I rarely feel macho. When I was in high school, I played Magic the Gathering. I played the Star Wars roleplaying game , the one with paper, dice, and imagination. After high school I started a band , but even that didn't help the matter much. Despite what Kid Rock would have you believe, playing music isn't exactly the chick magnet that you'd think, which is not to imply "babe catching" as a motive for being in a band. I'm irreparably nerdy and I'm uncertain that any amount of Axe Body Spray can offset the fact that I own approximately four hundred trade paperbacks , which I methodically alphabetize and admire.
None of this is said to imply that my masculinity never bares its head. It does all of the time, but only in the most absurd circumstances. When I lived in Denver, Colorado, I walked past the Platte River on an almost daily basis. Having lived my entire life in close proximity to the Ohio River , I was a bit offended at the notion that the Platte would be referred to as a river. I was absolutely prepared to battle over this. I could piss across the Platte at it's deepest points. I felt like Crocodile Dundee . You call this a river , here's a river . Then I would teleport everyone in my vicinity to Louisville and they would cry at the sight of a proper river, not this bullshit estuary that minnows scoff at. I would then shotgun a PBR , crush the can on my head, and throw it at the nerd who dared pretend like the Platte was anything more than the creek that Louisville threw away. End fantasy.
A more current example would be my aversion to Dungeons and Dragons . In the nerd hierarchy, the one that exists only in my head, D&D is almost the nerdiest, just barely being edged out by the legion of Warhammer virgins that spend their weekends painting figurines. At least, the Warhammer virgins can take solace in not being this guy. Again, I feel the inclination to spike something, and jump a monster truck over weaker cars . It's inexplicable why I would even care, but I still kind of do. I still kind of want to throw food at D&D nerds, I'm looking at you Connor Bell , and then laugh at them while they're cleaning up. I abstain though, because I'm a grown up.
Most recently, I've been obsessed with filling up my iPod . It's one of the big, 160gb deals, and so far, after digitizing all of my musical collection, putting some of my wife's collection on there (but not all, because I have distinguished taste and all), and scouring the internet for good music blogs, I still have 97gb's to go. I will fill you up iPod, you'd better believe it. I realize that how perverse it seems to submit to the challenge of filling something up and I'm certain something Freudian is going on here, but I can't shake it. This is my masculinity people. I have to fill up this goddamned iPod or I may be less of a man. I'm not sure how, but I know with absolute certainty that it's true.
What is wrong with my brain to cause me to give a ratshit why any of this would matter? I imagine that most men are provoked into machismo for their athletic or sexual prowess, over their ability to fix things, or their ability to build things, but I just can't seem to be bothered with any of that. I just want to crush a beer can on my head over my iPod or my choice of nerd entertainment. It defies logic and I know it, but I rarely feel an emotion that I can't identify, and I don't know what to do with it other than to acknowledge it. As I a friend said yesterday, it's not a problem if you celebrate it, right? I'm inclined to think so. Since I haven't suplexed any larpers , I guess I've got enough restraint to just cope with it, without a support group for nerds-who-are-marginally-less-nerdy-than-other-nerds. I've seen a woman naked before, in real life, and without any exchange of money, so I guess I'm doing alright.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
John Wayne's Chinese Throwing Star Christmas
I already knew this year who my Secret Santa was going to be. She had already told me that she wished that she would get me, because I would be easy. Her answer for the easy present: beer. People love to get that one thing for everyone that they love, until they hate it. For years, my wife was the recipient of cats, the cuter the better, hanging from things , being kitteny , or playing on things that are adorable , generally on a calender, so you can plan your life in the cutest possible way ever. Another good friend of mine was blessed, if 'blessed' is unequivocal to 'bombarded', by the gift of things elephant related. In every instance, at least every that I've encountered, the person that gets that-one-awesome-thing-that-they-love-and-only-desire burns out and lets everyone know that they have plenty of porcelain elephants , cat calenders , pogs , hamster collars , or what have you . I don't know that this will ever be my problem, if beer is what people think I always want.
How exactly should I feel in knowing that people consider alcohol, specifically beer, to be my favorite thing? At the moment, I feel pretty good about that, even though my future, red nosed, cirrosis of the liver inflicted self may disagree. Hey, if people want to shower me in beer, I'll take it. While my Secret Santa wouldn't be able to buy it for me, at least not able to buy it and actually give it to me at work, her plan was to get a gift certificate that said 'For Beer Only '. And I'll take and honor that gift certificate for anyone willing to send it to me, I promise.
Christmas has been little more than a compilation list of things I want for about fifteen years, which is great, as I'd always wanted all of the creativity distilled from gift giving and condensed into a top ten list that would make Nick Hornby jealous. Since I already knew who my Secret Santa was, I figured I'd play around with the Secret Santa list. My list included chinese throwing stars , for efficiently dispatching my enemies , especially if those enemies are ninjas and if I were Shinobi ; a cold fusion reactor , which will require invention; a PS3 that would probably gather dust like the Xbox 360; dinner with Neil Diamond that would be long a drunken, despite Mr. Diamond's best intentions; extra vacations days for pretending like work will be done, but which are actually for gaining weight by 9am mimosas ; beer , which is a gimme, but a delicious one; and food to maintain my stingy work practice of eating left overs.
What I didn't expect was to get anything off of the list, which I did. This is the second year in a row I've included chinese throwing stars on the list. There is a particular poetry to receiving a deadly weapon as a work place gift that I have to admire. And I really wanted to use it at work, but I don’t think I'm allowed to murder people yet.
So, the chinese throwing star has an image on it of John Wayne . I'm not certain what relationship John Wayne has to chinese throwing stars, but I'm fairly certain that wherever he is, most likely hell I'd hope, that he'd give his good lung to kill a chinese. What an asshole . I bet he's smoking about a thousand cigarettes an hour to lose weight in hell for his next acting job with Hitler. I hope he's forced to be in The Birdcage for the rest of eternity and his asshole tightens up so intensely that he can crush coal into tiny diamonds that work into his bloodstream and tear up the head of his dick when he pisses. Commie hating son of a bitch.
I was told that the alternative to having the face of John Wayne on a choice communist weapon was having a Nascar logo /car emblazoned on the side. I have to marvel at the advertising prowess of both Nascar and the guy that talked the Estate of John Wayne into allowing his grinning republican ass on a glorified set of pocketknifes on a wheel that looks cut straight from Krull . Seriously, Nascar ? Why? Where is the crossover market? I mean, I know theoretically that market is The Peddler's Mall , but how many Nascar fans are out their clamoring for an ancient chinese stealth weapon? How many Shinobi fans are in love with cars driving quickly in a circle? I can just hear some redneck goon watching the race circle, wearing a druid cloak and a ski mask, threatening whoever rivals Dick Trickle for third place. Actually, I hope to whatever supernatural being you'd want to subscribe to that that exact situation has happened at least once on this planet. It will allow me to sleep better at night.
On a down note, I learned that The John Wayne Stealth Krull Star just doesn't cut it when you throw it at a wooden pallet. I have to get something to pop the spring mechanism back out so that I can fold up my stealth death wheel. We have to be safe with our ninja weapons, amirite ?
How exactly should I feel in knowing that people consider alcohol, specifically beer, to be my favorite thing? At the moment, I feel pretty good about that, even though my future, red nosed, cirrosis of the liver inflicted self may disagree. Hey, if people want to shower me in beer, I'll take it. While my Secret Santa wouldn't be able to buy it for me, at least not able to buy it and actually give it to me at work, her plan was to get a gift certificate that said 'For Beer Only '. And I'll take and honor that gift certificate for anyone willing to send it to me, I promise.
Christmas has been little more than a compilation list of things I want for about fifteen years, which is great, as I'd always wanted all of the creativity distilled from gift giving and condensed into a top ten list that would make Nick Hornby jealous. Since I already knew who my Secret Santa was, I figured I'd play around with the Secret Santa list. My list included chinese throwing stars , for efficiently dispatching my enemies , especially if those enemies are ninjas and if I were Shinobi ; a cold fusion reactor , which will require invention; a PS3 that would probably gather dust like the Xbox 360; dinner with Neil Diamond that would be long a drunken, despite Mr. Diamond's best intentions; extra vacations days for pretending like work will be done, but which are actually for gaining weight by 9am mimosas ; beer , which is a gimme, but a delicious one; and food to maintain my stingy work practice of eating left overs.
What I didn't expect was to get anything off of the list, which I did. This is the second year in a row I've included chinese throwing stars on the list. There is a particular poetry to receiving a deadly weapon as a work place gift that I have to admire. And I really wanted to use it at work, but I don’t think I'm allowed to murder people yet.
So, the chinese throwing star has an image on it of John Wayne . I'm not certain what relationship John Wayne has to chinese throwing stars, but I'm fairly certain that wherever he is, most likely hell I'd hope, that he'd give his good lung to kill a chinese. What an asshole . I bet he's smoking about a thousand cigarettes an hour to lose weight in hell for his next acting job with Hitler. I hope he's forced to be in The Birdcage for the rest of eternity and his asshole tightens up so intensely that he can crush coal into tiny diamonds that work into his bloodstream and tear up the head of his dick when he pisses. Commie hating son of a bitch.
I was told that the alternative to having the face of John Wayne on a choice communist weapon was having a Nascar logo /car emblazoned on the side. I have to marvel at the advertising prowess of both Nascar and the guy that talked the Estate of John Wayne into allowing his grinning republican ass on a glorified set of pocketknifes on a wheel that looks cut straight from Krull . Seriously, Nascar ? Why? Where is the crossover market? I mean, I know theoretically that market is The Peddler's Mall , but how many Nascar fans are out their clamoring for an ancient chinese stealth weapon? How many Shinobi fans are in love with cars driving quickly in a circle? I can just hear some redneck goon watching the race circle, wearing a druid cloak and a ski mask, threatening whoever rivals Dick Trickle for third place. Actually, I hope to whatever supernatural being you'd want to subscribe to that that exact situation has happened at least once on this planet. It will allow me to sleep better at night.
On a down note, I learned that The John Wayne Stealth Krull Star just doesn't cut it when you throw it at a wooden pallet. I have to get something to pop the spring mechanism back out so that I can fold up my stealth death wheel. We have to be safe with our ninja weapons, amirite ?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I Have A Dream
I periodically wish for the ability to teleport my farts. It is possibly my fondest wish in the entire world to watch any live televised event while eating anything with bell peppers and beans. It would always be with the utmost care put into strategic deployment of my gas. When a celebrity thanks God, I'll be there. When that squawking, shitbird from my wife's dancing show opens her mouth, I'll be there. I'll be there during any country music award, especially as it pertains to Toby Keith .
God struck my radio down. It had to be God or god or maybe even gods , but it was definitely supernatural and I presume that whatever did this to me had a beard and/or a toga , sat on a throne or at least lounged in a celestial hot tub , and dictated rotten things to happen in my life. I believe this had to be the case, because only the FM side of my radio was made extinct. It is inexplicable. Why, if not for the supernatural, would only the FM side of my radio be rendered inoperable, while the hated AM side be left to listenable? Goodbye NPR . Goodbye PRI . Goodbye classical music station that tempts my slumber while driving. Goodbye classical rock station that plays too much Bob Segar and has recently started playing music made during my high school career (I'm not ready to be classic, hello). Hello gospel station, sports news broadcast, and Republican radio. Sigh.
Having limited budget to replace my factory radio with my dream radio, which is essentially just an auxiliary input and one giant volume knob , I found myself gravitating towards Republican radio. Not because I like it, but because if I have to pick something in the AM radio garbage bin, I may as well learn something, or get a new perspective. I find it likely that at some point in the past, I've done something to someone that I've not yet atoned for, so being subjected to nasty, divisive, Republican rhetoric seems like an apt punishment. Ultimately though, it helps to know your enemy, so to speak. It keeps me on my toes.
I have my favorites, which is like choosing the smoothest pile of shit you find in an outhouse. I prefer Bill Bennett in the morning. Not because I agree with him, as I seldom do, but because he typically seems to consider the opposition viewpoint without making snarky, unnecessary comments. And he keeps his voice down. Really, I can hear everyone just fine. In fact, I wager that they have things called "power amps" and "mixing boards" in their studio. I propose that they use them to full effect and in the meantime, shut the fuck up. You can express yourself without talking over someone even when you disagree.
Unfortunately, Bill Bennett takes a lot of Friday's off, which typically means that we get to hear a guest host. I hope these people are not his friends, but I am most certain that they are. Even though he keeps it reasonable, if disagreeable, I still find it unlikely that we could hang out, but while I may typify my experience as tolerance, I am completely intolerant of the idiots he gets to guest host. The most common guest host is Rick Santorum . One of my favorite things to say about someone I don't like is that "I wouldn't give them a fart." In Rick Santorum's case I would gladly make an exception. In fact, if I had my druthers, I'd teleport it straight into his mouth on live radio. Fuck it, I'd do it right now if I could.
A few weeks ago he gave Obama grief for not mending the racial divide. Racist much? I didn't know it was up to the black guy to fix the race problem. At that, how would one suppose he accomplish this task? I'm into having a job (at least the earning money part) and in my friends and family having a job, so I'm content with him working on that. Between this stellar suggestion and his exemplary opinion of the homosexuals (and their terrifying agenda - oh my), I'd gladly shit straight into his mouth. Fuck it, full monty.
God struck my radio down. It had to be God or god or maybe even gods , but it was definitely supernatural and I presume that whatever did this to me had a beard and/or a toga , sat on a throne or at least lounged in a celestial hot tub , and dictated rotten things to happen in my life. I believe this had to be the case, because only the FM side of my radio was made extinct. It is inexplicable. Why, if not for the supernatural, would only the FM side of my radio be rendered inoperable, while the hated AM side be left to listenable? Goodbye NPR . Goodbye PRI . Goodbye classical music station that tempts my slumber while driving. Goodbye classical rock station that plays too much Bob Segar and has recently started playing music made during my high school career (I'm not ready to be classic, hello). Hello gospel station, sports news broadcast, and Republican radio. Sigh.
Having limited budget to replace my factory radio with my dream radio, which is essentially just an auxiliary input and one giant volume knob , I found myself gravitating towards Republican radio. Not because I like it, but because if I have to pick something in the AM radio garbage bin, I may as well learn something, or get a new perspective. I find it likely that at some point in the past, I've done something to someone that I've not yet atoned for, so being subjected to nasty, divisive, Republican rhetoric seems like an apt punishment. Ultimately though, it helps to know your enemy, so to speak. It keeps me on my toes.
I have my favorites, which is like choosing the smoothest pile of shit you find in an outhouse. I prefer Bill Bennett in the morning. Not because I agree with him, as I seldom do, but because he typically seems to consider the opposition viewpoint without making snarky, unnecessary comments. And he keeps his voice down. Really, I can hear everyone just fine. In fact, I wager that they have things called "power amps" and "mixing boards" in their studio. I propose that they use them to full effect and in the meantime, shut the fuck up. You can express yourself without talking over someone even when you disagree.
Unfortunately, Bill Bennett takes a lot of Friday's off, which typically means that we get to hear a guest host. I hope these people are not his friends, but I am most certain that they are. Even though he keeps it reasonable, if disagreeable, I still find it unlikely that we could hang out, but while I may typify my experience as tolerance, I am completely intolerant of the idiots he gets to guest host. The most common guest host is Rick Santorum . One of my favorite things to say about someone I don't like is that "I wouldn't give them a fart." In Rick Santorum's case I would gladly make an exception. In fact, if I had my druthers, I'd teleport it straight into his mouth on live radio. Fuck it, I'd do it right now if I could.
A few weeks ago he gave Obama grief for not mending the racial divide. Racist much? I didn't know it was up to the black guy to fix the race problem. At that, how would one suppose he accomplish this task? I'm into having a job (at least the earning money part) and in my friends and family having a job, so I'm content with him working on that. Between this stellar suggestion and his exemplary opinion of the homosexuals (and their terrifying agenda - oh my), I'd gladly shit straight into his mouth. Fuck it, full monty.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Timothy Busfield Curse
School has won the fight between the leisurely and the scholarly. I turned thirty just a few months ago and I have to wonder if age become more profound the higher the number next to your name. By thirty, I consider myself a relatively responsible adult. I am about to complete my third full college term, again with a minimum of three A's and two B's, while working a full time job, while maintaining a band and some modicum of a social life. It's a wonder my liver hasn't deteriorated into a booze sponge, but even that I've managed to reduce.
That said, I've definitely developed some troubling routines, which again profoundly remind me of my age, and disposition. My typical Friday night routine is to pick up some beer on the way home and then to immediately consume that beer while watching television or playing a video game . Friday night is my night, goddammit. On Thanksgiving weekend, my wife and I received a bed frame from her parents. I can't exactly articulate how or why a bed frame improves your sleep, but it does. If it's an illusion entirely conjured from my subconscious, do not tell me otherwise, because I've been sleeping like a fucking champion. Last Friday, I decided to break out from the mold, drink an ample amount of water and have a balanced meal, all in the name of a good night of sleep. I planned on sleeping until the sun came into my room to personally punch me awake. And then I did it, with the good news being that I can take a punch .
Let me recap: My big Friday night adventure was trying to produce the most awesome sleep ever by breaking my tradition of alcohol abuse. Go thirty!
It's not though, that I want to think about this stuff all the time. I don't want to be Timothy Busfield . I don't want to think about or care about my age. It's not that I'm embarrassed though, I'm certainly content with my position in life. I have a beautiful wife and fantastic friends. I'm going to fix this job thing or I'm going to sell the ulcer I have excised to the Guinness Book of World Records and then I'm going on vacation. I'm going to sip mimosas and lounge in a hammock all day long. I'm going to jet ski and listen to Arab on Radar . I can't wait for my new life to begin.
That said, I've definitely developed some troubling routines, which again profoundly remind me of my age, and disposition. My typical Friday night routine is to pick up some beer on the way home and then to immediately consume that beer while watching television or playing a video game . Friday night is my night, goddammit. On Thanksgiving weekend, my wife and I received a bed frame from her parents. I can't exactly articulate how or why a bed frame improves your sleep, but it does. If it's an illusion entirely conjured from my subconscious, do not tell me otherwise, because I've been sleeping like a fucking champion. Last Friday, I decided to break out from the mold, drink an ample amount of water and have a balanced meal, all in the name of a good night of sleep. I planned on sleeping until the sun came into my room to personally punch me awake. And then I did it, with the good news being that I can take a punch .
Let me recap: My big Friday night adventure was trying to produce the most awesome sleep ever by breaking my tradition of alcohol abuse. Go thirty!
It's not though, that I want to think about this stuff all the time. I don't want to be Timothy Busfield . I don't want to think about or care about my age. It's not that I'm embarrassed though, I'm certainly content with my position in life. I have a beautiful wife and fantastic friends. I'm going to fix this job thing or I'm going to sell the ulcer I have excised to the Guinness Book of World Records and then I'm going on vacation. I'm going to sip mimosas and lounge in a hammock all day long. I'm going to jet ski and listen to Arab on Radar . I can't wait for my new life to begin.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Beauty In Between
Today, like as many days as I can in the Fall, I'm enjoying Pumpkin Beer. I've been curled up on the couch, playing videogames while my wife works on homework, or watches television herself. It's a pajama bottoms and sweatshirt kind of day. A younger Syd didn't appreciate this as much. A younger Syd sought stimulation and did so with a vigorous regularity. "What could be worse than boredom?" says the disenfranchised early twenty-something? "What could be better?" replies the thirty something college student. I've engineered this leisure, by continuing to work ahead in school, and I couldn't be happier to lounge when lounge time comes.
It won't be here tomorrow. I think that could be said of far too many things. Tomorrow I face a day of training at work. No customers, yes, but plenty of boredom. In fact, it's the worst boredom I think I could possibly imagine. The last time I had to experience a training day like this, I thought I would just hang myself in the bathroom before the end of the day, and I like life. As adults, we did 'team building' exercises that included putting together, as a group, a series of puzzles intended for children 2 and up. At the time, I was the youngest at 28, yet I still received questions as to where the corner piece should go. I'm serious. I just handed the pieces to someone else and sat down, hoping that Doc Brown would show up and take me away.
The rest of the day progressed in much the same way. I spent an hour and a half listening to people ask department specific questions about a new program to IT, a group of people who knew the program, not the department. I watched people that make about five dollars more on the hour than myself try and puzzle out a cd player. I received the door prize of an electronic door stop and a brochure to the place that we were at. I thought as hard as I could on teleportation, hoping that by thinking it, it may help me realize it. I'd teleport first into a bank, then into a hot tub with naked ladies, Kalhua dipped cigars , and bottles of Cristal . In the background, I would hear the second Ol' Dirty Bastard record on repeat. Not far from my hot tub would be a hammock . It'd be late May/early June and I could sleep on the porch in the nude. Then I woke up to one of the most mundane experiences of my life .
Tomorrow, I get to repeat this experience, but I write this with some degree of satisfaction. Is it better? I'm certain it won't be. I'll listen to insipid questions, by people who quite possible have undeveloped frontal lobes , and watch my clock waiting for the time to leave. I can promise that I'll start looking at the clock around 9:00am and I fully expect to arrive at 8:30am. But at least I have a job. Part of me dies in writing that, like serving capitalism is some kind of grand reward. Great, I can keep my head down, not rock the boat, and get a paycheck. Why bother living if you're just serving? And I can answer that: I am loved. Putting up with bullshit like this allows me to come home and buy my wife whatever it is that her heart fancies. It allows me leisure days like today, where I drink my merry brains away, fighting for freedom on Mars , and watching whatever bullshit I can find on television all day. As much as I never want to be an agent of the ordinary, I'm finding that beauty lies somewhere in between. I choose to live for those moments and work for more of them.
It won't be here tomorrow. I think that could be said of far too many things. Tomorrow I face a day of training at work. No customers, yes, but plenty of boredom. In fact, it's the worst boredom I think I could possibly imagine. The last time I had to experience a training day like this, I thought I would just hang myself in the bathroom before the end of the day, and I like life. As adults, we did 'team building' exercises that included putting together, as a group, a series of puzzles intended for children 2 and up. At the time, I was the youngest at 28, yet I still received questions as to where the corner piece should go. I'm serious. I just handed the pieces to someone else and sat down, hoping that Doc Brown would show up and take me away.
The rest of the day progressed in much the same way. I spent an hour and a half listening to people ask department specific questions about a new program to IT, a group of people who knew the program, not the department. I watched people that make about five dollars more on the hour than myself try and puzzle out a cd player. I received the door prize of an electronic door stop and a brochure to the place that we were at. I thought as hard as I could on teleportation, hoping that by thinking it, it may help me realize it. I'd teleport first into a bank, then into a hot tub with naked ladies, Kalhua dipped cigars , and bottles of Cristal . In the background, I would hear the second Ol' Dirty Bastard record on repeat. Not far from my hot tub would be a hammock . It'd be late May/early June and I could sleep on the porch in the nude. Then I woke up to one of the most mundane experiences of my life .
Tomorrow, I get to repeat this experience, but I write this with some degree of satisfaction. Is it better? I'm certain it won't be. I'll listen to insipid questions, by people who quite possible have undeveloped frontal lobes , and watch my clock waiting for the time to leave. I can promise that I'll start looking at the clock around 9:00am and I fully expect to arrive at 8:30am. But at least I have a job. Part of me dies in writing that, like serving capitalism is some kind of grand reward. Great, I can keep my head down, not rock the boat, and get a paycheck. Why bother living if you're just serving? And I can answer that: I am loved. Putting up with bullshit like this allows me to come home and buy my wife whatever it is that her heart fancies. It allows me leisure days like today, where I drink my merry brains away, fighting for freedom on Mars , and watching whatever bullshit I can find on television all day. As much as I never want to be an agent of the ordinary, I'm finding that beauty lies somewhere in between. I choose to live for those moments and work for more of them.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Signed, Definitely Not Me
You are fifteen minutes away from your fifteen minutes of fame. Your knack at self-promotion is an asset more valuable than any amount of money you've ever made. You are poor. Everyone knows your face. You make valiant stands against important things! Your words have weight that cannot be calculated. You get it.
Today, you will rally around someone you barely know, for a cause you were barely close to. You will make it publicly known that you love (LOVE) someone who barely qualifies as an acquaintance. The world will have to feel truly blessed to be near you, but you know that people will still doubt your motivations, even though you know how sincere you are. You believe every word that you speak or write.
You are the owner of wondrous things. You admire your collection. Your collection is more than a series of material goods, but a shrine to your values. You add to it in a number of ways. Your collection is an extension of your being. It shows the world your value as someone who cares. This is not just the logical extension of consumer culture, but you filling a niche that just needed to be scratched. You are keeping it alive and 'it' is important. Maybe someone will make a documentary about you. If only your fifteen minutes would just get here.
You will keep the flame burning.
Today, you will rally around someone you barely know, for a cause you were barely close to. You will make it publicly known that you love (LOVE) someone who barely qualifies as an acquaintance. The world will have to feel truly blessed to be near you, but you know that people will still doubt your motivations, even though you know how sincere you are. You believe every word that you speak or write.
You are the owner of wondrous things. You admire your collection. Your collection is more than a series of material goods, but a shrine to your values. You add to it in a number of ways. Your collection is an extension of your being. It shows the world your value as someone who cares. This is not just the logical extension of consumer culture, but you filling a niche that just needed to be scratched. You are keeping it alive and 'it' is important. Maybe someone will make a documentary about you. If only your fifteen minutes would just get here.
You will keep the flame burning.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Turning 30
I turned thirty yesterday and I'm still waiting for it to hit me. After I lost my virginity the reality of the situation didn't hit home for days. In fact, It took about four days. I walked into a Kroger's to do what it is that people do in such places, paused to consider what I needed, and thought "what the fuck?! I've had sex?" I sincerely thought I'd never get beyond first or second base in my entire life. It wasn't something that I felt sad about, I just thought it was going to happen that way. Maybe, I thought, I'll get to see a girl with no shirt on in real life. And I did. And it was as fun as I thought it would be.
In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .
As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.
We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.
Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.
Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!
In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .
As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.
We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.
Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.
Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!
Monday, September 14, 2009
What Do You Pour Out For A Dead 40oz.?
I just found out Patrick Swayze died at the age of 57. I can now say with some certainty that there is not a higher being, at least not one capable of intervening whatsoever in human affairs. No, this God, or god, or gods, or Cthulu or what have you, probably hates fun times of all sorts. Dear God, have you ever seen a little movie called Roadhouse ? It's about THE BEST DAMNED BOUNCER ever! He was so awesome at bouncering, that people all over the bouncer community talked about him at bouncer conferences. And now he's dead of cancer and not something Monster Truck related, which is actually how Patrick Swayze should have died.
My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.
So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.
My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.
So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.
Friday, September 11, 2009
My Savage Ulcer
On an almost annual basis, I apply for a different position within my company. I do this in an effort to lessen my stress load. Ideally, I'd like to not reach the ripe age of 46, fall over while cutting the grass one day, with a heat stroke, and a mild heart attack. By then, I wager that I'll have ulcers the size of footballs in my gut, I'll curse regularly, and I'll hate every child that walks across my lawn. I'll probably drink my liver into a tiny, shrivelled, hate filled sac of bile, that filters nothing but violence, and piss into my blood stream. I'll wear a fisherman's hat, but I'll hate myself for wearing it. I'll swear at passing cars and hate loud sounds. By then, I'll have sold my instruments in a fit of rage at my lack of accomplishment. I may have children by then and I'll put on a good face for them, but since I'm bottling my anger, it'll only increase the size of my ulcers. The stately age of 46 is not looking so bright.
To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.
I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.
It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.
So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.
To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.
I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.
It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.
So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Girl Pants, Bums, and Aqualung.
Yesterday was the first weekday on my vacation and a pretty satisfying day at that. Aside from my nose draining into my throat, all was well in the world. I got a haircut and beard trim, so I no longer look like I escaped from a hobo camp. I stopped at the Great Escape, which is always a pleasant experience for me. I drove to Elizabeth's work at 1pm, picked her up for lunch, and drove to Q-Doba, which I've warmed up to. We sat in the window while we ate. A bum walked by, as bums are known to do. As he walked by the window, he looked directly at two emo/hipster type guys, both wearing girl pants, looked at us, made effeminate hand gestures, and laughed at both as they passed.
Allow me to reiterate. A homeless man, a deaf homeless man as it were, still finds it in his heart to clown two hipsters. It may have been one of the most satisfying things I've experienced in quite some time. I laughed out loud.
And this is why I love living in the Weirdo Part of town. I am blessed with oddity on a daily basis. One of my favorite accounts came about six months ago, at least as my recollection serves. Elizabeth and I were walking home from something. I don't recall what. We were near our house when we heard a flute in the distance. This kid was sitting on his porch, looking really sullen, and angst ridden, and playing a flute. I had this magnificent vision that he was on the porch after an argument with his parents. In my head, it went like this:
Mom: Blah, Blah... you're grounded.
Boy: I hate you mom!
Then he storms outside and plays Aqualung and thinks about running away. I love the Highlands.
Allow me to reiterate. A homeless man, a deaf homeless man as it were, still finds it in his heart to clown two hipsters. It may have been one of the most satisfying things I've experienced in quite some time. I laughed out loud.
And this is why I love living in the Weirdo Part of town. I am blessed with oddity on a daily basis. One of my favorite accounts came about six months ago, at least as my recollection serves. Elizabeth and I were walking home from something. I don't recall what. We were near our house when we heard a flute in the distance. This kid was sitting on his porch, looking really sullen, and angst ridden, and playing a flute. I had this magnificent vision that he was on the porch after an argument with his parents. In my head, it went like this:
Mom: Blah, Blah... you're grounded.
Boy: I hate you mom!
Then he storms outside and plays Aqualung and thinks about running away. I love the Highlands.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Brain Pudding
I woke up this morning at 7am, so I could do this on a bicycle. I made a litany of mistakes. I did not take water, thinking their would be ample opportunity for that on the trail. I did not wear any sunscreen. Sweat poured into my eyes, because I had no headgear. This was only aggravated by the sunburn I developed about half-way through; this trail has almost no shade for the entirety of the trip. Never let it be said that I'm a smart man.
I didn't arrive home until about 12:30pm. There was a wealth of errands that needed running today and I knew if I didn't ask to leave immediately, I would fall asleep for an indeterminate amount of time. So, after a shower, the wife and I headed to the mall, one of my least favorite places in earth. Four or so hours later, I arrived home.
My second wind had come. I had a little beer and proceeded to watch Southland Tales , while reading Final Crisis . I think I gave my brain scoliosis. Both the movie and the comic are batshit insane. Typifying either as esoteric does an injustice to the word. I'm not sure what Southland Tales was about. I didn't hate it, but I also didn't take much from it. Richard Kelly directed the movie and I can only imagine that it was a prank on Hollywood. Not only was the plot abstract and surreal, but it seemed to imply that efforts at renewable energy were a negative thing. This confuses and saddens me. I can only hope that Richard Kelly got it out of his system as The Box looks really interesting.
It's interesting to compare Southland Tales with Final Crisis, as the latter makes the former seem like Die Hard by comparison. Grant Morrison wrote it, which, for anyone that remains remotely familiar with comics should know, means that it made the concept of "insane" watered down. In a lot of ways Morrison is the real deal. When he wrote The Invisibles he actually tried to convince the public to have a 'wankathon', wherein everyone would masturbate at the same time everywhere on Earth as part of some sexual magic spell. I'm serious. DC was not particularly pleased with his use of the letters section.
That said, Final Crisis is some sort of surreal tribute to Jack Kirby's Fourth World , which I'm mostly unfamiliar with. I've read various things where Morrison explained that he wanted to create some sort of hyperactive comic, something that was so far removed from form and convention that it would be impossible to relate as a movie, and I'm fairly certain that he succeeded. Superman plugs a hole in the universe to stop Mandrakk, a vampiric Monitor (don't ask), from doing something rotten. I'm not sure what. And that's just part of it. If that doesn't send up giant WTF flags, I'm not sure what will.
And now my brain is off. I kind of just want to watch Full House or something like that, but I'm afraid that my perception, at least for the day, is tainted by hyper-fiction, beer, and the exhaustion of a 27.5 mile bike ride. At least I supposedly burned off some calories. That certainly doesn't hurt anything.
Incidentally, I thank my wife for showing me how html code works. Not only is she nicer looking than me, but she is smarter than I am, which doesn't say much. I am a lucky man.
I didn't arrive home until about 12:30pm. There was a wealth of errands that needed running today and I knew if I didn't ask to leave immediately, I would fall asleep for an indeterminate amount of time. So, after a shower, the wife and I headed to the mall, one of my least favorite places in earth. Four or so hours later, I arrived home.
My second wind had come. I had a little beer and proceeded to watch Southland Tales , while reading Final Crisis . I think I gave my brain scoliosis. Both the movie and the comic are batshit insane. Typifying either as esoteric does an injustice to the word. I'm not sure what Southland Tales was about. I didn't hate it, but I also didn't take much from it. Richard Kelly directed the movie and I can only imagine that it was a prank on Hollywood. Not only was the plot abstract and surreal, but it seemed to imply that efforts at renewable energy were a negative thing. This confuses and saddens me. I can only hope that Richard Kelly got it out of his system as The Box looks really interesting.
It's interesting to compare Southland Tales with Final Crisis, as the latter makes the former seem like Die Hard by comparison. Grant Morrison wrote it, which, for anyone that remains remotely familiar with comics should know, means that it made the concept of "insane" watered down. In a lot of ways Morrison is the real deal. When he wrote The Invisibles he actually tried to convince the public to have a 'wankathon', wherein everyone would masturbate at the same time everywhere on Earth as part of some sexual magic spell. I'm serious. DC was not particularly pleased with his use of the letters section.
That said, Final Crisis is some sort of surreal tribute to Jack Kirby's Fourth World , which I'm mostly unfamiliar with. I've read various things where Morrison explained that he wanted to create some sort of hyperactive comic, something that was so far removed from form and convention that it would be impossible to relate as a movie, and I'm fairly certain that he succeeded. Superman plugs a hole in the universe to stop Mandrakk, a vampiric Monitor (don't ask), from doing something rotten. I'm not sure what. And that's just part of it. If that doesn't send up giant WTF flags, I'm not sure what will.
And now my brain is off. I kind of just want to watch Full House or something like that, but I'm afraid that my perception, at least for the day, is tainted by hyper-fiction, beer, and the exhaustion of a 27.5 mile bike ride. At least I supposedly burned off some calories. That certainly doesn't hurt anything.
Incidentally, I thank my wife for showing me how html code works. Not only is she nicer looking than me, but she is smarter than I am, which doesn't say much. I am a lucky man.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
You Win Again Skynet/An Ode to Shawn Doss
So I found an article on how having a beer gut is apparently trendy in Brooklyn right now. I found it here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/13/fashion/13POTBELLY.html?_r=3&scp=1&sq=hip%20to%20be%20round&st=cse?no_interstitial
But this link looks like shit. And that's a serious indictment. I'd like to put something clever in the link field and then you click on something that says "Hell Yeah!" or something sassy like that, because I want to sound sassy. But the interweb and by extension, computers hate me. They do. Don't think that they don't, because I know that someone reading this is. I should not have to spend two hours trying to figure out how to be e-clever, but apparently blogger thinks I should. So I suppose from here forward, I get to post cumbersome links, that are 100% sassy free. This causes much sadness in my world. I guess that ought to tell you where my head is.
In regards to this article though, I'm pretty excited. I've finally made it. I'm going to poor beer into ice cream and eat it for lunch. I'm going to melt my weight set down into an iron lung, because breathing is so 2008. I'm going to model myself after Shawn Doss, a kid I went to school with. Shawn exclusively wore sweat clothes. He was the Don of the Magic the Gathering set. He bullied his grandmother (Me-Maw) into giving up her SSI money so he could afford the best cards. I mean, that Black Lotus isn't going to buy itself now is it?
I have it on good authority that Shawn had a tape that only had 'Highway to the Dangerzone' on it, over and over again. Apparently his number one hobby aside from terrorizing his grandmother out of her money was to pound down bowls of chili and rock Kenny Loggins. For Shawn, consuming chili in mass quantity was the highway to the dangerzone. This has the unfortunate effect of making us all consider what exactly the dangerzone itself is. I'd rather not speculate myself.
So here's to Shawn Doss. The coolest guy in Brooklyn right now. Suck on that Sonic Youth.
But this link looks like shit. And that's a serious indictment. I'd like to put something clever in the link field and then you click on something that says "Hell Yeah!" or something sassy like that, because I want to sound sassy. But the interweb and by extension, computers hate me. They do. Don't think that they don't, because I know that someone reading this is. I should not have to spend two hours trying to figure out how to be e-clever, but apparently blogger thinks I should. So I suppose from here forward, I get to post cumbersome links, that are 100% sassy free. This causes much sadness in my world. I guess that ought to tell you where my head is.
In regards to this article though, I'm pretty excited. I've finally made it. I'm going to poor beer into ice cream and eat it for lunch. I'm going to melt my weight set down into an iron lung, because breathing is so 2008. I'm going to model myself after Shawn Doss, a kid I went to school with. Shawn exclusively wore sweat clothes. He was the Don of the Magic the Gathering set. He bullied his grandmother (Me-Maw) into giving up her SSI money so he could afford the best cards. I mean, that Black Lotus isn't going to buy itself now is it?
I have it on good authority that Shawn had a tape that only had 'Highway to the Dangerzone' on it, over and over again. Apparently his number one hobby aside from terrorizing his grandmother out of her money was to pound down bowls of chili and rock Kenny Loggins. For Shawn, consuming chili in mass quantity was the highway to the dangerzone. This has the unfortunate effect of making us all consider what exactly the dangerzone itself is. I'd rather not speculate myself.
So here's to Shawn Doss. The coolest guy in Brooklyn right now. Suck on that Sonic Youth.
Friday, August 14, 2009
RadioShaq
Dear Shaquille O'Neal
Radioshack will soon change its name to 'The Shack'. I can't be certain why they think this is a good idea, unless they just want to bewilder their patrons. But you know, 'Radio' isn't a cool buzz word or anything, so you know, make it more extreme. What will they think of next?
I see this as an opportunity for you to become a spokesperson. I feel like the ads write themselves. The shot opens with you (Shaq) with your back to the camera, perusing a number of fine electronics items sold at the Shack. You are wearing your basketball Jersey and you are sweaty. An employee walks over and hands you a towel. You turn to face the camera and say "after a long day of hooping, I just have to go to the Shack." Then you give a thumbs up to the camera as you buy an iPod and a 1/8' to 1/4 adapter for your home stereo.
Carpe Diem, Shaq. That next Fu-Schnickens record won't bankroll itself.
Your pal,
-syd
Radioshack will soon change its name to 'The Shack'. I can't be certain why they think this is a good idea, unless they just want to bewilder their patrons. But you know, 'Radio' isn't a cool buzz word or anything, so you know, make it more extreme. What will they think of next?
I see this as an opportunity for you to become a spokesperson. I feel like the ads write themselves. The shot opens with you (Shaq) with your back to the camera, perusing a number of fine electronics items sold at the Shack. You are wearing your basketball Jersey and you are sweaty. An employee walks over and hands you a towel. You turn to face the camera and say "after a long day of hooping, I just have to go to the Shack." Then you give a thumbs up to the camera as you buy an iPod and a 1/8' to 1/4 adapter for your home stereo.
Carpe Diem, Shaq. That next Fu-Schnickens record won't bankroll itself.
Your pal,
-syd
Friday, July 31, 2009
Old Letters
A few months ago, I was fortunate enough to not only marry my best friend, but to move into her amazing house. At least, it could be amazing, provided that we put a little leg work into cleaning and organizing. The problem is, the more I have to do, the less I want to participate. I want to sit on the couch, play my fancy new X-Machine, and drink Stout Beer. If the weather permits, I'm content to sit on the porch, drink a Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse, which is much more of a porch type beer. This is a claim I'm proud to make with a little authority.
Elizabeth is an insomniac. Last night, she spent some time sorting through boxes and paperwork I'd brought from my apartment, and summarily dumped at the front door. She's a peach to endure my slobbiness. She found a lot of stuff I'd have liked to have found like my certificate as a quality trainer addressed to 'Michael "Jackson" Bishop', various letters to the Courier Journal that were published, and old band flyers. Among the clutter, she found a letter I'd once written to Ben Cundiff, an old roommate.
I was furious in this letter. I condemned his behavior on a multitude of different levels, some of which resonate with me as valid and reasonable, some of which sound like a crybaby twenty something, whining about the world. I was serious! I would not do ____, ____, and ___, for so many passionate, and angry reasons. I was the model of angst. Thanks a lot, Teen Spirit. You've ruined me.
Of course, I bear no grudge to my old roommate, we've had plenty of very pleasant encounters over the past few years, culminating in my playing a part, albeit a very small part, in his wedding a year or so back. What was interesting about the letter, wasn't so much the content, but the disparity between what was and what is in my life. Its an interesting exploration into my mindset then, which seems so alien now. Life just isn't that volatile any longer, which wasn't a situation that I exclusively engineered, but which was something that I helped perpetrate. Life is much more calm now.
Well, all that and my writing, which was pretty damned terrible. In fact, it irritated me so much, that the 29 year old, English student Syd wanted to bust out a yellow highlighter, and get to making corrections. I'm overcome by this sensation at times. I have to tie my pen hand down.
For example, one day, a customer, a very racist customer, came into work, screaming conspiracy by the utility company, and espousing racist viewpoints. He refused to speak with a Hispanic coworker. Then he told a black coworker, who is a superior, that he would only speak with a white superior. He left a letter that explained in confusing detail that the right to utility service was guaranteed by the constitution. And all this time I was under the impression that our founding fathers didn't have electricity. Hopefully there is a clause in the constitution about my right to an X-Box.
I was so compelled to respond to this letter. Not to argue, because how can I argue against the logic of our founding fathers fighting the good fight against the tyranny of the utility company, but to correct his spelling. Jesus. If you're going to hate authority, say it with some dignity. Thomas Jefferson may not have had access to Microsoft Word, but this guy sure as hell did. Just like magic, the computer would have told him that he had spelled wrong. Presto.
Elizabeth is an insomniac. Last night, she spent some time sorting through boxes and paperwork I'd brought from my apartment, and summarily dumped at the front door. She's a peach to endure my slobbiness. She found a lot of stuff I'd have liked to have found like my certificate as a quality trainer addressed to 'Michael "Jackson" Bishop', various letters to the Courier Journal that were published, and old band flyers. Among the clutter, she found a letter I'd once written to Ben Cundiff, an old roommate.
I was furious in this letter. I condemned his behavior on a multitude of different levels, some of which resonate with me as valid and reasonable, some of which sound like a crybaby twenty something, whining about the world. I was serious! I would not do ____, ____, and ___, for so many passionate, and angry reasons. I was the model of angst. Thanks a lot, Teen Spirit. You've ruined me.
Of course, I bear no grudge to my old roommate, we've had plenty of very pleasant encounters over the past few years, culminating in my playing a part, albeit a very small part, in his wedding a year or so back. What was interesting about the letter, wasn't so much the content, but the disparity between what was and what is in my life. Its an interesting exploration into my mindset then, which seems so alien now. Life just isn't that volatile any longer, which wasn't a situation that I exclusively engineered, but which was something that I helped perpetrate. Life is much more calm now.
Well, all that and my writing, which was pretty damned terrible. In fact, it irritated me so much, that the 29 year old, English student Syd wanted to bust out a yellow highlighter, and get to making corrections. I'm overcome by this sensation at times. I have to tie my pen hand down.
For example, one day, a customer, a very racist customer, came into work, screaming conspiracy by the utility company, and espousing racist viewpoints. He refused to speak with a Hispanic coworker. Then he told a black coworker, who is a superior, that he would only speak with a white superior. He left a letter that explained in confusing detail that the right to utility service was guaranteed by the constitution. And all this time I was under the impression that our founding fathers didn't have electricity. Hopefully there is a clause in the constitution about my right to an X-Box.
I was so compelled to respond to this letter. Not to argue, because how can I argue against the logic of our founding fathers fighting the good fight against the tyranny of the utility company, but to correct his spelling. Jesus. If you're going to hate authority, say it with some dignity. Thomas Jefferson may not have had access to Microsoft Word, but this guy sure as hell did. Just like magic, the computer would have told him that he had spelled wrong. Presto.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Boring Mass Media Discussion (One-Way)
Yesterday, I was part of a discussion on the effect of mass media in shaping gender roles in society. By 'part of a discussion' I mean to say that I sat in the same room as people who all agreed with one another on the topic. I disagreed, but a bitter case of the Mondays kept my tongue tied for the duration of class. Now that it is Tuesday, I feel the need to redeem myself, even if its done on an almost personal level.
The main argument was that we would be ridiculous not to believe that mass media has an immediate impact on culture. The class consensus would've left me with the impression that everyone that watches television does so as a guide for how life ought to be led. This is not to suggest that media does not have an effect on trends, as it certainly does, but I question the degree that we accept and, by default, blame, mass media for creating or reinforcing our social/sexual identities. The group consensus certainly implied the consumption of media as something active, which I think is a bit inaccurate.
It would be an error in judgment to assume that media has no effect on culture, as it certainly does, and has, and will continue to do so. We could argue that children are a fair watermark for how much media effects the public, as children are impressionable. This, I feel, seems fairly evident every time we see a young girl seeking beauty items, or playing house, or any time a young boy plays war. My concern though, is how much did society already influence those roles? Mass media has only been prevalent for a comparatively brief amount of time, at least when put in context. Its hard for anyone to really have perspective on the issue, as no one alive has existed without constant media influence.
I suppose it depends entirely on how information is digested. If you believe that women read the '50 ways to please your man' per Cosmo, then I suppose you would in turn believe that media has a reflective and influential role in society. I happen to believe that people are much more passive in their consumption of media, be it news or entertainment, and that although it may pose as an influence, social mores have remained pervasive with or without television to tell you what to do. At least I hope that people are more than what they watch.
The main argument was that we would be ridiculous not to believe that mass media has an immediate impact on culture. The class consensus would've left me with the impression that everyone that watches television does so as a guide for how life ought to be led. This is not to suggest that media does not have an effect on trends, as it certainly does, but I question the degree that we accept and, by default, blame, mass media for creating or reinforcing our social/sexual identities. The group consensus certainly implied the consumption of media as something active, which I think is a bit inaccurate.
It would be an error in judgment to assume that media has no effect on culture, as it certainly does, and has, and will continue to do so. We could argue that children are a fair watermark for how much media effects the public, as children are impressionable. This, I feel, seems fairly evident every time we see a young girl seeking beauty items, or playing house, or any time a young boy plays war. My concern though, is how much did society already influence those roles? Mass media has only been prevalent for a comparatively brief amount of time, at least when put in context. Its hard for anyone to really have perspective on the issue, as no one alive has existed without constant media influence.
I suppose it depends entirely on how information is digested. If you believe that women read the '50 ways to please your man' per Cosmo, then I suppose you would in turn believe that media has a reflective and influential role in society. I happen to believe that people are much more passive in their consumption of media, be it news or entertainment, and that although it may pose as an influence, social mores have remained pervasive with or without television to tell you what to do. At least I hope that people are more than what they watch.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Predictive Texting and The Coming Rise Of The Machines
I'm fairly certain that predictive texting is the first sign of the coming machine war. I checked a message that I sent a friend last night which states, "I bought any an Xbox." Apparently, when I type the word 'an' it automatically assumes that I mean to type the word 'any'. And it does not stop there. If I type the word 'a', it changes the text to 'on on'. I'm certain there are other instances waiting to be discovered, but I do my best to avoid texting, and have in all likelyhood not yet encountered them.
I realize that I could probably change this, I don't feel that I should have to change this. Why should I need to explain my meaning to my phone? Technology was built to serve me, not the other way around. If I want to write a simple word, I will do so by dammit, and no dirty machine is going to force my hand.
So, I've established a bit of a dialogue between man and machine. I'm fairly certain that skynet is the offending party in this matter. As I envision it, computers have been clevely seeking to undermine human integrity for years now, possibly starting as early as the Atari system. Games were designed to frustrate, confuse, and bewilder the average player, while marketing was meant to entice the consumer into purchasing and thus experiencing, this frustration.
While Atari offered mild frustration, the machines clearly sought the next level in irritation with the creation of Megaman. Megaman is a futuristic robot who repeatedly battles the sly Dr. Wiley. Megaman represents the imperfection in man. Although he ostensibly would have cost an immeasurable amount of money to create and perfect, he was not blessed with ability to duck, or point his weapon upward. This defect demanded a great deal of my attention in 1996 and resulted in the destruction of at least one super nintendo controller. Duck, dammit, just duck.
I'm certain that the little technological things in life are a machine driven conspiracy to frustrate humanity into violence. Every fiber of my being knows this to be true. But I'm already onto you, Skynet, and I will not succumb to your taunts. Here's to blaming computers, not their drivers, for all your problems. Cheers.
I realize that I could probably change this, I don't feel that I should have to change this. Why should I need to explain my meaning to my phone? Technology was built to serve me, not the other way around. If I want to write a simple word, I will do so by dammit, and no dirty machine is going to force my hand.
So, I've established a bit of a dialogue between man and machine. I'm fairly certain that skynet is the offending party in this matter. As I envision it, computers have been clevely seeking to undermine human integrity for years now, possibly starting as early as the Atari system. Games were designed to frustrate, confuse, and bewilder the average player, while marketing was meant to entice the consumer into purchasing and thus experiencing, this frustration.
While Atari offered mild frustration, the machines clearly sought the next level in irritation with the creation of Megaman. Megaman is a futuristic robot who repeatedly battles the sly Dr. Wiley. Megaman represents the imperfection in man. Although he ostensibly would have cost an immeasurable amount of money to create and perfect, he was not blessed with ability to duck, or point his weapon upward. This defect demanded a great deal of my attention in 1996 and resulted in the destruction of at least one super nintendo controller. Duck, dammit, just duck.
I'm certain that the little technological things in life are a machine driven conspiracy to frustrate humanity into violence. Every fiber of my being knows this to be true. But I'm already onto you, Skynet, and I will not succumb to your taunts. Here's to blaming computers, not their drivers, for all your problems. Cheers.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tsar Bomba
I had an Avery Imperial Stout last night. I don't recall what its clever name was, but I think it should be called the Tsar Bomba, because it was ridiculously strong. To say I'm hungover is an exercise in understatement that is difficult to quantify.
Yesterday a customer made the observation that I was a "faggot". I suppose I exude homosexuality, if one can be said to exude homosexuality, based on my appearance. I was wearing a black Dickies button up work shirt and a brown set of work pants. I had and have an unkempt beard, had my glasses on, and was wearing my Pumas. I wear tennis shoes to work sometimes, because I'm a rebel. That says homosexual to me.
An observant witness may have noticed my wedding ring. I'm certain the party in question did, as he was quite astute in pointing out various facts, such as "that we are all lazy bitches and faggots," and later the uplifting news that he will indeed be able to get weed that day. I was relieved to hear this. A victory for the customer is a success for me. Get high, my friend, get high.
Regardless, this was an interesting bit of news to me. I was concerned with how to approach Elizabeth with this news, as it would diminish the likelyhood of our future sexual encounters. I really thought I loved women, too. I guess I was wrong all this time. The customer is always right, after all.
She took it well. She was disappointed, but I think she understands the importance of letting go, and of finding acceptance. We have separate rooms now, so I can avoid the temptation to break character. I've been watching 'So You Think You Can Dance' with her. I'm not certain that this is what gay people do, but I'm assuming so. I just want to be accurate in my faggotry.
So where is that Tsar Bomba when you need it? This incident was one of many similar occurences the same day. The lady before him grit her teeth while she spoke with me and told me that we were pieces of shit. When I said anything in response, she told me "not to smart off". Yesterday it was a full on death threat. Bring on the bomb, I'm not certain I can make a compelling argument for the salvation of humanity.
Yesterday a customer made the observation that I was a "faggot". I suppose I exude homosexuality, if one can be said to exude homosexuality, based on my appearance. I was wearing a black Dickies button up work shirt and a brown set of work pants. I had and have an unkempt beard, had my glasses on, and was wearing my Pumas. I wear tennis shoes to work sometimes, because I'm a rebel. That says homosexual to me.
An observant witness may have noticed my wedding ring. I'm certain the party in question did, as he was quite astute in pointing out various facts, such as "that we are all lazy bitches and faggots," and later the uplifting news that he will indeed be able to get weed that day. I was relieved to hear this. A victory for the customer is a success for me. Get high, my friend, get high.
Regardless, this was an interesting bit of news to me. I was concerned with how to approach Elizabeth with this news, as it would diminish the likelyhood of our future sexual encounters. I really thought I loved women, too. I guess I was wrong all this time. The customer is always right, after all.
She took it well. She was disappointed, but I think she understands the importance of letting go, and of finding acceptance. We have separate rooms now, so I can avoid the temptation to break character. I've been watching 'So You Think You Can Dance' with her. I'm not certain that this is what gay people do, but I'm assuming so. I just want to be accurate in my faggotry.
So where is that Tsar Bomba when you need it? This incident was one of many similar occurences the same day. The lady before him grit her teeth while she spoke with me and told me that we were pieces of shit. When I said anything in response, she told me "not to smart off". Yesterday it was a full on death threat. Bring on the bomb, I'm not certain I can make a compelling argument for the salvation of humanity.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Devolving Into Parody
I wake up, kiss my wife on her cheek, and drive to work. I punch the clock. I leave and go to school. As the days go by, I see in my reflection a growing ass and gut. My wife is beautiful. I'm slowly devolving into Ralph Kramden, albeit with remarkably less threats for spousal abuse in my life. Still, I feel like a fat man-child at times, looking to my hot wife for direction.
Being an adult is fucking great, huh? I think it's time to hit the gym (harder).
Being an adult is fucking great, huh? I think it's time to hit the gym (harder).
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