Sunday, January 13, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Last Night's Fun
It’s another Friday night and I got nothing going. So I’m doing what I did on New Years Day; cleaning my apartment in random, spastic bursts, while writing down some thoughts and listening to a random mix of music that includes everything from INXS to Otis Redding to Public Enemy to Shostakovich. I know what is going to happen tonight, because it is just like New Year Eve. I’m going to be cleaning the bathroom with some previously-unknown-to-me passion for cleanliness and grout free bathroom tiles and, just at the climax of Dark Side Of The Moon, just about twenty minutes before midnight, the ajax covered toothbrush I’ve been using to clean the hinges of the bathroom mirror will get tossed into the pristine blue water of my spotless and sparkling toilet bowl and, like an abrasive-cleaner-covered, attention-depraved janitor from hell, I will descend onto the dive bars of Chicago armed with a blue rubber glove, toilet scrubber and a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles. Until then, I will alternate writing a sentence and Mop-and-Glowing my living room. At midnight on New Years, I was three sheets to the wind thanks to a warm 11:45 pm welcome the bartenders gave me with Jameson and Jim Beam, and the PBR that was basically thrust into my hand upon entering, and the multiple shots from the plastic bottle of Mango Vodka that the bar owner dusted off and decided to give to the revelers at midnight. Some one was making newspaper hats, tons of newspaper hats, and everyone was wearing a newspaper hat. The really wild thing was that each of those hats was a totally different style. There were sailor hats and waiter hats and dreadlock hats and dunce caps and top hats and captain hats and pirate hats and pope hats. I didn’t know there were that many varieties of paper hat, this guy was prepared. There was a young couple dressed in shiny black leather jackets and pants, with jet-black hair and thick black eyeliner (the guy was wearing more than the girl), doing interpretive dance to Auld Lang Syne, which involved flopping around on the floor of this dive bar like fish out of water and then knocking over some drunk people doing shots of Mango Vodka, then striking a disco pose and finally making out on the pool table. That night was good, unpredictable, down and dirty fun. The kinda stuff you just can’t make up and it was the kinda night that you hope to have once in a while. I just finished doing my dishes and washing the kitchen counter while listening to Tom Wait's The Piano Has Been Drinking,when my buddy, DA called. It’s only 11:22pm, but that’s close enough. Let’s see what tonight brings. Cheers.
Friday, January 04, 2008
To the LINKS!
If you like me, if you trust me, then follow these links and digg them.
1) David Sherman's new music video, "If I Were President." He's a great musician, and he picks up the bill when we go to breakfast. I'd vote for him.
2) An addictive vocab game called Free Rice. My pops maxes out at level 51. I'm no where near as good but like going down to level 1 and defining the word, "chair."
3) Ask a ninja. Really, the name says it all.
4) Despair.com, my favorite place to shop and live. Someday I'm gonna cover my office with the motivational posters. Sure to be a cult classic
5)And, finally, a list of members of the coleus plant family, offically named Solenostemon scutellarioides.
Cheers
1) David Sherman's new music video, "If I Were President." He's a great musician, and he picks up the bill when we go to breakfast. I'd vote for him.
2) An addictive vocab game called Free Rice. My pops maxes out at level 51. I'm no where near as good but like going down to level 1 and defining the word, "chair."
3) Ask a ninja. Really, the name says it all.
4) Despair.com, my favorite place to shop and live. Someday I'm gonna cover my office with the motivational posters. Sure to be a cult classic
5)And, finally, a list of members of the coleus plant family, offically named Solenostemon scutellarioides.
Hats Off to the Holidays
I like presents. I have always liked presents. I like getting them, and I like giving them. Of all the kinds of presents that I like, Christmas presents are my least favorite kind of presents. I don’t like Christmas because you don’t have a choice about it, you just have to give presents and if you don’t give presents, you are a scrooge… or an asshole. That being said, I still like presents. I still like getting them, and I still like giving them. A monkey-head car air freshener and a box of evil duck band-aids was a present I once gave to a girl I was courting. A big slab of thick sliced bacon was a Chanukah present to one of my non-Jewish friends; a Kosher gift to those who love bacon and aren’t Kosher. I once gave a second grade class a plastic penguin and most of my first houseplant. I even gave the worst boss I’ve ever had, a pillowcase with a picture of me looking a touch mentally unstable, a bit chemically unbalanced, a little nuts. Right above my face, it read “Sweet Dreams!” I wanted it to give her nightmares, night after night after night. She laughed and foiled my plans by, upon receiving this pillow case, immediately giving it to the girl I later gave the monkey air freshener to. I guess neither of those gifts worked out the way I wanted. I’ve gifted books and music, wine and flowers, shoes, coats, sunglasses and scarves, to all types of people for all kinds of occasions. I really like presents.
My brother, Adam, and I have a little ritual with our gift giving. Our gifts to each other must amuse both the gift giver and the gift receiver. I think I unknowingly started this ritual as an eight-year-old. I bought a dinky $1.99 soccer ball key chain and put it in the biggest cardboard box I could find in out basement. I filled the box with foam peanuts and bubble wrap and put the key chain at the bottom. It took a whole roll of wrapping paper to cover the refrigerator box I used. I think the card said something like, “Good things come in small packages.” This obviously wasn’t a small package, or a good gift. By the time he found the key chain, there were peanuts all over the floor and he looked at me with a tiny key chain in his hands and a look on his face that said, "what the...?" And so it began. I had given him an annoying prank present that wasted more raw materials and created more of a mess than the idiots in the parking lot of a Phish show could creat (I hate Phish), and I thought it was hilarious. Years later, he got me back and it solidified our little ritual, the traditional brotherly giving of gag gifts. At this point in my life, I have whole-heartedly, and almost tenaciously, latched onto it.
The tradition really took its current shape one Christmas when Adam was in Scotland while the rest of the family had gathered to celebrate together in Vermont. He had mailed a package with gifts to each of the three of us. He might have given my mother a framed photograph that he had taken, and it's possible that he gave my father a book about Scotland. Those would seem like appropriate gifts for my brother to give to our parents, but in all honesty, I've totally forgotten what he gave to them. But I will never forget what he gave to me; a mullet wig. I big, black, tangled, itchy mullet wig. The card read, “To My Redneck Brother. Yeeeehaw!” On the box, which was a bag, there was a picture of a guy with bad teeth wearing a plaid flannel shirt and overalls, chewing on some hay and drinking a can of beer. I promptly donned my new coif, stuck out my jaw, slapped my knee, slapped my boot, slapped my imaginary pregnant wife, Amber, then slapped her sister, Crystal, and started tromping around the house talking like a hillbilly. “Christmas is saved, God-damn-it-all!” Adam had hit the nail on the bulls-eye of the donkey-tail with this present. And so it continued.
For my birthday, some years later, when I was living and working in downtown Boston, he gave me a camping thermos that could keep coffee hot for hours while being exposed to the most extreme cold conditions; a tundra proof coffee pot. It came with a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. There were three Dunkin' Donuts on my ten minute walk to the subway. There were also two Dunkin' Donuts across the street from my office in downtown Boston. In fact, there wasn’t a street corner within the Commonwealth of Boston from which you couldn’t see at least four of those distinct orange and pink logos. Dunkin' Donuts are as commonplace in the Commonwealth as people with bad attitudes; you can’t flip the guy off in the car next to you for no reason without practically running into one. Point being, I was constantly surrounded by fresh brewed, liquid-frickin’-magma, melt-your-soul-it’s-so-damn-hot coffee, but now I had a way to keep coffee hot for my next ascent up Mt. Kilimanjaro, and it had a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. Later that year, I gave my brother, who works in the wilderness for months at a time, a fancy fountain pen that would only have broken and covered all his possessions with ink had he actually brought it out on the trail with him. He, knowing this, left it at my parent’s house without ever opening the box, let alone filling the pen with ink. For my birthday last year, he and his fiancée, Kassy, gave me a one-gallon jug of Tabasco Sauce. I laughed for a good hour when I opened that present. The expiration date says 2009. I’m about an eighth of the way into it. I’ve got some work ahead of me. I have a picture of it on my cell phone to prove to people how cool Adam and Kassy are.
This year, my folks and I flew down to the Grand Canyon to celebrate the holidays with Adam and Kassy on their home turf. The plan was for the five of us to celebrate Christmas together and then meet Kassy’s parents who were flying in the next day. It was going to be the very first time anyone from either family had met the other. We were all a bit nervous about this, especially my brother. My parents embarked on this trip at 4am Eastern Time. They had to drive from Vermont to the airport in New Hampshire, fly to Chicago to meet me, the three of us would then fly together to Albuquerque, then Phoenix, only to drive five more hours in a crappy rental Pontiac to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, dodging elk all the way. Our plane landed, the car was there and red and crappy and, after a long drive with a quick recharge stop at Denny’s for Moons Over My Hammy and a chat with a jaded waitress who was originally from Maine and hated Arizona or at least the Denny's there, we reached the Grand Canyon, or as my brother calls it, “The Big Ditch.” We got in at 1am, Mountain Time. My parents had been traveling for twenty-three hours. They have never been to China, but that is how long it would take to get there. Maybe next Christmas.
Regardless
“This year, our Christmas gifts to each other will be spending the holidays together after so many years. We don't need to buy things for each other. This trip is gift enough.” This is what each member of my family, including me, said at some point during the planning of this holiday reunion on the rim. We made that single rule together, everyone agreed on it. Then we all broke it individually.
These were my Christmas gifts to my family.
This is what we did with them.
And this is the Obsquatch-Theoman-Sherbald Memorial, known as Mount Big Ditch; commemorating the 2007 alliance between the United Obsquatch Rebellion, the Holy Embassy of Kassy, and the People’s Republic of Adam. Behold it’s glory.
The bottom line of this story is that the hats were a big hit. The other good news is that Adam and Kassy are still going to invite me to the wedding, even after I gave both of Kassys parents, Deedee and John, their own present. I gave John a plastic king's crown. He is honestly the Pork King in my book. I gave Deedee a pink, sparkly cowboy hat. Now she could drive the tractors and combines around the farm in style; pink, sparkling, cheep plastic style. At one point, she hinted that she should put on some "hot pants" and make Adam some money. That just floored me. Although I doubt any of those hats will ever be warn again, there was a beautiful two hour time span where the Village People were nothin' compared to us. Happy Holidays.
My brother, Adam, and I have a little ritual with our gift giving. Our gifts to each other must amuse both the gift giver and the gift receiver. I think I unknowingly started this ritual as an eight-year-old. I bought a dinky $1.99 soccer ball key chain and put it in the biggest cardboard box I could find in out basement. I filled the box with foam peanuts and bubble wrap and put the key chain at the bottom. It took a whole roll of wrapping paper to cover the refrigerator box I used. I think the card said something like, “Good things come in small packages.” This obviously wasn’t a small package, or a good gift. By the time he found the key chain, there were peanuts all over the floor and he looked at me with a tiny key chain in his hands and a look on his face that said, "what the...?" And so it began. I had given him an annoying prank present that wasted more raw materials and created more of a mess than the idiots in the parking lot of a Phish show could creat (I hate Phish), and I thought it was hilarious. Years later, he got me back and it solidified our little ritual, the traditional brotherly giving of gag gifts. At this point in my life, I have whole-heartedly, and almost tenaciously, latched onto it.
The tradition really took its current shape one Christmas when Adam was in Scotland while the rest of the family had gathered to celebrate together in Vermont. He had mailed a package with gifts to each of the three of us. He might have given my mother a framed photograph that he had taken, and it's possible that he gave my father a book about Scotland. Those would seem like appropriate gifts for my brother to give to our parents, but in all honesty, I've totally forgotten what he gave to them. But I will never forget what he gave to me; a mullet wig. I big, black, tangled, itchy mullet wig. The card read, “To My Redneck Brother. Yeeeehaw!” On the box, which was a bag, there was a picture of a guy with bad teeth wearing a plaid flannel shirt and overalls, chewing on some hay and drinking a can of beer. I promptly donned my new coif, stuck out my jaw, slapped my knee, slapped my boot, slapped my imaginary pregnant wife, Amber, then slapped her sister, Crystal, and started tromping around the house talking like a hillbilly. “Christmas is saved, God-damn-it-all!” Adam had hit the nail on the bulls-eye of the donkey-tail with this present. And so it continued.
For my birthday, some years later, when I was living and working in downtown Boston, he gave me a camping thermos that could keep coffee hot for hours while being exposed to the most extreme cold conditions; a tundra proof coffee pot. It came with a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. There were three Dunkin' Donuts on my ten minute walk to the subway. There were also two Dunkin' Donuts across the street from my office in downtown Boston. In fact, there wasn’t a street corner within the Commonwealth of Boston from which you couldn’t see at least four of those distinct orange and pink logos. Dunkin' Donuts are as commonplace in the Commonwealth as people with bad attitudes; you can’t flip the guy off in the car next to you for no reason without practically running into one. Point being, I was constantly surrounded by fresh brewed, liquid-frickin’-magma, melt-your-soul-it’s-so-damn-hot coffee, but now I had a way to keep coffee hot for my next ascent up Mt. Kilimanjaro, and it had a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. Later that year, I gave my brother, who works in the wilderness for months at a time, a fancy fountain pen that would only have broken and covered all his possessions with ink had he actually brought it out on the trail with him. He, knowing this, left it at my parent’s house without ever opening the box, let alone filling the pen with ink. For my birthday last year, he and his fiancée, Kassy, gave me a one-gallon jug of Tabasco Sauce. I laughed for a good hour when I opened that present. The expiration date says 2009. I’m about an eighth of the way into it. I’ve got some work ahead of me. I have a picture of it on my cell phone to prove to people how cool Adam and Kassy are.
This year, my folks and I flew down to the Grand Canyon to celebrate the holidays with Adam and Kassy on their home turf. The plan was for the five of us to celebrate Christmas together and then meet Kassy’s parents who were flying in the next day. It was going to be the very first time anyone from either family had met the other. We were all a bit nervous about this, especially my brother. My parents embarked on this trip at 4am Eastern Time. They had to drive from Vermont to the airport in New Hampshire, fly to Chicago to meet me, the three of us would then fly together to Albuquerque, then Phoenix, only to drive five more hours in a crappy rental Pontiac to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, dodging elk all the way. Our plane landed, the car was there and red and crappy and, after a long drive with a quick recharge stop at Denny’s for Moons Over My Hammy and a chat with a jaded waitress who was originally from Maine and hated Arizona or at least the Denny's there, we reached the Grand Canyon, or as my brother calls it, “The Big Ditch.” We got in at 1am, Mountain Time. My parents had been traveling for twenty-three hours. They have never been to China, but that is how long it would take to get there. Maybe next Christmas.
“This year, our Christmas gifts to each other will be spending the holidays together after so many years. We don't need to buy things for each other. This trip is gift enough.” This is what each member of my family, including me, said at some point during the planning of this holiday reunion on the rim. We made that single rule together, everyone agreed on it. Then we all broke it individually.
This is what we did with them.
And this is the Obsquatch-Theoman-Sherbald Memorial, known as Mount Big Ditch; commemorating the 2007 alliance between the United Obsquatch Rebellion, the Holy Embassy of Kassy, and the People’s Republic of Adam. Behold it’s glory.
The bottom line of this story is that the hats were a big hit. The other good news is that Adam and Kassy are still going to invite me to the wedding, even after I gave both of Kassys parents, Deedee and John, their own present. I gave John a plastic king's crown. He is honestly the Pork King in my book. I gave Deedee a pink, sparkly cowboy hat. Now she could drive the tractors and combines around the farm in style; pink, sparkling, cheep plastic style. At one point, she hinted that she should put on some "hot pants" and make Adam some money. That just floored me. Although I doubt any of those hats will ever be warn again, there was a beautiful two hour time span where the Village People were nothin' compared to us. Happy Holidays.
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.
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.
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 show....it 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
Family:The Notorious Coleus Family, no connection to the Pointer Sisters
Nomenclature: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
Family:The Notorious Coleus Brothers
Name:“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.”
Coleus: Gays Delight
Family:
Nomenclature:
Fun Facts:
Interests and Hobbies:
Coleus: Sloppy Painter
Family:
Name:
Favorite Color:
Favorite Food:
Favorite Movie:
Favorite Music:
Saturday, October 27, 2007
BeHold BeArhead
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.
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:
Interest and Hobbies:
Monday, October 22, 2007
CLP #9: - Semicolons Are For People Who Don't Get Enough Fiber
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.
incase you missed it, here is my posting for me, really.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Smoking
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.
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.”
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.
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