Like making only two seasons of an amazing TV show, mankind has got to know his limitations.

            I never knew how those Jingle Heimer Schmidt guys felt until today. Sure, I could have walked in to their law firm and asked, but I never felt the need. Today, after I had consumed a 32oz. Gatorade and eaten an omelet in hopes of chasing away my hangover, I saw on a friend’s Facebook page that someone named Ryan Stevens had made a comment on her status.
“I didn’t make comments on peoples’ pages at four in the morning when I came home drunk; that’s not my picture.”

            After several exchanged messages, it turns out that this, strange, doppelganger Ryan is not so Bizzaro after all. He loves the Red Sox, plays music, and recognized the Megadeth quote when I said, “Hello, me, it’s me again.” Also, he, like me, or himself, or whatever, was hungover. It’s pretty weird stuff. Of course, I’ve looked up my name on Google before, seen other Ryan Stevenseses, like these folks:

            







but the feeling that there were more of me out there than I thought never really settled in until I exchanged instant messages with myself; it was a whole new way of talking to myself. That’s what I was doing anyway, as I spent most of the afternoon searching for the proper html codes to make this blog look the way it does. It sounds easy, but it’s not. Ask my Doppler, he’ll tell you how much it sucked. By process of elimination, you can tell the Ryan Stevens with whom I spoke is not the black lady in her car, and is thankfully not the gentlemen wearing the neon banana hammock, either. He's not the Ryan Stevens with the guitar, either, but his yearbook must have rocked! He looks like a Metallica fan vacationing in the Los Lobos islands.

            Although the new records from Baroness, Keelhaul, and Coalesce have occupied most of my time, I’ve been steadily rotating old favorites in to the mix. A few weeks ago, I gave Helmet’s “Aftertaste” a listen. It’s always good for days like that, which was the kind of day that today was; wet and nasty. It was more humid today, and everything was tensely hanging in the air. It wasn’t an “Oceanic” by Isis day; it wasn’t cold enough and lacked the sing along element I was craving. I felt the urge, as did another one of my friends, apparently, to put on Alice In Chains, first with “Jar of Flies,” then all of their stuff on shuffle. Man I missed them. It was the perfect haunting soundtrack for a sticky, nasty day. It’s kind of like listening to Pantera after not hearing them for awhile, and being dumbstruck at how much Dimebag is missed. Unlike, Dimebag, Layne Staley was likely hopeless in his addictions, but his talents were similarly gone too soon. The two of them should start an all dead Super Group and make a zombie rockumentary. Keith Moon on drums, and maybe Cliff Burton on bass, until someone more qualified dies.

Speaking of things short lived, I finished watching this awesomeness:

If you like Simon Pegg’s humor, this is a mandatory watch, as it’s bloody brilliant. Unfortunately, there aren’t many episodes, only two seasons worth, but each episode is very well crafted. In humor more adult than but similar to “The Simpsons,” this show is great. Disc three in the set is a two hour feature about the show, which is very cool. Yeah bonus features! Maybe write more shows instead.

And speaking of short, I’m off to bed. I can sleep well tonight knowing I finally found myself, and that my head or his head, or whoever’s, isn’t still splitting with pai n.