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Pay Me in Chicken Wings?

Hello, friends. It's day 21 in the city of LA-la land. I know you're probably excited for me. Maybe a bit jealous, too. You thought you saw me on this TV show or that crazy funny movie? No, no, no. Or maybe you thought I wrote the movie? Again, no, it's not me in any of those situations. I mean, I've been offered a few non-paying internships. And that's awesome. Nothing like getting "paid in experience," or so that's how they put it. Maybe my landlord will accept getting paid in experience when the rent comes due. NOT!

From my list of achievements recently: I went to Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles the other night. It was my first time. My excitement for the Roscoe's began some time ago. No reason, really. It's one of those crazy, kooky, touristy things people want to do because this big name actor or some musician said they loved it in some pretty-face magazine. I've been craving it for months, and finally got the chance to go - possibly the best day of my life, or so the stains on my pants led me to believe. I was until then ignorantly under the impression that black women have a certain affinity for yours truly. This might hold more credence in the recesses of Northern California, specifically in the small town from whence I came. And the standards I've set for this are low. For example, if you are a woman, regardless of race, and I smile at you and you smile back…I'm pretty sure you wanna bone me. And luckily for me, I love women of all colors, shapes, sizes and personalities. BINGO!

So I decided it was time to kick up the J-Man pimp juice. (Note: My girlfriend was with me and didn't believe I had the pizzazz to pull it off, mind you.) So we go inside at about 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. And we were the only white people there. Not usually a big deal, but this was a bit intimidating. We were unwelcome travelers in a forbidden land. Upon our entrance, the room quieted a bit, and the weight of the stares could be felt tugging noticeably at our shoulders – encouraging my genitals to tuck inside. Yet still I persevered. I'd made it this far, and my portliness prevented me from turning back now.

No turning back.

The decor inside is minimal. Nearly depressing, even. But the thing about Roscoe's is nobody goes inside for the ambiance. For God's sake, the place is centered in mixing greasy, deliciously seasoned dinner fare with a sweet, buttery breakfast classic. Oh, how I long for thee. The only decorations inside are photos lining the wall of all the celebrities who have frequented the establishment (I think there are five locations). People love fried chicken. I don't...usually. But I was assured by the waitress that the cooks "put a mean scald" on it, and I believed her. So I went with No. 13 - a succulent breast with a waffle.

Succulent, it said.

And I said, yup.

As might well be imagined, the succulent breast lived up to its expectation. It was a sizeable breast - fried crispy to deliciousness. The waitress, a powerful and confident woman, showed no give in my Round 1. A pleasant smile, she did not reciprocate. Flirtatious tone? Nope. But every time she came by, I kept at it. Next thing you know, she brings us our plates with a succulent breast (yes!), a waffle (woohoo!) AND an additional fried wing. Ladies and gentlemen, the fried wing was not part of the meal combo. Moreover, she delivered the plates with a slight smile on her face!

So, either she poisoned the wing, like many people have suggested (I've often been told it's easy to not like me) OR, and this is my opinion, she just couldn't resist the charm of yours truly. No matter which way you examine it, that chicken wing was yet another gift, bestowed upon me by the Los Angeles lifestyle. 21 days: Pay a man in experience, and he'll still be broke. Pay a man in chicken wings, and you've just made his day.

Memories of Camping

This is a little excerpt from something I've been working on.

But the thought of one-hundred foot flames licking the hillside, endangering those who live there is still a scary thought. It was windy and hot and dry. It was a beautiful day to be fire. Throughout the rest of the day it was more of the same: flashy lights, wailing sirens, smoke columns. Rinse and repeat. One column turned to two, then more. By evening all the individual columns, gray brown smoke crawling up see through cylinders, way high up until it hit the ceiling, had converged into one massive plume.

The area was thick with smoke. Campfire thick haze that makes eyes water, throats dry. Smelling that aroma brings back memories, kind of like gasoline. My mind always wandered to my preadolescent youth when my family would go camping. My mom, dad, brother and sister, me and grandma, we’d all load into the Buick station wagon, complete with wood panel siding. It was an ’83, and boy was it a dream. We’d usually head over to Patrick’s Point along with another car toting various aunts, cousins and whoever else seemed to have no specific plans that week.

After the three-, sometimes four-hour drive, we’d arrive at the overcast destination – a true oasis compared to the fry pan heat of the valley whence we came. The rides were made longer noting the cramped, hot breath dishevelment of the car’s interior. Dislodge an arm here, cross a leg there, sometimes the smallest person in the car sat on one’s lap, all for the sake of a getaway. During my later years, when the kids were older, and bigger, the inside of the car closed in at an unfathomable rate. Air conditioning reached my parents in the front seat; whistles and infrequent puff gusts occasionally made their way to the back seat. But nothing could be said of the “far back,” which wasn’t a seat as much as it was a storage area. Remember, this was a Buick station wagon. My childhood chariot.

Every time we needed to stop and go pee – which, by all measurable and rational standards was far too often – it was more of the same. Unfold, dip, tuck push and be pushed out the doors. For those in the far back, we’d have to wait until somebody, once they’d finally made it outside, felt the need to come around and swing open the squeaky corral door. We hot, sweaty kids (I was a chubby little guy) would then use finely-tuned skills of navigating through the honeycomb amalgam of tents, ice chest and suitcases – yes, suitcases – that my father proudly called “packing.” We’d run around, happy to be outside with real air. But too short lived those escapes were. A round of potty breaks and snacks later, it was back to the compacting reality of the weeklong getaway. Crimp, tuck roll and dive back into the car we went. Oh, great. It’s my turn to have somebody sit on my lap. Walls closing, chest tightening. Freedom only through the windows, which were restricting enough to make it all seem fake.

We all knew it was only a matter of time before Grandma called for Jesus music. As a youngster, I enjoyed the tunes. All the classics like “Old Rugged Cross” and “Amazing Grace” sung with the enthusiasm of an aging cow. Singing. Bopping around. La-lala-lala. This is what we’d do. But as time went on, and I rapidly approached the age of neuroses, I felt trapped under a boulder. Seeing glimpses of light and deafened by the car full of people singing with heartfelt vigor. The screams of feral cats in a fight had more talent then my cumulative family. But stop they did not – each singing more off tune than the previous. Even with that analysis, not once do I remember somebody, anybody, let loose an on-key note. Amazing, really.

The last camping trip we ever took, when I was 13 or so, was unforgettable. Stuck in the back seat, music screaming, luggage numbing my stocky legs, I felt something. Heart racing, chest tightening. Sweat glands operating at capacity. Then a slow trickle, up, not down, starting at my stomach. The burning ice-picked its way up my chest, into my throat. And it burned. I wanted to cough, but I couldn’t. My mouth, salivating now, smacked sugary with the unpleasant aftertaste of the afternoon’s soda.

“It’s getting really hot back here. Can somebody roll down the window?”

Grandma, who until then was in a quiescent trance, seemingly content, asleep on a pillow wedged between the door and her seat, would pop up, frantic. Back up went the windows. Apparently the wind coming in – the cool, refreshing breath of life - messed her hair. But her hair’s already messed up from laying on the pillow, I thought. Apparently, I wasn’t allowed to think. Back to lala land went grandma.

“Mom,” I said. Fa-lala-lala. Nobody seemed to hear. “Mom!” this time louder. Down with the music.

“What is it?”

“My throat’s burning. It hurts.”

“Well, you probably just ate too fast, or got too much air when we stopped.” Up went the music. Fa-lala-lala.

“Mom, I’m going to die. You’re killing your own son!” Everybody in the car laughed.

Finally she grabbed some Tums from her purse and told me to chew them. “This’ll help,” she said. So I chewed. One froth crunch after another, I chewed. And it bubbled. The bubbles brought to mind a slide recently shown in science class of a dog with rabies. I panicked.

“You gave me rabies. Mom, I have rabies!”

“You are such a little pansy sometimes. You’ve just got a little heart burn. Chew those and wash it down. You’ll be fine.”

At the time I wasn’t aware hearts were supposed to burn. All I had to wash down the sludge sticky mess was the remainder of the afternoon’s cola. Warm, watery sweet and tangy. “Why are you sweating so much?”

Eventually we’d make our way to the destination. Tuck. Roll. Free. Well, free until my dad called on us to unload the heap of crap from the wagon’s hindquarters. Out came tents and ice chests and no less than three bags for each of the women present, chock full of changes of clothes, make up, battery-powered curling irons and the like. Meantime, somebody would start a fire. Or try to start a fire. A lot of work went into snake charming one consistent flame out of a pile of used napkins and small sticks we found near the campsite. But once that fire got-a-roarin’ we knew we were in for a treat. It was no secret what I looked forward to. I was 13 and pudgy. S’mores. The iconic treat.

Wood cracking, log rolling, parents quarreling over what to make for dinner, children sitting fireside, marshmallow-mounted sticks in hand, screams of teenagers partying a few sites away, sun setting through the clouds, another log on the fire, the captivating prowess of blue orange flames, bigger and bigger yet, licking up and away from the log, reaching for something but never quite making it there, the taste of stirred up dirt on your teeth and piney smoke, made sweeter by the roasting, and often charring of puffy sugar on a stick: this is what camping meant, and this is what I thought about as I watched the land I knew eaten by something with a years-long appetite.

Not a political blog, but...

As you well know, this is not a political blog. However, the following video is a verifiable joke. Sure, the message they intended to pass along wasn't a joke. But the logic surely is. Whether Democrat or Republican, Christian or Atheist, you should all have a watch.

Just listen for the following:

• The guy sitting down wearing the glasses, pretty much choking on whatever Constitutional Party member's dick he can jam in his mouth. Yeah, that guy. He makes a ton of sense.
  
• Whenever the next guy says "marketing." One could easily make this a drinking game - one that even the most weathered alcoholics would find difficult.
  
• Listen also when the same guy says "pull your children out of college. They are being brainwashed." Which totally makes sense. This is a 50year plan set by the Communists half a century ago. So it only makes sense that every professor at every college in the US and its territories is obviously succumbing to the Communist Manifesto.
  
• When the camera lady calls to "Burn the books!" Really? That's retarded. Not stupid, not ignorant. Retarded.
  

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

It's been a while...

Seriously. It's been darn near three months since my last post. WTF? I'm not really sure why, but many of you are still reading this, and some of you are still leaving comments. And that's awesome! So, thank you. I don't see any form of logic, but I also have twice as many RSS subscribers and more than double followers of my blog than I did Jan. 21, my last post. So I guess I owe you a pretty good explanation. Honestly, there have just been a ton of things going on (not unlike any of you, I can assume). All that malarkey led to an unintentional hiatus. But just for your pleasure, and to make you think I've been doing lots of cool, interesting things that will ultimately benefit humanity, I've taken the time to recount my recent doings/thoughts/dreams.

Most recently, I fractured a rib. I'd like to say it was due to a valiant doing - saving children from burning buildings or defending the honor of a young lady. But it was much less impressive. As part of my "Mission: Get Hot" get-fit-for-summer regimen, I've been playing in a softball league. And let's be real, I'm pretty darned good. But the fields are that outdoor carpet/astro turf nonsense, and that shit tears you up if you slide on it. Just ask my legs, they've felt the road-rashing sting many a time. So as I was running to 2nd base I knew I didn't want to slide. But out of my peripherals I saw a large white mass, quickly increasing in size and proximity to my head. As I ducked, I made a last-minute decision to slide head-first. But the additional layer of astro turf surrounding the base had other intentions. My toe caught the lip of the material and instead of a graceful slide, I tripped and curled and fell - my knee tucked into my chest. I landed on it and smashed my ribs into my lung. Laying there struggling for breath I reached for the base (yes, I beat the throw), but the fielder, seeing me in a state of pain and pity, tagged me. I was out. And I hurt. On top of it all, I still got road rash on my leg. Case in point: Damn me for trying to be active.

My walkway as of late has been a traveling highway (think intersection of 405 and 101 in LA) for snails. Them shits is ever'where. And the walkway is dimly lit, so in late-night excursions I seem to crush one of the little buggers almost nightly. I feel terrible, but man, they move so freakin slow - which got me thinking. These snails seem to move caravan style. Slowly cruisin from point to point. Time means nothing to them. So thinking about how slow they move, wouldn't it be funny if they suffered from premature ejaculation? And yes, snails do hump. Think about it, just listen to this conversation I taped between two snails:

-Guy Snail: Damn, baby. I've been trailin your fine ass all across the lawn.
-Lady Snail: Hehehe. I know you have. You're marginally faster than the other guy snails.
-GS: When I saw your slime trail I just had to get me some of that.
-LS: Oohh, you know how to treat a lady. What say we consummate?
-GS: We on the same page now. (slowly scoots up to the lady) Yeah, just let me get, yeah we doin' the dirty snail now (.3 seconds later) Oops, I'm done.
-LS: Oh, that was it? I'm gonna have like 100 snail babies, and all I got was that?
-GS: It took me two days to hunt you down and less than a second to show you what real snails are made of.
-LS: I guess. Do you have a smoke?
-GS: Nah, but there's a little dish over there filled with beer. Let's party!

Is it just me or would life be a lot simpler if we were snails?

I also have been having business ideas - what I perceive to be savvy, multi-million-dollar making ideas. For example, there are wine bars everywhere. Chances are you've probably seen a tequila bar. But where I'm from there are no whiskey bars. And I like my whiskey. So, instead of opening a bar dedicated to whiskey, I want to hold an annual (or monthly) event called the Whiskey Dick Social. People just come and get fucked up off their favorite whiskeys. I haven't thought of a prize or way to judge a winner, though a few obvious thoughts have crossed my mind...

This is getting a little long, so I'll pull some more random crap out in the next post.

My Grandma

I love my grandma. Who doesn't, right? But grandma can be a bit of a bully sometimes. It's like she does things sometimes just to see how much of a rile she can get out of somebody. I'd say it annoys me, but I do the same thing. I just now know where I get it. But grandma's hit a rough streak lately.

New Year's Day, she comes over for dinner with the rest of my family. Meekly, she lets out that she got a ticket earlier that day. My mom, cousin and I tried to get out of her what kind of ticket it was:

mom: Mom, what happened?
grandma: I was just driving down the road and I saw the lights behind me.
cousin: Were you speeding, Grandma?
gram: The officer walked up and I said, 'Oh, hello officer. I saw your pretty lights in the mirror. What can I do for you?
me: Seriously?
gram: He asked me for all my papers. I didn't know where to find them. Honey, I don't know these things.
me: Your license and registration?
gram: Yeah. I Showed him these (pulls out a stack of papers). But he said my insurance wasn't in there.
mom: Do you have insurance?
gram: Of course I do! I, well, yeah, I think I do. I paid it last month.
me: Where's your card?
gram: Huh?
me: Your insurance card. Isn't it with your registration?
gram: I don't know. I gave him these.
me: (shuffling through the papers) Gram, these are all old receipts.
gram: Huh?
me: Kohl's receipts. And a Taco Bell receipt, from...2006.

So we finally get out of her that she got a fix-it ticket for no proof of insurance, though he could see that her car was insured. Then this last Thursday, I got a call about 5:45 p.m.

gram: Honey, I've been in an accident.
me: Are you alright?
gram: I'm fine [brief pause] but Ernestine, they're taking her away on a stretcher.

At that point I grabbed the mom and headed down the road. Of course, it had to happen at a busy time of day. And of course, it had to happen at one of the most congested intersections in town. We arrive to quite the scene - two ambulances, four police cars and a fire engine. Luckily, nobody was seriously injured, but we took her to the ER, just in case.

me: [in the ER, waiting for the doc to come back with CAT scan results] What happened gram?
gram: I don't know. We were just going down the road and all of a sudden a big boat of a car stopped right in front of us!
me: Was it moving, or was it already stopped?
gram: I don't know, sweetie. Me and Ernie, we were just so high on Jesus. Singing his praises, then that BOAT appeared. Did you see how large it was? We should have slid underneath it.

I saw the other car. It was a Toyota Prius. Not a big car by any means, and certainly no bigger than grandma's car.

So grandma has been staying with us for the past week. You can have a conversation with her, talking right to her face and she will always reply with, "what?" or "Who?" or, my favorite, "eh?" But when she's 30 feet away, in a different room, and you whisper something about her, she can sure hear that. Silly grandma.

Fat chance, wise guy

I got the following diddy from CNN.com. I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing my degree in English doooooesn't weigh in very heavily. Check it out.

I only read the first five paragraphs. Then I beat myself up for not applying. English degrees are totally useful. I can decipher hidden codes in foreign and historical documents. I could do all types of fantastic things, but maybe I was meant to serve my country in the 2012 reelection. By then, the admin will be a little more established, hopefully some sanctity will resume in the economy...it'll be the perfect time for me to jump in with a life-changing idea like, I don't know, legalizing stereotypes or reading our funny, sometimes underrated humor blogs, or something great like that. Just you wait, fellow bloggers. Just you wait. Until then...

From Kate Bolduan and Larry Lazo
CNN

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- When George W. Bush became president eight years ago, about 90,000 people applied for jobs in his administration. That's about a quarter, however, of the people who are looking for a way into President-elect Barack Obama's administration.

The count: Over 350,000 resumes have been submitted online, according to the Obama transition team. The problem is there are only an estimated three to four thousand jobs available.

Some federal employment specialists say the record number of applicants can be attributed in part to the current state of the economy.

"A lot of people want to work in a stable environment" says Kathryn Troutman, founder of The Resume Place. "They really don't know where else to go to look for a job that's stable and steady and would have potential -- so I think the economy is one thing."

But many experts say the record number of applicants is primarily a reflection of Obama's overwhelming appeal.

That's why Loryn Wilson uploaded her resume to Change.gov.

"I definitely feel the call to serve and to do something that is directly related to causes I care about," she said.

Wilson is a recent graduate of The George Washington University in Washington. She has a bachelors degree in English, and speaks enthusiastically of working for the new president.
Video Watch more on the Obama application process.

"I would actually like to work for the press secretary or the communications director. Ideally I'd be working on the White House side or maybe working for Michelle Obama in her communications shop," she said.

The flood of applicants aren't just college graduates. People at various stages of their professional lives are taking a long hard look at federal jobs.

"I think my understanding of the United States as a society, as a culture, as a government, as an interest -- the national interest of America, as well as my understanding of the Arab world and the Muslim world -- I think I can be a bridge that will help," said Fadel Lamen, a seasoned professional who specializes in Middle East affairs.

Lamen envisions himself working at the State Department or at the White House.

Though Lamen and Wilson have yet to been called by the Obama team, they say they are hopeful.

An Obama transition team spokesman said a team of 50 people is dealing with the applications. The resumes are put into a database, allowing the team to search by specific experience, expertise and qualifications for a particular position.

Troutman says people interested in finding work with the Obama team should apply on Change.gov, but she suggests broadening their search.

"I do think you should focus the resume toward an agency or a position that you're interested in so that it's easier for the [transition] team. But then as soon as you're finished with that I'd go to USAJobs and look for the competitive positions so you can begin the campaign," Troutman added.

As America prepares to enter a new era with a new president, people like Lamen say they want to be part of it.

"We're opening a new page. What we write in this new page is going to be very important. And I think the American people want to be participants in the new chapter," Lamen said.

I'll karate chop your face hole

It's Friday, and like most working-class Americans, I've had a long week. It wasn't bad or terribly difficult, but I get to hear a lot of complaints, and that will drip-drop-drain a man - not to mention working roughly 16-hour days. But I compensated by drinking a lot of coffee (my whiskey substitute). Now I'm Jazzy McHyperpants. I just just keep running around the office. I have the tune of "Final Countdown" blaring in my head, and for the past hour I have sung it out loud. There is a strange urge to karate chop everything I see.

Some people drink to cure their problems, some people eat to blow off steam, but I karate chop shit. I'm perfecting the form of my [not-yet]patented ThunderPunch. My coworkers admire me and can't bear to make eye contact when I'm in the zone. And now, I'm certainly in the zone. With anxiety-induced fervor, I rant my weekly dislikes. Here it goes...I am tired of hearing three things. It's like these three phrases have crept their way into every conversation I've had in the past two months. And it sickens me.

1. The economy is down. Times are rough right now. Really, who the flip doesn't know that by now? And what I hate is the fact that it's become an excuse for everything. Sorry, I can't go to dinner. Times are rough right now. Sorry, I have to fire you. Times are rough. Sorry, I can't sleep with you because you don't have enough money...because, you know, times are hard. The condition of the economy is stealing thunder from (raspy movie trailer voice) GLOBAL WARMING (end voice.) But it is the perfect excuse to drink. "Hey, why are you drinking a Big Gulp of whiskey on a Tuesday morning?" "Oh, haven't you heard? The economy is in the slumps."

2.We're engaged!. Piss. Right. Off. It's one of those things where you always feel opposite what everybody else around is. Like now, I've come across a great number of people who are getting engaged/married. But I know if I went out and found me a lady type, put some rufies in her drink and asked her to marry me, everybody else would find some reason to break up. Then I'd have to marry the girl and watch all my single friends live the controversial good life, and that's not a commitment I'm willing to make. Grab that butt, guy in the picture. It's the last you'll get.

3.We're having a baby! Really? You're working at In-n-Out, your wife/girlfriend is working split shifts at Kmart, and like everybody says, the economy is in the dumps, yet you find it reasonable and excitable to bring another life form into pathetic, depressing existence. Good for you. I applaud you. Keep popping those little buggers out. What's that? You found out you get money from the government to support your kids because your girlfriend is deaf? Wow! FANTASTIC! Instead of finding a job to support yourself, you make money off your children. Why sell children for a one-time profit when you can keep them checks-a-rollin' in? Kudos, I say. Kudos. You and your lady need to be karate chopped in the baby makers. And I'm just the guy to do it.

Exactly like that, only different

Our society is governed by a means of associations, of comparisons. When you think about it, nearly every aspect of our life owes some significance to this thought. When friends compare different models of computers, they're exactly the same, only a little different. During a fight, a husband says to his wife she is exactly like her mother, only little different. We are always changing as people and as a society, and in order for us to understand something, we use comparisons. It's an interesting topic to think about in its own right, but listening to how other people compare themselves is equally entertaining.

For example, I was cruisin' along in the Camry today - it's an '85, if you're wondering - flirting with lines of girls on the hot beach strand. Actually, it's raining here. And there's no beach, no strand. We have Wal-Mart, and people fucking love that place. But anyhoo, my ghetto-rigged tuner was only picking up the soft-rock station, again. I heard Gwen Stefani's poppy classic "Rich Girl" rattle through the 1 1/2 working speakers. It was the first time I had heard the song in it's entirety, and I got a little kinky - I performed a role reversal with Gwen. It was hot.

I didn't really focus on the words, I focused on Gwen, the artist. I'll be the first to admit I know jack crud about Stefani, other than she used to sing for No Doubt. But from what she says in the HP commercial, we're practically the same person, only different. I couldn't help but think we follow the same passion: harnessing and defining creative energy. But she's rich, and has a hot body, and is so far successful. We're pretty much the same person, only different.

Yesterday at Barnes and Noble - my home away from home - two teenage girls were comparing their cell phones. They were different brands, different services, but functioned very similarly. One said, "It's exactly like yours, [slight pause] only different."

At the bar, I overheard a couple guys talking about women; more specifically, their female parts. The conclusion: They're all the same, just a little bit different.

I'm not sure this post has any real significance. But with all the talks of holiday gifts lately, and the excitement people show for their new-found material goods, I find it funny, curiously so, how that excitement will soon fade in the wake of a newer, updated and perceptibly better product, and how when that time of newness and recycled innovation comes around, that product will be compared to the ones they unwrapped Christmas morning. We have found ourselves in the fog of a disposable economy where differences - be they good or bad - are presented as new, and therefor, better. And unfortunately this method of comparison applies not only to material goods (though, there it seems most evident) but to people of status as well. I'm exactly like a lot of people, only different. And I think that's where many of us get caught up. At least I sometimes do...

Tangerine dreams

I have a theory. It involves the effect of certain foods on your dreams. I am sure genotype construction, types of food, levels of stress, when the food was eaten and other factors are sure to have some measurable effect. But for me, if I eat citrusy foods within half hour of laying down, I get some wild-ass dreams. Like the other night...

I walked out of my apartment and stepped onto the streets of San Francisco. Weird. I then came across a park - one that I saw in Harlem, NY. I am walking and playing with people's dogs when I realize I have to pee. So I find a bush. In the middle of the day. With tons of people around. And I take a leak. I close my eyes for a moment, apparently it felt great, and when I opened them, I was standing there with nothing on but a towel. And it was wide open. And there was no more bush.

A group of black men walked by and stopped. I was in shock and stood with my arms spread - the towel's ends in each hand. They pointed and started to laugh. One said, "Haaahaha, man, you have a small-ass penis!" And his buddies chirped in. "Hey, everybody, come look at this guy's small weenie!" And yet I stood there. Towel open. I tried explaining there was a chilly breeze, that it's usually not that small, that I had stage fright. Each explanation only yielded more laughter. Then i looked down and it had disappeared.

I woke up sweating and immediately felt myself. Good. Still there. Still the same. Dreams are good, but threatening my manhood, well that's a different story.

Why couldn't it be me?

I'm sitting here, at my desk, in the sub-zero space known to be the office. At the risk of sounding like a bitch-fest, it has so far been one of those days. I walk in to a nagging, yelling, angry boss telling me I was wrong. I was wrong for other people screwing up and I was wrong for not predicting other people would screw up and I was wrong for not correcting the screw ups. Even though I haven't worked since Friday. I was wrong. And apparently I am in charge of three people now. Sounds cool, but if you realized the peasant's wages I earn, you would shat yourself in embarrassing laughter.

And I don't know what my deal is lately, but I've been in a crazy obnoxious mood. Have you ever felt like you were about to literally go insane? I think that's how I feel. Like any day now I am going to start seeing an imaginary friend who follows me everywhere. Maybe I'll start talking to him. His name will be Marc, or Steve, or whatever he wants. After all, I'll be the only one that can see him. I'm talking Drop Dead Fred kind of crazy. Which, by the way, was a phenomenal movie. It might be neat at first, but it wouldn't turn out nearly as cool as "A Beautiful Mind." I would be the real-life version. I'd get locked up for talking to myself in public, having intercourse with inanimate objects, and to top it off, I would only have a marginally OK mind. Nothing beautiful about that.

But my dissatisfaction with work is at an all-time high. This is higher than the moving-back-home incident of 2006 - and that was a hard time, indeed. I've passed the point of anger. For a while I wanted to literally staple people's mouths together. Now, it's more a self-inflicting pain I desire. The reason is simple. I could hypothetically staple every on the employees' mouths together and beat them senseless with their own shoes. But time has proven again and again and again that stupidity follows stupidity. And when the next batch of little fucktards comes through the door, I'm going to want to do the same thing. And that would just waste a lot of staples. So if I can mame myself in some way, I think we'll be better off.

In fact, I've recently taken to climbing high ladders to replace light bulbs and such - my only wish, that somebody bumps the madder and I come crashing down and break an arm. Worker's Comp, how lovely you sound. It's not that I'm lazy and not that I am afraid to leave. There are no jobs locally worth my time now. I look. Every day. And when I close my eyes, all I see is a sad face :(

That being said, I know that one day, some lucky little bastard is going to be hanging Christmas lights along the ceiling when he loses his balance and falls through the glass display case. Everybody will be rushing to help him. I will be standing back, crying, wishing it was me. That lucky little prick.

PS, it snowed here yesterday. :)

Is this burning an eternal flame?

Just to clarify, the title has nothing to do with this post. I just heard it on the soft rock station, and I think I'd publically like to add that song to my Confessions posts. And to spare you any surprise or confusion, this post is a little random.

1. I was introduced to the term "Hater Vision" about a year ago. I reside in a city with less than 100,000 people in Northern California. I had never heard of hater vision, but I guess I live a sheltered life because apparently this idea is pretty big. The concept: Have LCD video screens placed in your car, positioned so that only the people driving behind you can see the screen. The logic is flawless: I have so much money, I can afford to give the haters driving behind me something to hate me for. This guy knows what's up:

The mudflap! The goddamn mudflap!

But some people have opted to go achieve "middle-class hater" status.

Kind of interesting, I guess.

2. I spend way too much time Stumbling sites. I have my settings set to find humorous, funny things, so that I may have some refuge from my mundane job. Instead, I find this:

Here's my problem with it: It's not funny! That was supposed to be the "coolest prank to ever pull" but it's really not. Here's what would happen: The teacher would walk into class and say, "Ha, very funny, whoever did this. We are going to have class in the cafeteria because we'll make a mess in here. Before I call the janitor I will file a police report to fingerprint for which one of you little fuckers did this."

Plus, there is nothing grabbing about this. The first thing I thought of was how much time was spent pulling this off. I can bet it totally wasn't worth the effort. In short, I thought way too much about this to think it was funny. In fact, I grew angry at it.

3. Here is the story of a Bored Asshole.

Hey dumbass, here's an idea: Just donate the $7,500 to educational funds, and stop flaunting your affluence just to draw some attention to your bored, useless, pathetic self. While you're at it, throw some my way. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.

4.My grandmother read my blog. She said, "I don't get it." It's my birthday today. I might go celebrate this weekend. But probably not. I started this Men's Health program that allows me one [they greatly emphasize this number] beer or wine per night. I guess that brings me to my novel, which is coming along ve-ry slo-wly. I guess it's a pretty common habit, but the plot has changed like 30 times. It usually changes when everybody I know gets married and they all start popping out babies, other peoples' happiness is a little depressing, isn't it? I wonder if there's a pill that can help me focus...

Fuckitol! Of Course!

Karma a la extreme

Don't you feel that it's much easier to only see the negative side of karma? You know, when something bad happens you think, "Hmm, I shouldn't have cheated on that test. I guess karma got me again." I seem to say that a lot more than, "Gee whiz, I'm sure glad I donated all my free time and what little excess money I have to the homeless shelter, and because of my good deeds I've been rewarded with a shiny new car and a beautiful girlfriend with rich parents."

It's sad, I know.

But I didn't post an AIDS Awareness post on Dec. 1, National AIDS Day, like many of the other bloggers participating in Bloggers Unite. And now I prepare myself to weather the repercussions.

I awoke this morning to unfriendly rapping on the front door. So I answered it - hair askew, robed in my finest flannel PJs, sans shirt (a scary sight at this point in my life). There stood a man with white hair. "Is Carol (roommate's made-up name) home?" he asked. I said she was in the shower. Sometimes Carol has clients meet her at the house, and I didn't know this man. I caught a glimpse of the driveway -- in the background was my roommate's car, hooked and loaded to the man's tow truck. Then came the curve ball. "I'm here to repossess her car."

Some might imagine that isn't the best way to welcome the morning -- eyes glued together, wearing no shirt, letting the 35 degree weather ferociously bite my nipples. But I persevered. That's what I do. I persevere.

I asked the man to hold while I went down the hall and woke Carol. While she tried to throw some clothes on I sculpted my bestest haphazard BS face and tried to knock that curve ball right outta the park. "You want some coffee?" I asked. "No, thanks. She owes $xxx amount, and I only accept cash," he said.

"OK. How do you expect her to have such a large sum of money at 8 in the a.m.?" He looked at me, searching for an answer, "These are the orders." Carol had overheard and came screaming down the hall she is paid to date and flaunted certified payment history from the bank.

By 8:30 I was making coffee for a strange man ready to "steal" - as the term should come to be known - with nipples erect like the Washington Monument. Carol is screaming on the phone to the bank. The man is talking to me about my day job. Carol starts crying. I tell her to pull it together. She cried more. The man got ready to leave. I said, "Pal. Don't take the car."

I know it didn't sound profound. But I didn't have a speech prepared. Silly me. So Carol spent the next 45 minutes running around town trying to collect a grip of cashola. I made this guy eggs. And more coffee. He finished nearly the entire pot. Then Carol came back with a wad of cash, but wanted a cashier's check. So I ran to the bank for her. The teller was a very attractive young lady. We flirted. Then some D-bag came from nowhere and kissed her. He had spikey hair. And an Abercrombie polo. Go figure. Real fuckin original, guy. I came home, the man left. Carol was still sobbing, call it the curse of the PMS. Then I went to work.

And I feel terrible, because I think all of this could have been prevented if I had written an AIDS post. So to those of you who have HIV or full-blown AIDS, I'm sorry I let you down. It is a serious and very real disease. Many of us think, "I know, I know" but the reality is there are still too many people who don't know. So please, help spread the word.

That said, who wants to get drunk?

Them b*tches are crazy

Pigeons annoy the crap out of me. You'll just be sitting on a park bench, trying to enjoy a nice turkey sandwich and before you know it you're swarmed by them. They look at you, side-eyed, and mock you. They scream Hoorlooorloorl - which is the sound a pigeon makes. And with each step they bob their heads. Which leads me to believe that pigeons are byproducts of South American drug shacks from long ago.

It was a nice nesting place, the pigeons thought. The warm, tropical climate made it comfortable and the lush scenery made them the envy of all their pigeon friends. One day a group of them went out for a joy flight, just soaring over the landscape, drinking in the beauty when, hark! They spotted a party. The barbecue was roaring, there were lots of people, lots of guns and everybody was nude. And pigeons looove to party, so they swooped in. They noticed how hyper everybody was. The adults were talking and dancing, still nude, and were very fidgety people. The children ran into the jungle and wrestled gorillas. And they ran back smiling, toting severed gorilla heads.

But the pigeons were a chill group. They just kicked it off to the side, sippin' on some tequila. One of the pigeons noticed a large mound of white powder all the human-peoples kept going to. So the pigeons slyly made their way over the the white mountain. Hoorlooorloorl, they said, giving head nods to the gunned lunatics. The gunned lunatics replied, "Hoorlooorloorl." People were smelling the powder. "I bet it's scented!" one of the pigeons exclaimed. Human-people were stirring it into their drinks and rubbing it all over their bodies. This party was legit.

Pigeons were at the time notorious for knowing how to get down, so they imbibed. "I don't smell anything," one said. "Well, maybe we need to smell a lot of it," another followed. Within minutes the pigeons were themselves nude, acting a fool.Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Then the pigeons just started humping like crazy. "It's not mating season," one of the females said, "but this feels so right." And they had lots of crazy pigeon sex.

By the party's end, they decided this was too much fun to forget about. But they noticed the mound was quickly dwindling. So each of them swooped up a beak full of the happy powder and flew back to their pigeon village. They shared it with the locals. Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! all the pigeons screamed.

Pretty soon all the pigeons started doing their best friend's pigeon and lying to each other. There were lots of pigeon orgies and lots of diseases that ensued, and also lots of incest. Before long, there were too many pigeons and not enough magic powder. So they started going insane. But they still reproduced in great numbers.

So that brings us to today. Now, human-people can't enjoy a day at the park, alone, because of the conniving, codependency of these orphan birds. What was once a grand animal is now a twitchy, head-bobbing creature, desperate for attention and their next fix. Don't be fooled, them bitches are crazy.

The cursed case of the wicked wonders of why we do what we do

Lately I've been a little bummed. I met a girl I ended up liking, and something went wrong and now we don't talk. The not-talking isn't what bugs me, it's why we're not talking. The reason: There is no reason. Very awkward thing. But anyhow, this is a recounting of last weekend's trip that made me realize I'm totally not ready to grow up.

What is it about sporadic ideas that make them sound so appealing? And what is it about going out of town that makes you think, "Gee, I totally have money to spend. I'm just gonna live the good life?" I don't know the answer, but I spent last weekend in the city of lost hopes, moral vacancy and stereotypically blond people. But it wasn't LA per se, it was Hermosa Beach. Auggie lives in Hermosa Beach.

And as a note, I've changed, if only slightly, the names of people involved.

My friend, Papa Bear, called me up Monday and asked if I wanted to drive down with him. I said, "Sure, Papa Bear. Let's rock and roll." (What I said wasn't actually that gay.)

So we left at 8:30 in the p.m. on Thursday night. We didn't arrive to my friend Auggie's house until 4:30 in the a.m. Friday. Papa Bear dropped me there and headed to his girl's house in a land far, far away. When I woke up, about 9:30, everybody I knew was at work. So I did the only logical thing. Took a shower, got myself prettied up, and headed to Sharkeez for a beer. Which turned into a few more. And a shot. After realizing my money was going much too fast, I decided to head back to the crib. On the way there I passed this
and it made me smile. A little further down the strand, just feel from where I was staying, was this charming little watering hole.

And yes, if you're wondering, it did in fact smell like vomit. And yes, if you're wondering, I went inside and had a beer.

This carried on for several hours, until I met up with some old friends for dinner. And then it carried on after dinner. Next thing I know, I'm at some bar, August is buying shots of tequila...then my memory fades for what I can only assume to be about an hour. Cut to next scene, getting out of a cab at somebody's house. everybody else is hammered drunk. I'm not. I tried to go to sleep on the couch but was kept awake by somebody in this picture making the sex with one young lady, totally unafraid to express her pleasure through the art of moans and screams. And occasional thumps on the wall. And more screaming. So after the unanticipated marathon concludes, 5:42 a.m., I fall asleep and am awoken by somebody on the phone at 7:34, also in the a.m.

We go pick up Andy (also in the picture) and head to January's house. By 9 a.m. we crack our first beer and Andy tells us of his adventures. He went home with a zoo keeper. We laughed. Then laughed some more. She allegedly woke him up at 7, decked out in her safari attire. And we laughed some more. Until this weekend, I thought zoo keepers were mythical beings, chained down by their Dr. Doolittle-ish qualities. But they're real. And some have piercings in places that, well, just use your imagination.

So we keep drinking all day (complete waste of life, I know) and decide it a good idea to go out that night. We went to a place called Union Cattle. All I remember was a mechanical bull. I really wanted to ride it, but I couldn't even remember my name. But according to my bank account, I decided to order a few more drinks for myself. By midnight we left the bar, brought home a pizza I don't recall eating, and went to sleep. But not before we played lots of loud music and had an unofficial dance party.

The next day, not much happened. We hung out at Sharkeez again for Sunday Funday. I met these girls: I think their names were Amanda and Kim. If not, I apologize. Oh, and I saw this girl:

And I know what you're thinking. That's gross, right? Yeah. But only in SoCal. Thank you, semi-nude beach-goer.

Today in the news:

There is a lot of stupidity out there. I mean a lot. So, to bring a sense of normalcy to my daily screw-ups, I'm making fun of others. This will be a new little bit called, just like the title suggests, "Today in the news:"

1. Man nabbed after hitting girlfriend with sandwich

PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla. – A man faces a domestic battery charge after allegedly hitting his girlfriend with a sandwich as she was driving on Interstate 95 on Friday. Police said the 19-year-old man became angry and hit the woman in the arm and face with a sandwich, knocking her glasses off.

The victim nearly lost control of the car because she couldn't see the road and the man then allegedly ripped off the rear-view mirror and used it to shatter the windshield.

The man was freed on $7,500 bail.

Police haven't said what type of sandwich was involved.
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I bet it was salami. You can't stop a man and his salami.
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2. Resort plans nude "anything goes" party

CANBERRA (Reuters) – An Australian holiday resort will hold a month-long, nude "anything goes" party to combat an expected economic downturn, media reports said on Thursday.

"Tough economic times call for stiff measures," Tony Fox, the owner of the White Cockatoo resort in Mossman, in tropical Queensland state, told the Courier-Mail newspaper.

"It will be a hedonism resort, where anything goes for a month. It doesn't take rocket science to work out what it means," Fox said, naming March as the risque party month.

The controversial "clothes optional" resort made headlines three years ago when police were called to end partner-swapping parties after a swathe of public complaints.

"You've got to wonder what sort of people go and why. Where is the moral code of behavior and how do you stop jealousies and fights?" Cairns Catholic Bishop James Foley said after Fox's announcement.

But local regional Mayor Val Schier said she was not opposed to the event as long as no laws were broken.

"People in tropical north Queensland are extraordinarily creative," Schier said. "It is tough economic times and as long as it is with consenting adults, then there is no problem."

Australia's tourism in industry is being hit hard by global economic turmoil with official figures showing a 7.6 percent decline in overseas visitors in September.

Industry leaders expect holiday bookings may drop by up to a third in early 2009 and are planning a new international advertising campaign to coincide with the movie "Australia" starring Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman.

Fox said his resort was almost fully booked for the month-long rainforest party.
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Not sure if I even have to say anything here. But I will. I wish I had enough money to fly to Australia. Now accepting donations and/or applications for FEMALE party company.
--

3. Wis. woman pleads no contest in corpse case
She was accused of keeping 90-year-old's body in Social Security scheme

MAUSTON, Wis. - A member of a religious sect pleaded no contest to a misdemeanor after being accused of leaving another member's corpse in her bathroom so the group could collect her Social Security checks.

Tammy Lewis entered the plea Monday and was fined $350.

Prosecutors accuse the 36-year-old Lewis and 58-year-old Alan Bushey of leaving 90-year-old Magdeline Middlesworth's body on the toilet in Lewis' home after she died there in March.

A criminal complaint says Bushey led the Order of the Divine Will sect and told Lewis that God would revive Middlesworth. The decaying body was found in May after Middlesworth's family expressed concern.

Prosecutors say they believe Bushey and Lewis wanted to go on collecting Middlesworth's Social Security payments.
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Keep grandma on a leash!
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4. Joaquin Phoenix quits acting to focus on music


The upcoming ‘Two Lovers’ will be his last performance on film
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I don't even need to post the rest of the story. Who gives a flying rat's ass?
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My affinity for cheese and disdain for early holiday propagandizing

There's just no simple way around it. I love cheese. And it's not something I see changing any time soon. And it is a very curious thing when people don't like cheese. Yeah, I didn't think it could happen either. But they're out there, watching you, judging you with that queso contempt. Is it a jealousy thing? Like, "O, I wish I liked cheese."

And I remain perplexed.

I like all kinds of cheese. Cheddar, mozzarella, asiago, pecorino romano, cotija, bleu cheese (crumbles and dressing), cheddar, jack, pepperjack. I like cheese dip, cheese sauce. You know those chocolate fountains? I want one of those with melted cheese. Nachos 24/7!?!?! Are you kidding me? I would be the happiest man alive. And there would be no reason for a soul mate. All I would need would be a blow-up doll...made entirely out of goat cheese.

But to temper happy thoughts of all things cheese, I realized that the holidays are upon us. And every year you hear some people bless the season and some people openly hate it. There's no right answer and no right opinion, but I can tell you this time of year drives me nuckin futs. And I always blamed it on my family. However, recent research has shed light on an interesting approach. The week of Halloween I walked into a store and found an ever-growing Christmas section in the rear of the store. And as I walked by, it hit me.

It was the aroma of "winter" scented things. You know the smell that when you smell it you think, "Ah, Christmas." But there it was, October 22. And already that smell was around. I think the reason people hate the holidays is because we are for so long exposed to all that drives the season. Over two months of candles and Christmas trees and stockings and Santas and fucking elves and yule logs and bright, cheery signs EVERYWHERE and after the first month, you become numb to it. But then it seeps its evil and cheery spirit into the masses. News reporters report about it, people make a full-time job out of shopping for other people, phoney-baloneys plaster smiles on and sing carols so highly-pitched you'd think they never crossed the puberty threshold. And that pisses me off. Walking down the street, have some stranger pop out of nowhere, "Merry Christmas!"

I just feel like screaming, "Fuck you, cheery man. This isn't a jack-in-the-box, you can't just pop out of nowhere and start spooking people, you creepy bastard." My point: two months is too much time to be exposed to this crap. It's just too much. By the time Christmas or Kwanza or Hanukkah or Festivus come around, no sane person wants to smell another scented pine cone or see another stocking or be heckled by little elves at the mall. All I want is a Big Gulp-sized cup filled with peppermint schnaaps and hot chocolate.

In short: cheese makes me happy. Two months of faux-happiness doesn't. Just buy me some cheese.

Plot-generated Story #1

I don't know how many of you have heard, but there are web-based tools that algorithmically generate plot scenarios. It is a little boost for an idea when you can't seem to create something on your own. And no, it's not cheating. After all, you are just given a few details and you go from there. I have decided to come up with a short story each week - in addition to my decreasingly-regular rants and musings - and I hope you enjoy.

My plots will be generated from Archetype.com and consist of only two parts - the protagonist's situation and a secondary character. For example, my first plot will be:

The story starts when your protagonist tries to return a lost object.

Another character is an office manager who has a gift for poetry.

So here it goes. This is, Jeremiah, the Mighty.

It was a long time since Jeremiah was with a woman. And he blamed it on his depression. The more time that passed, the harder it was to go out and meet people and stay away from those adult-only websites. His login name, Jeremiah_the_Mighty. So that depression made it harder to go out and it was harder to go out because he was depressed.

The cycle began, and had been going for almost a year.

But it stopped a few weeks ago when Jeremiah was at work and, to seek a rush he hadn't felt in so long, entered a titty site. It opened and there were big, bouncy breasts everywhere. Jeremiah smiled. But somebody was coming! Oh no! So he closed it out just before Suzanne opened his door to ask where some files were.

That was close, he thought to himself. But his heart was still racing. He wanted more. He began to sweat, feeling in his pants a swelling come about. So he entered another site, and another and another. It was joy unspeakable!

But, he lost all perception of his environment and didn't hear Mr. Jacobs open the door. Mr. Jacobs tapped him on the shoulder and Jeremiah turned, sweat dripping down his cheeks, surprise in his eyes and a big, unnecessary boner.

It was then Jeremiah was fired. His job was the only thing he had to keep him sane. And he had lost it. But Jeremiah the Mighty wouldn't leave without something to remember it by. When the rest of the office went to lunch Jeremiah cleaned out his desk. And he took the bottle of Scotch from Mr. Jacobs' desk, a stapler from Suzanne, a pack of cigarettes from Gordon and a bottle of perfume from Diana. He went home, turned on his computer, entered a no-no site and masturbated until he cried. Then he sprayed Diana's perfume, smoked Gordon's cigarette and took a glass of Mr. Jacobs' scotch. There was nothing he could use the stapler for. In fact, he wondered why he had taken it.

By noon the following day he had finished the cigarettes and scotch. In a drunken stupor he had dropped the perfume and the bottle shattered in the kitchen, and his entire apartment now reeked of Diana. Mustering up energy and dignity, he decided to return the taken goods. Upon arriving at the office he was greeted by a new face, the face of his old job. The man held out his hand.

-Russel's the name, managing's the game. It isn't quite so obvious why you walked into my office, but everyone here's told me that you are quite a shame.
-Why are you rhyming?
-Why do you smell of scotch, and not sweet mint? I'll remove you and discard you just like some dryer lint.
-That doesn't make much sense. Is Mr. Jacobs here?
-I only speak in rhyme, one sentence at a time, I know you want to see him, but he doesn't have the time.

Jeremiah punched the office manager in the nose and he fell down. Even in fear and pain, the man still rhymed.

-By George, by George, methinks he punched me in the face, my nose is bloody and I'm curled up in a ball of drab disgrace.

Now the office was surrounding him, and Mr. Jacobs stood in the front.

-I drank your whiskey, and smoked your cigarettes and dropped your bottle of perfume on the floor. As for the stapler, a cat was crying outside my window and I threw it down there. I think it hit a vagrant. Anyhow, you all know I have a problem. But I'm redirecting it. I'm starting a no-no website. So if any of you want, especially you, Suzanne, call me up. We'll take some pictures, make some videos or whatever.

Jeremiah went on to create the most successful adult website in history, www.jeremiahthegreat.com and it's tagline won the Adult Film Literary prize, "Jeremiah the Great, Let's watch some porn."

Suzanne was the most-viewed woman. Her name, Vixen McLottapuss.

I suck at life

Life is a game. And as the title suggests, I suck big ol' donkey schlong. I may occasionally do things that are good, but I don't necessarily do them for the right reasons. Here's why:

I recycle. And yes, I've heard it is good for the environment. It saves on landfill and saves resources and yadda yadda yadda. And I'm okay with that. In fact, I like that. But when it comes down to it, at the end of the day I'm really just trying to save a little room in the trash can. And don't get me started on those who classify themselves as recyclers with that air of superiority they dedicated recyclers seem to tout. You know the people, when they come over to your house, have a drink and ask, "Oh, I don't see a recycling bin. You do recycle, don't you?" They look at you condescendingly, and you, you just want to stab them in the face with a soldering iron.

Oh, crap! What do I say? "Yeah, of course I recycle. Just set it on the counter and I'll take care of it later." But they stand there glaring at you. They know what you're up to. Oh yeah, they know. But screw 'em. At least you aren't a pompous prick.

Whatever happened to...

I'm sitting in the office of a public building. Downstairs, where I am, is an art gallery. Upstairs is a performing room where ballet and ballroom dancing classes, poetry recitals, yoga and many other classes are held. Right now, though, there is a hand drum class. And it echoes. I don't even have to go up there to tell you that there is one talented person and another who is not so talented. I'm glad I'm not hungover. That would be the pits.

Since I have been here three hours already and have another hour to look forward to, I did the only respectable thing I could think of. I started at the sand colored door and daydreamed. I thought, pensive as I am, about things and fads of times past, and what happened to them. It was kind of like the VH1 cult classic "I Love the 90s," or "Where Are They Now?" but with things I actually care about.* But here are a few of the culprits:

Micro Machines.
Remember those zany commercials with the fast-talking John Moschitta? Sure you do. As soon as they let him go from the commercials it seems like there was nothing left the the Micro Machine legacy. My brief internet powerhouse search, which utilized only Google and Wikipedia, provided me that Moschitta is one of the fastest talking persons in history (try that for a pick-up line) and that he still occassionally appears on TV shows. Which is good, mostly because I thougt he was dead.

The Original Trapper Keepr.
Remember these bad boys? There used to be all types of sweet designs. The first week of school we used to compare them. "Oh, man. You have a jet!" "No way, ROBOTS!!!" Trapper Keepers were to 6th graders what the adult bookstore is to 17-year-olds...really freaking exciting. Then Mead sold out, like so many good companies do, and started with the Mead 5 Star series. Which, I admit, is handy for a professional adult. But here's my thought: You line up a Trapper Keeper against and 5 Star series organizer and I'll take the former. Hands down. It's like the tin cartoon lunchboxes that have made a cult comeback, it's time for the Trapper Keeper revolution.

Lastly, before my aimless train of thought was disrupted by a poser art-enthusiast, I thought about Marc Summers. He was the icon, the face of Nickelodeon through its glory years. I mean, Double Dare, What Would You Do? and Wild and Crazy Kids. For the record, I found a Wikipedia entry on Mr. Summers and learned a few things you may find interesting. For example, this video of Summers' appearance on the Tonght Show with Jay Leno when he and Burt Reynolds got into it. Summers is also a rehearsed stage magician and now hosts Unwrapped on Food Network.

* Let it be known I love those shows. But what kind of fashionable, respectable person of society would openly admit to such insolence? Honestly.**

** The Josh or his blog, Spoonful of Shut Up, in no way discriminate against nor stand party for the cultural decentralization these shows promote. They are mentioned in strictly humorous, referential terms to an era of radical clothing, whacky hairstyles, unprotected sex and a lot of cocaine.