2007...wow....what a year it has been. Kim Jong Il shot an 18 on a golf course, the Yankees failed to win the World Series yet again, I ate many more radioactive elements than anyone ever should, bread jumped back on the scene, the children's literary character Madeline was no longer an orphan, I moved to Los Angeles, tens of people tried new foods, Barack Obama's name was named with countless words (osama, llama, panama ((pronounced incorrectly))) some dogs fought against Michael Vick or something, Joey Chestnut became the Real American Hero by eating a bunch of wieners quickly (a venue in which so many hookers have failed), a spider plant offshoot begat another spider plant, someone somewhere got drunk and tried to play a game of MLB '07 (I probably know them), at minimum seventeen people got drunk, 14 illegal bottlerockets were purchased, spiderman 3 proved spiderman with tobey maguire in it has gone as far as it can go with some demented waif who was a jockey in Seabiscuit, biscuits reemerged on the scene as a food I do not really enjoy and will throw at people if served them, political races heated up (yet all candidates refused my offer for an open Q & A with me and some delicious microwavable foods with me, most of them citing the threat of arsenic in my foods), tears accidentally welled up in my eyes a couple of times (both times due to hot sauce and vicious eye pokings), Michael Keaton appeared in ALL of my favorite movies of the year, the nickname "Boss" was bestowed upon at minimum 15 people by me, 3 of them definitely wanted to fight me, Major League 2 was a decent movie, my dog smelled a majority of the time, the Cubs won the Central division, and made me get really wasted in the playoffs, the bubonic plague once again failed to be a really big epidemic this year, reaer deltoids were never really formally worked out by anyone besides HGH users (Roger Clemens, Miguel Tejada, Brian Munoz, etc.), Superbad provided some funny material for people to say as did Knocked Up, as did accidentally Ratatouille and Die Hard 4 (which I have still yet to see, but you know, sometimes you just hear), Lily Munster Rod Beck Barbaro Anna Nicole Smith Ernest and Gallo (yes both of them) and even Kurt Vonnegut died in this 2007th year since year Zero.
Yet looking back on all of it, nothing could really be all that different then it ended up turning out. Time for an extremely deep sentence. Things that happened would have probably happened even if other things had not have happened and even if the other things not happened stuff probably still would have happened with all the happenings that were just going to have happened based on what else had happened and if things did not happen they may have not been supposed to have happened or did not happen since other things had not happened and did not seem like they were going to happen, and even had they happened, if they were not supposed to happen then even if they had happened it would just as if they did not happen.
2008 will indeed be a different year, full of new smells, shapes (like the octangle!), vegetables, and other such whatnot. So just remember to go at it with all the vim and vigor that you might normally reserve for an all night dance party after you had consumed fifteen pounds of sugar and some weasel dust.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
Batman was just a rich guy in a batsuit, not a superhero
Seriously though Batman, quit even entering the whole superhero conversation. You are not a superhero. Superheroes have superpowers. You are a badass rich dude who is skilled in the martial arts, dishing out creepy one liners, and using all sorts of gadgetry to fight really weird bad guys. Seriouslly, imaging Superman vs the Joker. No contest. Superman vs. the Penguin..that's not even an episode or a lesser bad guy in a movie. So, stop Batman, I think I just needed to get that off my chest. It's been bugging me for a while.
As many more major metropolitan areas ban all public smoking, Chicago is joining in that fray very soon. There was a series of commercials that aired several months ago and also some currently that mainly posed the key question, "What is to be done with all the ashtrays?" (Rather than the really important questions they should have been asking.."How much frostbite do you think will occur from smokers going outside?" or "Are restaurants that sell seafood for really cheap even safe?" or even "What are you doing on New Year's Eve 2010?")
Logically, I have some ideas, however they are really based in no logic, it's really just logical that I would even have some ideas in the first place.
1) Build a town called Ashtrayville. It would be best if the ashtrays were all cleaned pretty well first, but given the wide variety of shapes and colors ashtrays come in, this could totally work. It would be a beautiful city. Kids would go on field trips there and be mystified as to what the hell all the oddly shaped plastic thingies were...and there would also be nicer structures featuring the nicer ashtrays as well. It would be brilliant.
2) Ashtrays used as tiny serving dishes at receptions and whatnot (chicken nugget fests, tiny food parties, hot sauce eating contests). Once again, you need to clean them, this time even more thoroughly as people like Brian will love eating out of them so much he will begin using them for all meals, and most drinks. A tiny ashtray full of pretzels at a bar could just be what the doctor ordered sometimes. And maybe renaming them would be good. Like tiny slotted plastic bowls.
3) Things to throw at people bugging me. Seriously, give me all the ashtrays. I would literally carry them around just as I do a blue pen and use it to whip, frisbee style, at people who are bugging me at that current juncture, be it from something they have said, how they look, or just generally what they represent.
The other day I was watching an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry is angered by women who kiss him hello. He even uttered the classic line after Kramer had hung pictures of everyone in Jerry's apartment building and he was receiving an abundance of kisses hello, "I feel like Richard Dawson down there." (Richard Dawson is, of course, the old, old Family Feud host who would pretty much makeout with every woman on the show). And I must say, I feel very similar to Jerry about the kiss hello. My feelings are slightly less opposed if I know the kiss is coming, but even then I turn my head in such a way that the person attmepting the kiss actually just makes a kissing noise and touches cheeks with me. So, that is a slight escape. But I would really like to eliminate this all together. What is even worse is when I am not aware the kiss is coming, especially given my larger stature than most all women who are trying to give me the kiss on the cheek hello..then I am trying to hug (which I just learned a few years ago) and squatting over so I can awkwardly receive a kiss on the cheek.. So, next time, whether I know it is coming or not, I am either going to nuzzle my nose into the neck of the offending party, go for a kiss directly on the lips (age appropriatness here...like I will not do that to my grandmother, she gets a free pass), or maybe lick the side of a face. I am willing to bet either the wrong notion would be gathered or that would be the last kiss on the cheek I received from that person.
THAT IS ALL. KONICHIWA BITCHES.
As many more major metropolitan areas ban all public smoking, Chicago is joining in that fray very soon. There was a series of commercials that aired several months ago and also some currently that mainly posed the key question, "What is to be done with all the ashtrays?" (Rather than the really important questions they should have been asking.."How much frostbite do you think will occur from smokers going outside?" or "Are restaurants that sell seafood for really cheap even safe?" or even "What are you doing on New Year's Eve 2010?")
Logically, I have some ideas, however they are really based in no logic, it's really just logical that I would even have some ideas in the first place.
1) Build a town called Ashtrayville. It would be best if the ashtrays were all cleaned pretty well first, but given the wide variety of shapes and colors ashtrays come in, this could totally work. It would be a beautiful city. Kids would go on field trips there and be mystified as to what the hell all the oddly shaped plastic thingies were...and there would also be nicer structures featuring the nicer ashtrays as well. It would be brilliant.
2) Ashtrays used as tiny serving dishes at receptions and whatnot (chicken nugget fests, tiny food parties, hot sauce eating contests). Once again, you need to clean them, this time even more thoroughly as people like Brian will love eating out of them so much he will begin using them for all meals, and most drinks. A tiny ashtray full of pretzels at a bar could just be what the doctor ordered sometimes. And maybe renaming them would be good. Like tiny slotted plastic bowls.
3) Things to throw at people bugging me. Seriously, give me all the ashtrays. I would literally carry them around just as I do a blue pen and use it to whip, frisbee style, at people who are bugging me at that current juncture, be it from something they have said, how they look, or just generally what they represent.
The other day I was watching an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry is angered by women who kiss him hello. He even uttered the classic line after Kramer had hung pictures of everyone in Jerry's apartment building and he was receiving an abundance of kisses hello, "I feel like Richard Dawson down there." (Richard Dawson is, of course, the old, old Family Feud host who would pretty much makeout with every woman on the show). And I must say, I feel very similar to Jerry about the kiss hello. My feelings are slightly less opposed if I know the kiss is coming, but even then I turn my head in such a way that the person attmepting the kiss actually just makes a kissing noise and touches cheeks with me. So, that is a slight escape. But I would really like to eliminate this all together. What is even worse is when I am not aware the kiss is coming, especially given my larger stature than most all women who are trying to give me the kiss on the cheek hello..then I am trying to hug (which I just learned a few years ago) and squatting over so I can awkwardly receive a kiss on the cheek.. So, next time, whether I know it is coming or not, I am either going to nuzzle my nose into the neck of the offending party, go for a kiss directly on the lips (age appropriatness here...like I will not do that to my grandmother, she gets a free pass), or maybe lick the side of a face. I am willing to bet either the wrong notion would be gathered or that would be the last kiss on the cheek I received from that person.
THAT IS ALL. KONICHIWA BITCHES.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Through concentration, I can raise and lower my cholesterol at will
Things That Are Silly To Me Lately:
1) Whimsical Childrens Cereals
2) TV News Programs
3) Meth
4) Parking Tickets
5) People who think cartography is still a good profession to get into
6) Names from the 1930's being used now
Even with the recent focus on healthier foods for children so we don't end up with a generation of the functionally obese, (they can move around, but they can also eat all your bacon. and not even be kind enough to thank you...it's just the way of the youngest generation, they aren't that well-mannered either. or they will come to your fourth of July BBQ and eat as a casual snack all the cheese you intended to use on the burgers, then go home with your sister...it's sort of a tit for tat sort of thing) I still notice a large number of children's cereals that are new and definitely cater to children...and don't scream health. But they crack me up. I swear it is a matter of time before Krispy Kreme makes a cereal that is merely cut up pieces of their doughnuts. For god's sake, there is actually a chocolate Chex...wow. And everytime I walk down the cereal aisle, I hear a kid whining to their parent/guardian/kidnapper who is kind enough to ask them what kind of cereal they want, "Can't we get some Cinammon Roll-O's/ Tiny French Toast with Extra High Fructose Corn Syrup Graham-o-Wham's/ Fudgem's?" You probably shouldn't, kid.
I always love when people refer to something they have heard from the news on television. I really have not seen much on their that offers anything too redeeming or has any value to bring up in conversation. I have recently begun watching a morning TV show on CNN a couple days a week with some sort of purdy lady named Robin who is the host...now while it is obvious Robin tries hard to convey excitement about her job, here is a rundown of the top stories from one day, which makes me really wonder if she considers herself a news journalist of a high degree: "Homeless Man Earns Money" (he had turned in a person who was wanted...not just cashed in his latest bag of cans), "Something or Other About that Kanye West's Mom's Doctor", "Strange Weather Patterns Somewhere", and "Funny Video of Baby Doing Something, Possibly Involving a Squirrel". So, whenever I hear someone talking about something they saw on the news, my ears perk up because I am ready to talk about something of obviously extreme importance.
Meth popularity seems to be at an all time high...and I am not talking about the actual drug, but rather about the popularity of it getting mentioned on TV shows, commercials and other ads against doing it, and just all sorts of meth stuff. Just a couple things about meth: on the couple of TV shows I have seen it on, the users of the drug had been at a party and were introduced to it. I have partied, and I know lots of crazy people and I have done some pretty wild stuff, but NEVER have I been anywhere when some people had been doing meth at a party, nor have I ever been in such a state where I would think, "Hey self, that sounds like a good idea...yeah..definitely try some meth." My friend Joe who just became a Chicago cop told me about some of things that are in meth, which include gasoline, WD 40, steel wool, Clorox and other such fun things...what a wild time. Silly meth. You so crazy.
I understand the whole idea of parking tickets, but at the same time I don't really understand why they have to be given out so readily. You mean I have to pay that much money because for some short period of time I stationed my vehicle in this particular spot? Even if I did park in a handicapped spot while not being handicapped, does that not demonstrate some sort of mental handicap? I just sort of wish that people who gave out parking tickets were more laid back in their approach and just went after the real assholes...so yeah, people who aren't me. People without plate IL 920 7374. Others. All others if you wish.
Maps are nearly dead. I can look at my parents house, my house, and even into your swimming pool (I use the familiar you here) all on Google Earth. And how many people carry around a map to get somewhere? They are mainly just a large fire hazard or something to use when you have accidentally thrown your picnic blanket in the wash and are having some sort of impromptu picnic/ paper airplane throwing contest with local youths (don't ask how this works with the blanket...you would need a far better understanding of physics before I could even begin to explain that to you). Just tell people you are really into cartography, it still sounds cool and lower IQ'ed women will be impressed. I once told people I was an ornithologist. It was TONS of fun.
Clarence. Edith. Beatrice. Edna.
That is all.
1) Whimsical Childrens Cereals
2) TV News Programs
3) Meth
4) Parking Tickets
5) People who think cartography is still a good profession to get into
6) Names from the 1930's being used now
Even with the recent focus on healthier foods for children so we don't end up with a generation of the functionally obese, (they can move around, but they can also eat all your bacon. and not even be kind enough to thank you...it's just the way of the youngest generation, they aren't that well-mannered either. or they will come to your fourth of July BBQ and eat as a casual snack all the cheese you intended to use on the burgers, then go home with your sister...it's sort of a tit for tat sort of thing) I still notice a large number of children's cereals that are new and definitely cater to children...and don't scream health. But they crack me up. I swear it is a matter of time before Krispy Kreme makes a cereal that is merely cut up pieces of their doughnuts. For god's sake, there is actually a chocolate Chex...wow. And everytime I walk down the cereal aisle, I hear a kid whining to their parent/guardian/kidnapper who is kind enough to ask them what kind of cereal they want, "Can't we get some Cinammon Roll-O's/ Tiny French Toast with Extra High Fructose Corn Syrup Graham-o-Wham's/ Fudgem's?" You probably shouldn't, kid.
I always love when people refer to something they have heard from the news on television. I really have not seen much on their that offers anything too redeeming or has any value to bring up in conversation. I have recently begun watching a morning TV show on CNN a couple days a week with some sort of purdy lady named Robin who is the host...now while it is obvious Robin tries hard to convey excitement about her job, here is a rundown of the top stories from one day, which makes me really wonder if she considers herself a news journalist of a high degree: "Homeless Man Earns Money" (he had turned in a person who was wanted...not just cashed in his latest bag of cans), "Something or Other About that Kanye West's Mom's Doctor", "Strange Weather Patterns Somewhere", and "Funny Video of Baby Doing Something, Possibly Involving a Squirrel". So, whenever I hear someone talking about something they saw on the news, my ears perk up because I am ready to talk about something of obviously extreme importance.
Meth popularity seems to be at an all time high...and I am not talking about the actual drug, but rather about the popularity of it getting mentioned on TV shows, commercials and other ads against doing it, and just all sorts of meth stuff. Just a couple things about meth: on the couple of TV shows I have seen it on, the users of the drug had been at a party and were introduced to it. I have partied, and I know lots of crazy people and I have done some pretty wild stuff, but NEVER have I been anywhere when some people had been doing meth at a party, nor have I ever been in such a state where I would think, "Hey self, that sounds like a good idea...yeah..definitely try some meth." My friend Joe who just became a Chicago cop told me about some of things that are in meth, which include gasoline, WD 40, steel wool, Clorox and other such fun things...what a wild time. Silly meth. You so crazy.
I understand the whole idea of parking tickets, but at the same time I don't really understand why they have to be given out so readily. You mean I have to pay that much money because for some short period of time I stationed my vehicle in this particular spot? Even if I did park in a handicapped spot while not being handicapped, does that not demonstrate some sort of mental handicap? I just sort of wish that people who gave out parking tickets were more laid back in their approach and just went after the real assholes...so yeah, people who aren't me. People without plate IL 920 7374. Others. All others if you wish.
Maps are nearly dead. I can look at my parents house, my house, and even into your swimming pool (I use the familiar you here) all on Google Earth. And how many people carry around a map to get somewhere? They are mainly just a large fire hazard or something to use when you have accidentally thrown your picnic blanket in the wash and are having some sort of impromptu picnic/ paper airplane throwing contest with local youths (don't ask how this works with the blanket...you would need a far better understanding of physics before I could even begin to explain that to you). Just tell people you are really into cartography, it still sounds cool and lower IQ'ed women will be impressed. I once told people I was an ornithologist. It was TONS of fun.
Clarence. Edith. Beatrice. Edna.
That is all.
Monday, November 12, 2007
I’m Not Doing Anything Tonite…Because I Don’t Work at a Bowling Alley
As anyone who knows me can attest, there are some things that bother me and no, I can really not offer any sane sounding explanation as to why these things bug me because god knows I do enough annoying shit myself (red clouding, snoring, correcting others when they are wrong, being stubborn, smelling great and looking better than you, etc.). But one of the things that has begun to bother me more than anything is the spelling of the word tonight as tonite. If you are a person capable of counting, you can easily note that the second spelling has only one less letter than the correct spelling. Additionally, I believe unless you are the owner or employee (or former employee, so Brian and Paul are good on this one) of a bowling alley, there does not seem to be any reason for people to be using this word. It just makes me feel so cheap and dirty, as if people are wondering if I am going to clean up the Cheeto debris in my trailer and get out my finest mugs to pour malt beverages in that night with them. Some casual excuses I have heard are from those who like to text message, saying that it is somehow easier to spell, but it can’t be any less than a few pushes of a button. Because unless my stubborn side really needs to be full exposure and people want me to seemingly make up my own entire language of uglyfied words (and I don’t mean the typical made up words I use in an attempt to sound smarter) tonite needs to stop…tonight. HAHA. Witty. But I guess if bowling were somehow involved in YOUR plans for the evening, you can just ask me what I am doing that night. And if spelling is really just not your forte, then syugvbcui su. I think you will have known what that meant.
The other day I was reading an article about questions that are increasing in popularity during the job interview process. Two of them that really befuddle me are as follows:
1)What is your biggest accomplishment?
2) Who are your heroes?
The thing about the accomplishment question is, I am not really sure anything IS my biggest accomplishment thus far. I mean, I am sure graduating from college would be the easiest answer, but college was just sort of what I was supposed to do after high school, no questions asked. And if the interviewer came back with a question about if I was the first in my family to graduate or something, I would have to tell them no, and yet still somehow make it seem like it was so big awesome accomplishment that I was really proud of. On the other hand, who would want to hear about me being so proud of completing a nine and nine (a beer and a hot dog every inning of a baseball game)? I mean, it is a proud distinction of mine, but I am not sure how the rest of the world would perceive this. What else have I really done? I’ve come up with some funny nicknames and said some funny things on occasion as well as one year coming in first in both a fantasy football AND basketball league, but again, I am sure this is not the caliber of answer for which people would be looking. Obviously I need to save puppies/babies/senior citizens from a fire…all while having a broken leg. I guess I could refer to this very blog as some sort of great accomplishment but I used some curse words once and stuff…so no.
Once again, I am obviously lacking in solid answers for the heroes question. I am not sure anyone looking to hire me based on a answer of “ninjas and James Polk”. I mean, ninjas are frickin awesome and James Polk is only a hero because I feel he was way underrated as a President, but it’s not like I really look up to these people. Wouldn’t they want to hear some answer more like “My grandfather, who saved a bunch of puppies/babies/ and senior citizens from a fire and also invented the lightbulb and telephone…and the computer.” So, if you want to be my hero (Enrique Iglesias?...was your song for me) just start doing some sort of heroic stuff that I would find awesome then I can mention this hero…then again I have never really considered any sort of epic hero or anything like that. Oh well.
The other day I was reading an article about questions that are increasing in popularity during the job interview process. Two of them that really befuddle me are as follows:
1)What is your biggest accomplishment?
2) Who are your heroes?
The thing about the accomplishment question is, I am not really sure anything IS my biggest accomplishment thus far. I mean, I am sure graduating from college would be the easiest answer, but college was just sort of what I was supposed to do after high school, no questions asked. And if the interviewer came back with a question about if I was the first in my family to graduate or something, I would have to tell them no, and yet still somehow make it seem like it was so big awesome accomplishment that I was really proud of. On the other hand, who would want to hear about me being so proud of completing a nine and nine (a beer and a hot dog every inning of a baseball game)? I mean, it is a proud distinction of mine, but I am not sure how the rest of the world would perceive this. What else have I really done? I’ve come up with some funny nicknames and said some funny things on occasion as well as one year coming in first in both a fantasy football AND basketball league, but again, I am sure this is not the caliber of answer for which people would be looking. Obviously I need to save puppies/babies/senior citizens from a fire…all while having a broken leg. I guess I could refer to this very blog as some sort of great accomplishment but I used some curse words once and stuff…so no.
Once again, I am obviously lacking in solid answers for the heroes question. I am not sure anyone looking to hire me based on a answer of “ninjas and James Polk”. I mean, ninjas are frickin awesome and James Polk is only a hero because I feel he was way underrated as a President, but it’s not like I really look up to these people. Wouldn’t they want to hear some answer more like “My grandfather, who saved a bunch of puppies/babies/ and senior citizens from a fire and also invented the lightbulb and telephone…and the computer.” So, if you want to be my hero (Enrique Iglesias?...was your song for me) just start doing some sort of heroic stuff that I would find awesome then I can mention this hero…then again I have never really considered any sort of epic hero or anything like that. Oh well.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Yelling Makes Talking Fun!
While several grand ideas have passed through my mind this past week, such as “Commit a crime, go to prison, then you can lift weights and read books…you will be so strong and well read by the time you leave.” Then I remember all the butt sex and think that might be a bad idea, not to mention the criminal record. Additionally I have wondered about breaking into the world of infomercials. Ron Popeil is getting pretty old and someone new will need to spray fake hair on their head, show how to work a steamer or rotisserie machine, all the while excitedly slashing the price of what I was selling and throwing in a set knives (sorry no COD’S). But then I did a google search on how to become an infomercial dude, and nothing came up. Sad story but true. And it might be due in part to my somewhat faulty google searching technique. Not only that, but Paul was looking at all my past Google searches yesterday, and I have now realized I really search for some varying subjects.
Here are some of these totally wacky searches, and potentially I can provide some insight as to why I searched for these things…if I can’t provide that insight, maybe someone else can…like a highly trained psychologist.
“1993 Rockies Roster”
This seems simple enough, I for some reason wanted to know who was on the first Colorado Rockies team. I cannot remember all these things off the top of my head…I was in 4th grade at the time and all I could remember were Dante Bichette and Charlie Hayes being on that team…which is weird because I still cannot remember anyone else right now. Did they even have any pitchers?
“Animals that start with M”
This might go along with a later search I saw for “best scattergories answers”. What is very odd about this is the fact that this search was probably done while I was out in LA, and I can assure you I at no point played any Scattergories while out there. (I am not sure why I have to offer assurance as if I am claiming that I did not do meth while I was there). But, it is not a totally shabby idea to look for good Scattergories answers ahead of time…any advantage for victory helps.
“Get on a game show”
Simple, I want to get on a game show. Pretty much anyone…well Jeopardy would be ideal, but they seem to be frightened of the amount of money I could win, and are hoping I will go on a lesser game show, like any hosted by Chuck Woolery (still alive?)
“Liquor Stores by Barrington and San Vicente”
Ahhh yes, the era of my LA adventure when I did not have a car for a few weeks. I was probably being held at gunpoint by some alcohol fiend who wanted to know where to get liquor near my apartment…I was definitely not in need of such libations for myself, as drinking by yourself at home is wrong. Wrong like a fox.
“Superman Peeing”
Well, at my apartment in LA, I also had my own bathroom, and I was looking for a fine decorative piece to put up in the bathroom. I recall from my youth some friends of my parents who had an artistic rendition of Superman peeing very forcefully and breaking a toilet…I wanted one of those. I would like to think that people should be able to come into my living area when I am not there and get a general feel for who I am (save the situation right now with my mattress on the floor of a basement). A peeing Superman would do just that.
“Uses of the Semi Colon”
FRIDAY. NIGHT. FUN.
“Words like virus”
This was probably later on the same Friday night. Sad thing is, this might be true. And the even sadder thing is, I may have taken a trek to a liquor store before this (see aforementioned Google search) and this was all I was doing on a Friday evening. Who will ever know the truth?
On a more somber note, I would like everyone to Goulet their favorite rap song in honor of the recent passing of one of my personal favorites, Robert Goulet. Alright…so I really liked him because of Will Ferrells impersonation of him, but obviously without such a man actually existing, Will Ferrell is not acting like a gaudy caricature of him. (Once again, I am not so sure it was that over the top…Robert Goulet was a wild man). But anywho, be sure to Goulet some of your favorite rap, it’s what Robert would have wanted (No, what he really would have wanted is to be still alive I guess). As his SNL self said in his skit “Not by some dubious ruffian without the chops, but by a professionally trained voice man.”
Here are some of these totally wacky searches, and potentially I can provide some insight as to why I searched for these things…if I can’t provide that insight, maybe someone else can…like a highly trained psychologist.
“1993 Rockies Roster”
This seems simple enough, I for some reason wanted to know who was on the first Colorado Rockies team. I cannot remember all these things off the top of my head…I was in 4th grade at the time and all I could remember were Dante Bichette and Charlie Hayes being on that team…which is weird because I still cannot remember anyone else right now. Did they even have any pitchers?
“Animals that start with M”
This might go along with a later search I saw for “best scattergories answers”. What is very odd about this is the fact that this search was probably done while I was out in LA, and I can assure you I at no point played any Scattergories while out there. (I am not sure why I have to offer assurance as if I am claiming that I did not do meth while I was there). But, it is not a totally shabby idea to look for good Scattergories answers ahead of time…any advantage for victory helps.
“Get on a game show”
Simple, I want to get on a game show. Pretty much anyone…well Jeopardy would be ideal, but they seem to be frightened of the amount of money I could win, and are hoping I will go on a lesser game show, like any hosted by Chuck Woolery (still alive?)
“Liquor Stores by Barrington and San Vicente”
Ahhh yes, the era of my LA adventure when I did not have a car for a few weeks. I was probably being held at gunpoint by some alcohol fiend who wanted to know where to get liquor near my apartment…I was definitely not in need of such libations for myself, as drinking by yourself at home is wrong. Wrong like a fox.
“Superman Peeing”
Well, at my apartment in LA, I also had my own bathroom, and I was looking for a fine decorative piece to put up in the bathroom. I recall from my youth some friends of my parents who had an artistic rendition of Superman peeing very forcefully and breaking a toilet…I wanted one of those. I would like to think that people should be able to come into my living area when I am not there and get a general feel for who I am (save the situation right now with my mattress on the floor of a basement). A peeing Superman would do just that.
“Uses of the Semi Colon”
FRIDAY. NIGHT. FUN.
“Words like virus”
This was probably later on the same Friday night. Sad thing is, this might be true. And the even sadder thing is, I may have taken a trek to a liquor store before this (see aforementioned Google search) and this was all I was doing on a Friday evening. Who will ever know the truth?
On a more somber note, I would like everyone to Goulet their favorite rap song in honor of the recent passing of one of my personal favorites, Robert Goulet. Alright…so I really liked him because of Will Ferrells impersonation of him, but obviously without such a man actually existing, Will Ferrell is not acting like a gaudy caricature of him. (Once again, I am not so sure it was that over the top…Robert Goulet was a wild man). But anywho, be sure to Goulet some of your favorite rap, it’s what Robert would have wanted (No, what he really would have wanted is to be still alive I guess). As his SNL self said in his skit “Not by some dubious ruffian without the chops, but by a professionally trained voice man.”
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A Story is like skirts,long enough to cover the subject short enough to keep things interesting
The other day when I innocently enough logged in to Yahoo to check on some fantasy sports when this story headline caught my eye (and actually it was not even a headline, it was like the 7th story down...poor, poor man) "MAN KILLED BY GANG OF WILD MONKEYS".
Sorry MAN, but I chuckled my ass off at your demise. I cannot think of many more headlines about death that I could read on Yahoo and have such a fine chuckle and immeidately shout the headline out to everyone else within listening range. Paul even said that should he die in an attack perpetrated by a gang of wild monkeys, he wants everyone to enjoy a fine chuckle, a guffaw, maybe even a knee slap/crying from laughing humor in addition to bringing tiny stuffed monkeys and wearinf Hawaiian shirts at his funeral. I say, how could we not laugh it up? Just wrap your mind around it, GANG OF WILD MONKEYS. You see some monkeys walking down the street, throw up the wrong gang sign or wear the wrong color, and next thing you know, you're getting a Chiquita slammed down your throat.
So, here are some other funny ways to bite it:
Unclogging a Sink- I only mention this because the other night Logan and I were trying to unclog a sink and first used baking soda and vinegar along with some hot water. This did nothing so we then used some Draino. I mentioned "What if this blew us all up right now? It would probably look like some cult suicide with boht the state of this house and my bed haphazardly thrown on the floor in the next room."
Getting a Bean or Marble Stuck in your Nose
Trying to Float Away in a Chair with Balloons tied to it to float away
And Darwin Award favorite, farting in a room with not enough ventilation so that your own gas kills you.
Lately for some reason I have had an extreme problem with exaggeration, particularly when it is numerically related. A few weeks ago I declared that the Cubs were going to score 27 runs in one third of an inning. Obviously this did not happen. After Randy Moss caught his second TD of the first half last week and his 11th of the season, I quickly asked if he was going to catch 100. When someone asked for odds on the Rams to win the Super Bowl or something like that, I threw out 75,000,000-1. I have no clue what has gotten into me. I am just like one of those little kids who has no sense of how numbers actually work. What's two plus two? Threeve?
A couple weeks ago my Mom was kind enough to purchase me some new dress shoes. They are very stylish. But there is only one problem: they have spent the last couple weeks trying to MURDER my feet. I actually no longer have a left heel and only one toe remains on my right foot, so I guess it really takes care of all my shoes sizing problems. Am I supposed to oil these shoes up and put some string around them with a baseball in it? I am not sure. Instead I just keep wearing them, and being manly...at least until the gangrene from all the wounds sets in and becomes too much to bear.
THAT IS ALL. I have things to do. Like finding a life.
Sorry MAN, but I chuckled my ass off at your demise. I cannot think of many more headlines about death that I could read on Yahoo and have such a fine chuckle and immeidately shout the headline out to everyone else within listening range. Paul even said that should he die in an attack perpetrated by a gang of wild monkeys, he wants everyone to enjoy a fine chuckle, a guffaw, maybe even a knee slap/crying from laughing humor in addition to bringing tiny stuffed monkeys and wearinf Hawaiian shirts at his funeral. I say, how could we not laugh it up? Just wrap your mind around it, GANG OF WILD MONKEYS. You see some monkeys walking down the street, throw up the wrong gang sign or wear the wrong color, and next thing you know, you're getting a Chiquita slammed down your throat.
So, here are some other funny ways to bite it:
Unclogging a Sink- I only mention this because the other night Logan and I were trying to unclog a sink and first used baking soda and vinegar along with some hot water. This did nothing so we then used some Draino. I mentioned "What if this blew us all up right now? It would probably look like some cult suicide with boht the state of this house and my bed haphazardly thrown on the floor in the next room."
Getting a Bean or Marble Stuck in your Nose
Trying to Float Away in a Chair with Balloons tied to it to float away
And Darwin Award favorite, farting in a room with not enough ventilation so that your own gas kills you.
Lately for some reason I have had an extreme problem with exaggeration, particularly when it is numerically related. A few weeks ago I declared that the Cubs were going to score 27 runs in one third of an inning. Obviously this did not happen. After Randy Moss caught his second TD of the first half last week and his 11th of the season, I quickly asked if he was going to catch 100. When someone asked for odds on the Rams to win the Super Bowl or something like that, I threw out 75,000,000-1. I have no clue what has gotten into me. I am just like one of those little kids who has no sense of how numbers actually work. What's two plus two? Threeve?
A couple weeks ago my Mom was kind enough to purchase me some new dress shoes. They are very stylish. But there is only one problem: they have spent the last couple weeks trying to MURDER my feet. I actually no longer have a left heel and only one toe remains on my right foot, so I guess it really takes care of all my shoes sizing problems. Am I supposed to oil these shoes up and put some string around them with a baseball in it? I am not sure. Instead I just keep wearing them, and being manly...at least until the gangrene from all the wounds sets in and becomes too much to bear.
THAT IS ALL. I have things to do. Like finding a life.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Cow Sexy Time, Keg Races and Utah, Oh my
So, my jungle friends, I just recently wrapped up the second cross country journey in the last five months, but let me tell you- this one was a lot more fun. There were obviously a few reasons why this was more fun, namely that Brian was kind enough to fly out and make the journey back with me, but also I saw some cows boning by the side of the road. So, mainly those two reasons.
Brian arrived at LAX around 8:30 on Saturday night a week and a half ago. From there, we headed straight to Vegas. (Fill in crazy Vegas stories here...if you have read about any other Vegas excursions, this one was a lot of the same- excessive drinking, not excessive sleeping, funny moments, Brian having a lame beard that looked like he had meticulously glued armpit hair to his face, me having an awesome beard, hours in the pool, ladies being oddly attracted to my awesome beard and (so it seemed) laughing at Brian's armpit hair beard, etc.) On Tuesday morning, we left Vegas.
I was pretty sure I was going to die. Thankfully I did not, although it took several Gatorades, some food, and 7 shocks with the paddles to make it as such. To make matters worse, we planned a long day of driving for the day we left Vegas for a couple reasons: 1)we needed to start making some progress easterly and 2) That evil bitch of a state, Utah.
As I believe I commented on Utah before, there is nothing there. It is rock after rock after rock with no civilizations for hundreds of miles at a time. I believe Utah has scary people with the plague living in these rocks who ill try and eat you if you stop (sort of like Red Light, Green Light the mortality version). So, we drove and drove and drove..and drove and drove. So, not only is it boring, but it is quite expansive. After most of the Utah drive was over, Brian and I came up with a theory that all the states around Utah pretty much fucked them over. "Hey Utah, we'll give you a really geometric shape AND the Great Salt Lake" (snickers) Then Colorado took all the awesome mountains. California took a whole bunh of stuff, and Arizona took all the senior citizens. Everyone wins. Alo, while in Utah, Brian kept wanting to stop and become a polygamist. I'm not sure he really understood the whole idea.
After an intense day full of driving we ended up in Vail, CO crashing at the swankiest Holday Inn the world has ever known. Yet, even though we showed up at 11:30 at night, the room still cost way too much considering our purposes (get some sleep, listen with glasses through the walls to hear the neighbors, leer at anyone using the pool in the morning). Our original destination had been Denver for that night, but Utah really took a lot out of us. So, he next morning we set out for our intended destination of Lincoln, Nebraska with the plan to stop there, get a room downtown and go out and drink and watch the Cubs exciting day one action.
On the way to Lincoln, we got to see some unexpected cow sex action. Which is pretty funny to see. (And that morning before we left we had been watching some sort of animal funny videos show where they showed a kangaroo masturbating...I don't think many people can top that combo in one day).
It turns out Lincoln thinks they are some sort of vacation Mecca an downtown has the right to try and charge $169/night for a room with two beds (I almost boldly asked if there were some sort of unspoken extras thrown in while tugging on my right ear...okay, so I did, but the Nebraska folk did not pick up on that). So we ended up in some large ass room with a couch at a Days Inn down the road with a case of beer and some pizza watching the game. As far as the game went I would rather not talk about it. Just as I was going to drift off to sleep, Brian turned on the scary ass movie (and I know most of you don't think so, but I tend to be a huge pansy) Stir of Echoes. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I heard..did not even see...but heard some scary dialogue which caused my heart to race and ended up causing me to be awake until roughly 6:30am. I do not know why this happens to me.
Thankfully that day called for only a short day of driving to Iowa City, home of the University of Iowa. On the way there I was communicating with Trevor who reminded me he knew a girl who Brian and I had both met who went there. He furnished us with her number, we called her, and lo and behold, that evening we are fake pretending to be in the frat that was paired with her sorority for some keg races at a bar. The way these races work is that each team has a number and once the race starts it turns into the pi at Wall Street with everyone feverishly signaling their number and bartenders bringing them beer from said corresponding number. Brian and I, born for just such an event, shoved our way to the front and were chugging down beer after beer. The only problem was, we saw hardly any other people holding up "1's" and we lost. (Although my frat association did come in handy later in the bathroom when an angry man knocked a soap dispenser off the wall and looked at my hand to see that we were "brothers").
The next day it was back to Chicago, and once again back out to drink.
Saturday, back out for the Cubs game and back out to drink in the city that evening. It was on Saturday evening that I was dressed up in some of the oddest clothes I have ever worn, felt like a big fool, and nearly got mauled as if I were one of those guys from an Axe body spray commercial. The way my ensemble was thrown together is that we were over at Bryce's before going out, he had some clothes he was giving away, Brian and Paul threw together some crazy ensemble, and I may have had enough to drink during the Cubs game to wear it. But, like I said, this odd ensemble caused some sort of crazy animal magnetism, and a lot of fear on my end that I was going to get beat up in the mens bathroom. For your viewing dismay:
So, I will not be dresing like that again. I just felt too weird. Or I jut don't have any of those clothes myself.
So now, I am just doing the freaking out about being unemployed thing and working really hard to get a new job an not have to ask some sort of Mafia crime lord for money. So far, so good.
Brian arrived at LAX around 8:30 on Saturday night a week and a half ago. From there, we headed straight to Vegas. (Fill in crazy Vegas stories here...if you have read about any other Vegas excursions, this one was a lot of the same- excessive drinking, not excessive sleeping, funny moments, Brian having a lame beard that looked like he had meticulously glued armpit hair to his face, me having an awesome beard, hours in the pool, ladies being oddly attracted to my awesome beard and (so it seemed) laughing at Brian's armpit hair beard, etc.) On Tuesday morning, we left Vegas.
I was pretty sure I was going to die. Thankfully I did not, although it took several Gatorades, some food, and 7 shocks with the paddles to make it as such. To make matters worse, we planned a long day of driving for the day we left Vegas for a couple reasons: 1)we needed to start making some progress easterly and 2) That evil bitch of a state, Utah.
As I believe I commented on Utah before, there is nothing there. It is rock after rock after rock with no civilizations for hundreds of miles at a time. I believe Utah has scary people with the plague living in these rocks who ill try and eat you if you stop (sort of like Red Light, Green Light the mortality version). So, we drove and drove and drove..and drove and drove. So, not only is it boring, but it is quite expansive. After most of the Utah drive was over, Brian and I came up with a theory that all the states around Utah pretty much fucked them over. "Hey Utah, we'll give you a really geometric shape AND the Great Salt Lake" (snickers) Then Colorado took all the awesome mountains. California took a whole bunh of stuff, and Arizona took all the senior citizens. Everyone wins. Alo, while in Utah, Brian kept wanting to stop and become a polygamist. I'm not sure he really understood the whole idea.
After an intense day full of driving we ended up in Vail, CO crashing at the swankiest Holday Inn the world has ever known. Yet, even though we showed up at 11:30 at night, the room still cost way too much considering our purposes (get some sleep, listen with glasses through the walls to hear the neighbors, leer at anyone using the pool in the morning). Our original destination had been Denver for that night, but Utah really took a lot out of us. So, he next morning we set out for our intended destination of Lincoln, Nebraska with the plan to stop there, get a room downtown and go out and drink and watch the Cubs exciting day one action.
On the way to Lincoln, we got to see some unexpected cow sex action. Which is pretty funny to see. (And that morning before we left we had been watching some sort of animal funny videos show where they showed a kangaroo masturbating...I don't think many people can top that combo in one day).
It turns out Lincoln thinks they are some sort of vacation Mecca an downtown has the right to try and charge $169/night for a room with two beds (I almost boldly asked if there were some sort of unspoken extras thrown in while tugging on my right ear...okay, so I did, but the Nebraska folk did not pick up on that). So we ended up in some large ass room with a couch at a Days Inn down the road with a case of beer and some pizza watching the game. As far as the game went I would rather not talk about it. Just as I was going to drift off to sleep, Brian turned on the scary ass movie (and I know most of you don't think so, but I tend to be a huge pansy) Stir of Echoes. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I heard..did not even see...but heard some scary dialogue which caused my heart to race and ended up causing me to be awake until roughly 6:30am. I do not know why this happens to me.
Thankfully that day called for only a short day of driving to Iowa City, home of the University of Iowa. On the way there I was communicating with Trevor who reminded me he knew a girl who Brian and I had both met who went there. He furnished us with her number, we called her, and lo and behold, that evening we are fake pretending to be in the frat that was paired with her sorority for some keg races at a bar. The way these races work is that each team has a number and once the race starts it turns into the pi at Wall Street with everyone feverishly signaling their number and bartenders bringing them beer from said corresponding number. Brian and I, born for just such an event, shoved our way to the front and were chugging down beer after beer. The only problem was, we saw hardly any other people holding up "1's" and we lost. (Although my frat association did come in handy later in the bathroom when an angry man knocked a soap dispenser off the wall and looked at my hand to see that we were "brothers").
The next day it was back to Chicago, and once again back out to drink.
Saturday, back out for the Cubs game and back out to drink in the city that evening. It was on Saturday evening that I was dressed up in some of the oddest clothes I have ever worn, felt like a big fool, and nearly got mauled as if I were one of those guys from an Axe body spray commercial. The way my ensemble was thrown together is that we were over at Bryce's before going out, he had some clothes he was giving away, Brian and Paul threw together some crazy ensemble, and I may have had enough to drink during the Cubs game to wear it. But, like I said, this odd ensemble caused some sort of crazy animal magnetism, and a lot of fear on my end that I was going to get beat up in the mens bathroom. For your viewing dismay:
So, I will not be dresing like that again. I just felt too weird. Or I jut don't have any of those clothes myself.
So now, I am just doing the freaking out about being unemployed thing and working really hard to get a new job an not have to ask some sort of Mafia crime lord for money. So far, so good.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
"God, Tim, he's not Chuck Norris"
The above quote was spoken to me by Brian about Green Bay Packers QB Brett Favre. Brian had commented to me that Green Bay had no offensive line to protect Favre, and I replied by saying that he did not need one. And he is in fact not Chuck Norris, so therefore I guess a one man line is in order. But I swear to...ummm...a higher power when I say that I do not desire to watch any more highlights of Favre evading would be tacklers for about fifteen seconds then throwing a three foot underhanded shovel pass which is then turned into a three yard gain. THIS IS NOT A HIGHLIGHT. THIS IS THE KIND OF LAME STUFF THAT HAPPENS WHEN NON-PROFESSIONALS PLAY.
This past Sunday, I went to one of my favorite places in the world- the laundromat. It is a place, where first of all, I can do one of my least favorite things, which is laundry, in a minimal amount of time with an elevated amount of entertainment; great music, great people, occasional homeless altercations...wow. For instance this past Sunday I arrived at the metallic den of washers and dryers around 11am to hear the delightful melody of Rick James' Superfreak (and this particular laundromat, located in in freethinking Venice, plays the actual songs, not the elevator music). This was enough to get me pretty pumped up for the cleaning of my garments, but I got even more amped when I reached the Super Large Washer area and heard a man loudly making commentary on the song to no one in particular:
(After the line "the kind you don't take home to mother" had just played)
"Hear that? He was still livin at home when he wrote this song...Hey Mom, don't worry about this girl I'm bringin home. Then he sold a million copies and moved out, but whaddya know, three months later..'Hey Mom! I'm movin back in, I smoked all those crack rocks and I'm movin back in."
Wow. This was going to be a special laundry experience.
But then, the unexpected happened. My fellow launderers let me down in a big way, not once, not twice, but three times. Allow me to explain. Everytime I go to one of these locations, I secretly hope that a truly cinematic well-choreographed dance routine on top of washers, dryers and folding tables will suddenly erupt. For some reason this past Sunday I was even more hopeful than usual.
As I began folding my first load, I walked over to an empty folding table with my back to the room and heard what I thought to be a perfect song for everyone to bust out into dance- an old Michael Jackson favorite- "Pretty Young Thing". I could feel the smile creep onto my face as I slowly glanced back over my shoulder, ready to see the Mexican family to my right jump on top of the single load washers and start the room a dancin. Nevermind that none of us had ever met (although the Mexican family may have had some practice together) nor really had any dancing abilities, it would just be one of those magic moments when feet would know how to move, hands would know when to do a rhythmic jazz shake, and more capable men would be aware of when to toss around women back and forth across aisles. Alas, no one else seemed to notice and I reluctantly returned to folding my laundry, thinking that maybe this was just not the right song or the right moment.
No more than ten minutes later Prince's "When Doves Cry" came blaring over the sound system, seemingly louder than the past few songs, chiding everyone to grab any purple-tinted article they could grab and get ready for the dance and most memorable moment of their to this point feeble existences. I was thinking some low to the ground, walking forward in a flying V pattern snapping was in order. However, as I turned around to do so, I noticed only one other patron that may have been ready for this twinkle in time, but alas she was just using some very emphatic gestures for folding some garments.
I had to use the old noggin once again to think what had gone wrong. Catchy song? Check. Lots of people, having fun? Check. Purpley colored stuff around? I guess some people had some, so check. Appropriate things to jump around on and slide under for a good dance routine? Check. Maybe the songs were too old for this generally younger crowd, maybe the well choreographed top secret dance routine had happened before I got there, maybe I was just not reading the moment right...but I just had no clue.
Just as I was putting my laundry in my bag and ready to head home, I got that gleam in my eye once again when some Justin Timberlake song came on (true I did once announce I was upset with all the female singers playing on the radio presets only to discover that one of them was in fact Timberlake) and I was thinking....this is it...a trendy new song for this younger crowd...it's time to fuckin dance. And nothing. No one even flinched.
After I was asked to get down off the folding table and once I explained I was already on my way out, they still asked me not to come back. I think I know why: they knew they were only another visit or two from me away from turning into the trendiest laundromat in all of LA.
This past Sunday, I went to one of my favorite places in the world- the laundromat. It is a place, where first of all, I can do one of my least favorite things, which is laundry, in a minimal amount of time with an elevated amount of entertainment; great music, great people, occasional homeless altercations...wow. For instance this past Sunday I arrived at the metallic den of washers and dryers around 11am to hear the delightful melody of Rick James' Superfreak (and this particular laundromat, located in in freethinking Venice, plays the actual songs, not the elevator music). This was enough to get me pretty pumped up for the cleaning of my garments, but I got even more amped when I reached the Super Large Washer area and heard a man loudly making commentary on the song to no one in particular:
(After the line "the kind you don't take home to mother" had just played)
"Hear that? He was still livin at home when he wrote this song...Hey Mom, don't worry about this girl I'm bringin home. Then he sold a million copies and moved out, but whaddya know, three months later..'Hey Mom! I'm movin back in, I smoked all those crack rocks and I'm movin back in."
Wow. This was going to be a special laundry experience.
But then, the unexpected happened. My fellow launderers let me down in a big way, not once, not twice, but three times. Allow me to explain. Everytime I go to one of these locations, I secretly hope that a truly cinematic well-choreographed dance routine on top of washers, dryers and folding tables will suddenly erupt. For some reason this past Sunday I was even more hopeful than usual.
As I began folding my first load, I walked over to an empty folding table with my back to the room and heard what I thought to be a perfect song for everyone to bust out into dance- an old Michael Jackson favorite- "Pretty Young Thing". I could feel the smile creep onto my face as I slowly glanced back over my shoulder, ready to see the Mexican family to my right jump on top of the single load washers and start the room a dancin. Nevermind that none of us had ever met (although the Mexican family may have had some practice together) nor really had any dancing abilities, it would just be one of those magic moments when feet would know how to move, hands would know when to do a rhythmic jazz shake, and more capable men would be aware of when to toss around women back and forth across aisles. Alas, no one else seemed to notice and I reluctantly returned to folding my laundry, thinking that maybe this was just not the right song or the right moment.
No more than ten minutes later Prince's "When Doves Cry" came blaring over the sound system, seemingly louder than the past few songs, chiding everyone to grab any purple-tinted article they could grab and get ready for the dance and most memorable moment of their to this point feeble existences. I was thinking some low to the ground, walking forward in a flying V pattern snapping was in order. However, as I turned around to do so, I noticed only one other patron that may have been ready for this twinkle in time, but alas she was just using some very emphatic gestures for folding some garments.
I had to use the old noggin once again to think what had gone wrong. Catchy song? Check. Lots of people, having fun? Check. Purpley colored stuff around? I guess some people had some, so check. Appropriate things to jump around on and slide under for a good dance routine? Check. Maybe the songs were too old for this generally younger crowd, maybe the well choreographed top secret dance routine had happened before I got there, maybe I was just not reading the moment right...but I just had no clue.
Just as I was putting my laundry in my bag and ready to head home, I got that gleam in my eye once again when some Justin Timberlake song came on (true I did once announce I was upset with all the female singers playing on the radio presets only to discover that one of them was in fact Timberlake) and I was thinking....this is it...a trendy new song for this younger crowd...it's time to fuckin dance. And nothing. No one even flinched.
After I was asked to get down off the folding table and once I explained I was already on my way out, they still asked me not to come back. I think I know why: they knew they were only another visit or two from me away from turning into the trendiest laundromat in all of LA.
Friday, September 14, 2007
You Can't Imagine You Will be Listening to Beautiful Stranger
As today I sat on my lunch break, initially wondering why I had not purchased hardly enough food to last me through five days of the week (and at that, I bought some really shitty stuff...I must have been really out of it on Monday when I went to the store), and secondly wondering how likely it would be that I would be at a Subway, in Los Angeles, on my lunch break, listening to Beautiful Stranger by Madonna...I decided it would have been highly unlikely for me to be in such a position. First of all, when I eat Subway, normally I do not choose the dine in option, as when you do this you typically run into: a)a slew of people trying to lose weight but eating two footlong chicken and bacon ranches and leaving you to wonder why they also got the chips and the cola that would satiate a whole village and b)homeless people being fed the low grade meat. Secondly, the weather in LA, while one of the factors that is freaking me out about this place, as I have decided I love seasonality, is always beautiful, and the outdoor seating areas are lovely outside this particular Subway. Thirdly, the homeless seem to always be getting free sandwiches at Subway, which, while I have no problem with that, tends to hurt my appetite a little. So, yes, a different experience.
While walking to the bathroom the other day at work ( I work in a 24 floor large office building), I noted a grizzly old janitor man. I decided janitors who are in the profession after the age of 50 have three primary jobs, and in this order:
1)Have an awesome mustache.
2)Be grizzled, stare angrily ahead.
3) Leer at women.
The mustache part is by far the most important. Sure you can be angry as you are seemingly a professional janitor, but you know they are spending hours at night at home grooming their mustache, which is most admirable. I would love to have a job where I could steam around angrily, leer at women and be extremely grizzled. I mean, think about it, sure you have to occasionally clean overflown toilets and such, but you have permission to have an awesome stache, seem super angry, and stare at attractive women, it is totally expected.
OJ Simpson was included as a suspect in some sort of Las Vegas sports memorabilia heist today, and it only made me thing one thing: I want to be a suspect. Why only suspect the crazy former NFLer who was suspected of murdering a few people? Do you know what joy it would give me at work or to be watching ESPN and see my name scroll across the bottom line: OJ SIMPSON, SEPERATELY TIM RADWAY SUSPECTED OF HOTEL ROOM BREAK-IN... I would be so proud to round up alibis and know exactly what was up. It would make my life so very exciting.
That is all I have for now. And shut up, what have you done for me lately?
While walking to the bathroom the other day at work ( I work in a 24 floor large office building), I noted a grizzly old janitor man. I decided janitors who are in the profession after the age of 50 have three primary jobs, and in this order:
1)Have an awesome mustache.
2)Be grizzled, stare angrily ahead.
3) Leer at women.
The mustache part is by far the most important. Sure you can be angry as you are seemingly a professional janitor, but you know they are spending hours at night at home grooming their mustache, which is most admirable. I would love to have a job where I could steam around angrily, leer at women and be extremely grizzled. I mean, think about it, sure you have to occasionally clean overflown toilets and such, but you have permission to have an awesome stache, seem super angry, and stare at attractive women, it is totally expected.
OJ Simpson was included as a suspect in some sort of Las Vegas sports memorabilia heist today, and it only made me thing one thing: I want to be a suspect. Why only suspect the crazy former NFLer who was suspected of murdering a few people? Do you know what joy it would give me at work or to be watching ESPN and see my name scroll across the bottom line: OJ SIMPSON, SEPERATELY TIM RADWAY SUSPECTED OF HOTEL ROOM BREAK-IN... I would be so proud to round up alibis and know exactly what was up. It would make my life so very exciting.
That is all I have for now. And shut up, what have you done for me lately?
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Hopefully No Bipolar People Are Using Hotmail Anymore
Hotmail.com, my longtime personal e-mail provider (man, the structure of that sentence was way off, making it sound as if hotmail.com is a site designed specifically for the intent of use by one Timothy C. Radway ((or as Citibank knows me, Timothy R. Radway…I got into an argument with them about my middle initial…they insisted they were right. Some customer support people are just a little off)), which would be nice for a website to be so dedicated, but it is not really the case) has recently began making changes to their appearance, trying to become more sleek and less like the “even homeless men who round up quarters to use the internet at the library to look at porn can have a hotmail account” that they always have been. One of the interesting new features is that, if you login frequently or have your e-mail address set to be remembered by the site (or as far as I know, there are people in India who remember it and type it in for you),all you have to do is type in your password. BUT, if you are not that e-mail address, rather than something saying “Change e-mail address” there is a small bar you can click on under the remembered address that just says “Forget me”. I, for some reason think this is a tad weird, and for the Wellbutrin taking crowd, I am sure that could not be some sort of upper to see this everytime they check their e-mail…but what do I know?
As I sat in the LAX airport today, waiting to board my plane back to Chicago for my friend Adam’s wedding, I did what I do best: creepily observed people without them knowing…alright, so that one girl noticed my frequent observation, and I am pretty sire she smiled before she walked away really fast, so there is that. But anyways, I love watching people that think and seem to act like they are on a remote island by themselves. (But as John Donne told us “No man is an island…except for people who have to buy two seats on airplanes…they are islands, and typically quite buoyant”) So, here are some of my casual, asinine, non sociological observations.
There are all sorts of different types of eaters and chewers around. This is where it really helps people to think they are alone, as well as evidently invisible, as their eating habits cannot possibly be the same when they are dining with others. Anyways, of the types of chewers I noticed, there are a few, and even one that looks sort of like a dinosaur.
a)The ripper- This person seems to have teeth with the sharpness and chewing ability of a spoon. They have to clamp down on their food (in the case of the ripper I was observing, the food culprit/victim was pizza and an apple…whoa was the apple an intriguing view) then turn their head back and forth several times to rip off a portion to then slowly allow the saliva in their mouth to dissolve for them to swallow. It is very odd to watch and makes me wonder. The only time most people turn to ripping is with a crusty loaf or something like that, not for every food.
3) The big mouth- This person, not to be confused with the small bite/quick chewer, evidently desires to eat their meal in approximately 2…well, to 2 bites. The man I observed using this tasteful tactic was eating a rather large sandwich, and after each bite he had the cheek filled appearance of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter, or a pelican looking all pelican like.
qIV) The dinosaur- This person watches a lot of tapes and animations of brachiosauruses and their eating technique, and imitates it to a T. Modern animals similar in fashion are cows and really old people and monkeys. This person is at the very least deliberate in their eating. Maybe they only have gums, I don’t know.
1712) The talker- I am not entirely sure how this person ever actually consumes any food. I noted three of these people. They had entire servings of meals in front of them and spent an entire 45 minutes to an hour talking either to; an uninterested person next to them, some bored work associate on their cell phone, or to the maintenance staff of the airport (I think this may have just been a maintenance man carrying around a pizza though). All I can say is, weird.
WAXY) The small bite/quick chewer- As I referenced before, this person takes very small bites, masticates thoroughly, and swallows and choking on their food is never a danger. The only downside to this eating style is that it is time consuming and sort of gross to watch…it’s like watching a fat man lotion his back. Just go with me on my analogies.
The other interesting and slightly funny/irritating thing to me is the way people will begin sitting or standing in the boarding area long before it is actually time to board. The comical thing about this is: have these people never been on an airplane? Much less a Southwest flight…what is the rush? Do you know of some ultra secret seating area that is better than all the other tiny rows with all the same chance of sitting next to someone with body odor/ bad stories/ a little “extra” for you in your seat/the armrest hog? Weirdos. I usually end up smugly waiting until everyone else is on the plane…at least I maximize my time spent sitting down…good practice for the unfortunate paralysis that will end up plaguing me unexpectedly (of course it will be psychosomatic…Ricky Bobby style)
WORD UP.
As I sat in the LAX airport today, waiting to board my plane back to Chicago for my friend Adam’s wedding, I did what I do best: creepily observed people without them knowing…alright, so that one girl noticed my frequent observation, and I am pretty sire she smiled before she walked away really fast, so there is that. But anyways, I love watching people that think and seem to act like they are on a remote island by themselves. (But as John Donne told us “No man is an island…except for people who have to buy two seats on airplanes…they are islands, and typically quite buoyant”) So, here are some of my casual, asinine, non sociological observations.
There are all sorts of different types of eaters and chewers around. This is where it really helps people to think they are alone, as well as evidently invisible, as their eating habits cannot possibly be the same when they are dining with others. Anyways, of the types of chewers I noticed, there are a few, and even one that looks sort of like a dinosaur.
a)The ripper- This person seems to have teeth with the sharpness and chewing ability of a spoon. They have to clamp down on their food (in the case of the ripper I was observing, the food culprit/victim was pizza and an apple…whoa was the apple an intriguing view) then turn their head back and forth several times to rip off a portion to then slowly allow the saliva in their mouth to dissolve for them to swallow. It is very odd to watch and makes me wonder. The only time most people turn to ripping is with a crusty loaf or something like that, not for every food.
3) The big mouth- This person, not to be confused with the small bite/quick chewer, evidently desires to eat their meal in approximately 2…well, to 2 bites. The man I observed using this tasteful tactic was eating a rather large sandwich, and after each bite he had the cheek filled appearance of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter, or a pelican looking all pelican like.
qIV) The dinosaur- This person watches a lot of tapes and animations of brachiosauruses and their eating technique, and imitates it to a T. Modern animals similar in fashion are cows and really old people and monkeys. This person is at the very least deliberate in their eating. Maybe they only have gums, I don’t know.
1712) The talker- I am not entirely sure how this person ever actually consumes any food. I noted three of these people. They had entire servings of meals in front of them and spent an entire 45 minutes to an hour talking either to; an uninterested person next to them, some bored work associate on their cell phone, or to the maintenance staff of the airport (I think this may have just been a maintenance man carrying around a pizza though). All I can say is, weird.
WAXY) The small bite/quick chewer- As I referenced before, this person takes very small bites, masticates thoroughly, and swallows and choking on their food is never a danger. The only downside to this eating style is that it is time consuming and sort of gross to watch…it’s like watching a fat man lotion his back. Just go with me on my analogies.
The other interesting and slightly funny/irritating thing to me is the way people will begin sitting or standing in the boarding area long before it is actually time to board. The comical thing about this is: have these people never been on an airplane? Much less a Southwest flight…what is the rush? Do you know of some ultra secret seating area that is better than all the other tiny rows with all the same chance of sitting next to someone with body odor/ bad stories/ a little “extra” for you in your seat/the armrest hog? Weirdos. I usually end up smugly waiting until everyone else is on the plane…at least I maximize my time spent sitting down…good practice for the unfortunate paralysis that will end up plaguing me unexpectedly (of course it will be psychosomatic…Ricky Bobby style)
WORD UP.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Labor Day is a day off....weird
I really have no clue how Labor Day came about, nor will I spend the time to go read a Wikipedia entry about it (especially as I have had very...let's just call them skeptical opinions of the last few wikipedia entries I have referenced...I have a feeling that Bulgaria has very little to do in actuality with the world of puppetry...) but I can say it is very odd to have Labor Day be a holiday and day off work. Why on all actual days of Labor do we work, and then on the one specificall called Labor Day, no onbe works (except for prostitutes waiting to prey on unsuspecting politicians on their way back from a 3 Smirnoff Ice too many Laboir Day BBQ. Even though I personally think 3 Smirnoff Ice are too many. But yeah, hookers are still out, I've heard at least).
This weekend I have been in the northern California area with Eliot and hanging out with former 742 housemate Derek. It definitely felt like a little slice of 742 on Saturday when we headed over to Derek's in the mid afternoon with a case of beer and a bottle of Jack, began playing Guitar Hero, and then...oops...suddenly it was midnight and so much liquor had been consumed that I am not even sure where it had all gone, nor why we were doing such random things like watching a car chase scene from the 1968 movie Bullitt. So yeah, one of those nights.
On the drive up here, we happened to stop in a very small town called Buttonwillow, (Beware the seedy underbelly of Buttonwillow) which led to me wondering about certain compund words which would sound funny and be memorable no matter what. Here are some rules I thought of:
-Button + Pretty much any other word is going to be a memorable town name. It all really just depends on how friendly you want your town to come across. Buttonwillow...friendly. Buttontail...friendly...Buttonmurder, not so kind, but tell me you are forgetting that pit stop...
-Pairing two words that you would never think to see together: Kindfraud, Eviltickle, Trustworthybelgian . You get the idea. In fact, stay away from Trustworthybelgian this time of year...the weather there is awful.
-Pairing together words that are funny by themselves= double funny. Weinerballs, Schlongtaco. Okay, maybe this is only funny to pubescent teenage boys to men the age of 60. But that is a key demographic group.
Well, to my utter dismay, I have nothing to say. Except for the stuff I already said.
This weekend I have been in the northern California area with Eliot and hanging out with former 742 housemate Derek. It definitely felt like a little slice of 742 on Saturday when we headed over to Derek's in the mid afternoon with a case of beer and a bottle of Jack, began playing Guitar Hero, and then...oops...suddenly it was midnight and so much liquor had been consumed that I am not even sure where it had all gone, nor why we were doing such random things like watching a car chase scene from the 1968 movie Bullitt. So yeah, one of those nights.
On the drive up here, we happened to stop in a very small town called Buttonwillow, (Beware the seedy underbelly of Buttonwillow) which led to me wondering about certain compund words which would sound funny and be memorable no matter what. Here are some rules I thought of:
-Button + Pretty much any other word is going to be a memorable town name. It all really just depends on how friendly you want your town to come across. Buttonwillow...friendly. Buttontail...friendly...Buttonmurder, not so kind, but tell me you are forgetting that pit stop...
-Pairing two words that you would never think to see together: Kindfraud, Eviltickle, Trustworthybelgian . You get the idea. In fact, stay away from Trustworthybelgian this time of year...the weather there is awful.
-Pairing together words that are funny by themselves= double funny. Weinerballs, Schlongtaco. Okay, maybe this is only funny to pubescent teenage boys to men the age of 60. But that is a key demographic group.
Well, to my utter dismay, I have nothing to say. Except for the stuff I already said.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
I've never been the sort to pat myself on the back, but that was before I had a piece of steak lodged in my windpipe
It seems to me that recently, everything I have read by anyone, both those in the literary world, and those "veterans" who write things on cardboard (typically expressing their desires for food and board, and ability to perform menial tasks for money, and that they should be allowed to do so due to their current homeless and war served experience, and that none of those who would invite such a person into their home should be the least bit concerned about a)the smell b)the threat of crime or b)the army of fleas prepared to get to work as well ((of course that last part is implied, it would be ridiculous to fit it all on one piece of cardboard))) and stand by the side of the road, has been about songs that have shaped their lives. Those who are the literary type list songs and write paragraphs about what those songs mean. The cardboard wielding homeless might scrawl a song title on their cardboard (such as "Penbull (sic) Wizard"...and yes I saw someone who wrote that on their sign...I have no clue why) or simply hum an inspirational tune like "Baby Got Back" as they walk past your car. Either way, it has inspired me to write some song about the music that impacts my life.
Song That I For Some Reason Chose to Let People Equate me With as a Freshmen in College- Ludacris "Southern Hospitality"
I guess since I had moved up to Chicago from Louisville for school, I really wanted to embrace that I was in fact, southern, while at the same time trying to demonstrate that I was not all that southern. Confusing line to walk...yes, I wear shoes, no I am not double related to any family members, yes I am kind and hospitable like a Southern gentlemen. Anywho, anytime I would be partying and this song would come on, I would undoubtedly begin "throwing my bows" about as the song instructed and acting like the song was being played solely for me since I was from the south, and not because the song was popular at the time. I would even at times imagine people were yelling my name at the time, and they may have been, but it was probably more out of fear of my flying elbows.
Song I Can Karaoke no Matter How Much I Have Had to Drink- Bobby Darin "Mack the Knife"
Alright, so if I have had a lot lot to drink, you might notice I sing a tad slower or it takes me a moment longer to get on beat with the words, but still, it is a very passable version of the song that I perform. Once, on a Wednesday night at Doc's I think I even heard clapping coming from someone who I did not know and who was not a drunken old man. That said, I was on top of the world and had drunken thoughts about releasing an album that night, but after speaking to a homeless man decided I should stay in school (I had forgotten I was out of school at that point, and his argument was so convincing, I agreed with it). But, I'm just saying, have a karaoke machine with this song on it, and I will belt it out for you.
Song That for Some Reason Makes me able to Finish Games of Beer Pong- Lil Flip "Game Over"
My personal beer pong abilities have often been maligned and many have said that I often succeeded merely by playing with Trevor (how we doubled up so many times with me being so supposedly awful I will never know). It is true, I had my share of yips, games where I would throw the ball three feet to the left of the table, and games where the main skill I brought was taunting. But for some reason, when the game would come down to one or two cups left, I could turn on this Lil Flip ballad and suddenly make a cup, at the point when the drunkenness and dwindling number of cups makes this game that much more difficult. It was weird. Scientists will later find that the sound waves in this song encourage tiny ping pong balls to go into cups. I will feel stupid.
Other Songs I Can Sing- "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole and "A Whole New World" by ummmm Aladdin and Jasmin
Just sayin. I can belt out these mofos too. Who knows why.
Of course there are many other songs which have had an impact on my life and which I have tiny stories about, but those tales will have to wait until I too have my own roadside real estate and fine piece of blank cardboard.
Due to my fine time in LA, I have become intensely introspective and I have decided there are a few things that just do not work as well when sitting around by myself:
1)Discussions
They end quickly and I generally avoid arguing with myself. I am always right, which only boosts up my already (according to some girl at a bar the other day) "too high ego" . Yes, I really was told my ego was too high, just for saying hello to a girl at a bar and smiling at her. I had done nothing to demonstrate a "big ego". Weirdo. But anyways, discussions lose that whole extremely underrated second dimension when you are talking to yourself.
2) Witty Barbs
It is really tough to wittily mock those not present based on nothing. Which I think makes it even worse when I am actually around people, like at work, or when hanging out with those I hang out with out here. Which probably makes me seem about as funny as Carrot Top. (Okay still probably funnier than him, but way too focused on the witty barb).
3) Saying the exact same thing a sportscaster will say before they say it
I still do this a lot when alone, but I am far less impressed by my own mad $kill$ since I know what I'm working with. I in fact impressed a man at a local sports bar who was sitting next to me watching the Cubs/Mets game with my ability to precede the talented Joe Morgan in saying the same things he would say. Depending on the color guy, this takes adjustments to the intellect involved (eg Tim McCarver says only dumb shit. John Madden makes it obvious. Bob Brenly seems intent on pointing out that he is dressed weather appropriate that day (("I'm wearing my WGN polo today" or "We've got on the long sleeved polo today")) and the ever brilliant Ron Santo...well, no one can keep up with him) to match up to what they are going to say. But I can do it.
HOLLA
Song That I For Some Reason Chose to Let People Equate me With as a Freshmen in College- Ludacris "Southern Hospitality"
I guess since I had moved up to Chicago from Louisville for school, I really wanted to embrace that I was in fact, southern, while at the same time trying to demonstrate that I was not all that southern. Confusing line to walk...yes, I wear shoes, no I am not double related to any family members, yes I am kind and hospitable like a Southern gentlemen. Anywho, anytime I would be partying and this song would come on, I would undoubtedly begin "throwing my bows" about as the song instructed and acting like the song was being played solely for me since I was from the south, and not because the song was popular at the time. I would even at times imagine people were yelling my name at the time, and they may have been, but it was probably more out of fear of my flying elbows.
Song I Can Karaoke no Matter How Much I Have Had to Drink- Bobby Darin "Mack the Knife"
Alright, so if I have had a lot lot to drink, you might notice I sing a tad slower or it takes me a moment longer to get on beat with the words, but still, it is a very passable version of the song that I perform. Once, on a Wednesday night at Doc's I think I even heard clapping coming from someone who I did not know and who was not a drunken old man. That said, I was on top of the world and had drunken thoughts about releasing an album that night, but after speaking to a homeless man decided I should stay in school (I had forgotten I was out of school at that point, and his argument was so convincing, I agreed with it). But, I'm just saying, have a karaoke machine with this song on it, and I will belt it out for you.
Song That for Some Reason Makes me able to Finish Games of Beer Pong- Lil Flip "Game Over"
My personal beer pong abilities have often been maligned and many have said that I often succeeded merely by playing with Trevor (how we doubled up so many times with me being so supposedly awful I will never know). It is true, I had my share of yips, games where I would throw the ball three feet to the left of the table, and games where the main skill I brought was taunting. But for some reason, when the game would come down to one or two cups left, I could turn on this Lil Flip ballad and suddenly make a cup, at the point when the drunkenness and dwindling number of cups makes this game that much more difficult. It was weird. Scientists will later find that the sound waves in this song encourage tiny ping pong balls to go into cups. I will feel stupid.
Other Songs I Can Sing- "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole and "A Whole New World" by ummmm Aladdin and Jasmin
Just sayin. I can belt out these mofos too. Who knows why.
Of course there are many other songs which have had an impact on my life and which I have tiny stories about, but those tales will have to wait until I too have my own roadside real estate and fine piece of blank cardboard.
Due to my fine time in LA, I have become intensely introspective and I have decided there are a few things that just do not work as well when sitting around by myself:
1)Discussions
They end quickly and I generally avoid arguing with myself. I am always right, which only boosts up my already (according to some girl at a bar the other day) "too high ego" . Yes, I really was told my ego was too high, just for saying hello to a girl at a bar and smiling at her. I had done nothing to demonstrate a "big ego". Weirdo. But anyways, discussions lose that whole extremely underrated second dimension when you are talking to yourself.
2) Witty Barbs
It is really tough to wittily mock those not present based on nothing. Which I think makes it even worse when I am actually around people, like at work, or when hanging out with those I hang out with out here. Which probably makes me seem about as funny as Carrot Top. (Okay still probably funnier than him, but way too focused on the witty barb).
3) Saying the exact same thing a sportscaster will say before they say it
I still do this a lot when alone, but I am far less impressed by my own mad $kill$ since I know what I'm working with. I in fact impressed a man at a local sports bar who was sitting next to me watching the Cubs/Mets game with my ability to precede the talented Joe Morgan in saying the same things he would say. Depending on the color guy, this takes adjustments to the intellect involved (eg Tim McCarver says only dumb shit. John Madden makes it obvious. Bob Brenly seems intent on pointing out that he is dressed weather appropriate that day (("I'm wearing my WGN polo today" or "We've got on the long sleeved polo today")) and the ever brilliant Ron Santo...well, no one can keep up with him) to match up to what they are going to say. But I can do it.
HOLLA
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Ahhh... the whimsy of Hollywood
The creative license given to the writers and directors of motion picture is definitely one of the most giving in all of the creative realm that deals somewhat in reality. I'm not talkin Lord of the Rings type stuff which has no basis in reality, or any other sci fi film or anything with a loose idea of reality...I'm talking films with normal people in "normal" situations. For instance I woke up this morning and on my TV a quaint little film roped me in (or I could not find the remote within the reach of my arm and withouot me moving), John Tucker Must Die. Alright, so only Trevor would actually ever watch this movie on purpose, but the basic premise is all these girls feel used by this John Tucker guy and use another girl to try and hurt him...so normal people, semi normal crap going on, and of course the movie ends in a cake fight. I have been around 24 plus years and yet has any situation in my life led to a whimsical cake fight with beautiful women who I once wooed. And as the viewer, we totally accept this as an ending to a movie., especially since we (or at the very least I) do not love ultra snarky realism like that seen in Sideways. So, cake fight, four beautiful women?
The other night I was walking through a parking lot, probably 45 feet behind a car which was desiring to reverse out of its spot and leave. It did eventually back up, then drove behind me, but about 20 feet to my right until the driver of the car determined I was not going to a) suddenly dart 20 feet to my right, and get hit by their car and b)develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed to do so so that they would have no time to react. First of all, cars are not sneaky. Secondly, I was aware that the car was there and left more than adequate space for it to drive right past me. I can only imagine the conversation going on in the car between husband and wife driver and passenger:
WIFE: Watch out for that very attractive younger man.
HUSBAND: I know honey, man he is good looking. But ever since we got that work done at the body shop to make our Nissan Sentra stealth, I always just wait for pedestrians to be out of sight and safe less I hit them or they develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed and dart out in front of me such that I cannot control the car in time and strike them.
WIFE: You are half the man he is anyways. You could hit him and he would unflinchingly get up, open your door and pummel you with his fists, not so much out of rage, but out of a correct reaction to the situation. Then I would go home with him.
HUSBAND: Good call, I'll slowly follow behind him for the next 100 yards so we don't hit him. You should go with him anyways.
WIFE: Not this time honey.
HUSBAND: Thanks.
At the beach today, I noted some dudes wearing flippers to swim out in the ocean and my mind, being just as whimsical as a cake fight to end a messy life situation had this hilarious thought:
What if the flipper was not the first piece of equipment early inventors made in an attempt to mimic aquatic creatures? What if it was, say, a dorsal fin? Can you imagine people strapping some sort of fin to themseleves, not in an attempt to look like a shark, but rather to try and help them swim? It would be ridiculous. Then the next invention someone tried was the moving tail. Then flippers finally came along and helped out. YAHTZEE.
As I continue toiling away at work and working on writing some sort of lengthy crap that will have up to 18 haikus within, and search for improv groups out here I can't help but think of how totally dreameriffic this current life is, which is not bad as I am totally getting it out of my system, and hopefully making the rest of my life into non work because I sit around watching you tube videos, eating celery (a negative caloric food) and writing stuff with the signature ending of a cake fight (sorry John Tucker writers, I see a gimmick I like, and I steal it), whether book, screenplay, or haiku:
The cloud floats by her
Wondering where to go now
Signature cake fight
But I also think sometimes, no matter how lame this sounds, that I would like to go back to school and get some letters after my name and learn something cool and then get a cool job. And be awesome like that. And keep writing as an active hobby, both to appease all those killed by the Winchester rifle (bizarre historical reference) and to make people laugh. And the best thing is, I know all along I can do whatever the hell I want.
CAKE FIGHT ENSUES.
The other night I was walking through a parking lot, probably 45 feet behind a car which was desiring to reverse out of its spot and leave. It did eventually back up, then drove behind me, but about 20 feet to my right until the driver of the car determined I was not going to a) suddenly dart 20 feet to my right, and get hit by their car and b)develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed to do so so that they would have no time to react. First of all, cars are not sneaky. Secondly, I was aware that the car was there and left more than adequate space for it to drive right past me. I can only imagine the conversation going on in the car between husband and wife driver and passenger:
WIFE: Watch out for that very attractive younger man.
HUSBAND: I know honey, man he is good looking. But ever since we got that work done at the body shop to make our Nissan Sentra stealth, I always just wait for pedestrians to be out of sight and safe less I hit them or they develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed and dart out in front of me such that I cannot control the car in time and strike them.
WIFE: You are half the man he is anyways. You could hit him and he would unflinchingly get up, open your door and pummel you with his fists, not so much out of rage, but out of a correct reaction to the situation. Then I would go home with him.
HUSBAND: Good call, I'll slowly follow behind him for the next 100 yards so we don't hit him. You should go with him anyways.
WIFE: Not this time honey.
HUSBAND: Thanks.
At the beach today, I noted some dudes wearing flippers to swim out in the ocean and my mind, being just as whimsical as a cake fight to end a messy life situation had this hilarious thought:
What if the flipper was not the first piece of equipment early inventors made in an attempt to mimic aquatic creatures? What if it was, say, a dorsal fin? Can you imagine people strapping some sort of fin to themseleves, not in an attempt to look like a shark, but rather to try and help them swim? It would be ridiculous. Then the next invention someone tried was the moving tail. Then flippers finally came along and helped out. YAHTZEE.
As I continue toiling away at work and working on writing some sort of lengthy crap that will have up to 18 haikus within, and search for improv groups out here I can't help but think of how totally dreameriffic this current life is, which is not bad as I am totally getting it out of my system, and hopefully making the rest of my life into non work because I sit around watching you tube videos, eating celery (a negative caloric food) and writing stuff with the signature ending of a cake fight (sorry John Tucker writers, I see a gimmick I like, and I steal it), whether book, screenplay, or haiku:
The cloud floats by her
Wondering where to go now
Signature cake fight
But I also think sometimes, no matter how lame this sounds, that I would like to go back to school and get some letters after my name and learn something cool and then get a cool job. And be awesome like that. And keep writing as an active hobby, both to appease all those killed by the Winchester rifle (bizarre historical reference) and to make people laugh. And the best thing is, I know all along I can do whatever the hell I want.
CAKE FIGHT ENSUES.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
"If this comedy thing doesn't work out, do you have a plan B?....Hell no...my plans are numbered"
That quote is from my favorite standup comic, Demetri Martin. If you have not heard any of his stuff, google him, or look it up on youtube or something, because you might giggle, guffaw, chuckle, cackle, or make that creepy silent wheezing noise you make when you laugh (you know who you are).
I am not sure if it is an effect of me spending much more time in pensive, humorous thought, or merely the effect of my increasing delusions and insanity (which, let's face it, will only make me seem more and more wacky over time. you thought I was out there before, you should see me now! sounds like a great slogan for an looney house) But, thanks in large part to the nearly full wall of mirrors I have that make up the closet doors in my room I spend a lot of time: making lots of faces into said mirror as well as looking at my face while I say odd things in a British accent. Like I said, I hope this is not a part of some sort of sick and twisted change to my personality, a personality which has been called "okay" , "could have a few less slurs" and "I would not kill him right away if stranded on an island with him...I could wait 17-20 minutes...sort of how I feel about going to a mediocre restaurant" . But the other day I actually found myself saying some odd thing that I am not even sure what it meant about "schnoogers and bonkers" and they evidently needed to get done. Needless to say, this cracked me up. Also needless to say, I had consumed ny new three beer limit which makes me feel a little goofy. The beer makes me feel goofy as well as the amount. Screw you.
As this whole Barry Bonds "Home Run King" (which unless he finds an actual crown to wear on that shiny large dome of his, I think the title should be rescinded and returned to Hank Aaron, assuming of course he wears a crown for the rest of his life and break off and forms his own nation) has gone on recently, the thing that has bothered me most, and I am surprised no one has mentioned this since articles have been written ranging from "Should Bonds Get an Asterisk?" "Barry Bonds: Modern Home Run Hero" "Barry Bonds Likes to Eat Sandwiches" "Bonds Only Drinks Orange Gatorade" and the OJ Simpson op ed "Bonds Did It! (not the home run thing, the killing stuff)" that the main thing of all this is that Barry Bonds is not in any video games. If you are the SF Giants in any game, there is a strangely awesome, often right handed, often white, often named Jon Dowd player who patrols left field and hits 4th for them. There is little to no excitement to being Jon Dowd. Being John Malkovich in a video game would even be more exciting. So Barry, why'd you do it? Why won't you be in a video game? Your squeaky voice is familiar to children, your large head is recognized worldwide, and you are evidently the leader of some sort of monarchy now. I say, be a king to your people and appear in some video games. What would Queen Victoria have done Barry? (I only say Queen Victoria because Barry has the most in common with her: high pitched voice...well, mainly that)
On early Thursday morning, at around 1am, I was awakened by my roommate Jessica, pounding on my door and screaming something about an earthquake. It was at this point that I realized, that in FACT everything WAS shaking in the room, not just the door. Initially though, the first thought in my mind was that Jessica, who had played some sort of musical gig earlier in the evening, was partying with a bunch of people and thought I should join in....but alas no, there was an earthquake. It was odd once I realized that was what it was...and it was pretty wild. No one else anywhere seemed to have any reaction as it was "ONLY a 4.2"...well sorry, I just wanted to jump under a desk and cover my neck, and then potentially get down with a little rioting...and maybe pee down the garbage chute in my building..but alas I will evidently have to wait for some larger earthquake, at which point actual calamity will ensue and I might have to try and stay alive rather than have fun with this. Damnit.
That is all, minions. (Click on those ads...I'll buy you something)
PS David Beckham is a bitch
I am not sure if it is an effect of me spending much more time in pensive, humorous thought, or merely the effect of my increasing delusions and insanity (which, let's face it, will only make me seem more and more wacky over time. you thought I was out there before, you should see me now! sounds like a great slogan for an looney house) But, thanks in large part to the nearly full wall of mirrors I have that make up the closet doors in my room I spend a lot of time: making lots of faces into said mirror as well as looking at my face while I say odd things in a British accent. Like I said, I hope this is not a part of some sort of sick and twisted change to my personality, a personality which has been called "okay" , "could have a few less slurs" and "I would not kill him right away if stranded on an island with him...I could wait 17-20 minutes...sort of how I feel about going to a mediocre restaurant" . But the other day I actually found myself saying some odd thing that I am not even sure what it meant about "schnoogers and bonkers" and they evidently needed to get done. Needless to say, this cracked me up. Also needless to say, I had consumed ny new three beer limit which makes me feel a little goofy. The beer makes me feel goofy as well as the amount. Screw you.
As this whole Barry Bonds "Home Run King" (which unless he finds an actual crown to wear on that shiny large dome of his, I think the title should be rescinded and returned to Hank Aaron, assuming of course he wears a crown for the rest of his life and break off and forms his own nation) has gone on recently, the thing that has bothered me most, and I am surprised no one has mentioned this since articles have been written ranging from "Should Bonds Get an Asterisk?" "Barry Bonds: Modern Home Run Hero" "Barry Bonds Likes to Eat Sandwiches" "Bonds Only Drinks Orange Gatorade" and the OJ Simpson op ed "Bonds Did It! (not the home run thing, the killing stuff)" that the main thing of all this is that Barry Bonds is not in any video games. If you are the SF Giants in any game, there is a strangely awesome, often right handed, often white, often named Jon Dowd player who patrols left field and hits 4th for them. There is little to no excitement to being Jon Dowd. Being John Malkovich in a video game would even be more exciting. So Barry, why'd you do it? Why won't you be in a video game? Your squeaky voice is familiar to children, your large head is recognized worldwide, and you are evidently the leader of some sort of monarchy now. I say, be a king to your people and appear in some video games. What would Queen Victoria have done Barry? (I only say Queen Victoria because Barry has the most in common with her: high pitched voice...well, mainly that)
On early Thursday morning, at around 1am, I was awakened by my roommate Jessica, pounding on my door and screaming something about an earthquake. It was at this point that I realized, that in FACT everything WAS shaking in the room, not just the door. Initially though, the first thought in my mind was that Jessica, who had played some sort of musical gig earlier in the evening, was partying with a bunch of people and thought I should join in....but alas no, there was an earthquake. It was odd once I realized that was what it was...and it was pretty wild. No one else anywhere seemed to have any reaction as it was "ONLY a 4.2"...well sorry, I just wanted to jump under a desk and cover my neck, and then potentially get down with a little rioting...and maybe pee down the garbage chute in my building..but alas I will evidently have to wait for some larger earthquake, at which point actual calamity will ensue and I might have to try and stay alive rather than have fun with this. Damnit.
That is all, minions. (Click on those ads...I'll buy you something)
PS David Beckham is a bitch
Monday, July 30, 2007
Vegas, Thank Citibank( and I should too)
Well, it seems yet another year has gone by and with that comes another trip to Vegas, another chance to look back and say, "Wow that was ridiculous," "Where are my pants?" "Whose pants are these?" (no literally, I seem to have packed someone's pants in my bag, although Paul described my packing style as "goblinlike" upon leaving, so I guess it is not a complete shock I ended up with someone's else's crap in my bag). So, with another Vegas trip comes another semi-half-demi-quasi awful recap of the events.
First some admissions on my part:
1)I was drunking most of the time. Drunking you see, is like drinking, except without all those pretenses of later on saying "Wow! How did I get so drunk?" When drunking, you know what's coming to you. And, as I remarked to Paul and Darrell on our epic journey right after my arrival (more on that later), "It's like I want to experience Vegas all at once...I want to be drunk, I want to be gambling, I want to inappropriately dine only on snack wraps...." Then I took in a real deep breath and choked on some gas fumes.
2) Everyone else was drunking too. So, the recounted stories were about as good as the ones you hear in the short term memory loss ward about what happened a few minutes ago. (Zing. Oh yes, zing)
3) Vegas ruins all sense of time. There are always people up and about, always people having fun, and even more strangely I am convinced both by the new skin tone I have and by seeing it at all times, the sun is literally always up.
So, I arrived in Vegas on Thursday evening after one of my more brilliant and lucky acting performances in a while. I had decided before work on Thursday that I would feign sickness early on in the day in an attempt to get sent home early. Also, in prep for calling in sick on Friday, I had done pretty much all of my Friday work, so I was not that bad of an employee. Anyways, upon arrival on Thursday, my boss asks me how I am doing and I reply, "Oh, not so hot...." and she tells me she too has an awful headache...which I then retort, "Oh, me too...it's like there's a vice on my head..." So, throughout the morning, I act lackadaisical, and eventually around one, get sent home. So, I rush home, grab my stuff, jump in my car (which in prep for the suite we had this year, and due to me driving, I had stocked with 96 beers and 4 handles of liquor), and speed off to Vegas.
I arrived, pulled into the parking garage of the MGM and, using the defective part of my brain, which I am sure would have made me an awful caveman, pulled into the furthest parking spot away. Seriously, the thing went up to Row Q, and I parkedin Row Q, applying zero effort to park any closer. I have noticed this other times too, like when going to a store or movie, I leave whatever venue I was in, and realize I have parked really far away. So, I call Brian's phone, which is answered by Darrell, find out where the room is and grab the box of liquor and begin the trek. And yes, it was a trek. Also, everyone staring at my box of liquor all must have been Vegas first timers....come on people, you do some drinking there no matter who you are.
I finally made it up to the room and it was everything I imagined it would be...well, pretty much like you would think a suite would be...two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room area, a bar, and even a decorative artifact and some fake plants. Once in the room I saw D, Brian and Paul were awakening from naps and Danny was there too. I enlisted Darrell and Paul to come with me to my car for the 96 beers. And thus it was an epic journey. The about Row Q was it did not seem so bad walking towards it, especially empty handed, but the seemingly half marathon journey back with pounds of beer in coolers was not as fun. I guess I should have thought about it.
Back in the room, everyone else began to roll in, and the drinking began....and before the 12 of us went out that night all 96 beers were gone and a good deal of the liquor gone too. It was like whoa. Or something. Then our large gentlemenly crew headed down to Studio 54, the club in the MGM. And by gentlemenly, I mean we kindly would approach any group of women and say something extremely friendly. It was like watching National Geographic specials at times, but sometimes I was not sure if it was more one of the mating specials or one of the hunting ones, or one of the weird ones about insects.
Personally, I stayed in Studio 54 for about 45 minutes as the whole club scene only works so much for me, and plus when I notice that during my attempts at "dancing" if I am either falling over or pulling someone over with me, it might be time to stop the dancing, and the guys that just stand around at these places not dancing are actually a tad creepy. So I made the incredibly wise decision to go gamble. (and I know many are thinking...NO...you were so drunk you doubted your standing abilities and now you want to go throw around money???) But that's just the odd thing, for some reason I am pretty okay at blackjack...probably all those days of my youth playing with Dad for pretzels...sure I never stop soon enough when I am up, but I always be able to win some money. So I throw down my $100 at the $10 a hand table and began playing. I have no real strategy except to win...and most of the time I just would play the $10 hand, but sometimes I would feel it was time and throw out some random, way too large amount, like $260...and win. It was incredible. At one point I was up $1300 on my $100....but then I kept playing and playing and losing and losing....but by the time the dealer shut down the table, I had made it back up to $500...so I got a fine $500 chip and went back up to the room. That was nice.
The next day we wake up, we all start drunking before going to the pool then eventually head down. I went to cash out my winnings and told everyone else I would meet them poolside. However, I wanted to win some more....and stopped and played a little more 21 and won $100 more...which I decided was adequate. Then, the pool. Some stuff happened, it was crazy, it was ridiculous, there was beer flowing readily, everyone who walked by was spoken too, and so much of an impact was made that by Saturday at 6am a girl saw Brian and me and said "You were at the pool," here voice dripping of disdain. We were confused, but whatever. I left the pool a little before everyone else to...yes....go gamble. Long story short, I cashed out about an hour later with $1,100 worth of chips, and walked back up to the room beaming, and once there obviously gloated about my $1,000 chip and let see it and stuff. As I had only put down $100 of my money the previous night, I was pretty happy.
This was the night that was actually dedicated to Adam's bachelor party which Brian had setup...and he did a pretty damn good job...a strech Hummer limo was to pick us up, take us to a strip club, then later take us to Rain (or Pure...I am not really sure...some one word named uber-trendy club) where we would get to walk right in, which is tough for any large group of men to do in a Vegas club.
So, in a moment of hindsight being even better than 20/20 for something I should not have done, I went and cashed in my chips before we left on this escapade. I remember being very giving at the strip club for all in the group...and then we went to Rain/Pure/Whatever, I disliked it off the bat, got lost trying to leave The Palms for about 45 minutes, and the next morning, I had $3. I do know for sure I did not go gamble, because even when drunk, you remember doing that because it requires some focus and usually takes up some large periods of time. I made it back up to the room, where security had to let Adam and me in since we did not have keycards and we had to verify some objects in the room before they let us in....here was what I said, "I have a blue adidas bag straight ahead from the door....and ....and a Christopher Walken t-shirt in it! Yeah...Christopher Walken!...." They verified and let us in.
The next morning I went to use my "temporary" ATM card Citibank had furnished me upon opening my account, but for some reason they still had not gotten me the actual one I needed, and I discovered that good old temporary card had expired. So, no big deal. I know those cash advances on credit cards are foolish, so I was done gambling. Drinking was not a problem since we had so much liquor in the room...but then everyone enjoyed a fine laugh at my expense...or some disbelief. How had I spent $1200 in one night....the best theory was that some lucky cab driver got a great tip for resuing me from the Palms. But, at the very least, I only really lost $100...and even paid Brian $200 towards the room costs...
So, Saturday was yet another day down at the pool, although on this day we spent much more time in the party pool then the lazy river. And I must say things got a little out of control. But not for me. I wwas wasted alright, but every girl there was not putting up with me. Maybe because someone got the fun idea to tell some people that I was a Make a Wish recipient and that this was my wish, or maybe the fact that I was being loud and irreverent most of the time.
We left the pool and I was...ummm...decidedly tired. I passed out on the floor, at one point woke up shivering, then later woke up in a blanket, then later woke up in a bed, until finally I was ready for the world again around 3am....and ready to go out. So, Brian, Mike, Todd, Nick, Danny and myself were wandering around just looking for anything fun in the vicinity. The most we did was talk to some girls eating McDonald's in the food court for a while...and once I had another beer I realized I was literally full of beer and done drinking, and actually pretty tired...so by 7:30 we went back up to the room and things were done. And I finally realized I had the pleasure of driving home that day. Ouch.
Obviously many more things happened, but until I get my reality TV show, no one can really be too sure about what they are. But at least too many groups won't picket against me before then.
TIM's RULES OF LIFE 1-17 COMING LATER IN THE WEEK
BYAH
First some admissions on my part:
1)I was drunking most of the time. Drunking you see, is like drinking, except without all those pretenses of later on saying "Wow! How did I get so drunk?" When drunking, you know what's coming to you. And, as I remarked to Paul and Darrell on our epic journey right after my arrival (more on that later), "It's like I want to experience Vegas all at once...I want to be drunk, I want to be gambling, I want to inappropriately dine only on snack wraps...." Then I took in a real deep breath and choked on some gas fumes.
2) Everyone else was drunking too. So, the recounted stories were about as good as the ones you hear in the short term memory loss ward about what happened a few minutes ago. (Zing. Oh yes, zing)
3) Vegas ruins all sense of time. There are always people up and about, always people having fun, and even more strangely I am convinced both by the new skin tone I have and by seeing it at all times, the sun is literally always up.
So, I arrived in Vegas on Thursday evening after one of my more brilliant and lucky acting performances in a while. I had decided before work on Thursday that I would feign sickness early on in the day in an attempt to get sent home early. Also, in prep for calling in sick on Friday, I had done pretty much all of my Friday work, so I was not that bad of an employee. Anyways, upon arrival on Thursday, my boss asks me how I am doing and I reply, "Oh, not so hot...." and she tells me she too has an awful headache...which I then retort, "Oh, me too...it's like there's a vice on my head..." So, throughout the morning, I act lackadaisical, and eventually around one, get sent home. So, I rush home, grab my stuff, jump in my car (which in prep for the suite we had this year, and due to me driving, I had stocked with 96 beers and 4 handles of liquor), and speed off to Vegas.
I arrived, pulled into the parking garage of the MGM and, using the defective part of my brain, which I am sure would have made me an awful caveman, pulled into the furthest parking spot away. Seriously, the thing went up to Row Q, and I parkedin Row Q, applying zero effort to park any closer. I have noticed this other times too, like when going to a store or movie, I leave whatever venue I was in, and realize I have parked really far away. So, I call Brian's phone, which is answered by Darrell, find out where the room is and grab the box of liquor and begin the trek. And yes, it was a trek. Also, everyone staring at my box of liquor all must have been Vegas first timers....come on people, you do some drinking there no matter who you are.
I finally made it up to the room and it was everything I imagined it would be...well, pretty much like you would think a suite would be...two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room area, a bar, and even a decorative artifact and some fake plants. Once in the room I saw D, Brian and Paul were awakening from naps and Danny was there too. I enlisted Darrell and Paul to come with me to my car for the 96 beers. And thus it was an epic journey. The about Row Q was it did not seem so bad walking towards it, especially empty handed, but the seemingly half marathon journey back with pounds of beer in coolers was not as fun. I guess I should have thought about it.
Back in the room, everyone else began to roll in, and the drinking began....and before the 12 of us went out that night all 96 beers were gone and a good deal of the liquor gone too. It was like whoa. Or something. Then our large gentlemenly crew headed down to Studio 54, the club in the MGM. And by gentlemenly, I mean we kindly would approach any group of women and say something extremely friendly. It was like watching National Geographic specials at times, but sometimes I was not sure if it was more one of the mating specials or one of the hunting ones, or one of the weird ones about insects.
Personally, I stayed in Studio 54 for about 45 minutes as the whole club scene only works so much for me, and plus when I notice that during my attempts at "dancing" if I am either falling over or pulling someone over with me, it might be time to stop the dancing, and the guys that just stand around at these places not dancing are actually a tad creepy. So I made the incredibly wise decision to go gamble. (and I know many are thinking...NO...you were so drunk you doubted your standing abilities and now you want to go throw around money???) But that's just the odd thing, for some reason I am pretty okay at blackjack...probably all those days of my youth playing with Dad for pretzels...sure I never stop soon enough when I am up, but I always be able to win some money. So I throw down my $100 at the $10 a hand table and began playing. I have no real strategy except to win...and most of the time I just would play the $10 hand, but sometimes I would feel it was time and throw out some random, way too large amount, like $260...and win. It was incredible. At one point I was up $1300 on my $100....but then I kept playing and playing and losing and losing....but by the time the dealer shut down the table, I had made it back up to $500...so I got a fine $500 chip and went back up to the room. That was nice.
The next day we wake up, we all start drunking before going to the pool then eventually head down. I went to cash out my winnings and told everyone else I would meet them poolside. However, I wanted to win some more....and stopped and played a little more 21 and won $100 more...which I decided was adequate. Then, the pool. Some stuff happened, it was crazy, it was ridiculous, there was beer flowing readily, everyone who walked by was spoken too, and so much of an impact was made that by Saturday at 6am a girl saw Brian and me and said "You were at the pool," here voice dripping of disdain. We were confused, but whatever. I left the pool a little before everyone else to...yes....go gamble. Long story short, I cashed out about an hour later with $1,100 worth of chips, and walked back up to the room beaming, and once there obviously gloated about my $1,000 chip and let see it and stuff. As I had only put down $100 of my money the previous night, I was pretty happy.
This was the night that was actually dedicated to Adam's bachelor party which Brian had setup...and he did a pretty damn good job...a strech Hummer limo was to pick us up, take us to a strip club, then later take us to Rain (or Pure...I am not really sure...some one word named uber-trendy club) where we would get to walk right in, which is tough for any large group of men to do in a Vegas club.
So, in a moment of hindsight being even better than 20/20 for something I should not have done, I went and cashed in my chips before we left on this escapade. I remember being very giving at the strip club for all in the group...and then we went to Rain/Pure/Whatever, I disliked it off the bat, got lost trying to leave The Palms for about 45 minutes, and the next morning, I had $3. I do know for sure I did not go gamble, because even when drunk, you remember doing that because it requires some focus and usually takes up some large periods of time. I made it back up to the room, where security had to let Adam and me in since we did not have keycards and we had to verify some objects in the room before they let us in....here was what I said, "I have a blue adidas bag straight ahead from the door....and ....and a Christopher Walken t-shirt in it! Yeah...Christopher Walken!...." They verified and let us in.
The next morning I went to use my "temporary" ATM card Citibank had furnished me upon opening my account, but for some reason they still had not gotten me the actual one I needed, and I discovered that good old temporary card had expired. So, no big deal. I know those cash advances on credit cards are foolish, so I was done gambling. Drinking was not a problem since we had so much liquor in the room...but then everyone enjoyed a fine laugh at my expense...or some disbelief. How had I spent $1200 in one night....the best theory was that some lucky cab driver got a great tip for resuing me from the Palms. But, at the very least, I only really lost $100...and even paid Brian $200 towards the room costs...
So, Saturday was yet another day down at the pool, although on this day we spent much more time in the party pool then the lazy river. And I must say things got a little out of control. But not for me. I wwas wasted alright, but every girl there was not putting up with me. Maybe because someone got the fun idea to tell some people that I was a Make a Wish recipient and that this was my wish, or maybe the fact that I was being loud and irreverent most of the time.
We left the pool and I was...ummm...decidedly tired. I passed out on the floor, at one point woke up shivering, then later woke up in a blanket, then later woke up in a bed, until finally I was ready for the world again around 3am....and ready to go out. So, Brian, Mike, Todd, Nick, Danny and myself were wandering around just looking for anything fun in the vicinity. The most we did was talk to some girls eating McDonald's in the food court for a while...and once I had another beer I realized I was literally full of beer and done drinking, and actually pretty tired...so by 7:30 we went back up to the room and things were done. And I finally realized I had the pleasure of driving home that day. Ouch.
Obviously many more things happened, but until I get my reality TV show, no one can really be too sure about what they are. But at least too many groups won't picket against me before then.
TIM's RULES OF LIFE 1-17 COMING LATER IN THE WEEK
BYAH
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
You and the captain make it happen
After the Cubs acquired Jason Kendall yesterday, and I read the many articles regarding this trade, and spoke to all my sports fiending friends, the general consensus was that the Cubs had made a decent upgrade from Rob "I'm Not a Real major League Baseball Player, I Just Play One on TV" Bowen and Koyie "Oh shit, my first name is Koyie and people unwittingly think I am a young catcher prospect when I am really 32" Hill, they were decidedly right. How unfortunate is it that when a team acquires a guy currently hitting .224 with no real pop left in his bat in a decidedly popless career, that there is some excitement? But, Kendall has been hitting a lot better since a dismal April, he was ranked #1 in catcher's ERA in baseball, and the National League has always been an easier league to hit in then the American. So, I am excited, especially to have a player who, in video games with old Pittsburgh Pirates teams I used to switch to #1 in the batting order.
As I continue to work on my first screenplay, I continue to, even as a person who speaks on numerous occasions everyday, struggle with writing dialogue in a more natural way. For some reason, I become like Kramer of Seinfeld fame when he is attempting to act and become decidedly unnatural and proper. None of my other writing comes out in proper English with good grammar and punctuation, yet when I shift to writing dialogue it is like my writing has had the Henry Higgins treatment. Here, look at this dialogue:
TIM: Oh no Logan! It seems we might be late for work! What are we going to do if we missed the entire meeting?
LOGAN: I am not quite sure, Tim. Maybe we can try using a different entrance entirely to the building!
This dialogue would work great if I were writing a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, which I think were secretly written to force grammatical correctness and quick changing life dynamics on children (as well as the effects of consequences...how I always ended up getting caught by the police in the neighbor's basement no matter what Choose Your Own Adventure I ever read, I will never know). But I am trying to write one of those movies that on the surface sucks, is not critically acclaimed, but people love to watch and own, and eventually drinking games are invented to correspond with it. So, when I get out of the writing zone and have to go back and edit all the dialogue because it has a lame factor of approximately 12 on a 10 point scale, the process is quite arduous. I guess I should try speaking it out loud before I write it instead of afterwards.
This past weekend I took a rapid trip to Chicago to surprise some of my homies and to see as many as I could. It was a great time and I have already realized that Chicago and all its boasting about being such a great place is not really that far off. (It also might have something to do with the great number of friends I have there, but hey, many are FROM there....) That being said, I have begun more and more to think of this LA experience as just that, a grand experience, sort of like a study abroad trip within the country, where I am going to try and do as much as I can and accomplish what I feel like I need to accomplish, but at the end of the day being close to a multitude of friends and a quick drive away from my family might seem like a better place to be. And I know what you are thinking: "Isn't this some sort of harshly formed opinion when you have not even been in LA tha long?" "Have you been poisoned?" "Why was Ghostbusters 3 not as celebrated of a Nintendo game?"
-I am a man constantly engaged in thought about many things and there are not too many times I just chill out and stop thinking, and I think that this experience will be great and lend me many new perspectives, but at the same time this is not a crazily formed idea. But, I'm gonna ride it out and see what happens. Just like I don't want to choose at this moment what I do for my 30th birthday, that would not even make sense (as I am only 24).
-Nope, no poison that I know of.
-The world had already moved on to Super Nintendo and Sega and therefore even though Ghostbusters 3 really could have taken off on the Nintendo as it had so much more then its predecessor Ghostbuster Nintendo games, Sonic and NBA Jam had taken over in a significant way. (And no, I have no idea if there even was a video game for Ghostbusters 3, I'm just saying)
Leave some comments, and I'll leave you some comments, and then you can leave me some more, and then next thing you know we are married with a third child on the way. It's science.
As I continue to work on my first screenplay, I continue to, even as a person who speaks on numerous occasions everyday, struggle with writing dialogue in a more natural way. For some reason, I become like Kramer of Seinfeld fame when he is attempting to act and become decidedly unnatural and proper. None of my other writing comes out in proper English with good grammar and punctuation, yet when I shift to writing dialogue it is like my writing has had the Henry Higgins treatment. Here, look at this dialogue:
TIM: Oh no Logan! It seems we might be late for work! What are we going to do if we missed the entire meeting?
LOGAN: I am not quite sure, Tim. Maybe we can try using a different entrance entirely to the building!
This dialogue would work great if I were writing a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, which I think were secretly written to force grammatical correctness and quick changing life dynamics on children (as well as the effects of consequences...how I always ended up getting caught by the police in the neighbor's basement no matter what Choose Your Own Adventure I ever read, I will never know). But I am trying to write one of those movies that on the surface sucks, is not critically acclaimed, but people love to watch and own, and eventually drinking games are invented to correspond with it. So, when I get out of the writing zone and have to go back and edit all the dialogue because it has a lame factor of approximately 12 on a 10 point scale, the process is quite arduous. I guess I should try speaking it out loud before I write it instead of afterwards.
This past weekend I took a rapid trip to Chicago to surprise some of my homies and to see as many as I could. It was a great time and I have already realized that Chicago and all its boasting about being such a great place is not really that far off. (It also might have something to do with the great number of friends I have there, but hey, many are FROM there....) That being said, I have begun more and more to think of this LA experience as just that, a grand experience, sort of like a study abroad trip within the country, where I am going to try and do as much as I can and accomplish what I feel like I need to accomplish, but at the end of the day being close to a multitude of friends and a quick drive away from my family might seem like a better place to be. And I know what you are thinking: "Isn't this some sort of harshly formed opinion when you have not even been in LA tha long?" "Have you been poisoned?" "Why was Ghostbusters 3 not as celebrated of a Nintendo game?"
-I am a man constantly engaged in thought about many things and there are not too many times I just chill out and stop thinking, and I think that this experience will be great and lend me many new perspectives, but at the same time this is not a crazily formed idea. But, I'm gonna ride it out and see what happens. Just like I don't want to choose at this moment what I do for my 30th birthday, that would not even make sense (as I am only 24).
-Nope, no poison that I know of.
-The world had already moved on to Super Nintendo and Sega and therefore even though Ghostbusters 3 really could have taken off on the Nintendo as it had so much more then its predecessor Ghostbuster Nintendo games, Sonic and NBA Jam had taken over in a significant way. (And no, I have no idea if there even was a video game for Ghostbusters 3, I'm just saying)
Leave some comments, and I'll leave you some comments, and then you can leave me some more, and then next thing you know we are married with a third child on the way. It's science.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Live every week like it's shark week
As Tracy Jordan of 30 Rock tells Kenneth the page, "Live every week like it's shark week." For those of you not familiar with shrak week, which I assume is no one, I will let you in on what shark week is: a week long worth of prime time programming on the Discovery channel devoted entirely to sharks. So, if you are into sharks, shark week is a big deal, I guess, and you live life all exictedly or something. My sister Eileen was really always the shark-o-matic lady in the fam, so I never really got fired up about them but still sometimes spout off her wisdom like, "Oh no, this water is far too cold for sharks." (Note: If you ever hear me say this, I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT. We might be about to venture into Tiger Shark infested waters in the Indian Ocean and I would say this to ease your mind. I always just looked at the pictures of sharks in her books, never really paid attention to the facts.)
As nbc.com offers pretty much all of their shows for viewing on your at home or local library terminal computer, they also have recognized the need for advertising during these programs. The thing is, it seems that the advertising techinique employed is that of brainwashing. Each 30 Rock episode, for instance, is split into 3 or 4 parts, and before each part loads, the same ad will air for that episode. By the 4th time I see the exact same Cingular commercial within a 20 minute period, I do feel semi-brainwashed and think to myself, "Man, Cingular really HAS been raising the bar." A few seconds later I find myself in a trance like state looking at Cingular cell phone plans, before I snap back to Earth and realize why I am with t-mobile, and it has very little to do with the 2 year contract extension I just got to get a phone for cheap (after losing my other one in a puddle while I was "napping" in my backyard), and much more to do with the fact that all contractholders get to, ya know, do as they please with company spokeswoman Catherine Zeta Jones (and it does take a moment to get over the whole Michael Douglas thing, this is true, but then you remember your cell phone bill and the lovely lady in front of you). All I can say is thank goodness nbc.com does not play cult propoganda during their shows.
After the freshly completed third week of work at my new job, I have decided, I am simply do not enjoy working. While some people might counter, "Tim, you need to find something you like," or "Tim, you have always been a good worker," or even, "Tim, eating raw bacon is not a good call." I hear you. But, I really would much rather be unemployed. And it is not a matter of motivation or a hatred of working, I really do not mind doing so, I would just rather not be doing it and instead sit around working on "screenplays" (reading Far Side cartoons). So, here are some Pro's and Con's of unemployment"
Pro:
Seldom set an alarm clock to wake up in the morning.
Con:
Lose sense of time on a day-to-day basis.
Pro:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire.
Con:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire. (I don't see many non basketball players wearing these clothes and getting a lot accomplished)
Pro:
Everyday, your own agenda.
Con:
No regular paycheck. Suddenly that daily agenda is a lot more limited.
So, as you can see, there are the plusses and negatives, and I only hope to either a) steal all of the gold from Scrooge Mc Duck's room of gold or b)marry a really rich older woman on the threshold of death. Or I guess invent Jell-O or something. Although I guess since I wrote that sentence that someone beat me to the punch with that invention.
Oh well, it is what it is. The first screenplay is finally in progress. That being said, if I could focus more of my time to this writing craft, and until I get better at it, living in California works just about as well as living in Chicago, Canada, or Madagascar...it's all about devoting the time. (just kidding about that Canada part...that would suck balls). I am glad I have come to that realization, and maybe if I can have some discipline, I can move somewhere cheaper and with less consistent weather (really this day after day sameness is freaking me out).
HOLLA
As nbc.com offers pretty much all of their shows for viewing on your at home or local library terminal computer, they also have recognized the need for advertising during these programs. The thing is, it seems that the advertising techinique employed is that of brainwashing. Each 30 Rock episode, for instance, is split into 3 or 4 parts, and before each part loads, the same ad will air for that episode. By the 4th time I see the exact same Cingular commercial within a 20 minute period, I do feel semi-brainwashed and think to myself, "Man, Cingular really HAS been raising the bar." A few seconds later I find myself in a trance like state looking at Cingular cell phone plans, before I snap back to Earth and realize why I am with t-mobile, and it has very little to do with the 2 year contract extension I just got to get a phone for cheap (after losing my other one in a puddle while I was "napping" in my backyard), and much more to do with the fact that all contractholders get to, ya know, do as they please with company spokeswoman Catherine Zeta Jones (and it does take a moment to get over the whole Michael Douglas thing, this is true, but then you remember your cell phone bill and the lovely lady in front of you). All I can say is thank goodness nbc.com does not play cult propoganda during their shows.
After the freshly completed third week of work at my new job, I have decided, I am simply do not enjoy working. While some people might counter, "Tim, you need to find something you like," or "Tim, you have always been a good worker," or even, "Tim, eating raw bacon is not a good call." I hear you. But, I really would much rather be unemployed. And it is not a matter of motivation or a hatred of working, I really do not mind doing so, I would just rather not be doing it and instead sit around working on "screenplays" (reading Far Side cartoons). So, here are some Pro's and Con's of unemployment"
Pro:
Seldom set an alarm clock to wake up in the morning.
Con:
Lose sense of time on a day-to-day basis.
Pro:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire.
Con:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire. (I don't see many non basketball players wearing these clothes and getting a lot accomplished)
Pro:
Everyday, your own agenda.
Con:
No regular paycheck. Suddenly that daily agenda is a lot more limited.
So, as you can see, there are the plusses and negatives, and I only hope to either a) steal all of the gold from Scrooge Mc Duck's room of gold or b)marry a really rich older woman on the threshold of death. Or I guess invent Jell-O or something. Although I guess since I wrote that sentence that someone beat me to the punch with that invention.
Oh well, it is what it is. The first screenplay is finally in progress. That being said, if I could focus more of my time to this writing craft, and until I get better at it, living in California works just about as well as living in Chicago, Canada, or Madagascar...it's all about devoting the time. (just kidding about that Canada part...that would suck balls). I am glad I have come to that realization, and maybe if I can have some discipline, I can move somewhere cheaper and with less consistent weather (really this day after day sameness is freaking me out).
HOLLA
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Even the milk turns chocolatey.....fuck yeah
As I spend another delightful night sitting around doing such fun activities as: eating baby carrots, watching episodes of 30 Rock, reading every word on espn.com, researching Peru while on the phone with Melissa (don't ask), trying to make my back forget I have been sleeping on couches for the last month, drinking water, pondering life in the Arctic circle, and researching how hair grafts work, I constantly have to remind myself of my mantra. "You chose this life. You chose this life. You chose this life. You chose this life." And even I must admit after the sixth time of saying it or so, it makes me laugh, because hey, when you repeat any word or phrase it just starts to sound like made up. E.T. style alient talk.
I have been doing some writing, and reading about writing, and watching youtube videos about writing, and learning Braille so that I can feel about writing, and listening to written works as read by former Cheers castmembers (if you get a chance, pick up The Stand as read by George Wendt((you know him as Norm!)) so that I can try and find my muse so that I might too write something other than a blog read by somewhere in the ballpark of 12.7 people (Actually I have no science to apply to knowing how many) and wonder why no one has offered me some cash up front to write a pilot or something. Then I figured it out: while I am in fact, pretty goddamned funny, I need a lot of people based humor...witty, sarcastic verbal barbs tossed into conversation, jabs about other people that are around, commentary on commentaries...that kind of stuff. That being said, I am not saying the fountain has run dry and I have nothing to write about. The fountain is actually needing of a larger bucket and some sort of disinfectant for the ladle everyone uses to get the water out of said bucket, since I have 24 years of life experiences and characters.
Today at work, for the first time ever in my life, I had a thought of a joke that could be used in some sort of standup act. And, since I do not foresee a standup act ever being my sort of thing, I thought I could go ahead and share my "bit" with you:
(while dressed semi-normal, yet with something ridiculous on, like some denim chaps)
"You know one of the things I always most looked forward to about being a standup? Dressing like a hobo who lived near an outlet mall that discarded haute fashions....You know what I'm talking about...remember that multi-colored number Sinbad always used to wear? And heaven forbid you get a special on HBO...think Chris Rock....ultra-shiny suit. When is ANY...and I mean ANY other occasion when you would glance in your closet and say, 'Man, I should totally pull out those denim chaps.'.......(points down) Ooooohhh yeahhhhh. I guess everyone says this (points down again, disgustedly) is how stadups seperate themselves. Grand. A guy with crappy jokes and a feather boa hookup is going to take over."
Reading it, pretty okay. But that is why I am not forcing my hand and trying out standup. Especially with a one lame joke routine.
Alright, I will bless everyone in the next couple days with some actual humor.
I have been doing some writing, and reading about writing, and watching youtube videos about writing, and learning Braille so that I can feel about writing, and listening to written works as read by former Cheers castmembers (if you get a chance, pick up The Stand as read by George Wendt((you know him as Norm!)) so that I can try and find my muse so that I might too write something other than a blog read by somewhere in the ballpark of 12.7 people (Actually I have no science to apply to knowing how many) and wonder why no one has offered me some cash up front to write a pilot or something. Then I figured it out: while I am in fact, pretty goddamned funny, I need a lot of people based humor...witty, sarcastic verbal barbs tossed into conversation, jabs about other people that are around, commentary on commentaries...that kind of stuff. That being said, I am not saying the fountain has run dry and I have nothing to write about. The fountain is actually needing of a larger bucket and some sort of disinfectant for the ladle everyone uses to get the water out of said bucket, since I have 24 years of life experiences and characters.
Today at work, for the first time ever in my life, I had a thought of a joke that could be used in some sort of standup act. And, since I do not foresee a standup act ever being my sort of thing, I thought I could go ahead and share my "bit" with you:
(while dressed semi-normal, yet with something ridiculous on, like some denim chaps)
"You know one of the things I always most looked forward to about being a standup? Dressing like a hobo who lived near an outlet mall that discarded haute fashions....You know what I'm talking about...remember that multi-colored number Sinbad always used to wear? And heaven forbid you get a special on HBO...think Chris Rock....ultra-shiny suit. When is ANY...and I mean ANY other occasion when you would glance in your closet and say, 'Man, I should totally pull out those denim chaps.'.......(points down) Ooooohhh yeahhhhh. I guess everyone says this (points down again, disgustedly) is how stadups seperate themselves. Grand. A guy with crappy jokes and a feather boa hookup is going to take over."
Reading it, pretty okay. But that is why I am not forcing my hand and trying out standup. Especially with a one lame joke routine.
Alright, I will bless everyone in the next couple days with some actual humor.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
"Great Mint Taste" (Check)
Sometimes I wonder about these brilliant large corporations and their packaging genius. Logically, I have an example. (Although it would be funnier if I wrote a blog with a bunch of broad open-ended statements that offered no explanation, citations, or anything related to the thought.) I was looking at a tube of Colgate toothpaste and there was a checkbox on the back next to the extremely fucking excited words "GREAT MINT TASTE!", and the box was checked. Why a checkbox? Would they want to admit the mint taste was less then stellar and leave this box unchecked? I just do not understand this one.
Some other examples of packaging I do not understand:
1)The current "no trans fat" rage. I don't even know what the fuck a trans fat is. But I know when I see it on things like potato chips and wheels of cheese, and see it on a KFC commercial, I do not suddenly think "Wow, self, this food must be fuckin HEALTHY now. This will be all I eat. That and toothpaste, but as long as the mint box is checked."
2) Unrelated foods with recipes on them for something else. The other day I bought a loaf of bread, obviously for the bread purposes (sandwiches, toast, sexual deviancy, etc.) but did not even realize until I got home that I also had grilling recipes for various types of chicken, and an APPLE PIE RECIPE!!! Did either of these mention use of the bread? Of course not. The kind bread benefactors just wanted to make sure I enjoy chicken and apple pie.
3)Laundry detergents talking about their "BOLD NEW MOUNTAIN FRESH AROMA!" What the fuck does that mean? Am I going to smell like I live at the timber line in the Rockies? Or will my shit just smell clean? Brawny paper towel man or not homeless? As long as my clean clothes do not smell somewhere in between Pine-Sol and death that works for me.
So in this last week of homelessness, I have been living with new friends Zed (yeah, that's right...the letter Z in French....a pretty badass name if you ask me. I personally think while his endeavors into the philosophical world are to be admired, he could totally be a spy...or a ninja or something) and Meredith in their Venice bungalow. It is a sweet little place, complete with a tiny little garden area, some rooms and whatnot, and canadian people across the way. Unfortunately, they are moving out and already promised the place to someone else, but if not it would have been the nest home search ever to just move in here....hell, they are even selling the moajority of their furniture. But the fact that I have been staying here just totally holds the power of networking in perfect place. Follow this diagram if you might:
TIM--->DEREK (roommate at 742 met on craigslist)--->ELIOT(Derek's friend)----->ZED+MEREDITH(Eliot's Homes)---->JESSICA (new roommate, friend of Meredith)
So, just by creepily finding a roommate for 742 on craigslist, I fell into my new housing situation, made some friends and learned how to make chicken from a loaf of bread.
On the movie/TV/haiku writing front, I am pregnant with ideas. But unlike writing this crap, I am not really sure that you just sit down for a few minutes let your mind vomit onto the screen, don't edit, spell check, or do anything else and let it be done. You have to follow a story, develop characters, avoid actual vomit on the computer (from all the drinking you do to be creative), and steer clear of ethnic slurs for an entire script. Tough burdens, right? I will let you in on my first attempt at a movie script:
BYAH!
Some other examples of packaging I do not understand:
1)The current "no trans fat" rage. I don't even know what the fuck a trans fat is. But I know when I see it on things like potato chips and wheels of cheese, and see it on a KFC commercial, I do not suddenly think "Wow, self, this food must be fuckin HEALTHY now. This will be all I eat. That and toothpaste, but as long as the mint box is checked."
2) Unrelated foods with recipes on them for something else. The other day I bought a loaf of bread, obviously for the bread purposes (sandwiches, toast, sexual deviancy, etc.) but did not even realize until I got home that I also had grilling recipes for various types of chicken, and an APPLE PIE RECIPE!!! Did either of these mention use of the bread? Of course not. The kind bread benefactors just wanted to make sure I enjoy chicken and apple pie.
3)Laundry detergents talking about their "BOLD NEW MOUNTAIN FRESH AROMA!" What the fuck does that mean? Am I going to smell like I live at the timber line in the Rockies? Or will my shit just smell clean? Brawny paper towel man or not homeless? As long as my clean clothes do not smell somewhere in between Pine-Sol and death that works for me.
So in this last week of homelessness, I have been living with new friends Zed (yeah, that's right...the letter Z in French....a pretty badass name if you ask me. I personally think while his endeavors into the philosophical world are to be admired, he could totally be a spy...or a ninja or something) and Meredith in their Venice bungalow. It is a sweet little place, complete with a tiny little garden area, some rooms and whatnot, and canadian people across the way. Unfortunately, they are moving out and already promised the place to someone else, but if not it would have been the nest home search ever to just move in here....hell, they are even selling the moajority of their furniture. But the fact that I have been staying here just totally holds the power of networking in perfect place. Follow this diagram if you might:
TIM--->DEREK (roommate at 742 met on craigslist)--->ELIOT(Derek's friend)----->ZED+MEREDITH(Eliot's Homes)---->JESSICA (new roommate, friend of Meredith)
So, just by creepily finding a roommate for 742 on craigslist, I fell into my new housing situation, made some friends and learned how to make chicken from a loaf of bread.
On the movie/TV/haiku writing front, I am pregnant with ideas. But unlike writing this crap, I am not really sure that you just sit down for a few minutes let your mind vomit onto the screen, don't edit, spell check, or do anything else and let it be done. You have to follow a story, develop characters, avoid actual vomit on the computer (from all the drinking you do to be creative), and steer clear of ethnic slurs for an entire script. Tough burdens, right? I will let you in on my first attempt at a movie script:
THE AWAKENING
(camera pans out ((is that where it like pulls out?)) on two ((or three? would three be better?)) skeletons fighting over a bucket of chicken and a slim jim)
That was it. Then I tired of the creative process. Or I was not writing a movie about skeletons fighting over chicken or slim jims. I don't foresee myself getting into the horror genre, seeing as every scary movie (including spoofs Scary Movie 1,2, and 3) that I have seen in the last 24 years has made me pee in my pants. Once I just had to go to the bathroom more than I knew at the time, but the other times I had urine frightened out of me. I guess I will just have to stick to what I know when I am writing: sportscenter cliches, the movie Blue Streak, and slang terms for sex acts. (Blue Streak II totally needs to be written. I know the greatest film ever needs a sequel)
BYAH!
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Sometimes, you just need some cheese
Last week, I had just finished a rough Saturday of...well...okay it was not so rough, I had just laid on the beach all day. But, I decided I needed to deviate from my homeless diet of PB&J and I stopped at a local Santa Monica eatery called Norm's. Norm's motto, you might ask: "We are just like Denny's, but called Norm's. Fuck You". (If I own a company, I will also include curse words and other vulgarities in the motto) So I glanced at the voluminous menu (four pages of delicious and gastrointestinal problems waiting to happen) and my decisions of what to order may have caused the waitress who took my order to believe that I knew some secret about cheese, possibly even it's abilities to increase one's life expectancy. Because I knew all along when I went in that I was really feeling a grilled cheese, so I ordered one of those. Then I saw one of my faves on the menu, Mozzarella Cheese Sticks, so I ordered some of those. Let me just say, it may have been a tad much on the cheese front. But hey, sometimes you just need some cheese. And no, I was not successful in eating all the food, much to the happiness of the homeless man sitting uncomfortably close to my left.
As I write this, I have continued my apartment search. After another disappointing turndown from a place with roommates already there, I decided I had tired of the Bachelor type selection, and could no longer wait to see if I had been given a rose that week, plus unlike the other potential roommates, I will not "give it up" just to get a room (and by "it" I mean $200 extra dollars) It took too long, it is far too difficult to meet people for seven minute periods at a time and come across as not a tad overbearing in an effort to convey your personality while at the same time seeming chill, and not to mention everyone seems to want to take two weeks to pick someone. Which, much to my chagrin, the overbearingness seems to be a problem for me when I try and show my personality right off the bat. What can I say? (probably less ethnic slurs...Tim...you idiot) So, no more rose ceremonies for me. I have set out on a search for an ideal one bedroom, which even at a greater cost, will be far better then dealing with this not-so-scrumtrilecent roommate situation.
After my two fun (stress-filled, annoying, stupid, lame, wack, silly, more ridiculous than France in a war) weeks of unemployment, I returned to the work force this week. I am working at a business management firm in Brentwood. Business management evidently means that I pay bills for people, and do pretty much anything else they want me to do. The girl I am training with whose job I will be taking (her name is Gila, and I asked her if it was like that monster, and I believe this perturbed her) has really been doing all the work, but I am getting a hang of things and occasionally being helpful. I am just waiting for the extremely bizzare client phone calls beyond activating DirecTV boxes, like when I will be asked to remove a dead body, kill someone, or walk a dog. I would only do two of those for work, because I think walking a dog is like a whole seperate job and totally not in the job description.
I just finished reading the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self proclaimed dickhead Tucker Max. I had heard of this book as he had been on the NY Times best seller list a couple years back and the other day (after I had gone to a sports bar by myself, for, of all reasons, to watch golf, and gotten pretty drunk) picked it up at Borders during my drunken mid Sunday (I also got a Sublime CD, a Bill Cosby CD, a Newsweek about societies in America and a book on screenplay writing) and proceeded to read it. First of all, this guy has one of the worst writing styles I have ever read, which I fault mainly on the fact that he is educated in the matters of law. Secondly, he thinks he is the most ridiculous person to ever live, and while I appreciate his tales and may have even given a tip of my cap to some, I refuse to do anything to the ground he has walked on. Thirdly, all the quotes from days and nights of extreme drunkenness are stupid, even if he did have a tape recorder. Sure, from time to time there might be a particular quote recalled from a drinking night ("Do it to it."), but entire conversations? I am lucky if I even remember speaking and generally have to piece my night together by looking at random texts I sent. So basically, this Tucker Max guy somehow caught on, but I am nonplussed. Nonplussed.
Until next time.
As I write this, I have continued my apartment search. After another disappointing turndown from a place with roommates already there, I decided I had tired of the Bachelor type selection, and could no longer wait to see if I had been given a rose that week, plus unlike the other potential roommates, I will not "give it up" just to get a room (and by "it" I mean $200 extra dollars) It took too long, it is far too difficult to meet people for seven minute periods at a time and come across as not a tad overbearing in an effort to convey your personality while at the same time seeming chill, and not to mention everyone seems to want to take two weeks to pick someone. Which, much to my chagrin, the overbearingness seems to be a problem for me when I try and show my personality right off the bat. What can I say? (probably less ethnic slurs...Tim...you idiot) So, no more rose ceremonies for me. I have set out on a search for an ideal one bedroom, which even at a greater cost, will be far better then dealing with this not-so-scrumtrilecent roommate situation.
After my two fun (stress-filled, annoying, stupid, lame, wack, silly, more ridiculous than France in a war) weeks of unemployment, I returned to the work force this week. I am working at a business management firm in Brentwood. Business management evidently means that I pay bills for people, and do pretty much anything else they want me to do. The girl I am training with whose job I will be taking (her name is Gila, and I asked her if it was like that monster, and I believe this perturbed her) has really been doing all the work, but I am getting a hang of things and occasionally being helpful. I am just waiting for the extremely bizzare client phone calls beyond activating DirecTV boxes, like when I will be asked to remove a dead body, kill someone, or walk a dog. I would only do two of those for work, because I think walking a dog is like a whole seperate job and totally not in the job description.
I just finished reading the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self proclaimed dickhead Tucker Max. I had heard of this book as he had been on the NY Times best seller list a couple years back and the other day (after I had gone to a sports bar by myself, for, of all reasons, to watch golf, and gotten pretty drunk) picked it up at Borders during my drunken mid Sunday (I also got a Sublime CD, a Bill Cosby CD, a Newsweek about societies in America and a book on screenplay writing) and proceeded to read it. First of all, this guy has one of the worst writing styles I have ever read, which I fault mainly on the fact that he is educated in the matters of law. Secondly, he thinks he is the most ridiculous person to ever live, and while I appreciate his tales and may have even given a tip of my cap to some, I refuse to do anything to the ground he has walked on. Thirdly, all the quotes from days and nights of extreme drunkenness are stupid, even if he did have a tape recorder. Sure, from time to time there might be a particular quote recalled from a drinking night ("Do it to it."), but entire conversations? I am lucky if I even remember speaking and generally have to piece my night together by looking at random texts I sent. So basically, this Tucker Max guy somehow caught on, but I am nonplussed. Nonplussed.
Until next time.
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