Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Sketchy Mustache Competition – or – I Only Get Good Ideas When I’m Naked

Maybe I’m on a posting rampage. Maybe I’m afraid of what will happen next month. Maybe I need to get out more and find something besides books, laundry and YouTube to entertain me. Maybe it’s bunnies.

I am currently hosting, and winning, the 2nd annual Sketchy Mustache Competition. I don’t know how long the competition will last, or if there are any rules besides grow a sketchy mustache, or what the prize for the sketchiest mustache will be, or who the judges will be, or who else besides me is competing. I’m still working on the details. And I’m still beating the competition, hands down. I didn’t shave for a month. Then I did, just now. I have to be at work in 2 minutes but I wanted to show you the new look. Enjoy!

6/18/08 4:07pm

Van Campbell has entered the competition. Van is the drummer in the clearly bad ass band, The Black Diamond Heavies. Here is his submission with his approved caption.
Kung Fu Van Campbell
"I'm a gay cop"

5/18/08 5:37pm

My Brother, Adam, has entered the competition only because he has "no social obligations for about a month." I believe he will be going for the '14 year-old who can't really grow a mustache but has a bunch of clumps of hair above his lip' look. Good luck, Adam!

5/19/08 2:02am

"Let the sketchiness begin. I accept your challenge. Although, you have a 3-week head start on me, my mustache will be so sketchy that it will actually be illegal for me to operate a van within 200 yards of a school zone."

5/20/08 12:07am

I have noticed two things after my first day out and about with the sketchy 'stache.
1)This thing itches
2)More than a handful of friends and co-workers have gone out of their way to say, "No, Officer. I don't know how fast I was going."

5/20/08 3:54am

I have invited Lis, a good friend of mine from college who has seen me in a cowboy hat and a neon blue speedo track suit, to participate in this, the most noble of contests. She has not yet responded, so I thought the following image might help. This is my temporary entry for Lis into the 2nd Annual Sketchy Mustache Competition. I might have created a monster. A sexy, fashionable, well mannered yet scruffy and surprisingly dapper (for a lady with a mustache) monster. Lord help us all.

6/25/08 8:17pm

1) 2 co-workers, a band-mate, my old boss and my best friend from grade school have stopped shaving and joined the competition.
2) Still no work from Mustache-Lis. I expect to hear from her soon.
3) Join us.

7/8/08 2:06am

Adam, my brother, sent me this picture...

That is sketchy.
Join the competition. Pass judgment on the competitors. Submit photos or votes via the "comment" button and I will gladly, and sheepishly, publish your opinions as facts. Fake mustaches are approved and encouraged for the facially impaired.

Without Two Titles, I Must Rely On Other Peoples Videos For Amusement

So there are these two brothers, the Vlog Brothers, that don't write letters to each other, they post videos on YouTube for the world to see. They have inspired me to be a "Nerd-Fighter". They remind each other, "Don't Forget To Be Awesome." This is my favorite video so far.

Check them out, you will feel good.

Foie Gras Is For The Birds, And From The Birds - or - Easily Crushable Dreams

I got real sick late last week. I had to stay home from work on Monday. Actually, I went to work and left 35 minutes later, after everyone who worked there asked if I had been punched in the face the night before. I guess I looked kinda rough; blood shot eyes, stuffy nose, sore throat, bright green clumps of phlegm dripping out of my face. It was gross. I left work, only to return the next day to a genuinely concerned boss. “Do you feel 100%?” Nope. “Why did you come in?” I need the money. “You have sick days. Go home, sleep and feel better.” Does that mean I got paid for sleeping yesterday? “7.5 hours. You don’t get paid for lunch.” I didn’t eat lunch yesterday. “And you didn’t get paid for it, either.” Before this job, I have never had a job with sick days, I usually just had to make up the time later in the week when I didn’t have any free time anyway. It made me realize something.

I want the life. I want the good life.

I want all the good stuff the world has to offer. I want the job. That great job that pays so much money for such little effort. The job that demands respect, and looks great on a resume and a business card. Something socially conscience and authoritative. CEO of saving the world. I want the girl. The Bond girl. The good girl turned bad girl that would walk out on you in a second if she sees fit, or leave you tied up for days with no food or water, but at heart is still a good girl. With perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect legs and a secret that could destroy you and everything within a four-block radius. I want the house. That huge one with the great view that you drive past every day on your way to work and it makes you gag because you know there are rooms in that monstrosity that are never used but are filled with stuff that you hate just so there is stuff in there. I want the huge closet with the rows of suits, the racks of ties, the slickest tee-shirts and those untouched spandex workout shorts. I want the prescription sunglasses, the impromptu trips to Hawaii, Europe and Jersey, the perfect suntan, a gold chain given to me by a dead hero of mine and a monkey head paper weight. I want shoes with real arch support and a pair of dogs that follow every command including, “fly”. I want the lobster, the duck and the veil, all on top of each other with a toothpick through them. I want skylights in every room I enter and canned applause to play when I walk into a room. I want the sound of whale songs mixed with luxury car engines to lull me to sleep at night and women in veils, with first names that start with three consonances or three vouls, to fan me with banana leaves while I sleep. I want Foie Gras from a goose that has only eaten Foie Gras. I want a catapult in my back yard, next to life sized chess board with midgets in costumes as the pieces. I want artwork on my walls, a stocked freezer in the basement and room for two in my shower. Two elephants. I want to wake up in the morning, put on a white fuzzy bathrobe, pour a cup of coffee, walk out onto a huge patio overlooking the ocean and say, “ahhhhh, what a morning.” I want my blood to heal the blind. I want my hobbies to include kite surfing, stunt aeronautics, lounge act, baby seal advocate, and professional smirker. I want to own a solid gold something ridiculous, like an ironing board or garage door opener. I want my poop to sell on E-bay for more than the price of the food that I ate to make it. I want the good stuff.

I guess this “sick day” thing kinda got to my head. That, and the all the cold medicine. I didn’t take two days off in a row, I worked today and I feel much better, but not as good as I would feel if I had the good stuff.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Sasquatch, Speeder and Slick Get A Beach House – or – Hey! What’s Up With These Lousy Tips?

I got my first official bonus from Regis, the owner of Gethsemane. I was dragging my ass into work at 6:30am when I walked by the boss, who yelled at me, “Hey, you!” because I guess that he doesn’t know my name. I snapped out of my 6:30am daze and spun on my heels to see what he wanted. “Hey, you! Take this!” And in that cinematically overused gesture where a soldier gives his lover a keepsake to remember him by just before he goes off to war, Regis, my boss, pressed something into my palm and closed my fingers around it. It was a toad. A big toad. The size of a Chihuahua’s head. He was cold and clammy and not very active; the toad, not Regis, who is more old and frumpy but becomes very animated when he is angry. So now I had a toad. It was resting comfortably, or what seemed to me to be comfortable for a toad, in my right hand. My pointer finger and thumb were wrapped around his back legs and his front legs were perched on the edge of my palm so his head was sticking out of the side of my hand. I looked at the toad. I looked at Regis. I looked back at the toad, he looked content as he was slowly warming up in my hand. I looked back at Regis with obvious confusion slathered across my face as I was now, quite unexpectedly, holding a large toad in my right hand, given to me by the owner of the store whom I had never even spoken to before, all of which was taking place at 6:30 in the morning. Regis grunted. His face alone told me that he was done with me, any potential for conversation was over, we did not need to talk about this, I should just take the toad and be done with it. I said “Thank you?” with as much sincerity as I could muster and spun back around on my heels and walked into the greenhouse. After spending a minute staring at and sizing up the toad I was holding, I decided to name him Sasquatch. I put him under a Mahogany Fern by our fishpond. There Sasquatch sat for four hours while enjoying the view of the frightened two foot coy fish and the screaming children frightening the two foot coy fish. He hadn't moved more that four inches by lunch time, when Regis said to me, “Hey you! Where’s that toad I gave you? I’m taking him back.” I went over the the Mahogany Fern, wrapped my hand around Sasquatch, said goodbye and calmly gave my new friend back to my boss, never to be seen again; the toad, not Regis who I see regularly and who now knows my name but still calls me "Hey you". I miss Sasquatch.

The next day, one of the schelepers (the guys that deliver the 50+ pound bags of soil to customer’s cars so that the common folk don’t have to do any work) came cruising into the greenhouse, hands clasped around some kind of treasure and said, “Dude. I got something for ya.” Yep, another frog. This was a tree frog, a little green guy. He was cute and jumpy and he pissed all over my hands. I named him Speeder and put him under the same Mahogany Fern with the great view of the pond. He quickly hoped away into deeper foliage and out of sight. I haven’t seen him since. I miss Speeder.

The next day, I was unpacking some six foot Oleander trees from California when one of the leaves jumped at me. A yellow tree frog, a sticky one with big eyes and long fingers, started hopping around inside the tree. He finally calmed down and I nabbed him. I dubbed him Slick (because he was sticky) and put him in a $599.99 collection of Bonsai Ficus Benjamina trees right in front of the Mahogany Fern. I figured that my normal decision of real estate, the fern, although alluring with it’s sweeping views of the fishpond and choruses of screaming children, didn’t have a very good track record with all these little travelers that had come my way. He catapulted himself out of my hand and into the bonsai pot, where he towered over the little clay hut and the painted little men playing lutes and going fishing. Then like the end of every Godzilla movie, Slick jumped past the Mahogany Fern and right into the fistpond, further terrifying the already skittish coy fish. He same under the small waterfall and I haven't seen him since. I miss Slick.

I told Regis the next day that, after he had given me Sasquatch, two other frogs had come into my life. He grunted. “Maybe someone is trying to tell you something. Maybe you should kiss one of um.” All that did was remind me of just how single I am. Maybe I’ll go check out Craig’s list.