Prophetic...

This is so how I feel most days.

Flashing lights! Flashing lights!

EDIT: Sorry, just realized that I'd disabled comments in the picture gallery. They're working now, I think. Test 'em out.

All you blog readers get it first, before it's linked from jakehallman.com - the brand-new photo gallery.

Right now it's shots from Eric Lee Beddingfield and County Line (hey, wait, I'm not in that picture!) shows, but there's going to be some other... interesting... stuff added later.

Music and such.

Don't know how many of you check out jakehallman.com, but I tossed up a whole bunch of music that I've done in the past few years up there.

I'll even spare you all of the pretty pictures - here's a direct link to the page.

Also, would any of you mind if I stopped hosting the site here and just had the whole darned shootin' match at stouthouse.org? You'd have to change some links, but that's not too much to ask, is it?

Oh, and keep the Jake Hallman links coming! I'm moving up in the rankings.

I laughed my butt (ass) off.

Memorable quotes from my interview with comedienne Etta May that will never, ever see the light of day at the newspaper where I work:

"With some comics, 'fuck' is the punchline. If that happens, you're screwed. Did you see Robin Williams? If he wasn't grabbin' his dick, he was saying 'fuck.'"

"You'd have thought I kicked their dog and shit on their floor."

"I feel like I'm the smart one, because all this reality TV bullshit has come in. Actors are a real pain in the ass."

"Twenty years from now, I'll probably have to grab my dick and say 'fuck,' and people will still think I'm brilliant because I'm Robin Williams."

More like a Google pinata, really.

Everyone, I need your help. If you haven't heard of the phenomenon of "Google bombing," you may want to familiarize yourself by following the link.

I find myself in a difficult position. If you google the phrase "Jake Hallman," the number one search result isn't JakeHallman.com. It's a news story about a Jake Hallman who's an English major in college in Boston.

I've spoken to her. She's very nice.

That's sick. Stop thinking that.

Anyway, nice though she is, she shall not have my rightful number one search ranking. Here's what I need all of you with Web sites and blogs to do: throw a link somewhere that links the phrase "Jake Hallman" to jakehallman.com.

Like this: "Jake Hallman asked me to help him googlebomb himself."

For bonus points, you can link other words to it, too: "It shows that he's rather neurotic and insecure."

I don't care about the other words - just get "Jake Hallman" linked to jakehallman.com and make me a Google superstar!

New music.

Just wrote this one and slapped it up: Icy (1.35mb MP3).

Enjoy.

Wow... just... wow.

First of all, "Over There" is some gut-wrenching television. No matter how you feel about the war in Iraq, it'll open your eyes.

It's on Wednesday nights on FX.

On a lighter note, my new XM radio for my car came in today. It rocks.

And it was $38 shipped. Ain't technology wonderful?

It just about took longer for me to rip the package open (that's what they should make black boxes out of) than it did to install it. Within 10 minutes, I had it mounted in the car and had set up the external antenna (including running a cable underneath weatherstripping).

Now I've just got to order a wireless remote for the darned thing, otherwise I'm gonna become a highway statistic. And yes, I always use a hands-free device with my cellphone in my car.

On making enemies.

First, jakehallman.com is up and running. Let me know what you think of the design. Chris, if you'd like something similar, I can have it up and running for you in a day.

Sometimes, it's just the principle of the damned thing.

We played Gadsden, Alabama on Saturday night, at a club called "Chestnut Station."

Yes, I know. Not a gay bar, I promise.

Anyway, we killed 'em. One of the best shows we've done in at least a week and a half. They were diggin' us hard, and late in the show a young lady in the front decided to try and flag me down mid-song.

We made eye contact, and she mouthed to me that she wanted to wear my hat, in that particular over-enunciated help-me-the-frat-boy-standing-behind-me-is-molesting-me-and-I-like-it-and-can't-feel-it-'cause-I'm-drunk-as-hell kind of way.

Y'see, when I play with the County Line boys, I wear this $5 beat-up straw cowboy hat I picked up from Fred's here in town. I'm on my third or fourth one - they don't last long, but at $5 they're almost disposable.

Almost.

I offered to let her wear my sunglasses. At $4 a pair from Big Lots, they're more disposable.

I'm on pair number three of this particular sunglass brand, too. Hey, I lose things.

She wanted none of the sunglasses action (though later I was asked by another young lady at the club if I was blind). She wanted to wear the hat.

So I relented. "One song," I told her, as Eric kicked off what was truly a stellar, balls-to-the-wall four or five song close to the set.

I never really got back around to the hat, but on our last song I noticed that the young lady, named Kelly as I later discovered, was nowhere to be found.

"That chick ran off with my got-damned hat," I said, a little too close to the open mike.

After a little bit of asking around, I located the friends she'd drove to the club with, and was duly informed that since she could still walk she'd decided to go to the club next door.

I headed out the door, and nearly ran into her, sucking face in that help-me-I-don't-know-if-I-like-this-and-I-can't-feel-my-lips kind of way with some random dude on the sidewalk.

And she didn't have my got-damned hat on.

For the record, I was perfectly willing to let her do whatever carnal things she wanted with whomever she wanted...

... I just wanted my got-damned hat back.

So, taking no mind to Chet, the son of an orthodontist who was conveniently attached to her face, I politely asked Kelly where my hat was.

She opened her eyes from the kiss, looked at me, and kept on checking Chet's adenoids for lumps.

"I'll be back," I said, and headed back into Chestnut Station. I met up with her friends, let her know that she was plying her trade outside, and followed them next door.

Ran into Kelly again on the sidewalk, this time hanging on to a different guy... Todd, the likely son of an investment banker.

Kelly explained to me that she'd left my hat in the womens' restroom of Chestnut Station.

"Thanks so very much. Have a nice night," I told her.

By this time, I was slightly pissed off. It's the principle of the thing, y'know? Besides, I was the only stone-cold sober person within at least six blocks.

After knocking, I barged into the womens' restroom without knocking. It was deserted, and there was no hat to be found.

To paraphrase Ron White, I spun into a whole new dimension of "pissed off."

The doorman at Peabody's (the club next door) took a look at me, checked my ID, and let me in without paying the cover.

I must look kind of scary without a hat and with unkempt hair.

I located Kelly and her friends on the dance floor after a couple of laps around the club and nearly being stepped on by a gentleman in a pink polo shirt who said "Excuse me, hippie."

Since I didn't want to get my ass kicked then, I'll take the liberty of saying it now:

"Fuck you, you pink shirt wearing frat boy fuck. Go date rape someone before I make you look bad in front of all your pretty friends you paid for."

Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and I'm not nearly as brave as normal when I have no one to back me up.

Kelly didn't want to speak to me. Hell, she seemed shocked to see me. Her friends, though, tolerated me, and even put a guilt trip on Kelly to get her to go to her frickin' car and get my got-damned hat.

She came back in (this time with the hat on), and immediately was suckered in by a group of military-looking gentlemen who immediately took to manhandling her.

"Great," I thought. "Someone's going to have to die for his country just so I can get my got-damned hat back."

Kelly's friend Kate pre-empted me, though, exhibiting a level of cock-blockery that I've never, ever seen practiced before. She successfully fended off six soldiers trying to paw both Kelly and she, got my hat off of Kelly's head and gave the Army a look that if Saddam Hussein had mastered would have resulted in a radically different geopolitical situation in the Middle East.

Kelly wasn't happy to see my hat back on my got-damned head.

"It looks like ten times better on me," she said.

"Yes, it does. However, it's my got-damned hat," I replied.

"But it looks so much better on me!"

"I don't care. It's my hat. I'll bring you one next time we play here."

"But I want your hat!" she whined - but whined with an edge. Her friends took a step back.

"You can't have it." I said.

"You're a selfish asshole," she screeched (just as the music stopped, no less).

"No, I'm a selfish prick," I replied as she gave me two fingers. "But I'm a selfish prick who got his hat back. Y'all have a good night."