Saturday, December 29, 2007

Why I Hate The Holidays

George C Scott is one of my favorite actors. He is highly accredited, having won Oscars and Emmys and the like. He is the epitome of intensity on screen. He is a rock, he is an island. He built this city, he built this city on rock and roll. I didn’t really notice him until I saw Dr. Strangelove Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb. In this very dark comedy, he plays a military advisor to the President during a cold war nuclear fallout / doomsday scenario. At one point, he pretends he is a B-52 bomber and “whooshes” around the Presidents situation room, bombing the Russian countryside with reckless abandon. Although pretending to be a B-52 bomber is fun, this is not why I like George C Scott. It is not his gruff sandpaper voice, or his wheezy laugh, although I do always try to imitate that laugh whenever I have a sore throat, which might be the only good aspect to being sick, you sound like George C Scott when you laugh. It’s not the awards that he has won either. The reason I really like George C Scott is because of his monster mutton chop side burns as Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Those things are B. A. D., bad I tell ya’. And not “Michael Jackson Bad,” or “Gleaming the Cube Bad,” or any kinda bad where you don’t know right away how bad something is until you upset some delicate internal balance and release some pent up monster that takes the law into their own hands before realizing the follies of their ways and ends up crying in a corner. That’s not the kind of badness that these sideburns exude. I’m talking about blatantly, out-right, in-yo-face, obviously-gonna-mess-you-up-at-any-given-second-for-no-particular-reason bad. Samuel L. Jackson bad. Sgt. Bosco “BA” Baracus bad. Shaft in Africa bad. Dolph Lundgren bad. George C. Scott’s mutton chops are the definition of bad. If those bad ass mutton chops were a person, and you accidentally bumped into the mutton chops’ parked car, and he saw you do it from inside whatever store a personified mutton-chop being would shop at, you’d get your butt kicked. Those things are bad.

Why do I care so much about George C Scott’s side burns? Because I have no choice. They demand attention. It’s the holidays and I will see those bad mofo’s over and over for the next few weeks as every TV station plays “A Christmas Carol” and “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” and “Jingle All The Way”. I like George C Scott, but I didn’t want to see him and his bad mutton chops out of the corner of my eye while I was sipping gloog at the local pub after a long day of work. You have to be prepared to see mutton chops that bad, and I wasn’t prepared. As a result, the friend I had gone out for a drink with thought that I was being a jerk and went home. Thanks a lot, George. You and your bad ass mutton chops pissed off my friend, not me. That’s why I hate the holidays.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

My Buddy The House Plant: A Soliloquy

This is my obsession. This is my harem. These are my spirit guides. No wonder I’m so flapin’ lost. Get a freekin’ GPS system, stupid spirit guides.

Calathea Ecuadoriana

This persnickety temptress of the night is one of my most recent acquisitions. Possibly the hardest plant in the lot to care for, Calathea has a tendency of letting her lowest, youngest, most naïve leaves die off without even a hint of remorse or regret. No matter how I try to nurture her, the slaughter continues. Even if these smaller tendrils hold nothing in their little plant hearts but love, and dedicate their whole existence to Calathea's impromptu whimsies and fancies, they scarcely stand a chance against her wrath. It seems a game to her, a cruel and manipulative rouse meant to provoke some drastic action, some dire accomplishment, but I know not what she wants of a wretch like me. As I cut away the rotting corpses she leaves at the base of her sacrificial temple (aka, the pot that the plant sits in), I can’t help but be taken in by her majestic beauty. The pinstriped pattern of her leaves, her crushed velvet texture, her slow, sodden pleads for “more water, more water” are too much for my weak will. She has beguiled my heart and I am nestled deep in rapture, in awe of her power. I offer all I can to her; only in the finest pottery will she sit, only resting in the most nutrient rich potting soil shall she grow, only of the finest filtered city water my kitchen spigot will offer does she drink. And of her perch, one could wish none higher or better lit; with sweeping views of the neighboring Thai restaurant and the corner day spa, with it’s neon sign of a smiling sun, continuously beckoning passers-by to escape the brutal winter air and indulge in the decadence of an electronic bed made of sunlight and cancer. What being of this Earth would renounce such handling? Such tenderness? Such an attentive servant? I beseech her; “Tell me what you desire, and I will search the world of it for you!” But she remains silent and the death drums continue and the leaves fade and wither and die away as they have every night and will continue forever more. And now I sit, alone in the dark, in my penance, my reparation to her. All my possessions I bade her take of me, and still she scowls upon my meager existence. Oh, tainted heart, will you not beat once more? Is twice thrust upon the alter of love, lust and bile too great an extent of one man’s witness? I beg you, heed my warnings and be wary the temptress of the night, the one they call Calathea.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Bearhead Performs 11/9/2007

Do you like your face? Do you want your face to be noticed by more people? Do you especially want your face to be noticed by cool people? If you answered “YES” or “NO” or “WHY THE HELL AM I READING THIS” to any of those questions then I have a simple 3 step program that you need to follow.

Step 1: On Friday, November 9th, bring your face and any of your cool friend’s faces to Frohmans at 1316 N Western Ave, in Chicago. Be there before 10 o’clock.
Step 2:Point your face at BearHead as we take the stage for the…very first time, ever, in the history of the world.
Step 3:Have your face melted by the ensuing sonic madness and sheer facial-blow-tourch-osity of our premier live performance.

Join us as we publicly and shamelessly give birth to Zach's 3 year old brain child. Here's what he had to say about Frohmans and the Gig.
"Frohmans 1316 N Western (1 block north of Division on the west side if the street), 10pm, 6bucks. RaceCar Melody HEADlines at 11, doors at 8. 80 people is the max for this small intimate rock and roll joint. In the future, Frohmans will be the site of the $20 dollar all you can drink rock and roll will be awesome.

We are also rocking at The Mutiny , 2428 N Western (Western and Fivision, across the street from Quenchers) on Tuesday the 13th for Free!!!! Cheap ass beer at this infamous rock n roll bar, Styke Team opens and Sound Writers play second. Show starts around 8ish. More info later.
Love, Zach"

So, people be good to your face and give it what it wants, which is obviously BearHead.

My Buddy The House Plant: Don't you come around these parts asking those kinda questions, cause I'll slice ya face up.

This is my obsession. These are my scapegoats. They are part of a small group of living things that don’t say, “Your life is a sham of a train-wreck, Obsquatch. A real train wreck involves a lot less alcohol.” Thanks for being there for me, house plants.

Coleus: Gays Delight

The Notorious Coleus Family, no connection to the Pointer Sisters

Yes, Gay's Delight is it’s official name, and not a day goes by that it doesn't piss GD off. Being the strong, silent type, Gay's Delight has been known to break the legs of those who ask him for fashion advice.

Fun Facts:
Gays are actually not that delighted by this strain of Coleus. In fact, the overwhelming majority of gays that were polled (1 out of 1) were exponentially more delighted by an assortment of flavored vodkas.

Interests and Hobbies:
Chainsaw Art, Knife Fights, Leather Shoe Repair, Interrogation with a Tire Iron and Calligraphy.

Coleus: Sloppy Painter

The Notorious Coleus Brothers

“Sloppy Painter” is actually an alias for this variety, as it is now wanted by the Feds for a rash of bank robberies in Southern New Jersey in early 2006. Known as "The Slop Man" within the inner circles of the Coleus Family, this variety is known for it's colorful green-in-purple leaf coloration and it's unmistakable short temperment.

Favorite Color:
“Whatcha looking at, ya pin head?”

Favorite Food:
“I aughta kick you in the teeth”

Favorite Movie:
“Hey Frankie! Come over here and put some pain on this scumbag!”

Favorite Music:
“Now get outta here, ya good for nothin’ punk.”

Saturday, October 27, 2007

BeHold BeArhead


I've joined the "tour de force" that is Bearhead, a once solo project of my buddy Zach, now a skull vibrating sonic wrecking ball power trio. Of all the projects I've been in, my projects with Zach have always made me bleed the most. We are gearing up to unleash Bearhead upon the masses. Check out the bearhead myspace page, add us as your friend (we'll pick you up at the airport if you ask cause that's what friends are for) and then watch us musically rip your face off live. Here are some dates we've booked. Write them down, spray paint them on your ceiling, write it in lipstick on your mirror, carve them in you arm or use this as a way to finally make use of your iCalender.

11/1 we will be "rehearsing" in a plexiglass cube at the Museum of Contemporary Art at 1pm. This is part of an exhibit.*
11/9 we open at Frohmans (Western a block north of Division) doors at 8ish.
11/13 we headline at the infamous Mutiny, show begins around 9.

More details to come. Join the friend list and get all the news plus new ultra low-fi recordings that the concrete layers union says are a more than suitable replacement for a sledgehammer. Beware the Bearhead.

* later that night, a band that Zach got kicked out of, is opening for a band that I got kicked out of, is opening for someone else at Sub-T's. Dejected art kids vs unemployed emo musicians in a no holds bared cage match of flailing skinny kids.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

My 4 Wheelin' Brother

My Brother is getting married next year. He and his future wife, Kassy, live a mind boggling lifestyle; a wild ride of hiking, camping, rock climbing, ice climbing, fly fishing, white water rafting, and together, they have been confusing dieters from around the world. They are vegans with a plus, the plus being a full compliment of pork. They live on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and get regular visits from Black Widow Spiders, curious Elk, Long Horn Mountain Goats and the occasional Bear. This life they lead is awe inspiring to me, mostly because I am currently sitting in my underwear at 1pm and am amazed by anyone who wakes up before 10am. Each of them have probably hiked a good 2-3 miles up a glacier or down the Grand Canyon before I've even slapped the snooze button for the first of 12 times. They posted this video on their wedding site. It's a high speed tour of her parents pork farm and I think it's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Enjoy!

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

My Buddy the House Plant: This Lily's no Pansy

There’s no culture like Horticulture like no culture I know.

This is my obsession. These are my buddies. They mean more to me that you ever will. I am making trading cars for my house plants, this is the first.

Spathiphyllum: The Peace Lily

Name: Spathiphyllum
Pronounceable Name: The Peace Lily
Nick Names: Monkey Dick, The Green Peace Monster, Steve
Age: 5 1/5 years
Number of times re-potted: 5 (6 including a freezer bag, which isn't a pot)
Other facts:
This is the one that started it all, this exact plant. It was a gift from a heart-breaker who thought that my pig sty apartment needed something to brighten it up. Over the course of it's 5 1/2 year life, this Peace Lily has lived in 7 different apartments, has been split in half to be donated to a kindergarden class along with a plastic penguin, has traveled over 1600 miles in shotgun of my (down deceased) pick-up truck while planted in a plastic freezer bag of dirt, and has been brought back from the brink of death multiple times. At it's most meager moments, it was only 5 semi-healthy/semi-dead leaves in a large coffee mug which was it's home after living in the plastic bag. Now, in all it's glory, my Peace Lily has the largest pot in the house, is a whopping 3'6" and takes up an entire window by itself.

Interest and Hobbies:
Architecture, WWII documentaries, Mini Golf, Women with missing toes, Turkish folklore.

Monday, October 22, 2007

CLP #9: - Semicolons Are For People Who Don't Get Enough Fiber

Craig's List Project #9

Well, that was a surprise. The ladies that responded actually impressed me, they had complete thoughts and complete sentences and twisted senses of humor, just like me. I assumed that anyone reading my most recent post would be tempted to write back to me, they might write two or three sentences before realizing that it would 'be a gross miscalculation of self preservation to allow that many red flags to go unheeded.' That's what buzzes though my head when I think of talking to me. Actually, that only buzzes through my head after I've ordered and eaten multiple shinny, sweaty hotdogs that have been rolling for God-knows-how-long in the local 7-eleven's hotdog roller. Regardless. What I didn’t assume was that these people would be cool. Here are some highlights, now etched in e-stone for all freak shows to see.

“Your post gives me hope. [It] was so horribly refreshing that I couldn’t resist responding...that, and you are tall and lanky which I love.” At this point in my life, I’ve figured out that I could scream to the world that I am a baby-seal-beating, puppy-eating, Scientologist, Republican, clown-suit-at-the-gun-range-wearing scum bag and there would be someone winking back at me, whispering “I think that’s hot, baby.” I’ll never understand it. Onward! “Why am I on CL? For the same reasons you are. It’s easy to look at it as a last ditch effort or a place for all of the a-holes…” Ahem, very easy. “…but maybe not. I will be happy to continue this interaction after I am off of work and at home in my sweats and having my left-over Chinese food.” And just like that, I’m interested. It’s not the standard, “I’m smart and sexy and love to wear a silk teddy while making bacon for my lover’s breakfast at 3pm,” bullshit. That is the standard, right? This is a down to earth, “deal with it” type of response. The exact kind I wasn’t expecting. This lady has prioritized cold, left-over Lo Mein before me, and that’s a good choice. Being lower than Lo Mein means you can only go upwards, so I decided to write her back.

After sending her this picture of me head first in a snow bank, which is a result of Shawn's blizzard-shopping-cart-driving skills, while still reserving the right to “crush her dreams like I would a sandwich made with Wonder Bread,” she respond again. “Who has time to put with mornons? I don't. I will now go and fester in my cube, which is really more like an icebox. My office could double as a meatlocker. You are welcome to squash my dreams like wonderbread. I prefer [you] to tear off the crust [of my dreams] and roll it into a tiny ball of [crushed dream] dough.” Either she has called me a moron and is a butcher, or she thinks I’m a genius and likes playing with her food, or both, all of which turn me on in some strange way which I’m sure has an abbreviation in the Casual Encounters section. Regardless. I don’t think I’ll hear from her again, as I had to work in Rhode Island for the week and received this discouraging message while I was out of town and not responding to the world outside of my national touring wedding band. “Did I become a Wonder Bread Sandwich?” No. You are not an easily crushable, porous, starch based vending machine product that no one really wants but will buy in a heartbeat for $1.75 during lunch hour delirium. You are so much more than that. Onward!

Here is my favorite response.
Lady - "I have no interest in dating you, but i think i love you!"
Obsquatch - "I love that you love not dating me. We are so good not together and just perfect for ourselves. I'll always wonder about what we never thought about sharing with each other."
Lady - "I think that you are going to be the best relationship that I have never had! I think it is better for you to know now, that I drive a REALLY fast car, and I only date men that have lots of money and own a condo with a rooftop deck so i can watch the cub games. Thanks for trying though!"

You will plague my dreams, woman of my plagued dreams. Onward!

”Dear A-hole (as you've not included any sort of name)
I must say, your post def[initely] brought a smile to my face. Although, what a naughty trick to play! I just thought I'd drop a line and say thanks for making my otherwise soul sucking morning a lil more entertaining.

[Expletive Deleted, and by expletive, I mean her name, which is Jessica]
P.S. As a fellow truck driver, I can sympathize with your loss...I can only imagine the heartbreak that would follow the loss of such a great machine.”

I wrote her back, stating that she, as a fellow truck driver, might be the only person who correctly perceives my new car as a ture and dear loss. By some mystery of time and space, Jessica and I started discussing alternative weight loss programs. Including the following:

The Inferno: Dante’s Diet. Like in the 8th circle of hell, dieters/falsifiers are forced to run in a river of shit while being whipped by demons for eternity. This targets the abs and the hamstrings while strengthening the core and gives you a great cardio work out. Loss of soul and eternal damnation are potential side effects.
The Prometheus Weight Loss Program: The Stolen Fire Of The Gods Burns Away Your Blubber Overnight. Eat everything you want, carbs, sugars, fats, everything! Never work out and still lose weight due to a giant eagle ripping out your digestive track every night while you are chained to a rock. Act now, supplies are limited. Call in the next 10 minutes and get a second intestine-eating, giant eagle free!
Drinkin’ Drano: A Time Tested Cult Classic Weight Loss Program Are you not a rocket scientist and still want to lose weight? Well, you don’t need a degree in aerospace engineering to understand the fluid mechanics of this program! Drink Drano, lose weight. A nice spin on the traditional laxative method.
Honestly, I came up with these by myself, Jessica didn't provide much support for my breakthrough weight lost ideas, but she was trying. And that’s what counts here, public humiliation. Onward!

Durring this whole process, my true love did reveal herself to me. Grace plucks my heartstrings completely unlike anyone else has ever plucked me before. She is elegant and feminine, yet stern and probably able to pummel me. We had a fleeting romance, sweet nothings posted on the wings of butterflies and then it was over. My “dirty skanky-ness” drove her from me and in a fit of passion and rage it was declared that, “you [meaning I, Obsquatch] be dumped, bizzo.” Grace, I’ll win your heart yet.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

CLP #8: WWJT,B? Who Would Jesus Taze, Bro?

I couldn't help myself. I only hope cupid is a merciful second shot, cause last time that son of a bitch gave me a black eye, and kicked me when I was down.

incase you missed it, here is my posting for me, really.

Friday, October 12, 2007


I quit smoking in January while hacking up a lung at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with my brother's fiancée. Adam, my brother, was drooling away in La-La land on the couch of their house at the time, drugged up to the high heavens on pain killers due to a spiral fracture he sustained to his leg while he was white water rafting. The drugs made him constipated and boy did he let us know. He called his movements, “grenades” during this medicated time peroid. A steel rod, 2 screws, 4-6 pins and two surgeries later, his leg is fine and he and his fiancée are rock climbing again like champions, or more like Billy Goats. I haven't had a drag of a cigarette in over 9 months.

When I was a smoker, I liked to think that I was an incredibly good smoker. I smoked obsessively, almost 2 packs a day. I’d smoke the most on nights when I'd go out on the town, or days when I had something important to do that I didn’t really want to do, like breath. Smoking was the very first and the very last part of my day, everyday. I could blow smoke rings, great smoke rings. I could blow them across a large room, at people. I used to name my smoke rings when I was bored and smoking alone: Jan, Bob, Timmy, Peter, Oswald, Denise, Theo, Rudy. I enjoyed blowing smoke rings into things, kind of like target practice. I’d shoot smoke rings out of my mouth at glass table tops, or towards window fans, or through screens and watch them get ripped apart. I used to blow smoke rings over hot cups of coffee and watching them catch a "thermal" and float up to the ceiling. Coffee and cigarettes go incredible well together, just like crystal meth and more crystal meth. People would ask me how I do it, how I blew smoke rings and I’d try my best to explain. “Make an O with your lips, put your tongue in the middle of your mouth, open your jaw as wide as it will go and pop it half way shut.” Once I had explained this, the people that asked for directions would try in vain to make smoke rings. Mostly, they just looked like fools making fish faces while I pummeled them with puffy, billowing, perfect smoke rings to the face and chest. I could average about 5-7 good smoke rings per drag of a cigarette. The first two would always be the best; the thickest, fastest, and most accurate, and the last couple rings would almost always fall apart instantly. I dreamed of learning how to blow smoke X’s so that I could play myself in tic-tac-toe.

I always completely put out my butts when I finished a cigarette. I, to this day, hate anyone who lets a smoke burn out in an ashtray. I only set one trashcan on fire through all my 15 years as a smoker. In that same amount of time, I’ve managed to burn holes in 3 of my favorite winter jackets, 2 black tee shirts, a pair of parachute pants, a jump suit, a red silk tie (I hate red ties but I always seem to buy them. Maybe I’m a republican, maybe I’m a communist, maybe I’m a matador.) a green pair of Umbro shorts from grade school gym class, as well as countless pillows, couches and coffee tables. I play bass so I have thick calluses on my fingertips and could pick up burning embers and “cherries” without really feeling it. That being said, I burned myself quite often as well as my clothing. I never put a cigarette out on my tongue or hand, but I’ve accidentally burned my little Obsquatch after I dropped a smoke in my lap while driving. That wasn’t very much fun.

I could hand roll smokes perfectly, with or without a filter. I never used a rolling machine. I could roll a cigarette while driving down Mass Ave in my pickup truck (also know as The Deathtrap) in the middle of winter going 50mph, through the snow, surrounded by crazy angry swerving Bostonian drivers while listening to classic rock radio and not increase my car insurance premium or the deductible. I, only once, have raided an ashtray, unrolled the butts and rerolled the used tobacco into a new-ish cigarette. It tasted like pan-seared ass in a garbage reduction sauce with subtle hints of putrid plum and rat poison. Although I never did it again, I thought about it when I was poor and being seduced by he cigarette-butt-porcupine living in Swampthing’s ashtray/desk (see “The Bachelor Party”).

I have owned and lost a total of 5 Zippo lighters, two of which were gifts from very close friends, one of which was once my roommate. He gave me a red Zippo that I lost in a taxi a few months after he gave it to me. I chased the taxi for a quarter of a block until I was completely out of breath. I had made up a rule that all red lighters belonged to me because I had been losing lighters at an alarming rate. I decided to only buy red Bic lighters and I claimed all red Bic lighters I saw to be mine. My roommate, unknown to me, already owned a red Bic lighter before this rule went into effect. I stole his lighter with the annexing zeal of the British Empire. As to never have his lighters annexed again, he bought me a red Zippo, which I lost because I wasn’t fit enough to chase down a slow moving taxi to a stop light 100 feet away.

The first cigarette I ever smoked was a Camel Straight. I was 13. I smoked it in the woods behind my house with a friend of mine who lived around the corner. He had the pack of cigarettes locked up in a toolbox he hid under his bed. He had bought a combination lock for this toolbox so that his mother, even if she found the toolbox, would not know he was committing the eternal sin of smoking at the tender age of 13. We took extra precautions to sneak undetected out of his house, at 3 o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of summer, and secretly and silently crept through the woods for a half hour until we were sure we were under deep enough cover that no parents that might have trailed us would see or smell us smoking. I had two in a row and was so proud of myself for not coughing or barfing, that I went back to my friend’s house the next day to smoke two more of his smokes. I started bumming smokes the day I started smoking them.

I preferred Old Gold cigarettes to all other brands. If I couldn’t have those, I’d choose Lucky Strike Lights (with a filter), then Parliaments and finally Camels. I would buy discount brands with laundry money when things got tight; Basic full flavor cigarettes were known to be an appetizer, a garnish and a dessert to a meal made up of Ramen Noodles and “Processed Homogenized Cheese Food Product” sandwiches. The neighborhood shopkeepers knew my brand (depending on which odd variety they stocked) and would have them ready for me when I walked in on my way to or from work. They also knew that if I came in at 10:59 pm, one minute before they closed for the night, and I was laden with quarters, nickels and dimes, that I’d be buying 100’s.

Buying smokes by the carton was something I never did, unless I was in the south where you can buy a carton of smokes for the price of one pack in the north. Being a carton smoker requires the smoker to admit that they absolutely must have access to cigarettes at every given moment. At this point, one should also admit to not knowing why he or she would keep cartons of cigarettes in the freezer. That’s where carton smokers keep the packs they haven’t gotten to yet, in the icebox. For some unknown reason and by some unknown process, “it keeps them fresh.” The freezer is where they must go once you’ve bought them from a store that has kept them unrefrigerated for weeks, maybe months since they came off that unrefrigerated delivery truck which was packed at a dry storage facility, which warmly held onto millions of cigarettes made at some sweaty factory in the south, where it is almost always hot. Keep those smokes on ice, carton smokers.

I liked soft packs because I never really knew how many butts I had already smoked or how many I had left until I had to raid my laundry money again. I didn’t wear a watch for the same reason; I didn’t want to know how long it had been since my last smoke. To keep my smoking under control, I created rules for when I could have my next cigarette. When I was driving, I’d allow myself one cigarette per street, and I’d follow that rule to a T, even if it meant going the long way so I could make more turns and smoke more butts. What’s four extra right hand turns if those right hand turns are the scenic route through flavor country. At work, I could only take a smoke break if the computer I was working on needed to do an unsupervised process, such as restart (“I don’t know what’s wrong, but I think restarting with solve the problem.”) or print a piece of paper (thanks to a 1992 first generation laser printer which had a 4 minute warm up cycle). At a bar, I would only smoke if there were no cigarettes butts in any one of the many ashtrays sitting on the bar. I’d take it upon myself to put those ashtrays to work. Obviously someone put all those ashtrays out there for a reason, and obviously someone cleaned out those ashtrays regularly for a reason, and that reason was to support and encourage my smoking habit. I had no self-imposed smoking restrictions while watching TV, sleeping, shadow boxing, doing yoga, needlepoint or showering.

Being a non-smoker has been great. I hate the smell of smoke, and I hate the smell of me after hanging around smokers. Chicago has passed a smoking ban, which takes effect on January 1st, 2008. With only a few months left with the stink, I am as cynical as ever. I hope never to smoke again, but I might just slap on a nicotine patch once in a while just for fun. They give you really messed up dreams. For real. If you want my advice, which is awesome advice, then quit smoking and find some meaning in your life, ya’ filthy rapscallion.

Friday, October 05, 2007

CLP #7:“This May Seem Like Gibberish To You, But I Think I’m In A Tragedy.”

Craig's List Project #7

Backfire [bak-fahyuhr] [intransitive verb] – A plan or action that rebounds adversely on the originator; to have the opposite effect of what was intended.

A few years ago I discovered that using swear words in sentences to increase the validity and intensity of a statement or opinion was futile and counterproductive. More over, it made me look dumber. Dumber than what, you might ask? Just plain dumber. I started to doubt the marvel and stirring majesty of something that was “fucking awesome,” and rightfully so. Replacing class with crass to get a point across was a mistake that I made for years as an idiot. It backfired. By dropping F-bombs, telling fart jokes and making indecent comments about one’s mother, I got a bit of the stink stuck on me. The same idea holds true for Blogging.

What was meant to be a laughable experiment in exploiting the rampant idiocy of the personals section of Craig’s List, ended up being an unpleasantly ironic adventure in self debasement, emotional detachment and personal humiliation as I basically put my self respect through a cheese grater. At first, I thought it was funny. By being totally dishonest, I honestly thought that I was funny. And I probably was. But the whole project changed as I moved from looking at it from an ‘anyone looking for companionship on Craig’s List is comically socially screwed up and must be humiliated,’point of view, to a project that made me feel like, ‘I am some kind of heartless, soulless monster for seeking out people to humiliate in a context where they are looking for companionship. I am socially screwed up and that is humiliating.’ I am only talking about my take on my own actions. I’ve gotten plenty of comments from friends and strangers that would be much more destructive had they used less swear words. I guess the F-word is a blessing in disguise.

Again, I ask myself, “Hey dipshit! This isn’t a question!” That’s true. I guess I don’t ask myself that, but, “Hey dipshit! What’s the point?” seems to be a recurring conundrum. And after asking myself this enough times, I started to figure out how self-centered I actually am, conscientiously and sub-conscientiously. I wanted to know about other folks, how ridiculous and shallow they are, how they would react to what I thought was minimal stimulation. I learned more about myself. I ended up learning that I could easily deceive people into amusing me. I also learned that I like deceiving people who I think are simple, which means that I am selfish, deceptive and shallow when I put my mind to it. On top of all that, I learned that I need to find a real girlfriend, which means that I’ve got to stop being selfish, stop being deceptive, and stop being a fucking dipshit... or stop being a dip.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

CLP #6: Endgame:
Just Like The Highlander Movie Sequals, This Crap Has To Stop.

Craig's List Project #6

I try and try and try to be so shallow. I am getting so good at it. I’m beginning to convince myself (and almost everyone I tell about this project) that I am, in all actually, this shallow. I can play the heartless monster for only so long. I have taken this Craig’s list thing too far and now even I am wincing at myself. The second step of this project was to create the worst possible dating personality; a selfish, self absorbed, self centered yet completely un-self-sufficient basement dweller. I think I nailed it. Behold.

So I’ll just start like this. I am awesome. I am perfectly f**king perfect and great and f**king great. I am a beta male doing beta tests. I design, test and play video games for a living (it's called beta testing). It’s a dream job. I don’t go out in the sun very often and have, what you might call, a “subway tan” which isn’t a tan at all; it’s more of an insult. I also know how to use semi-colons and will correct your grammar. That being said, I am really bad at spelling. I know the perception of a beta testers is a ruff one, but I’m not fat (which is surprising because I’m really lazy) and I do have a sense of dignity and and a sense style. I believe that chivalry is dead, but I am extra chivalrous because of that point. I used to live in my parents basement, but they kicked me out years ago. I got this job and now I rent a garden apt in a building that my parents own.

Me•29 year old anti-socialite, reclusive but friendly.
•I like the darkness; literally and figuratively.
•Have stains on most of my clothes from falling down, not getting off.
•I can laugh at life because it has laughed at me for so many years
•I like horror flicks and aspire to own a Segway.

Here’s what I look for in a woman•Someone smart, with at least a college education. Intelligence is sexy, but so are bikinis. No BBW, please. You’d crush me.
•Someone who will play games with me. LOL. I’d like to get my ass kicked in Halo by a girl. Is that really asking for too much?
•Someone to share with. Let’s put the “us” in “all your base are belong to us!”
•Someone into ST and ST TNG/DS9/V, MMORPG and ninja movies.
•Someone with patients, an open mind and chains somewhere in her wardrobe.

I’m looking for a fun woman who gets me. You could pack a picnic and we could go to the back yard and you could feed me grapes off the vine and we could drink like fish till the sun goes down. I will only respond to e-mails with pictures.”

Before I justify my despair, let me just say that “being the ‘us’ in, ‘All your base are belong to us’” is the best pick-up line I’ve ever thought up and is in contention for the best pick-up line ever. It even beats “Excuse me, does this rag smell like chloroform?” I feel like a scumbag just typing that.

I remember laughing as I was making this guy; thinking to myself, “Wow, it’s funny how much of an ass this guy would be.” You know this kinda guy, the condescending IT guy. But it’s not really funny making an ass. People who are asses don’t amuse me in real life, they either piss me off by being asses or bum me out because there are already so many asses and now I know that there is one more in the world. So why did I get such a thrill out of making up a self absorbed jerk and trying to pick up women with him? Is it really to see how low the Craig's list dating standards are? Or am I becoming the type of person who delights in seeing the dating tactics of desperate people? I did enjoy receiving and reposting the response to my previous on-line personal, and probably will enjoy them for a long time to come. That's because I received responses from people who were as boring as the wet Armani blanket that I tossed to them. But this more recent post was different, I received only one response, and it hit me like a wrecking ball.

“It's a shame that you will only reply to people who provide you with a picture. I think we have a lot in common. At the same time, I am not going to send a random person a picture. You could be a pervert who just wants to collect pictures. I suppose that you could still be a creepy pervert even after we exchange a couple of emails. However, I assume that most creeps wouldn't bother to respond.

I enjoy games and have a Wii
I dislike semi-colons, but I like colons.
I would also like to own a Segway. If I can't own one, I think it would be funny to get run over by one.
What do you mean by someone with chains in her wardrobe?

Anyway, I'll just send this now seeing as you aren't going to respond anyway.”

This is why this all must end. This woman called me out, called me a creep and I feel like a creep. I figured that by including “I will only respond to e-mails with pictures,” I was following normal douche bag operating procedure on Craig’s list, but now I think that it was more devious than that. Was I going to do the same thing that I did for my last post, rip any woman that has the guts to reply to shreds and put their pictures online for public humiliation? Probably. Am I the pervert that she is afraid of sending a picture to? Maybe. Not in a sexual way at all, but my intentions were perverse in the sense that the picture I asked for would have been used against her rather than to give me an idea of who she really is. That’s the heartless monster in me that I’ve been conscientiously training to tap dance with golf shoes on upon other peoples hopes and dreams. But this girl actually redirects the humiliation back at me and points out my creepiness. The real problem I have with myself after getting this e-mail is that, not only is she right, but this girl is witty. She’s absolutely onto something in thinking that it’s cooler to die in a Segway accident then to successfully get from point A to point B on one. And honestly, the whole colon / semi-colon thing really amuses me. So this girl is cool and I’m the jerk that a lot of people thought that I was from the start.

What’s the point in acting like a jerk if the people that I think would find it funny that I'm acting this way, are actually the people that remind me how crappy it is to be a jerk. I've been found out. I need a new project, and another shower. I just took a shower, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the dirt didn't come off.

CLP #5: My Soul Hurts, Where's My Sharpie?

Craig's List Project #5

So, after a bunch of threats, some inspiring legal reminders, and some major soul searching, I've decided that it is too heartless of me to put these women's pictures up without their consent. What's the solution, you might ask? Well, for some reason, a single skinny black line covering one's eyes turns slander and internet fraud into good clean family fun. Legally, I'm as innocent as a penny pinching grandma, but I'm sure that in the grand scheme of things, I'll burn for this. That's okay, I like BBQ.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

CLP #4: In The Meantime...

Craig's List Project #4

I've been told I'm an a-hole, a jerk and that I'm brutal. I agree, but the experiment must continue to it's bitter and ill-conceived, yet genius conclusion; a real date from a Craigslist posting. I will eventually put up a real ad for my-lonely-self on Craigslist and ask one of the people who responds to it to go out on a real date. I know that I am condemning myself to either of the following situations.

1) No one will respond to the ad and I will feel shattered because a business man with the entertainment value of a pile of rocks and a basement-dwelling, video game designer are, in fact, cooler than I am or ever will be.

2) I will go on a date, end up being bored in the first 10 minutes and tell her about the experiment. As a result, I will get a pitcher of ice water poured on my head, slapped in the face, stuck with the bill and never hear from her again. I will then live the rest of my life as I had lived it up to that point, but living with the shame in knowing that I had been rightfully slapped in the face for being a douche-pump.

3) I will be found out. Not necessarily about this project, just found out in general. I have many secretes and any one of them could destroy me.

4) I will lose interest in the project, spend days repenting for all of the lying-to-women I've been doing and... wanna ride bikes?

5)Meet the woman of my dreams, fall madly in love and live happily ever after.

I'm TOTALLY counting on #5. But in the meantime, here is my most favorite song of all time, ever. It's been stuck in my head since the wedding a month ago and was the theme music for the bachelor party. Enjoy!

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

CLP #3: Mr Boring Is Quite A Catch

Craig's List Project #3

Does no one get it? I’m concerned about the results from my experiment. Mr. Boring seems to be a highly desirable guy, which is odd to me because I tried to make him as bland as possible. Here are some of the points I made sure to include when creating him. These points were supposed to make him seem like as much fun as playing with belly button lint while trapped in a 3 hour line at the DMV.
1) The phrase “I work hard and play hard” has always pissed me off and been immediately indicative of an idiot. Now, adding that playing “hard” includes golf, the only sport where you are supplied a little car to get from one end of a lawn to another, shows just how “hard” someone is willing to play, or work.
2) I mention being “athletic” or “fit” EIGHT TIMES in one paragraph.
3) I ask for an “attractive” or “athletic” woman FIVE TIMES in the same paragraph.
4) My favorite movies are all Oscar winners for best picture.
5) My favorite TV show are all Emmy winners
6) I like “fun things” and my idea of “fun places” are Jersey and Vegas.
7) “Smart is good, also” is the last sentence in what I’m looking for. Obviously after all five of the “attractive” requests.
8) I’m “tired of the club scene,” but want to “get decked out and hit the clubs.”
9) I call women “Hot Stuff.”
10) After a list of 34 adjectives about myself, I causally mention that I “don’t like talking about myself.”

I posted Mr. Boring at 4pm on Thursday, but by 9pm on Thursday there were already over 150 Men Seeking Women post ahead of mine. These guys buried my posting under a pile of “tried of the club scene” and “I’m looking for a special lady.” I thought no one would ever find my mystery man, let alone have the patience to read through this monotony that was my personality, let alone find it attractive to be called “hot stuff.”
But I was wrong. Here are some of the responces.

"Hey my name is Vicki I am 25 single no kids not married blah blah...
I live in the city I have a normal job not looking for a one night stand and any of that non-sense... Umm here are a few pics if you like you now where to respond."

This was honestly what I was expecting. Someone who a) doesn’t use any punctuation when trying to impress a guy. b) Saves time by writing only two blahs rather than the standard “blah blah blah.” c) Actually types “Umm” in an e-mail and even takes the time to capitalize it. And, d) misspells “know.” I attached the picture she sent because I've always wanted to know what people who don’t use commas look like. I figured you did, too. Now you now.

"Hi, I Am 21. Film Major And Waiter. From Ohio. If Interested Reply.".
I honestly knew more about this girl when I didn’t know anything about her. I don’t think I want to know more about her, even though she uses commas and periods.

Here’s where things started to bum me out. There are people that really want to meet a person as boring as the one I made up. These women really put themselves out there, but like the heartless bastard that I am, I have to squash their dreams of meeting Mr. Perfectly Bland.

"i saw your ad on craigslist and was ABSOLUTELY intrigued. sounds crazy to say, but you sound exactly like me. we really have a ton in common.

i am 25, 5'10", love being active. i have a great job in sales and love my convertible. i am very goal oriented. love getting dressed up, wine, vegas, travel, etc. anyway i can tell you more when we go out for a drink ;)
check out my pic and send yours, look forward to hearing from you!"


Awwww, isn’t the Don’t you feel e-butterflies in your e-stomach? And there was this nice lady, also.

So I just read your post on craigslist and you seem to be a decent guy. So I will tell you a little about me. First off I just moved to Chicago from Iowa about a month ago, and I throughly love it thus far. I'm very much into physical fitness and sports I like to stay in shape, my weakness is running. I've been running on lakeshore everyday since I got here rain or shine:) The rain being just as fun. Theres obviously so much in the city I have yet to see, but I've met a lot of pretty cool people and I love to go out to dinner and for drinks. I'm an all around girl I love everything from a good book and glass of wine to beer, pizza and football with the guys. I'm attaching a picture and hopefully I will get one in return."

She seems sweet. Both of them do. Too bad I don’t give a fuck. Too bad I’m going to post both of their honest and endearing attempts at meeting a new guy in the city up on my blog for countless people to laugh at. Well, maybe not countless, more like 7. Too bad I’m a heartless monster and will include their pictures on this post in case either of them have friends or coworkers or (better yet) x or future lovers that read this thing and then these ladies will have to move to a new city due to the humiliation of being suckered by a fake yet believable craigslist ad for a boring guy set up by a nutcase with no pants on at noon and with nothing but free time and house plants on his hands. It’s too bad, cause they seem so sweet.

These women seem so average in text form. No jokes, no edge, no attention grabbing qwarkyness or wackiness. Just the facts.

"Just thought that I would say hello. Read your post and you seem like a great down to earth guy. Didn't know if you were looking for someone downtown or not.

I am 29, 5'2 and 105 pounds. I do live in the suburbs. If interested I would like to hear from you"


All the responses have come to me by now. I’ve gotten all the “forced-smile” pictures from strangers that I could get by putting a suit on a hook and throwing it into the proverbial sea. By the way, this is the actual image that I used in the craigslist ad. Judgments have been slung around like pudding cups in a high school cafeteria food fight and I’ve got chocolate mud on my face. They judge my ad to see if I’m “the one”, or close enough to “the one” that they wont puke. Meanwhile, I judge them due to the fact that they responded to a fake craigslist ad that I couldn’t make more uninteresting without mentioning how much I dislike “bad stuff”. I’m sure that I’m the villain in this, and would be guilty of whatever lawsuits were filed against me for leading these women on, but come on. You’re reading this, and you are getting at least a hint of a smile from these fine, if not bland, women’s pain. You are a heartless monster also. So we are even.

There was one shining light that I should share. Even though this last person fell for a trap, they were a lot more conscious of what they were reading vs. what they were looking for.

"You are a professional, what type of business? You mention you don't like clubs but then you said we should get decked out and hit the clubs - what's the deal?"

Someone’s thinking. Well, there is only one logical thing to do next, and it isn’t to put on pants. I’m going to post another ad on craigslist, but rather than use a suit on a hook as bait, I’m going to use this.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

CLP #2: Mr. Boring is up and personalizing

Craig's List Project #2

Mr. Boring has a personal ad. This is it.

Hello ladies.
I am an athletic professional 29 year old looking to meet the right girl. I, too, am tired of the club scene and I want to try something new. I work out weekly. I’m friendly. I work hard (I wear a suit to work everyday) and play hard (golf and running). I like fine wines, the Cubs, running and biking on the lake, Itallian food and I love the central air conditioning in my condo because I like to keep my place cold. I’m tall (6’4”) and am fit and attractive. I am an interesting person, but not a freak show or chauvinist I take vitamins everyday and eat healthy foods. I love my family and I’m a nice guy. My favorite TV shows are: Family Guy, 24, Lost, Heros and the Daily Show. My favorite movies are: The Departed, Crash, Million Dollar Baby, Saving Private Ryan and American Beauty. I like meeting new people and doing fun things. I’m a down to Earth kind of guy and at the same time, I’m a successful and shred businessman. I make sure to have “downtime” for trips to Vegas and New Jersey and other fun places. I like doing athletic activities and have been told that I have a great body. I’m outgoing and polite, strong and sensitive. I don’t like talking about myself very much. I’d rather talk about you. I’d like to meet an attractive, slim, athletic woman, between the ages of 24 and 28. You should be fun loving and outgoing, ready to end the work week with a night out on the town. Let’s get decked out and hit the clubs. I’m really looking for a attractive woman to run and bike with, eat good food and drink fine wine, and someone to lounge in the wonders of my AC chilled condo. You should also be cute and drive a fast car. Smart is good, also. Get in touch with me, hot stuff.

We'll see what kinda response he gets from the ladies, the ladies.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

CLP #1:Craig's List Play-Doh Shop of Horrors

Craig's List Project #1

So here’s my next idea. I was recently on Craig’s List and found a section for personal ads. Men Seeking Women, Women Seeking Shallowness, Idiots Seeking Attention, Sledge Hammers Seeking Brick Walls, that kinda thing. I have found many things on Craig’s list in the past, from roommates and bandmates, to free sofas and cool wine bars, but I was amazed to realize that people can actually post want ads for companionship. It’s like doing a google search for the meaning of life (I must point out that I did this google search and found this link for The Meaning of Life – A Rational Philospohy which ended in a little chuckle, quite a chuckle indeed*) and believing that the results are the ultimate truth (which in this case, they just might be**).

There are so many varieties of hopelessness in these Craig’s list personal want ads. I looked mostly at what women were looking for in a man. My immediate reaction was “They are all searching for perfection in a relationship on a free website which I’ve used to get stinky free furniture and messy roommates.” My next reaction was, “why don’t any of these ladies post their picture when they are trying to attract the perfect man… online?” It crossed my mind that they might be recognized by co-workers or friends, but I wouldn’t be slowed down in my search for perfection if someone in the next cubical knew that I was actually looking for perfection. Then I thought that all these posters might be physically hideous, which could be true since conventional wisdom dictates that ‘all the good ones are taken’ and if that statement relates to the no-cost internet dating scene at all then it means that all the six foot, built-like-an-Amazon, sexpots were taken by the first coke-bottle-glasses wearing web searchers who used a plus sign in their online life partner searches (ex: “boobs + low standards + hot”). Or maybe these women were afraid that posting pictures of themselves would result in them being objectified as hot pieces of ass, or that their online suitors would begin to care less about who they were and what they listed as their interests and favorite TV shows and would care more about the face that was attached to those interests and glued to those TV shows.

And then, as if on cue, I had an epiphany. It occurred to me that not posting a picture lead to a bit of a chase. “Your picture gets mine” is a common ending for these want/need/fulfill ads and if your picture isn’t good enough then you aren’t gonna get one back. These women want the upper hand when it comes to harvesting the dregs of free on-line dating. Then it occurred to me that these women aren’t doing on-line searches for Mr. Perfection, they are looking for some Joe-Schmoe-average guy. They are putting out their bare minimal requirements for their own happiness within a relationship and hoping at least some of the points they put out there are characteristics that the afore mentioned Schmoe either displays prominently in their life, or partially, or can fake convincingly well in an anonymous response e-mail. It’s like building a house of cards with someone with Parkinson’s disease, you’ll be happy if you can get even the slightest resemblance of a foundation for a relationship.

So I decided to prey upon these women-seeking-men. I would create three different ‘men-seeking-women’. The first would be a direct response to what the majority of the ads asked for; a professional, athletic male, interested in walks, wine, and wealth, but as boring as an wet sac of dead rats. Then a man base upon my own interests and quarks; relatively lazy and interested in beverage temperature regulation and zombie impersonation. And, finally, a man that would represent contention for the lowest rung of the dating society; a basement dwelling video game addict that uses acronyms in their spoken language (ex: ST TNG, MMORPG, and the dreaded LOL and TTYL (that shit drives me bananas)).

Be warned. The characters are being made. You might ask, “What’s the point, dipshit?” Well, honestly, there is no point. I just want to see which of these characters will get the most responses, and what the content of the responses will be. As I develop these on-line dating personas, Mr Generic, My Inner Grown-Up Child and The Awful One, I will post their profiles and whatever responses each of them get. So stay tuned ‘cause it’s about to get interesting, if not time consuming.

* it's not a bad link, it said "not found" when I tried also
** Chose your own foot note. If you chose this foot note, turn to page 26, where you will die a horrible death. To chose a foot note that actually pertains to the context of this post, turn to page 93, where you will die a horrible death.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Ian's Bachelor Party

Ian and Catherine. Aug 11th 2007.

I’ve known Ian since the first day he beat me up. He and I played Lacrosse against each other in high school. That’s probably when he beat me up, I didn’t know it at the time though. We really met at Skimdore College, once all the bruises had healed and internal hemorrhaging had stopped. Eventually, I ending up living on his back porch in Boston, then down the street from him in Cambridge, then nowhere near him while he was in Raleigh, and then in the room down the hall in Chicago. Then he met Catherine, broke our lease, moved out with me and in with Catherine, and I haven’t seen that same Ian since.

Now, wait a second. I know what you are thinking. “Oh God! This is another one of those, ‘my buddy met a girl and now I never talk to him because she is sucking his free-spirited soul away with a straw made of sledge hammer while tap dancing on his credit rating and holding his balls hostage in a mason jar of formaldehyde.’” No. That is not what I am saying. I know that Catherine is the best thing to ever happen to Ian. She is amazing. She rescued the Man from the Mess and made him a better man. But yes, I do miss the Ian I knew in college and the years beyond; the one that would stay up until 6am drinking lighter-fluid and eating dog food, the one with a scraggly and tangled mess of a beard, with little chunks of breakfast caught in the mustache, the one that would tell endless stories about barfing and farting, the one who could lose any object of any size in his room because the mounds of dirty laundry all over his floor were so deep that they were actually inches above his bed, the one that would sleep til noon and not put on pants til 5pm, the one who received the nickname “SwampThing” due to his odor and cleanliness habbits. I miss that Ian, but that Ian had to die. And had to die brutal gory death. That being said, what death is more brutal and gory than getting your head bashed in with battle hammer of true love and devotion. Catherine wields such a deadly weapon, hell-bent on the gruesome destruction of the dreaded and stinky SwampThing.

Yeah, I miss SwampThing, but now Ian has a job, and uses a razor and wakes up with the sun, which I just can’t seem to ever want to do, and now he has a beautiful and wonderful wife and a bright future full of love and companionship. Way to go, asshole. Look at the examples you’ve set for all your slack ass buddies. You’ve got a house, a dog, a wife, a deck, a back yard, a fucking garage to park your fucking car in so that you don’t get $50 fucking Chicago fucking parking fucking tickets (FUCK!), and you’ve got an all around pleasant odor and demeanor. Fuck off, dude. What’s this douche-baggery? We are not as good at life as you are, fucktard. Slow the fuck down and wait for me to at least get a reason to wake up in the morning, while I still can claim a grasp on youth. You and your fucking happiness.

This is how things went down in the final days of Ian's life as "Swampthing".

We went to Saratoga for the bachelor party, we being Ian (the blushing groom), Brad (a college buddy and fellow trouble maker), Chris (Ian’s brother), Christopher (Catherine’s cousin), Noodle (a 6’6”, 120lb heir to the water noodle fortune), James (a co-leaser with Ian in an abandon building that became known as the Fort) and I (I refuse to submit any details about myself that will be self incriminating). There we partied like idiots, but not before taking an afternoon bachelor party field trip to the local Gelato shop. Do we know how to party or what. After that delicious treat retreat, we swaggered our bachelor-partying-having-selves over to the non-stop madhouse party that is Borders books. I managed to take these quick pictures before things got totally nuts in the periodicals section.

After that exhausting jaunt through an expensive ice cream shop and the whirlwind extravaganza that was the bookstore, some of the boys needed a nap. Holy crap, are we old or what. After emptying out our colostomy bags, pressing our pleated pants, cleaning our dentures and polishing our best penny loafers for a night out on the town, the boys all met up on the porch, where lounge chairs were lounged in, good times were shared, jokes were made at Ian's expense, cigars were smoked...

and Brad was slapped in the face

Then we were off to DA’s for drinks. There, we shot darts, shot pool, shot shots, drank drinks and got all around obliteratedly belligerent. And like all good bachelor parties, things started to get a little homoerotic.

And then Brad got slapped in the face again.

In fact, everyone got slapped.

Christopher seemed to enjoy a bit too much. Look how bright and soft his eyes are. We might have discovered and unleashed the masochist in him.

Rock, the bartender, decided that I needed to be part of my very own wet tee-shirt competition, which I won.

(How bout that sweet mustache, eh?)
I later threw Brad and Noodle over a fence so that they could come in the ‘backdoor’ of the hotel. There was no backdoor to the hotel. Noodle smashed a $150 table with his face, Christopher and I had breakfast at 4am, Brad sucker-punched me in the nose first thing in the morning and I won $15 at the horse track. The hotel has black listed us, as have many of the restaurants, bars and women in Saratoga. What better way to usher out Swampthing and usher in Mr. Merritt than to destroy his reputation, his liver and an expensive hotel room.

And what better woman than Catherine to be his bride. They are amazing together... but I don't think she would have liked us had she met us on Caroline St in Saratoga. What a great fucking party.

Oh yeah, everyone seems to asks if there were strippers or hookers at this bachelor party. Now, we couldn’t let our boy, Ian, join the ranks of the married without getting him his own stripper. At the time, I was told no photography but I managed to shoot one picture during the show. Enjoy.

Friday, August 03, 2007

Bull Balls and Onion Rings

I ate bull balls at a Rodeo. I was no where near as excited as this little lady was, but I couldn't say no to um.

In order for people to eat bull balls, they are pounded flat, fried, and served with shrimp cocktail sauce. Once that is done, they are called Rocky Mountain Oysters. I ate them. They look like this...

I ate them at a Rodeo in Colorado called the Greeley Stampede. I saw kids ride sheep.
I saw belt buckles and bought one with an angry rattlesnake on it. And I ate balls damnit.
So the next time someone tells me to "eat balls" I can tell them I already did, with cocktail sauce.
I also ate Crocodile, but I don't think anyone cares about that. Bull balls, now that's something to tell my grandkids about.

Descent and Water Slides

I had a dream last night that I was protesting the war in Iraq at City Center in Montpelier when the US Army of the future showed up. The US government had become a dictatorship under W and Dick and they decided to send gun ships to attack the 20-30 protesters in downtown Montpelier. The attacked the peaceful crowd with the Millennium Falcon, which really bummed me out because I like the Millennium Falcon. Then they sent in hundreds of paratroopers and handcuffed us all. Someone got shot. We were taken to a water park when the troops were training on waterslides and having an all around good time practicing for war in a water park. Then we had a picnic in a coal mine and played group games with a parachute just like I did in preschool gym class. I think everyone was drinking wine by the end. I should protest the war in Iraq more often.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007


I think this is fucking funny.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

things to do when you are single

Tonight I'm going out with some friends. One of which is the guitar player in the tin pan ally band, Sons of Susan which I've been playing with for a few months. His name is Nathan. His girlfriend is going to come out tonight also. We are all going to see a band called Sex Fist. They are a bluegrass band, and strictly bluegrass. I'll also be meeting the lead man from a rock band I used to be in, Moxie Motive. I'm going to ask him if I can become his booking agent. So tonight is a double date between Nathan and Katie, and me and a x-bandmate. Last time I talked to this x-bandmate, things didn't go so well and I quit the band and haven't talked to him since. I'm nervous like I'm actually going on a date with him. Fucking musicians. Nothing is ever simple. Should be a fun night. You should check out sexfist.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Tonights quote

"Oh. I'm sorry. I thought you were in my way."
-Alan Carlson

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

A blog is a sledghammer, if it's any kinda hammer. Maybe it's a jackhammer. Maybe both. Maybe not.

I wrote something depressing the other day. Just a few sentences that crossed my mind, then my fingertips, and froze me for a good 20 minutes as I just read and reread and rereread what I had written.
“You know when you are looking through some old boxes and you find a old photo of yourself smiling innocently at time when you had really tapped into something good, and you can see in that 10-years-ago smile that there wasn't anything coming down the pike at you to be afraid of for at least 10 years or so and now that you're there, you notice that you don't smile like that anymore.”
Not a suicide note or anything, but clearly depressing. It’s the truth in that photo’s ‘then-and-now’ contrast that has thrown doubt into the validity of the standard guidance councilor question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” What the hell did I want to do with my life while I was smiling away like that? Smiling like I didn’t know a damn thing. I wasn’t thinking about taxes, about a job, about the rent or the bills. I was in the here and now right then and there. Think about it. A good day for me used to be getting as many laughs as I could. Now, to get a good laugh, I tell stories about the days when I used to have days that made me laugh. What I’m trying to say is, life isn’t as funny as it used to be.

Monday, March 26, 2007

The blorst of times

Today, I didn't do much. I put away my electric blanket. I paid some bills online. I played a game that involves a monkey kicking a coconut. Check out my high score. Life is hard.
5092 Monkey Meters

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Fuck it, mofo. Fuck it.

Fuck it. I like swearing in pubic so I'm gonna do it publicly, on a blog. Publogicly.
Fuckin' fuck shit ass twat cock motherfucker felching douche fist bitch cunt dick fuck monkey fucking asshole licker cock sucker donkey puncher.
Freedom of speech is being taken advantage of by a drunk right now, but remains unscathed. Unity creates ignorance, ignorance is untidy, thus unity needs a diaper and the diaper should stay on for a week, at least! Fuck you, asshole!

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Proverbs obsquatched

A fool and his money are soon partying, and if you're early to bed, then you aren't invited.
A friend in need is a mooch.
A house divided against itself is called a duplex.
A leopard cannot change its spots, but if it spots you, it might chew your face off, buddy.
A penny saved is waste of a bank account.
A picture paints a thousand words, but a Madonna made of shit will sell for ten thousand dollars.
A woman's work is never done... I can only get in trouble here... I'm gonna leave this one alone.
A watched pothead says "dude" a lot.
Actions speak louder than words, and a fist up the ass is the loudest action ever.
An ounce of prevention is worth a week of antibiotics and timeless Internet fame
You reap what you sow, and you sell on e-bay what you reap from your relatives during the holidays.
Ask no questions, hear no lies, get no dates, jerk off in the dark, alone.
All's fair in love and war, except for kicking someone in the nuts.
Beauty is only skin deep, but I'm just that shallow.
Better to have loved and lost than gotten kicked in the nuts.
Birds of one feather must have trouble flying unless they share.
Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and be kicked in the nuts.
Blood is thicker than water, but not richer or smoother than Ovaltine.
Cleanliness is godliness, and I steer clear of hubris.
Don't bite the hand that feeds you, unless it is made of prime rib.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, so lube up first.
Don't count your chickens before they are hatched, unless you are selling eggs.
Don't put all your eggs in one basket, unless you only have one egg, or one basket.
Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy wealthy and a complete waste of time.
Every man has his price, mine is $5 even.
Faith will move mountains, and so will atomic bombs launched in the name of faith.
Flattery will get you laid.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread because angels have no balls.
Good things come to those who have rich fathers
Good fences make good neighbours, but bad feces makes angry neighbors.
Haste makes waste and inflames hemorrhoids.
Home is where the belching, farting, cursing and crotch scratching never stops.
If God had meant us to fly, He'd have taken away those little seat belts on airplanes.
If at first you don't succeed, you're a loser.
If you don't have anything nice to say, blow it out your ass, dick wad.
If life deals you lemons, shit on them and throw them at your angry neighbours.
If you can't beat um, kick um in the nuts, then run.
If you can't stand the heat, live in Vermont for a year.
Blowjobs are the sincerest form of flattery.
In the kingdom of the blind the one eyed man has no depth perception.
Into every life a little rain must fall, unless you live in Antarctica.
It's better to give than receive... a kick in the nuts.
It's not worth crying over spilt milk or dead whores.
It ain't over til the fat lady kills herself from depression.
Keep your chin up and your balls unkicked.
Laughter is the second best medicine, behind morphine.
Love is blind, but I'm not. (see 'beauty is skin deep').
Money talks and bullshit smells.
Necessity is the mother of invention and Thomas Edison was a motherfucker.
People who live in glass houses should be attractive.
Never put off until tomorrow what an intern will screw up anytime.
One good turn deserves another kick in the nuts.
That which does not kill us gives us food poisoning.
There is more than one way to skin a cat, try using a lemon zester.
There's no such thing as a free lunch, unless you are sponsored by lunch.
The way to a man's heart is through his ribcage.
There's always more fish in the sea, but who wants to fuck a fish?
Time heals all wounds, except for mental retardation.
Two heads are better than one, and some head is better than none.
Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do.
When the cat's away I don't sneeze as much.
Walk softly and carry extra underwear.
You can make an omelet without kicking me in the nuts.
You can't teach an old dog to fly.
Youth is wasted on video games.