejesus, and ain't nobody even knows, cause all them wacked out old people wouldn't know good weed if they had a frisbee full right in front of them. So, I spend a lot of time in the maintenance closet, kinda hiding out and taking naps, which brings me to the other bonus part- ain't nobody complainin' about the job Jim Anchower does. Them old folks ain't like the snotty customers at the Gas N Sip, what with their "I wanna talk to your manager, what's your name?" all squinty at my fucking name tag, like you don't know I'm the fucking Anchower.

So, I leave the maintenance closet a few times during my shift and just push this big mop around and ignore the old farts. See, the beauty is that if they complain, ain't nobody gonna believe 'em, since their just a bunch a batty old bags. But anyway, I mentioned free shit, and free shit there is. They got all kinds a pills just layin around the place and I snage whatever I can and sell it to Dale and Wes at a tidy mark-up. Those fucks'll take anything. Also, I got access to all the toilet paper and paper towels I can carry out at the end of my shift. Now, I know it don't sound like much, but hey, man, with all the Taco Bell I eat... not to mention that with the sale down at Fuzzy's Liquor, I can get Old Milwaukee bar bottles for fuckin' $ 4.99 a case. And every dollar I don't spend on toilet paper is another 5 beers in my frig.

If there was some way I could get Rhonda from food service into the maintenance closet to give me an occasional hummer, I think I'd stick it out at Eagle's Wings forever, man.

Ah, it's nice to have the world by the balls, but that's all just part of bein' the Anchower.

(January 31, 2002)

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Hey...

It's been a while... since I been addicted. It's been a while... since I posted here.

But I gotta say: THE FUCK?!?!?!

You snack-size lightweights throw a fiesta and forget to invite the Jumbo-Daddy-Family-Size-Price Club of partiers, The Anchower?

Again: THE FUCK!?!?

Ev-er-y-bo-dy knows Jim is the rockinest, rollinest, drinkinest, smokinest, most legendary puller of wool in the U S of Fuckin' A. And when I say Fuckin A, I mean it, man.

I even got connections in AC, man. I know this chick, Maria, who works in a casino there. We coulda got the high roller treatment. She pulls that change cart around to all the old fucks playin slots. 

Everyone knows slots are for losers, man... but then again, considering the boner you pulled forgetting to invite me, I bet you guys were right there with the catfood-eating, white-hair zombies at the nickel slots, pluggin away. Christ. A little class, people. At least go video poker for quarters.

Chicks... do... not... dig... slot... players.

A ladies' man like myself plays craps, cause that's where the action's at. The bitches sling the drinks at a Player like me and hang on me like a bad suit, yo. But that's another story.

I can-not believe you amateurs did not have the decent party sense to call in a proven professional like Anchower. You minor-leaguers probably didn't even ice the bong. If there even was a bong. Shee-yah. I am picturing coke cans with holes punched in them and poorly-rolled jibbas on EZ-widers, which everyone knows is for rookie rollers. God, the thought of it turns my party-hearty guts inside out like a 2 AM microwave burrito.

And bitches, by God, where were the bitches? Anchower's got the bitches like light's got switches. I know another chick who works the buffet line at Trump's place man. Practically a direct line from Anchower to Donald, man.

Don't you fucks know how ta get hold a me? I know I ain't all "tech-savvy," but I do get to use my ma's WebTV when she is at church bingo on Thursdays. Plus, you coulda just rolled up the strip in Ann Arbor and asked anyone, "Hey man, we're lookin' for Anchower."

You'd a found me.

But don't cry. It's on-ly teenage wasteland. 

(10-22-01)

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Hey...

How's it hangin'? It's always hangin' low and swingin' free for Anchower... I got so much shit goin' down it ain't even funny.

There is this chick, Natalie, who is sweatin' me big time. I know she wants the hog, but, as Jimi says, she knows what she wants..... but she just doo-oon't know... how ta go.... about gettin' it. Music sweet music, she wishes she could caress... and kiss ... Anchower's Hog it's a frustratin' mess!

Here's the deal. Every morning, without fail, I rip two bongloads and walk down to the Kwik Trip on the corner by my apartment. Some people like coffee, but not Anchower. I need somethin' a bit more extreme, to suit my lifestyle, so I drink a couple 20 oz. Dews every morning, and a pack of Ring Dings. This is just the pick-me-up for a man on the go like myself.

Natalie works the morning shift at Kwik Trip where I get my Dew, and she is hot. Scorching. Let's face it, some chicks dig a man with a daily routine, and some prefer a man who is unpredictable -- a bit dangreous, if ya know what I mean.

Now, I am a mystery to Natalie. I stroll in every morning with my walkman on, just cranking the tunes. A man wearing a walkman intrigues most chicks. He is mysterious, and knows what he wants. He can't be bothered to wait til he gets into his car to hear his tunes, and he wants them Loud. Another thing is that a chick can just stare at a dude with a walkman, cuz she figures he ain't payin' attention and won't bust her scopin' him out.

But when it comes ta chicks, nothin gets past Anchower. I've seen this Natalie checking me out. I usually bust through the door like I own the place and walk with a purpose to the Pepsi-product cooler. I do not hesitate or think things over. I grab my two 20 oz. Dews and stride to the Ring Dings, then to the coutner. I am pretty much all business, aside from the occasional pause for an air guitar solo or some such necessity.

As I am in my wake-up phase, I usually jam somethin' totally rockin' and turn it up. Perhaps a selection from Judas Priest or maybe the Scorpions. There's unpredictability for ya. You know how it is.

I never even take off my walkman or turn it down when I am checking out. I just stare at her mouth and act like I am reading her lips, then toss the money on the counter. Never hand it to the cashier, always toss it like money ain't nothin' to ya.

Then I grab my shit and leave. No bag. No receipt. Just like a gust of wind, I am gone. A burst of mysterious coolness blowin' through the Kwik trip in the early mornin', and Natalie starin' at my back as I go, wondering who is that masked man?

"Hmmm. He has a routine, and that's kinda cool, but obviously, he ain't no predictable suit and tie type. The Dew tells me that. And the walkman. This man is a contradiction, and I need his hog." Or somethin' like that, I'm sure.

Then last week, I break my routine, just to wet her appetite. I pay for my shit, then instead of leavin', I crack a Dew and head to the Galaga machine across from the counter. I drop in my change and begin annihalating aliens like you never seen. I never take off my walkman, and I never turn from the machine. But I can tell she is checkin' me out. A couple kids gather to watch my other-worldly prowess, lettin' my ships get captured on purpose, and then shootin' down the ship-totin' alien like it ain't no thing at all... to create the ever dangerous double-ship attack.

They all know this mystery man is good. Real good.

Then, just like that, the High Score is mine. And I walk out of the Kwik Trip with the "_AA" where ya enter yer name just blinkin'. 

Cuz there is nothin' cooler than a guy who just strolls in outta nowhere, nails the high score like it's nothin, then don't even care if his name goes on the list. Them kids just scramble for the privilege ta put their initials on there, and I walk out like I don't give a shit.

Cuz that's they way it is in the world of Anchower.

(8-21-01)

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Hey...

Wassup amigos?

It's been a while since I dropped some knowledge on ya, but I been busier than a tampon salesman at Vulvapalooza lately. I been through a few jobs recently, through no fault of my own. Like there was a sign sayin' "Don't Throw Your Roach in the Greasetrap."

I coulda sued them fuckers. They got no idea how easy I let 'em off on that one.

Anyway, I'm here to address some rumors that are makin' the rounds on the strip. Seems that some people seem to think that Anchower ain't got it any more. That Anchower went out to California and lost his mojo. That Anchower had ta come crawlin' back to Ann Arbor and live in his mom's basement. That Anchower ain't got it with the ladies no more.

Well, let me tell ya, I am still the rockinest guy to ever lay rubber at a stoplight on the strip. I can outdrink, outsmoke, outfuck and outrock every single dude out there.

I invented the neutral drop. I've smoked more sets of tires than any a you fuckers even seen.

I discovered the party spot off old man Moylan's field off of Shaw Hill Road. I have single-handedly spawned three generations of partiers out at that spot. Half you little shits owe me thank you cards for losing your virginity out there.

Who found out that the all-female wait staff at the Chili's by the mall was on "the go team?" Me! Nobody had the balls to tap into that place til I laid the heavy groundwork with Tanya. Too bad about that greasetrap incident, though.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, can smoke weed like me. You all will be pie-eyed on the floor with the pizza crusts and I am sparking a fatty and runnin' game on the girlies.

OK, now I know there's gonna be young bucks comin' up the ranks, lookin' to take the title from the king of the cruise. The problem is, most you fags can't hang. But that's another story.

Like I said, there's always gonna be a new crop of dudes with a fresh set of rims, a quarter ounce of bud and head fulla attitude. The high school spits out a fresh batch every June.

See, the reason I am still on top is my vast repertoire of knowledge and experience with the ladies. These fuckin' kids don't know what's what. They may know what to do on paper, but when they step onto the field, they can't execute.

For example, say we've got a young kid with a nice ride, cruisin' the strip. He's got a bag of weed, a cooler of beer and the stereo cranked. He meets some chicks, he smokes 'em out, he feeds them some beers, he ditches her friends, he finds an isolated spot...

Now, this kid appears to have all the elements in place for a successful cruise. But no. He cranks Limp Bizkit or some shit, the chick either pukes or bails.

I seen it a million times.

It's what separates me from the herd, amigos. At that particular junction, discretely slipping in some REO would have you in the pink. I don't wanna sleep, I just wanna keep on lovin' you-ooooooooooou.

It's a very fine line between rockin' and scorin'. You gotta know when to flip the switches with the bitches that'll cut loose the juice.

That one's a freebie for y'all. Don't you worry bout ol' Jim. There's plenty more where that came from. That's why I am the king.

(8-02-01)

____________________________________________________

Hey...

Wassup, amigos? It's been a long time, been a long time, been a long, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time since I checked in with all y'all.

In the immortal words of Diamond David Lee Roth, "Summer's here and the time is right for dancin' in the streets." Speaking of Diamond Dave, man, that whole scene sucks. Just when Van Halen is pulling their heads out of their asses after 15 years of bullshit, Eddie up and gets cancer. Man. God probably gave it to him for putting that Extreme guy in the band. I tell ya, sometimes shit happens for a reason.

But, anyway, that's why I am here today. I am a little freaked out and I've been doing a lot of deep thinkin' lately.

It all started when I was cruisin' the strip. I was drivin' around with a frosty Old Mil and enjoying some smoky treats. I picked up Dale and we were giving these chicks a ride across town to Wal Mart. I had a tasty buzz going when Blue Oyster Cult came on the radio. Naturally, I cranked it up and me and Dale were singing along, "Ceasar don't feel the reefer! Nor do the wind and the sun and the rain!"

Tanya, one of the chicks in the car calls us a couple dumbasses and says we are singing the wrong words. She said the real words are "Don't fear the reaper."

I said, "No Way." This is a song about getting baked. Think about it- Come on baby. (Don't feel the reefer.) Baby take my hand. (Don't feel the reefer.) We'll be able to fly. (Don't feel the reefer.) Baby I'm your man.

Come ON!, I said. No way this song is about anything BUT weed. Much less a reaper. The hell's a reaper anyway?

The argument continued all the way to Wal Mart, cuz I was just convinced. I mean, I've been rocking to that cowbell and singin about reefer for like 20 years whenever that song comes on. 

Sure enough, we get to Wal Mary and Tanya goes in and swipes that very Blue Oyster Cult disc and shows us that the song is indeed Don't Fear the Reaper. Well, fuck me.

So, Tanya starts explaining that the Reaper is this gnarly death dude in black robes and shit, and when he comes from you, you're dead. Actually, that dude sounds fairly badass. I think I might name my bong "The Reaper." 

Later that night, after I dropped everybody off and go home, I look in my back seat, and there is that disc. So I bring it in, throw it on, and take a huge hit off The Reaper. I noticed that the disc had the words printed in it...

Man, that shit is deep. Now that I know what it means, I am a little freaked out. Together in eternity and whatnot. Forty thousand men and women come everyday. So I started thinking, man, maybe Eddie Van Halen fears the reaper. He fucked up perhaps the best rock and roll band ever. Sure, like all deals with the Devil, it looked good at first. I even bought 5150 and rocked it... I Got The Best... Of ... Both... Worlds.

But then like cancer itself, the evil of Hagar infested Van Halen and spread to its vital organs, turning the once mighty Edward and Alex Van Halen into whiny pussies, festering and getting worse until the tumorous OU812 showed up on the horizon. Finally, so riddled with this crazy curse, the Van Halen boys fire Sammy and hire that fag from Extreme. But not after teasing us with more Dave rumors. But it was not to be. This tragedy has ended.

Eddie, the Reaper has come for you.

Don't fear it, man.

(6-18-01)

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Hey...

Hola, amigos. Gettin' any?

Things are kickin' here in Ann Arbor with the arrival of summer. I have finally freed myself from the shackles of public transportation. No more will Anchower suffer the humiliation that is the bus. Funny enough, I bought one of my old rides back from my buddy, Dale. Well, traded, actually. 

See, before I left for California, I swapped my 1973 Ford Maverick for a half ounce of some weed. The weed turned out to be total ditch weed, so I went over to Dale's late one night, pulled the distributor cap and plugs, took the tires and the speakers. Since Dale don't know shit about cars, my car sat there on blocks in his old lady's yard for about six months. Turned out she hassled him so bad, he was ready to take anything to get that car out of his yard.

So, I worked out another swap with Dale. See, until I get back on my feet, I've been working at Animart. They sell dog food and lizards and shit, but I mostly clean up and haul shit around the back room. The money ain't that great, but I can do the job baked and that's all that counts. Well, Dale's got this 7 foot reticulated python. Even I have to admit, this is a righteous pet, man. Ain't nothin gets chicks hotter than knowin' a dude has the sack to keep a bad-ass, jungle-pig eatin' python as a pet. Except this one eats mice. Well, workin' out back, I had the opportunity to swipe a couple boxes of frozen mice, which I quickly turned into one 1973 Ford Maverick with dingleberries and dice.

Alas, though, in order to become a mobile par-tay, Anchower needed wheels and tunes. Since I was a bit strapped for cash, I had to really put on my thinking cap. And, when you are back living in your mom's basement, and your only way to score chicks is with your ride, you bet your ass that every ounce of Anchower's talents were used to solve this dilemma.

What I needed were some gullible high school kids, and a little time. 

I knew a some metalheads who used to score weed from us, and they asked us to buy them smokes and beer for a kegger out in Old Man Moylan's field. For a small fee, of course. That would be ten bucks, plus all the beer we could drink off the keg. On the way to the party, I made Dale stop and get four gallons of milk. About halfway through the party, I started talking shit to these four dudes and telling them that I bet there was no way they could drink a gallon of milk in a half hour and not puke for at least a half hour after.

As, I said, they were gullible high school kids. They are not wise in the ways of the world of party bets, like Anchower. I put up an eighth of herbs to one tire from each of them that they couldn't do it. They thought it was a weird bet, but they took the bait. Before you knew it, there were four longhairs barfing up two percent all over their Converse, and Anchower and Dale were jacking up mommy and daddy's rides, and wheeling tires over to Dale's car.

So, to make a long story short, the Anchower is back on the Cruise. Ladies of Ann Arbor beware. School's out for the summer, but Anchower will be giving private lessons.

I'm back, baby.

(5/15/01)

Hey...

I know it's been a while since I laid it down for ya, but Anchower has been a busy, busy man.

Things didn't pan out in California. I never did get my car fixed and had to take a bus back to Ann Arbor. People in LA don't know shit about rockin' anyway. You hardly even hear Zeppelin or the Scorpions on the radio out there. Nothin' rocks harder than the Scorpions. They named themselves after a badass loner who hangs out in the desert doin' cool scorpion shit. You see a scorpion, and what do you think?

You say to yourself, "I would NOT fuck with that thing."

And that's the way people think of Anchower, too.

Let me tell you this, though. I Will Never Ride On A Greyhound Again. No Fucking Way.

Buses are for losers, man. First off, who rides buses? I'll tell ya who. Old ladies, Mexican families and junkies. The smell was unbelieveable. You had the old ladies with their old lady smell. Then you had the mexicans with their frijole smell. Thank god I scored some weed off one of the junkies. I had to maintain a steady buzz just to survive. I practically lived in that little bathroom, which, believe me, was no spring meadow either. But what are you gonna do? I gotta keep it real.

This little old lady started talkin' to me about her feet swelling and her goiter and her grandchildren in Syracuse, and I had to put out some serious scorpion vibes. I got up and went into the bathroom for a one-hitter, then I sat down in another row. That's what a scorpion would've done.

Then you got the bus itself. Them things got nothin' off the line and absolutely no passing power. Freakin' thing's probably got like a V-16 engine and you couldn't smoke the tires on it even if you dropped the clutch. I figure when you go to bus driver school, they make you check your nads at the door.

Not to mention, no tunes! Think about what kind of system you could put into a bus. 6 foot high subwoofers powered by an amp and pre-amp with a separate gas powered generator for the juice. You could fill the whole back end with speakers. Serious window rattling power. But they didn't do that, and that's why it's Greyhound Bus Lines and not Badass Bus Lines or Poisonous Venom Bus Lines. Come to think of it, they could probably paint a lot cooler shit on the sides of the bus, too. Like dragons and chicks in bikinis. You can bet there would be a much cooler clientele on board.

And with no muscle, no tunes and no style on your ride, ain't no way you're scoring ANY chicks. We would stop in these podunk towns to pick up more mexicans and junkies, and maybe get a few minutes for a McDonalds break or something. Naturally, I gotta do my thing, and start layin' my rap down with the local ladies and everytime I would go to close the deal, I'd remember I was on the bus. Ain't no chicks nowhere wanna get with a guy who rides the bus. And if they do, run, cuz its probably a 70 year old fat mexican lady who thinks riding the bus is cool.

Man, if a scorpion ever had to get from LA to Ann Arbor, he wouldn't take no damn bus.

No doubt.

(4/24/01)

Hey...

Things ain't been so great for me out here in Cali. I came out here to capitalize on my innate ability to rock and score one of them pads you see on MTV Cribs, except I ended up breaking down in Barstow and spending most of my time working at In & Out Burger and tweaking on meth with these freaks who scrub their tile grout with toothbrushes at 5:15 A.M.

Fortunately, meth is cheap and not only was I able to save enough money for car parts, I was able to maintain the necessary focus to install these parts.

I finally made my way to LA and couldn't find anything in the want ads looking for dudes who rock, so I ended up working at In & Out Burger again and hanging out with meth freaks. But that's cool, cuz I got other plans.

I was watchin' a movie last night and Tom Cruise was in it. He was gettin' all fired up and talkin' about tamin' pussy and respecting the cock. And a buncha dudes paid to get this advice. Well, I got to thinkin', "Now that's the goddamn job for me."

Who knows more about scoring pussy than Anchower? Nobody.

Who else is more qualified to teach chicks to respect the Hog? Nobody.

So I started workin' on my "Do's and Don'ts" speech for chicks. For instance, never ask a chick for gas money on the first date. It just ain't classy. A man gasses up his ride before picking up his date. Now, if you think you ain't got enough scratch to pay for gas, that's OK. It don't mean you can't pull wool. You just need to resort to other tactics.

Like havin' her pick you up. Or tellin' her you want a romantic evening alone, and you twist a fatty for the occasion, get baked and watch a movie. Believe me, if the weed's good enough, it WILL feel romantic.

And also, if you don't have dough for dinner, just drive through somewhere cheap and eat outside someplace. Chicks think eating outside is romance. Gets 'em moist in no time. Plus, you can bring a cooler of your beverage of choice and save money on tips and such.

Anyway, I don't wanna give up ALL my secrets in this here place. You gotta pay to get the rest of the goods.

Respect the Hog. Tame the Trim. (I changed it so I don't get sued.)

I am an idea man.

(4/4/01)