My good friend, Esther, recently lost her father. She spent a lot of time at his bedside while he was in the hospital. She says she now cries whenever she does the dishes. I have never experienced anything close to that kind of loss, but I wanted to make her feel better, so last night she and I drank a bottle of wine and tried to laugh about anything. We talked about her family, and we talked about my family. She told me how her dad had little nicknames for her and her sisters, they weren't inventive nicknames, just the first syllable of their names, but that is how the sisters refer to each other now, by their father given nicknames. She told me how she never liked his new wife and how he would brush that off with a smile. “Oh, Es, she’s alright.” I told her about my Grandmother. How she used to always carry cinnamon Dentyne to keep my brother and I quiet, and how she used to make baseballs out of matzo ball soup. I told her about my Grandfather; whose kisses were like sandpaper covered with spit and who had the thickest New York accent I’ve ever heard. She told me how her kids think she’s crazy. I told her how every girl I meet thinks I’m crazy. She offered me a steak taco. I gave her an Old Style. We talked about regret and how there shouldn’t be any room in someone’s life for regret, but it sneaks it’s way into your head and beats you to a pulp while you’re not looking. Then the next thing you know, you are a pile of pulp when all you want to be is a pillar of solid; pulp isn’t solid. Pulp is mushy. Pulp is gooey. Pulp is wet leaves, the insides of pumpkins, the left over coffee grinds. We do not want to be used coffee grinds. We are not pulp, Esther and I. We are solid.
While we were talking, I remembered this video from my childhood and showed it to her.
Even though that is a killer butterfly collar, and could mostly shoot this large man into orbit if a strong enough gust of wind came along, I will tolerate absolutely no bashing of this video. Free To Be was one of the best kids movies ever, man. Epic.
Yesterday, I woke up and it was snowing. I had to take my car into the shop for a 5K mile tune up. It has taken me a year and a half to rack up five thousand miles on my car; according to AAA, the national average annual mileage is 12K – 15K, it jumps to 22K for people in Los Angeles. I am riding my bike in the wintertime, I am walking to the grocery store, I am recycling everything, I am wearing a mask, I am saving the world, I am a fucking superhero.
My car doesn’t need a tune up, it needs a force field. Over the year and a half I’ve owned it, some ugly and venomous toad (As You Like It) has keyed it 360°, some other deformed, crooked, old and sere, ill faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere, vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, stigmatical in making, worse in mind fool (The Comedy of Errors) smashed my front window, yet another heedless jolthead (The Taming of the Shrew) has booted it and towed it away, and, most recently, a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood (King Lear) disguised as a valet attendant smashed in my front bumper and caused $1302.78 worth of body damage. All these villains, they are a disease that must be cut away (Coriolanus). My car needs to learn to stand up for it’s self and fight back against this blatant aggression. I need to buy my car some Tae Bo videos.
I went for a walk because it was going to take over an hour to get my car unnecessarily tuned up, and the coffee in the waiting room was lake water boiled to a thick, brown mud. There was no creamer either. So I left and noticed just how many people despise the weather where they live. It is Chicago. Chicago might be on the same latitude as Vatican City, but we all know that it is closer to Siberia than it is to the Mediterranean in January. The blatant rudeness of the Chicago cold isn’t a detail that one could possibly forget; it gets damn cold here and everyone knows it. Leg hair frozen to your jeans cold. Frozen boogers in my beard cold. “I didn’t think that is a real temperature” cold. “Hey! Where the fuck did my balls go?” cold. It wasn’t that cold out yesterday, only 9°F, but people were huddled over themselves like there was a city-wide scoliosis epidemic. I was wearing my boots, like I do when I go outside in winter, and felt rather weather proof, so I walked to the lake.
I brought my camera because I was going to compare my current life with King Midas if he were a scatologist, but when I got my camera set up on a small lighthouse, on a jetty, surrounded by slowly colliding icebergs and more tones of gray than I’ve ever seen at one time, I didn’t say anything besides, “I like it out here.” I guess that makes more sense.
You can watch a higher quality version of all of my videos via my YouTube account, Obsquatch. There is a "watch in high quality" button at the bottom right of the video screen. If you do that, you can see the bird I was watching as it flies by.
It is a strange sensation, being alive in bad times. That’s all I’ve seemed to understand over the last couple months; these are strange sensations, and these are bad times.
It is strange to think that the people that I know best can look at me and think, “so this is what a face dive looks like,” and the people that know me mostly in passing can look at me and think, “he’s looking better than ever.” It makes me wonder who is more wrong. Regardless. I’ve found a new place to look for humor; it’s the Holy Bible. I haven’t been hit by lightning yet, but if He has any aim at all, He’ll get me. And if the good lord doesn’t have good aim, then I’m going to laugh while the world burns around me. Someone very crucial to me being who I am, once said to me, “The problem with being a martyr is that you have to die.” I can honestly say that nothing in my life has enough drive that I would die for it. Samson was, and continues to be, a complete badass, but in today’s ideology, he’d be considered a terrorist. Who knows which side is right? I don’t.
I tried to think of the right answer. Unable to think of that, I spoke anyway. “The War of 1812! Photosynthesis! The Magna Carta! Dante’s Inferno! The Nevile Brothers!” She knew she had my balls in a sling and was just enjoying watching me squirm. “The Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria! The Prime Meridian! The Cotton Gin! The Great Muppet Caper!” A particularly playful smile crossed her obviously amused face. “6.02X10^23! The Communist Manifesto! James Earl Jones! The 1964 Ford Mustang!” I finally took a breath, inhaling the taste of eminent failure, along with the stagnant air of the crowded bar, deep into my lungs. “John F. Kennedy! John Wilks Booth! John Quincy Adams! John Wane Gasey! John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt! Spandex!” An explosion of beer erupted from her glass and momentarily threw my attention as she stifled her laughter. Undaunted, I continued my trivia rampage. “The Cuban Missile Crisis! Sensory Deprivation Tanks! The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly! Knit one, pearl two! Colonoscopy!” I was never going to get this right, which meant that I was never going to see this girl again. “Chris Fucking Kringle! The Mother Fucking Easter Bunny! Jesus Fucking Christ! Fuck it!” I could keep going, probably for hours, but I knew there was no point. “I fold. How the hell am I supposed to know your favorite trivia answer when I know nothing about you besides the fact that you sneeze into your beer when a stranger yells ‘Spandex’ at you?” She tilted the last of her beer down her throat, placed her now empty glass bar with a little more force than necessary, wiped her mouth with her wrist and said, “Well, from now on, that’s my new answer.”
This post is in response to Law With Grace’s project, Stolen Lines #1. I, under orders from Grace herself, stole the first two sentences from Night of the Avenging Blowfish, by John Welter. I am only a patsy in this cut-and-dry case of copyright infringement.
Don Frio sent me this completely inappropriate for work link while I was working on my resume so that I can get a new job and feed my seven children. Productivity instantly grinded to a standstill and my children are all jerks.
Mostly, this site is about boobs and how great they are, mostly. There are a few other points (tehehe) that are brought up from time to time. Here are some examples of the knowledge of the ages that resides within this website's dominion.
“Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history in a strand of your hair. Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document. The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent. The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand.” - Chuck Palahniuk
“When you can’t imagine how things are going to change, that doesn’t mean that nothing will change. It means that things will change in ways that are unimaginable.” - Bruce Sterling, in his annual and excellent State of the World discussion
“I fucking love it! Not the song, but the fact that this Grammy nominated piece of shit is a full fledged phenomenon sung and emulated by children and pre-teens all across America. Why? Because it advocates cumming on a “ho’s” back and then putting the bed sheet on her so that when it dries it resembles a cape.” - David Cross, regarding Soulja Boy’s “Crank Dat”
“A grown-ass man should be able to change a tire, drive stick, do CPR, set a bone, gut a fish, build a wall, throw a punch, shoot a gun, shotgun a beer, build a fire, run a barbecue, change a diaper, recite three lines from Animal House, light a fart, and eat a pussy.” - Vice Dos & Don’ts
It’s the second day of 2009, and here I sit, in my only pair of tighty-whities, at my desk, surround on all sides by knick-nacks collected from the last 365 days; plants and power tools, empty glasses and dirty dishes, a twisted knot of USB and power cables connecting my digital life to my real life, two hot dogs, and a piping hot bowl of oatmeal with entirely too much maple syrup in it which is just the way I like it. Yesterday was the first day of 2009, and I say it’s about Goddamn time 2008 ended. It started so well, with the state wide smoking ban, and a new job at the Greenhouse, and a shiny new car, and all. And it looked like it was going to be a great year, and for the most part it was. My brother married a beautiful, wonderful woman whose drippy nose during the wedding ceremony made me feel like a hero. My parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary, showing the world just how unbreakable true happiness is. My country elected a strong, smart man to lead us, a shocking change of pace from our track record of the last few decades. And I finally grew a real mustache and followed it up with a surprisingly successful first attempt at a full beard. I also decided that plaid is my favorite color. Quite a list of accomplishments.
But then there was the shitty side of 2008. A whole mountain of shit. A pile so putrid, which stank up this country so effectively, that the odorous aftermath of a drunken White Castle binge could be considered an air freshener. I’m speaking of the Sarah Palin supports that slathered the internet with blatant racism in the guise of political activism. I’m speaking of the Corporate greed that became so overwhelming, it collapsed the money markets of the entire world. I’m speaking of the fact that my car got vandalized three different times, and then booted and towed, serving up a serious divot in my savings account. Oh yeah, and I lost my job at the greenhouse. What the fuck, 2008?
This pungent accumulation of sociological feces brings me to my point. Clean Slate Syndrome. Clean Slate Syndrome, or CSS, is when you find yourself in a situation where your past actions and situations no longer have any connection what-so-ever to your current state of affairs and therefore negate any validity or legitimacy of you previous self. Your slate has been sandblasted clean, by or against your will, and you must now completely redefine yourself to the world. It’s my favorite syndrome, Clean Slate Syndrome. To some, it’s the scariest thing on the planet, and I understand this now more than ever. I am currently in the process of being launched into the vast unknown without much besides my white-knuckled, panic-stricken, death-grip-locked hands clenched for dear life onto my butt cheeks. As I am catapulted away from everything that has become routine and normal in my life, an eerie and completely unjustifiable calm overcomes me; I find myself twisting, somersaulting and careening, head-over-ass, through countless unfamiliar situations. No work, no bread, no crutch, no girlfriend, no back up plan, no clear path to success ahead of me. It is simply terrifying. How the hell did this happen. I remember in November asking myself if the economic crisis was effecting my life and I distinctly remember coming up with the solid answer of, “No. Not in the least.” So I asked for a raise so that, at the tender age of 30, I might be making more money than I did stuffing envelopes while I was high as a kite throughout the summer of 1995. I did not get a raise. Instead I was “let go.” in 1995, I had long hair, dull wit, sharp fingernails and drawer after drawer of homemade tie-dyed tee-shirts. Now I have messy hair, a different belt buckle for every day of the week, a beard, and make less money. So why am I so calm? To me, it is yet another shot at being cosmically reborn. I will find work, I will make dough, I don’t need a crutch, that cute girl will totally fall for me, and I will continue to go forward through this quagmire with hubris and self-righteous indignation, because only hard drives and semi trucks back-up. In the meantime, I think I need a haircut.
This was brought to my attention by Mr. Bearhead himself, and reported here by the Chicago Tribune. Behold the Idiocy.
Fifth Third Bank robber busted after leaving behind own pay stub, FBI says
—Steve Schmadeke December 30, 2008
The note handed to a Fifth Third Bank teller Friday was clear enough (despite some language errors): "Be Quick Be Quit. Give your cash or I'll shoot."
What was even clearer to FBI investigators examining the note was that they were not dealing with a criminal mastermind. The alleged robber, identified Monday as Thomas Infante, 40, of Cary, had written it on the back of his own pay stub, which helpfully provided the FBI with his name and home address.
"It's fairly unusual that we see something that specifically stupid," said FBI spokesman Ross Rice. "But overall, we see a lot of strange bank robberies."
Infante is accused of robbing the bank at 4017 W. Lawrence Ave. in Chicago of about $400, according to an FBI affidavit filed Monday.
His demand note, written inside the bank on a torn half of his pay stub, matched up with the other half, which was found outside the bank doors. The pieced-together stub showed Infante was paid $165.99 by Jewel Food Stores on Oct. 23, according to the FBI.
Infante was arrested at his Cary home and allegedly confessed to investigators, according to the FBI affidavit.
I might have just started a new heterosexual long distance relationship with a schizophrenic zombie enthusiast. Take a look.
So, I am now beaming while prancing around my tiny apartment in this tiny leather studded thong. It's like a hair and leather tornado in a here. I think I just made myself gag. Happy Devilmas.
This video is made entirely out of synthesized awesome from American made, Japan owned factories in NewBraska, which happens to be in U.S. occupied Iraq. The second video is purely vanity.
Hello world. Here's to the good stuff. I went to a preachers house for Christmas diner and felt closer to perfection than I ever have, mostly because I was seated next to the preacher's mother and had the honor of pouring her a glass, or two, of red wine.
This movie is twisted. Mr Bungle seems to have that effect on people.
I lost my job, I worked all day Christmas Eve, I didn’t go home for the holidays, and it looks like my Christmas dinner is going to be a veggie burger, granola, and glass of bourbon. I needed a pick me up. Christmas morning my parents and I talked about politics and conspiracies, my brother and I talked about unemployment and lost friendships, and my high school girlfriend and I talked about how my personal misery and financial despair will make for some great blog topics. I can only respond to these three conversations by saying, “Is this what my life has intimately boiled down to?” The answer is no, of course not. There is a lot more to me than that. My life also includes laughing at other people’s failures. Laugh with me, people. It makes this downward spiral seem more like a carnival ride when people all around you are screaming along.
Thanks to Sam for pointing me towards on-line failure. Sam is a smokin' Blues singer from Boston, recently moved to Saratoga Springs. Check her out at samanthawhitehouse.com
From all of us at Obsquatch.blogspot.com, Merry Christmas Happy Holidays Go Fuck Yourself
Two days ago, I got laid off from the Greenhouse. Yesterday, I became deathly ill and am currently on the hunt for a vampire to bite me so I will never get this sick again. Today, I am wrapped up in plaid flannels and puffy fleece like an inflatable redneck burrito. It reminds me of nothing, so here are some interesting quotes from people you probably don’t know unless one of them is you, and if that is so, see what kind of profound effect you’ve have on my life?
"Bring a bunch of freezer zip-loc bags to the 'Employee Appreciation Lunch,' and just stock up for the next few months of unemployment."
“I wake up every day wondering what the hell I am doing in upstate friggin New York; can this possibly be my life? I pretend to look for a job every day, because there aren't any. I'm looking for a new band and working on some original tunes, and I'm also waiting for my acceptance letter from UAlbany. But what am I DOING here? That's a long story… It involves an upset ex-girlfriend, a judge and a probation officer”
“As much as I try not to admit it, I’m really good at being stood up as I am currently out on a date with nobody. Drinking alone has lost it’s allure, that’s if it ever had any allure in the first place, which it totally does even though I won’t admit that either.”
“I’m sitting in my toilet room”
“No one has put so much time into saying so little over the course of so many opportunities, and done it with such grace and style as Phil Collins. He is truly my hero.”
“We need to rewrite the Ten Commandments. First off, Don’t Be Nervous. Secondly, Don’t Be Creepy. I’m going to hold off on the other eight, as I’m going through these kinda quickly.”
David: Dude when we invented armpitting, we changed the world. me: Is that where all those fires came from? David: Probably me: Im gonna quote you on that, just so you know David: Good! The world is ready!
“God damn the whole fucking world, and everyone in it but you, Carlotta.” -The dying words of W.C. Fields, his wife’s name was Harriet.
There are times you know when something is a fad and you follow along becase you get swept up in what you think is a good idea, and for a week or two you feel really good about being part of something bigger than yourself, where there is this whole community of idiots scrapping and clawing their way over one another to get your attention for a three second to five minute blast of self indulgence, but then, suddenly, finally, self consciousness kicks in and you noticed that this completely false community of strangers and carpetbaggers have collectively pulled down their emoticon pants and taken a crap in an on-line paper bag with your name on it, and after lighting this bag on i-fire, they leave said bag on your e-front porch and ring your IM-doorbell and snicker and laugh from the inter-bushes while you get www.crap all over your boots.com, and I believe that facebook is responsible for a huge percentage of internet-bassed, flamming crap bags right now, but know this, you should understand that I’ve felt this way about facebook for quite sometime and was so happy with myself for not ever taking part in it, but if the truth must be told, and if there is one thing that happens on this blaaaaaahg, then the truth is told, so if the truth must be told again, then I’ve seen this false community rear it’s pointless head in two completely different, yet almost indistinguishable similar forms; ie, myspace and friendster, so I was especially pissed at myself for stepping on the http://flaming.paper/bag.com that the entirety of youtube dropped on my front porch, that nest of godless douche pumps, so hold on tight, kids... It's time for yet another failure in the online life of Obsquatch, alas, but all that being said, I still chuckle at a few choice moments of the videos I’ve made where I tap into some kind of humor that I would consider universally funny to people with brains, and I feel proud when someone gives me 5 out of 5 stars, and I think that I know funny youtubers and am selective enought with my "favorites" and subscriptions that I am keeping my end of the bargain as a member of team awesome, and I still want that cute actress in California that I’ve never talked to and will probably never meet, to ask me to move into her levitating, earthquake-proof castle made of grilled cheese and (un)funyuns, and help spend her family’s fortune as insanely as possible, but maybe something better is in the stars and complete lack of stars for me (as it is impossible to see the stars from where I am) because regardless of the things I liked about making videos and the people who watched them, I think I am done making video for a while, and there is a good reason for this, which is the fact that the last video I made was of me going over my poor decisions at the grocery store and only after I realized that 1)nobody gives a rats booty about how many hot dogs I can buy at once, and 2) this information is neither interesting or funny, in the least, did I stop myself and say, “let it drown, Obsquatch. Let it drown,” due to the undeniable truth in knowing that there is something universally more classy (if not also classic (in the least classic way possible (because there is nothing classic about writing a blaaaaahhhhhhg (or classy for that matter (but I seem to have gotten off topic (which is something I should be professionally sponsored to do (which makes me wonder what kind of product would sponsor someone who goes off topic constantly))))))) about blogging rather than vlogging (both of which are terms that I despise).
Yes, this was a weeknight. Yes, that's a lot of drinks for not a lot of bread. Yes, I got a little cross eyed by the end. Yes, it was all very tasty, even the bread. Yes, you can have my liver when I'm done with it, but I don't think you'll really want it. Yes, I have more hats. Yes, that dress makes your butt look big. Yes, I know the Second Annual Sketchy Mustache Competition is over. Yes, I know I still haven't sent Shawn his prize for winning said Sketchy Mustache Competition. Yes, that makes me a douche pump. Yes, I know there is no such thing as a douche pump in the actual world of douching. Yes, I've been called a douche pump before. Yes, I am still friends with that person. Yes, he does like the new GnFnR album. Yes, I'm way off topic. Yes, I am a yes man.
