"Being named Jack is like being named Harvey."

-Sticky

Advent Clownface Advent

Please be patient and bear with me on this one. I am gunning for your immediate disgust but I beg you to quash this feeling and bear with me. I'm not going that far out there. We will not discuss what life would be like as Dracula (maybe Blackula but that's for later). We're not going very far but we are going to a subversive ridiculous place. 

I let a chicken eat a bean out of my belly button today. It wasn't a bad thing to do. It wasn't great and I doubt I'll do it again unless the chicken somehow tricks me. While it wasn't a great thing, I am glad for the experience. 

Think back to the time before Hot Fudge. A group of friends gather for ice cream and social talk of the day. When the conversation becomes lax, the friends are unwilling to blame themselves and instead sour themselves on the ice cream. Desperate to revive the conversation, one has the inkling that fudge would be good on ice cream. On a lark, he microwaves a glass container of fudge and pours the molten results on his scoop. He does not know what will happen or what it will be like, but does anyway. Such is the mother innovation, the onus of super-fun-times. 

The prospect of poultry beaks has always frightened me. I've had these birds in my life for over a year now and still fear the prospect of getting pecked. This fear becomes especially tangible when toying with the idea of six foot tall chickens. 

The dining experience brought a new kind of fear into my life. I have been afraid of feelings, sounds, and atmospheres, but little of visible fear has ever crept up on me. Like it or not, tangible threats to my livelihood mostly come in sonic forms. Little visual terror has ever happened to me. The only guns that have ever been pointed at me have been in silhouette. Shadows don't count. 

The prospect of a beak nearing my navel was an uncomfortable one. The bite hurt a little, but I was left better because of it. A small facet of life has been explored, like going to Thailand but only for 15 minutes. I don't have a full understanding of the place but I'll fall asleep with a smile because I know it exists. 

If you aren't exploring, you're failing

The world is not concrete. Explore the circumstances and you're bound to find some great place to push on the parameters. Yesterday I walked up to a Cop in the midst of writing me a ticket. I asked him why the fuck he was writing me a ticket. He gave me requisite explanations. I told him I was too good of a guy to get 5 tickets in 4 weeks. He looked me over and agreed. This was not all. he was not so sure that he could trust the innate knowledge his eyes provided. He gave me an honesty test to judge how good I was. 

The first question was "What do you think about the cops?" 

I answered honestly and uncomfortably but all became well when he smiled he tore up the ticket. 

Magic is everywhere. Take heart, Arch.  

I Am Not A Gardener

Author's Note: The Boston Celtics recently beat the Detroit Pistons in what many experts are calling an Eastern Conference Finals Preview. Frankly, I don't give a fuck. I'd rather get a prostate exam than talk about that game. That's a bad example. I love prostate exams!

You can be what you want to be. You can do what you want to do. These heavy adages have hung in the air around America's youth serving as both an inspiration and a burden. (A burdspiration?) I will argue that these words are true. True as the withered hands I deign to type with. (It's true. They are both calloused and covered in some sort of primordial goop.) However young I am there is a limit on my horizon. There are several things that I will always be, and other things that I am drastically incapable of becoming. For better for worse I this for the long haul, unless of course I manage to find God and become the Vicar of Christ on Earth.

Case in point: I tried to grow a garden of herbs and grasses but no vegetation decided to grow. In lieu of earthly delights I was shocked to find that the only thing growing was a gaggle of old term papers. I thought I could lose myself in this new hobby. Poor naive me. My old bullshit haunts the new me.

In the most recent incarnation of the NBA, I have seen so many people attempt to move on to bigger and better things. I have seen Shaq go to Phoenix and pretend he can still move. I have seen Pau Gasol make the trek to LA and fancy himself as "The Coast Nowitzki". Above all else, these paragons of the game have found new life or crashed and burned badly. However good or great (in a fat way) they are, nothing can take away from the sad truth that these men are what they are.

Mr. Gasol, I can see your thoughts. I know that in the last moments of a close game that the desire to throw up an ill advised finger roll is close at hand. So close it bubbles slightly beneath the surface.

In the terrible city of Boston, the luster of basketball revival has blocked out the personas of Ray Allen, Kevin Garnett, and Paul Pierce. Seeing the Celtics record and the cohesive play of these paper champions, most hoops disciples have bargained away the nagging thoughts and embraced this Celtic team as a potential champion and a reinvention of everything we have come to understand about these players.

That's bullshit. Despite the record and smiles, these men are losers through and through. Cursed by the heavens like James and Jumaine Jones they are forever doomed to walk about in the shadows of basketball legendary. Two of the Celtics Three are great and one has a great jumpshot, which is enough to be classified as "almost great". However great or almost great these men might be, however successful their season has been, nothing can make up for the fact that fate isn't on their side.

Kevin Garnett. You were born a loser. You solidified this fact by jumping straight from High School to the NBA. Duke could have changed your path. You think being intense can mask that deep laying insecurity? The fact that deep down you just aren't good enough? It doesn't. You toiled in the hinterlands of Minnesota becoming a sympathetic figure due to the exploits of Sprees, McHales, and Scissorbiaks. Along the way we have heard these others become derided and maligned by not being good enough for you Mr. Garnett. While that may be true, the thing is, you are not good enough to be good. I will not deny your greatness as a ball player but your ceiling exists solely at the brink of "Utterly Disappointing".

You should have been great. Their should have been championships, but there weren't/ Even if you win one now, it's too late. You've already been defined. The whole lot of you are losers.

Now that Dean Garrett, he's a winner.

Go Pistons!

The pRESENT Indictment

Yeah. You know the drill. Back. Sorry. If I could give a coupon for free waffle fries I could. You people deserve waffle fries more than anyone. This might seem trite but I don't know what I've ever done to earn my share of waffle fries. 

It'

s 

so easy

To get lost in this strange place. Wandering for days. Wondering why people think it's ok to talk to me about denim? 

These sentences don't deserve to be said all that much. Then again, I am the same guy who made a fortune out of running into restaurants and screaming "THE POPE'S DEAD!" At least those words had some feeling behind them. I ain't just making conversation. There is no attempt at trying to be street. I wish to think that it was life in it's most unadulterated form.  The pope is not dead. I can dance with that. 

It's all about getting big. Throw the bullshit out there and live the life you want. That's what they tell me in college applications, our bastion of truth, told me so. I was talking to my father about the merits of his new lifestyle and the giant catfish they offer when i stumbled on the epiphany that I actually gave a fuck. 

Now this shouldn't shock or alarm you. All of us give a fuck and care a little about something, usually something Swedish. However, for the past 8 months I have been caught up in a stream of everyday joviality that served to undermine the singular purpose (that I dunno what it is). Reading Rabbit Run blasted me to the point of dancing in the murky streams of nothingness and praying for the day when I can live in a van. 

I mean that's good and all, but on the cusp of graduating from college our best case scenario should not be centered around "living in a van". 

My question to you is... When did being successful become so uncool? 

I'd like to think rumors of our demise have been greatly exagerated

Dear friends and lovers,

I don't know whats up with us. We seem to be in a transitional period, but i refuse to believe that the Hindenburg is done, especially when there's so much hindenburgian shit out there. So fret you not, just wait patiently while we go through our awkward adolescent stage. Before you know it we'll be flirting with girls and shit.

As I'm sure many of you know, I'm all about this current NBA season. As Chuck recently told a close friend of ours, the NBA is all that we've been talking about this year. If one ignores the Eastern Conference (outside of Detroit and Boston) it's easy to see why. Teams in the west are playing a basketball that neither of us have witnessed during our life time. I really cannot think of a time when their were six teams that could legitimately claim a chance at the title. I love it though especially since my beloved Lakers are one of those lucky six and I really can't wait to see how things unfold. Really though, I have become enraptured by the NBA and it's aestheticism.

There is one problem that arises from this though, what happens when this season ends. Although I'll have to wait and see, I've pretty much given up any chance of liking baseball as much as I have in the past. After the excitement that the NBA playoffs are sure to be made of, I don't know how I will be able to go back to the slow and contemplative nature of the game I used to consider my favorite American sport. I'm sure I'll still be able to watch my Dodgers, especially when Vin's calling the game, but gone are the days when I can tune into any game that I don't have a rooting interest in. Maybe this is for the best though. Nothing tops October baseball of course, but things will never be the same

Taking It To The Streets 2008 Edition

Boy, looking over my blogs from last season I can only think one thing. I HAD NO IDEA HOW TO PROPERLY USE PRONOUNS. Oh well I suppose it's for the best that I took Introduction to Italian at a local Community College. Not only does the new language inspire (Romance anyone?) but you never truly understand your new language until you begin to explore another. From this point on I promise more proper pronoun usage. Who knows? Maybe new Detroit Tiger Miguel Cabrera will help me learn some Spanish pronouns to boot! What a guy that Miguel. Did you know he speaks two languages fluently?

It was a tumultuous off-season for the Detroit Tigers. I am glad that it is over and that I can finally play baseball again. With so many roster moves it is exciting to see how this team will come together this season. I think we will do good. Our team has a lot of talent. We just need to work hard. 

Another reason I am glad for this Baseball season is that I am out of Television Series on DVD. Over the offseason I watched a lot of these. Who can blame me? Without the commercial interruptions, you get nothing but the show you love! Some of my favorites this offseason were Scrubs, The Office, and Frasier. I tried watching 30 Rock because it was Dmitri Young's favorite show but I just didn't get it. I did like that man in the funny hats though. HAHA! Maybe I should customize my Detroit Tigers hat. I could make the "D" into "Doodle" Oh man!

I will be batting leadoff this year. I hope to replicate my accomplishments of last season, but I know that it will be hard. However, with such a good lineup behind me, I know that I will score a lot of runs, I could get 120 if we're lucky. 

Dontrelle Willis was another new edition to the team. I have long admired him as a competitor but I never knew how great a guy he was. He is hilarious. He has the best Marvin Gaye impersonation. I think it'll really go over well in Motown.   

This is a great season ahead and I look forward to spending it with you. I have to run now though. Spring Training starts today! WEE!

an actor seeks revenge

what up muthafuckas,

ive been gone for many a moon (aka since the superbowl) but im back. what has prompted your return Sergei? well first of all i am dedicated to the furthering of all things Hindenburgian, but secondly i am mad, about as mad as i imagine a person can be. who are you mad at mr. tortoise? shirt fuckin woot, boys and girls. thats that website that some of our more faithful readers love so much, has wronged a good friend of mine. hell, they've wrong this wonderful country of ours. and i, for one, will not stand for it.

last week a very good friend of mine, who will remain nameless as he his much too gentle a soul to embark on the journey im about to set sail on, designed a shirt for one of their weekly "derbies." apparently in these so called "derbies" members of the site are able to design a shirt that matches the weeks theme, and other members can vote on the shirt they like most. the top 3 vote getters are then made into real shirts, by the fellows at shirt.woot (i would guess a subsidiary of the decrepit woot.com website), and placed on sale. when i was first told of this, i thought it sounded pretty cool, dandy even. but as i would soon come to learn, shirt.woot is interested in one thing, perverting fairness and taste.

so the theme for the most recent contest was leap year. a boring theme if you ask me, and if you go over to shirt.woot (although i heavily recommend you don't) you'll find that most of this week's entries are just that. except for the one that my friend submitted. you will see it at the top of the post. beautiful isnt it? whether it's the color, the design, the subtle use of text, or the adherence to the theme, it's hard not to be floored by each of the shirt's aspects. i know that the first time i laid eyes upon it, i was immediately smitten, in a manner similar to the first time i got to see a girl's bare breats. in person. which is saying a lot. but that is how much i loved the shirt. first thing i did of course, after calling my friend and raining praise upon him, was go over to shirt.woot and register myself, so that in a few excruciatingly long days i would be able to purchase a shirt of my own. i mean it was a safe bet that this shirt would win. his design is a perfect excercise in beauty, taste, class, exuberance and restraint. it is everything that shirt.woot could have asked for in an entry, as close to a shoe in as the site would find this year. but it wasn't. because those putrid wastes of space over at shirt.woot, rejected the shirt. apparently they took it upon themselves to make sure that however many woot members there are would be unable to wear the week's best shirt, the one that most boldly lived up to the theme of leap year.

if you could not tell, shirt.woot's actions disgust me. i can think of few more vile things to have happened this year. shirt.woot have trampled on the spirit of democracy for who knows what reason. they saw something that would bring joy to hundreds, no millions, and they took it away. maybe it was because my friend was not one of their inner circle. my friend has not mentioned that he thinks this could be the reason, but it easily could be. i am willing to bet that if you look back on winner from the past month, you will find that each and every one of them has a connection to shirt.woot in some sort of way. or it could be that they are idiots unable to see the shirt's actual content, a dignified and heroic retelling of one day's quest to break the oppressive constraints of a typical 365 day year. as i type this i realize that the most likely scenario, is that shirt.woot is guilty of all of these sins. they saw a beautiful bird, one that could bring joy to children the world over, and clipped it's wings because it was not birthed by one of their own. as i said earlier, few things, if any have hurt me as much as this. i am literally sick because of this whole business.

see that over there, its an adorable puppy...and shirt.woot just kicked it. because they do that. they destroy wings. they make sure that dreams do not exist.

boycott shirt.woot. boycott em good!

The Beast Is A-A-A woken

Let me start with these sentiments. Curtis and his sentinels will finish third in the AL Central. Segrei will contract syphillis. Archie will take on the personality of some So-Cal peon known in some circles as Keith. 

It is worth noting that no one, anywhere, ever, has ever respected Keith. If you watch Six Feet Under you know what I mean. For all his muscles, David's Keith is still one hella drag. He's probably from Philadelphia. That Tom Hanks movie probably moved him beyond his belief. Lifted his existence from mere human to the vaunted status of true Afro-Douchebag (think Ben Wallace with a PHD.) 

Let's talk about music. I only listen to Robert Johnson and MF Doom but my attentions once turned to a waifish Canadian Songstress by the name of Nelly Furtado. Let's get this straight, Nelly wasn't the best. Her vocals were weak and her production a far cry from glossy. While these could've MF Doomed a lesser artist they lifted Ms. Furtado in my eyes. Seeing the simplicity of her album, in the year 1998 or 2000 or 2002 I felt for a fact that Ms. Furtado knew what she was going through. She was in touch with her emotions. She was a distinct human being by all accounts. Listen to this... 

I'm like a bird. 

I want to fly away. 

Don't know where I'm going

Don't know where my home is... 

These lyrics told me that Miss Furtado had never been exposed (or at least appreciated) to the fine work of Ginsburg, but what they said was something. The poor thing was lost in the Vancouver Wilderness. She didn't know where her little life was headed but she knew for a fact that she wasn't yet satisfied. The insatiable longing, the search for that intangible something lurked deep within her. She knew this. I knew this. As a 8th or 10th or 12th grade boy I knew that Nelly was going through. She didn't know who she was, but danggummit she wanted to find out. 

At this juncture who could fathom a guess as to what was out there? Did triumphs lurk? Would a centaur someday run for president? The world could've been just about anything. You and me Nelly. You and me. We wanted to find out together. I'm not saying we were lovers. I never even crushed on Miss Furtado but I do know that we were on a similar journey. We wanted to spelunk. We dared to explore. I must warn that this is mere conjecture, though I presume that seems obvious. I guess the gist I'm getting at, is that at one point in the way back machine, that Nelly Furtado meant something. 

A Timbaland/Nelly/Justin remix came on swirled around in Enya's Orinoco Flow. I have to admit that the song has a beautiful effect. It makes me want more. It makes me believe. But this is only because I never listen to lyrics. Upon taking a closer listen I am appalled at the state that has overtaken my Darling Nikki. 

Nelly: I'm a supermodel...

I love my ass and my abs.

*CUE ENYA*

Nelly has gone and found herself a good dose of self esteem. This sex fueled pop has driven her record (well downloads) sales higher, they have taken the bite out of Furtado. 

Other people have recognized her. They paid credence to her charms. For some this would lead to an artistic renaissance. For others it would lead to self esteem. I surmise that this is the case of one Nelly Furtado. I should have seen it coming when she name dropped Steve Nash. I should have known it for a fact when she released "Promiscuous". I didn't see or know either. I bought into Nelly as a poor, sensitive soul. What I didn't count on was that Nelly was an average girl with below average self esteem. 

Given the gifts of this world, Nelly has reverted to the most lackluster of forms. Body image issues solved by dollars and attention, she has chosen to sing the praises of her physical form and little else. I will acknowledge her beauty but there was so much more.  It is a shame to see someone so resonant in their insecurity become suddenly confident. The results can be disastrous. 

As it currently stands, Nelly is a bona-fide pop star. While this exalts her, while this lifts her to the precipice of singing the Canadian National Anthem before NBA All-Star games it makes her mean absolutely nothing to me. 

Get Up With The Get Down Or Get Down

I have never eaten so much ice cream as I have in the past week. What began as the innocent purchase of a 6-Pack of Ice Cream Sandwiches has snowballed (or should I say ice cream balled) into a slew of socials and Neapolitan Nightmares. Ice Cream isn't powerful. That's why it melts. It is too weak! At least that's what I thought before the week began.

Tuesday 11:30 am 

Class gives a much warranted break from regularly scheduled activities. The break probably isn't that oriented, but it is to me. I am disinterested in school and sort of a bitch as a result. No complaint is too small. "That class sucks. The teacher wears too much green." 

I have a three hour class that is vital to graduation. I spend the entire time thinking about what food I should eat for lunch. I can feel my brain getting smarter the whole while. I consider a Little Caesar's Pizza, Hamburger Helper, and a home made Shrimp Salad Sandwich. I know I'll only have an hour to eat so I'll have to hustle. I decide on a simple breakfast inspired by a picture in my French Textbook. Fried Eggs and Tomato in Garlic. The French word for garlic is l'ail. 

I pick up the ingredients from a local Mexican Grocery store. 

This post isn't going anywhere. My writing has been shitty for weeks. I'll owe 75k in loans, I can't stop being mean, and the NBA is the most important thing in my life. My life is in flux at best and terribly misguided at worst, and I'm analyzing my ice cream habit. I don't feel this. 

These words don't need to be said. 

Something must be wrong with me. 

I'm eating frozen cookie dough because we're out of ice cream. 

Fun With Quotes and Other Such Trivialities So Commonly Associated With The Islands Of The South Pacific And Other Environs Of The World, These Enviro

That's as long as you're allowed to make a title. Thank God for limits. I was liable to go on forever and wash my life away in the pursuit of writing the world's longest title. Readers of Guiness Literature would know my name and fame, but no one else would give a fuck. Days would wilt into this bullshit smidge of making the world's longest title.

Besides, writing the world's longest title would prevent me from writing the world's shortest book that doesn't rely on the gimmick of being the world's shortest book for it's quality.

What constitutes a big news day in the world of Professional Golf? For how popular professional golf (it don't deserve capitals) seemingly is, I never hear about in common circles. Maybe I spend too much time in diamond mines but I have the hypothesis that no one actually cares about the game. (This isn't a knock on the quality. I knock it so often for so many other things. Twain's quote was just the tip of the ice berg.)

For me to talk about professional golf someone would have to die. Perhaps almost dying would suffice. I know I talked about hockey today for the first time in years. 

My room mate just bought two giant remote controls. We already own a pair of giant remote controls. I venture to guess that these are bigger. 

I would like to get stoned and watch "You've Got Mail"

Super Bowl Hangover

This philosophy bites back. Jilted by jeers, it rears it's ugly head and proves that things can be good.

If you put a seashell up to a microphone, you can still hear the ocean. Screw the jive about the sound coming because of blood rushing to your ears. I know the truth. You can hear the sound because magic is every where!

Jim Zorn is the new Head Coach of the Washington Redskins. This move caused many pundits to scratch their heads in confusion. It caused me to resume my long forgotten leather fetish. Who cares about football more, eh?

Going to Paris? You should totally sleep on this guy's floor I know.

Super Bowl LXII; A Review

The most amazing Super Bowl I've ever seen.

I'm at Chuck's house.  In the middle of Montana.  Watching the game with him, Curtis Granderson, and Julian Tavares (middle relief pitcher extraordinaire).  I'd expected to be bored today so I was planning on live blogging the whole game.  It ended up being awesome though, so I couldn't really tear my attention away from the television.  Plus Tom Petty and his log cabin blew my mind at half time.  Well not really Tom, but his log cabin sure as fuck did.  But yeah I was planning on writing snarky remarks through out the game, but then it was good.  So I didn't.

I am so happy.

You know whose sassy?  The Giants.  But not the San Francisco ones.

Yeah... You're Fucking Complicated

Big Homeless is not a man of the street, he's a man of the people. Growing up and out in the realm of Academia, he was considered a prodigy of Psychology for his unorthodox approach and strange methodology. Such praise allowed Big Homeless endless access to grant money, prestigious graduate assistant jobs, and a slew of other scholastic treats. Such was the golden path for Big Homeless, but things got hard upon graduation. His idiosyncratic practices were lost on his therapy subjects. They didn't want to know why they wore green, only wanting to know why they wanted to cut themselves. Such normalcies didn't interest Big Homeless. He went out, abandoned traditional practices, and became America's first street psychologist. Here are some of his prophecies.

Greetings ya'll hope your Saturday is swimming and that your life is good on all accounts. Hope life don't have you too down, and that you have yet to invest too much in this year's Oscar Season. Even Momma knows that it'll be Daniel Day's Day.

Since this is our first meeting, let's lay down the basics. I live in Los Angeles. Despite the moniker I am not homeless. I have a great apartment near La Brea that I am rarely at. I sleep there for six hours a day, four hours a week. The 1400 a month is nothing to me. It's enough to for a decent bed given my advantages. The rest of the time I am, well, out there, living life and giving my chosen spiel to the world. That's how it goes sometimes and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Yesterday was a fruitful one. I had some observations that are mine and mine alone. Let me share them with you and make these observations open source.

Observation 1.

My broheim, let's call him Bick, was joining me and our mutual friend Sergei for a Thai Food Dinner. We like the place. We want to become regulars at Mae Plot. The waiter, Sid, is a scamp. They unapologetically mess up orders. The Mongolian Beef is delicious and they show Laker Games on plasma. What more can you want? All desirable aspects of life are wrapped up in a neatly wrapped package for our consumption.

On the way there, Bick was a little car sick. We thought Bick might puke so we slowed and he discussed Ken Griffey Jr before moving onto his advanced opinions of Thai Food. Bick had this to say about Los Angeles's fine array of Thai Food. "The Thai Food is good here but for my money it can not compare to the Thai Food in Michigan."

The superiority of Michigan's Thai Food is tangible to Bick. He believes it with every iota of his soul and cites it as the greatest Thai Food that has ever, or will ever, come to exist. These notions are filled with fallacies. As a young buck, reared outside Detroit, Bick tasted Thai for the first time. It blew his mind. Not only was it a new kind of cuisine, but it lay the template for any Thai Food he would ever taste. Although it is decent Thai Food in a worldly sense, to Bick it is incredible, the only Thai Food worth eating. It established what Thai Food would or should be, becoming the measuring stick and the only true testament to Thai Cuisine.

Though this can make a restaurant better, it is a trap. Depriving Bick of other Thai Food greatness and making him long for not only the tastes of home but for the Michigan experience as a whole. It should come as no surprise that Bick has taken his lumps in adjusting to a new environ. The world (and Thai food) still reside in Michigan.

Also, Bick has a long distance girl friend he loves a lot. Such an exaltation can turn any shit Thai Food into greatness.

Observation 2

As a bit of irony, I was sober at 11pm and ended up being the designated driver on a run to McDonald's for two friends let's call them Rock and Theidi. They were so belligerent in their fun time that they were willing to take a ride in my car. It is the pure definition of Jalopy. It lacks a bumber. It is filled with leaves. The only redemptive quality is that it has a portrait of Richard Nixon in the back seat. This portrait is good for anything, and so often everything. it is the lifeblood of my vehicular enjoyment.

In the drive through of McDonald's we began to joke about the painting. Being drunk as they were they engaged in screaming fits. Getting three milk shakes was never so hard. An adequate adventure we found ourselves lost in our moment of little insignificance, causing the world to close and boundaries to fall.

Theidi looked at the portrait of Richard Nixon and called it "Ronald Nixon". the power of McDonald's and the scope of our experience snuck into her mind and dissolved any distinction between the McDonald's experience (and thus the exploits of Ronald McDonald) and our late embattled president Richard Nixon. This gave birth to a hybrid of Politics and fast food culture.

All I can say is Hamburglar Clinton in 2008.

This is Big Homeless signing out. Hope to see you out there.

"I want to fuck a midget but my dick's too small."
-Charles Stratton, US Army

USA

"The only way I would vote for Hillary is if she went down and played my cornhole."
-Charles Stratton, US Soldier