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!



-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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.

"I'm a gay cop"


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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!


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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."
-Cuchulainn


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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."


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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.


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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.

-----------------UPDATE-------------------
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.

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.

Weekendless Weekends, Oswald Jr. and Gertrude Jr., and Dreams About Exs, Death and Pantera – or – I’m So Damn Excited About Being So Damn Tired

I work around 75 hours a week. Sunday through Friday I work from 8am until at least 6:30 at the Greenhouse. I lug 15 foot Ficus trees around for pompous, out of touch, rich assholes who say crap like, “wouldn’t this look fantastic in the solarium?” I have sold $500 plants to people who I know will kill the plants more effectively than some kinda flamethrower / chainsaw / wood chipper combination house plant B-horror movie Hell-Machine. Yes there are idiots, but there are also sparks of inspiration. The funny thing is that the people who buy the 4-inch pots of the same kinds of plants as the rich idiots, are the ones that end up asking all the right questions and in turn have happy, health tropical plants all over their tiny efficiency studios. There is a great sense of satisfaction in watching a young couple pick out a ten inch Raphis Palm that will years from now be twice as tall as I am. When I meet these couples, I like to stand in a big pot and ask to be adopted, even if I am older than either of them. I come cheep. Here’s the best part about the job. The plants all come from exotic locations, much sunnier and lackadaisical places than the north edge of Chicago. One of the most fragrant plants we get in is called Night Blooming Jasmine, or Solanaceae Cestrum Nocturnum. Night Blooming Jasmine (ahem) only blooms at night. It releases its fragrance when the blooms open. I have heard stories from plant lovers that say this Jasmine has gotten the attention of neighbors, both across the hall and down the street. Regardless, we got a big shipment of these plants and they had been shipped in a truck from the Florida Tropics for the past two days, so they had been in “night” for two days while they were in the back of the truck. When we opened the boxes that they were shipped in, the entire green house filled with the sweet smell of jasmine. We all took a break from unpacking the plants and just enjoyed it for a minute. Ain’t that swell?

Another real treat was a couple of hitch-hikers that the plants had picked up, Oswald Jr. and Gertrude Jr. (their name sakes can be found here). Oswald Jr. is a gecko, he jumped onto my hand from an Aphlandrea plant I was putting on display. I brought him over to the fishpond in the corner of the greenhouse and put him on a Cypress Papyrus plant. That’s the equivalent of a beach side condo in Gold Coast, Chicago. Nice place, Oswald. He darted off into a corner after surveying his new digs. I haven’t seen him since. Gertrude Jr.’s story is a bit more tragic. I opened a big old White Amok cactus and was about to introduce it to it’s new home when I noticed a half dollar sized black spider hanging out on the side of the planter pot. On it's butt was a red hourglass. I said something to the effect of “Holy shit, that’s a fucking Black Widow spider!” The entire crew came over and checked out my find. Someone said that their bite could kill a baby, that’s when “Dr. Foot” got involved. Gertrude Jr. lived a happy life in a cactus grower’s desert field at the base of a beautiful White Amok cactus, took a road trip for 2 or 3 long, yet sweet smelling nights, then got a brief glimpse of me in my working environment before meeting the bottom of Cerise’s boot. Liability is a bitch, Gertie. I miss both Oswald Jr. and Gertrude Jr.

Gertrude’s untimely demise reminded me of a dream I had recently. The Angle of death came to me in this dream. In fact a lot of things came to me in this dream, including a handful of disgruntled ex-girlfriends and Pantera. Here’s the story. Pantera was going to play a private concert in my house. This was a big deal because I love Pantera and since the day Dimebag Darrel was killed, I’ve regretted never being able to see them live. I’ve been told that they put on a mind-blowing show (those who don’t like hardcore need not question my affection for this band, just accept it as a once honored “two minutes’ hate” ritual). I was hanging out in my house, which happened to be a huge warehouse with the standard stuff you’d find in a warehouse; forklifts, huge coils of cable, rolls of sheet metal, a corner full of broken office chairs, empty and over turned oil barrels, a collection of angry past girlfriends with pink crowbars and fire in their eyes, abandoned industrial machines, random scraps of wood and piles of garbage. Standard warehouse clutter. The tech crew had just finished building the stage and Dimebag was finishing his sound check, I was pumped up for the concert. That’s when each one of my past lovers gave me a long, passionate kiss and then went over, in painful detail, why they felt I was a worthless waste of flesh and how they had wasted their time with me while waving a pink crowbar around with reckless abandon. It bummed me out, but not nearly as much as the fact that this was all going on while Pantera was performing, a show I had waited all my life to see. Although Pantera did provide great background music for such a traumatic conversation, all I wanted to do was ditch this female abuse and give myself whiplash but I figured that I couldn’t just blow off these angry women for a private Pantera concert in my warehouse living room because they had traveled the globe to cut me down to nothing and swing pink crowbars at my head and I owed them each a chance to do it. If I ever find myself in this situation again, screw their feelings, I’m outta there. But this time I took the abuse and then, totally bummed out about how I had ruined these perfect women’s lives, I moped to the concert stage only to meet the angle of death, black hood, boney hand, sickle and all. He was the only other guest at the concert, in my living room. In true Death form, he didn’t say a word; he only deeply nodded to me. The band sounded great, that is until my buddy, the Angle of Death touched Dimebag on the head. He instantly fell dead. The music stopped short, the band all ran over to Darrel’s body and I moped upstairs to my loft room in my warehouse home and curled up on the couch in a sleeping bag. I think I watched reruns of Good Times and Webster until I woke up.

That all being said and done, I’m having a great day. I love my jobs, I love how busy I am, I love going to sleep totally exhausted at the end of everyday, I love waking up at 8am without an alarm clock and I love living by my own rules. I love running and yoga and houseplants and walking to work and having dirt permanently stuck under my fingernails and playing music at dive bars for peanuts and not answering the phone when I don’t want to and buying bottles of bourbon picking my nose while staring at the people in the car next to me and drinking wine on my rooftop when it rains and showing off my hairy chest to anyone and everyone and coming home with more tropical plants everyday and wondering where I can possibly put them. I love eating burritos and buying power tools and wearing the same tee-shirt for days on end. I love that I bought a bike the day that gas prices broke $4 a gallon. I love that there is a Viking helmet on top of my bookshelf. I love that this is the only day off I have all month and that I’ve spent it thinking, typing, repotting my plants and listening to Fugazi and Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion rather than cleaning, doing laundry and paying down the mountain of bills I have. Maybe I’ll have a hotdog and send my glee over the edge. Oh oh! Maybe I’ll wrap it in bacon.

From Moooo To Boooo - or - How To Wear Floaties And Piss Me Off

I just saw a Wal-Mart commercial that advertises ice cream. A suburban backyard sprinkler party for 4 year olds in floaties, I never wore floaties in the backyard, is interrupted by a blond soccer mom briskly walking out of a huge white picket fenced house, waving an ice cream scoop and announcing “Ice Cream!” as only a woman who never wanted to work a day in her life and subsequently hasn’t, could. The tots run over to a table covered with different frozen goodies, all of which are Unilever products. Unilever owns and internationally distributes a host of goods; ranging from Country Crock Spread and Axe Body Spray, to Slimfast and Breyers. In this commercial, the mother explains that with Wal-Mart, she can buy everything to make this “hot summer, great. And with Wal-Mart’s low prices, she can afford to buy everyone’s favorite treat.” Pan through kids covered with fudge and ice cream and orange popsicle juice. Then, a Ben & Jerry’s pint crosses the screen and my jaw hit the floor. I worked at a Ben & Jerry’s factory. I showed visitors around and explained the company’s mission statement, which included this little doozie.

“Social Mission: To operate the company in a way that actively recognizes the central role that business plays in society by initiating innovative ways to improve the quality of life locally, nationally & internationally.”

That was Ben & Jerry’s Social Mission. Ben and Jerry wrote it in the 80s, way before they sold the company to Unilever in 2000. Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream states that they still adhere to this Social Mission, but the facts speak for themselves. Since the sale to Unilever, Ben & Jerry’s has canceled the non-bleached and recyclable “eco-Pint” container program and returned to the less environmentally friendly, but more profitable, bleached, waxed pint container (2006). At one point while I was working for the company, Ben & Jerry's instituted a policy that no one person would be paid ten times more than the lowest paid employee. "In 2001, sales associates, the most common job in Wal-Mart, earned on average $8.23 an hour for annual wages of $13,861." ["Is Wal-Mart Too Powerful?", Business Week, 10/6/03]. It is hard to believe that any of the top dogs at Unilever would ask Wal-Mart to raise their minimum wage just so that they could break $140K a year. Also in 2006, Ben & Jerry’s (read Unilever) “dropped” their egg suppliers because the chicken coop was accused of mistreating their chickens. “The Humane Society said an investigation of a Michael Foods egg farm in June found hens dying of starvation, live hens living among dead ones and sick or injured birds caught in cage wires (link).” Assuming that Ben & Jerry’s (again, read Unilever) didn’t know that the egg producing chickens were being mistreated indicates that they no longer research or care about who they are purchasing ingredients from, putting into question every supplier that they use. Non rGBH milk? Who knows. Family Dairy farmers? Maybe. Fair Trade Sugar? I thought so, but I could be wrong.

Now Ben & Jerry’s is now being sold in Wal-Marts around the world, a company that has been sued for wage and employment discrimination, tax evasion, corporate welfare fraud, unfair wage scales, poor worker compensation and almost non-existent worker benefit packages, and the list goes on. There aren’t many people who think that having a Wal Mart nearby stimulates the surrounding economy, or shall I say “initiates innovate ways of improving the quality of life locally.” Boooo to Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield for not having the foresight to see that the good name of the company that they built from the ground up, and their own good intentions, would be dragged through the corporate mud by the global distribution company hell bent on profits that they sold it to. Boooo to Unilever for destroying a company that I took pride in working for and being a shareholder of. Boooo to Wal Mart for their soulless treatment of their workers, their community and their effect on local economics. Boooo to the loss of a once great, socially aware company. It is sad to see a product that I once felt good about buying and supporting and working for and being a part of, become yet another corporate money whore. At least there is still Nutty Steph’s Granola.

Silly Plasticine American Animals

I will never wear a toupee. Brilliant.

This Is Real

I missed this video and the chain of events that followed it in January of 2008. Nod to draculaman.com for recently posting this video and the link to the full article. Otherwise, it probably would have slipped under my radar altogether. I have had my run-ins with Scientologists and am elated to think that the Church of Scientology is going to be systematically dismantled by a "prophesied" enemy. I believe in freedom of religion. I believe in freedom of expression. I believe that each individual on this planet should have the right to take a free personality test. I also believe that the Church of Scientology should be exposed, held accountable for it's actions and ultimately, destroyed.

The Final Countdown Is More Than A Kick-Ass 80's Rock Anthem - or - Holy Crap, We're Screwed

Proof that the apocalypse is here.

Revelation 6:2, "I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest."

An ill-fated YouTube search ended with me becoming fascinated with the 80’s movie MegaForce. Then, over the course of two days I received two e-mails from two long lost friends that both, independently mentioned MegaForce. Now all I can think about is exploding balls, popping wheelies and flying a motorcycle into a B-52 to the cheers of an overexcited, flexing crowd of multi-cultural bad actors.


Revelation 6:4, "Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other. To him was given a large sword."

To secure the Olympic Torch while it was being run through France, the French Police mobilized 3,000 units to protect the flaming icon from protesters that want to extinguish the flame in hopes of bringing attention to China’s hostile occupation Tibet. The Olympic Flame was, in fact extinguished at points on its route through Paris from the Eiffel Tower, but was relit in the official Olympic Torch Minivan once all the flaming riots were dispersed. More than 40 arrests were made, bringing further worldwide attention to the Free Tibet movement. What was the most valuable lesson that I learned from these acts of civil disobedience? The French have Police on Rollerblades.



Revelation 6:5-6, “...and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in his hand. Then I heard what sounded like a voice among the four living creatures, saying, ‘A quart of wheat for a day's wages, and three quarts of barley for a day's wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine!’”

Straight from the pages of National Geographic. “According to Cobb's calculations extrapolated from data released by the United States Environmental Protection Agency in 2001 on U.S. plastic bag, sack, and wrap consumption, somewhere between 500 billion and a trillion plastic bags are consumed worldwide each year… As a result, the totes are everywhere. They sit balled up and stuffed into the one that hangs from the pantry door. They line bathroom trash bins. They carry clothes to the gym. They clutter landfills. They flap from trees. They float in the breeze. They clog roadside drains. They drift on the high seas. They fill sea turtle bellies.”



Revelation 6:8, "I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."

MSN Music made this press release. They may be pushing 40, but the New Kids are returning to the block. The Boston boy band New Kids on the Block, which sold 70 million albums in the 1980s and early 1990s, has reunited and plans to release a new album and go on tour. The reunion comes 20 years after the release of the group’s multi-platinum album, “Hanging Tough.””

Speeding Ticket, Schmeeding Ticket - or - The Way To A Man's Heart Is Through His Ribcage

I got out of the speeding ticket that I got last month. I contested it and the cop didn't show up to traffic court, so I walked out with $200 extra dollars in my pocket, a shit eating grin smeared across my face and that invincible feeling you only get when you know you have broken the law and gotten away with it. I drove 20mph over the speed limit all the way home. This might lead to a life of crime. Muhahaha!

What Is That Huge Glowing Ball Rising Out Of The Horizon - OR - Ouch, My Life Style Hurts

I’m up at 6:30 am, again. I know why. It’s because my lifestyle is changing. I’m about to head out for a 3-mile morning run to watch the sun rise over the lake. Then, I’m going to the bank to deposit money into my savings account. I’ll probably stop by a coffee shop that supports 3rd world coffee farmers. After that, I’ll head to work and sell some $500 indoor plants to people with 41st floor condos with UV treated windows who will end up killing the plant in a matter of months but will be back to buy another couple of $500 plants to also slowly torture to death. I can hear those plants crying from here. Whoops, I better hurry if I want to make the sunrise. Who the fuck do I think I am?

How To Lose A Job In One Stupid Question - OR - I Know Why The Caged Housewife Sings

The things that have happened to me that I like out way the needs of the many. My life continues to be good while your life only gets worse and worse.

I started my new job at Gethsemane Garden Center on the north side of Chicago a few weeks ago. Today, they gave me a Gethsemane T-shirt, which means that I was worth hiring. They also gave me a book about plants and a little bag full of plant clippings that I have planted and will have to keep alive in order to become a full time employee. I honestly live about 100 feet away from this place yet it is a whole different world within its walls. I wear an apron (which I fold in half to make it seem more like a utility belt; complete with bat-pruning-sheers, bat-sharpie-pen, bat-price-tags, and exploding-shark-repellent-bat-spray), and I answer questions about plants, sunlight and dirt.

I now have more houseplants than you can shake a goat at. The newest ones include, but are not limited to: Silver dollar Jade (carjacking, crack head, deadbeat-dad asshole), Purple Passion (total slut with endearing eyes and a taste for the tasteless), White Ice Begonia (investment banker that has missed out on his youth and is making up for it by wearing punk band T-shirts to the office), goldfish plant (Miss misunderstood, prom queen, republican, close talker, scary driver, jaded single mother of a seven year old rubix cube champion), Mass Cane (Siberian taxi driver with no eyebrows, a fake leg and a two hour story about the invention of shoelaces), and Jasmine Belle-of-India (cross-eyed and single-toothed harbinger of the apocalypse, drives a '72 Brat and plays harmonica at other peoples concerts between yelling requests for more pickles), just to name a few. They waste away all day and keep me up at night. While I toil and work my fingers to the bone to keep their little plant stomachs full and their little plant attentions occupied with soccer games, ballet class and piano lessons, their voices in my head get louder and louder. It’s enough for me to want to go crazy, give them all away, buy a mini-van, a leather studded thong, earphones with radio antenna on each side and walk around town with a goldfish in a huge martini glass, reciting Mother Goose and Kafka while eating raw hot dogs and drinking mayonnaise and prune juice. I’m not sure if you want to hear more about these guys or not, but don’t worry, there will be a lot more talk about plants in my future.

I, surprisingly, was offered three other jobs this week, all of which would have paid more money than the garden center. The most interesting of which was an interview for a $48K + benefits position doing tech support for a company that designed user-unfriendly bankruptcy assistance software for bankruptcy lawyers (Grace, wanna team up and make the world dept free and full of bad credit?). I asked if I could bring my flamethrower to work. They asked me how I got the interview in the first place. I shrugged, said I wasn’t sure, stood up and walked out. I’ll never get a good paying job with benefits, and I just don’t know why.

My Buddy The House Plant; The Voices In My Head

I’ve posted a few notes about my plants and how they take on a bit of personality once I get them into my apartment. Either they wanna wrap you up side the head with a tire iron or sacrifice you to the Fire God, Zamphinod, my plants seem to have developed rather strong opinions and almost dangerous behavior quirks. Let me introduce you to a one more member of my secret society of the plantish.


This on is my favorite

Latin Name: Haworthia Attenuata
Common Name: “Zebra Plant”
Star Wars Name: Hawat Sucafri - Atascion of Fariptu

Oh, Haworthia. You are the one that started this crazy love affair. The madness of falling in love with lower life forms started with you, ya little spiky bastard. I saw you in a succulent wreath over a year ago and made the people at the store remove you from your cacti brothers and sisters and put you in a tiny plastic pot so I could take you home with me. I made the people mix you some soil and sand and I got instructions on how to take care of you, even though the instructions were to “basically leave it alone.” I took you home, put you in a bigger pot against the instructions that were given to me and put you in my window. There you sat, in my bedroom window, for weeks and weeks while I pretended to ignore you. I was only pretending, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about you; how tough you are, how bumpy your little white ridges feel, how cool your leaf spikes grow in circular patterns. I would come home from work and pick you up and play with you, feel your texture and give you succulent food. And how you grew! No one loves you as much as I do. Just stay with me tonight, just be near me while I dream, just make me smile that crazy smile and you and I can trip the life fantastic together! What? Don’t talk to me like that? Stop yelling at me! Why do I always have to be the bad guy? Can’t, for just once in my life, I come home from a long day of work and have dinner waiting for me? Yeah, well, your mother is a complete idiot, and I never liked her. That planter makes your butt look big. What a nightmare you turned out to be. I want my Jefferson Starship collection back.

One of the Girls Invades The Northside - OR - Terror Level Green, With A Chance Of Song, Dance And Vomit

As the storms of fortune shower each of us with a deluge of riches, power, women and small porcelain clown dolls, One of the Girls wants to share our copious success with you. As Chicago’s only Blue-Irish-Folk-Grass band and the owners of a vastly successful men’s lingerie chain, One of the Girls invite you to join us in celebration of St Patrick’s Day with a weeklong series of shows, smattered across the north side of Chicago. The "Girls" have been working out and doing Pilates to strengthen our core and to finally get that hourglass figure we’ve been dreaming of. We are primed and ready to conquer even the most sober St. Patties Day non-enthusiast, and dare I say, even the most English. I recommend starting the celebration early and joining us and our toned, sexy bodies at the RedlineTap on Tuesday, tomorrow. We will be performing with Sexfist (Chicago’s premier Bluegrass authority), and might possibly even do a tune or two with them, starting at 9pm. Bring a friend, bring a lover, bring a goat, but leave your morals at home because when “One of the Girls is opening for Sexfist at the Redline,” you don’t want your morals to get in the way of having a good time.

Here is a list of all of our up coming shows this week. We demand that you attend all of them.

Cheers!

When A 5 Year Relationship Go Down In Flames, Every One Is A Winner