After boxing last night, I stopped to fuel up my Toyota. I had changed back into my street clothes (bluejeans, white t, cowboy boots) and thrown on a jacket to fend off the brisk evening air. I went through the standard motions at the pump: sliding my card, selecting "yes" for receipt, selecting the grade, tasting the gasoline, putting the nozzle between my legs and delicately but intimately penetrating my car's freshly uncorked gas-orifice-hole while emitting a faint moan... You know, the typical things EVERYONE does when they fill their tank.
You should see me refill the radiator...
After topping off my car, I gently pulled out the still-dripping nozzle while sweetly whispering "I love you, baby" to my car, then climbed back behind the wheel and noted my mileage on the receipt. Placing the receipt in a huge pile of its brethren (I'll update my MPG spreadsheet one day, I swear to Thor), I dropped into gear and got on the road.
Something was wrong.
At first I thought perhaps it was bad gasoline. About fifteen years ago, the same purveyor had a large batch of bunk petroleum that caused fuel pump failures in almost every car that so much as drove past the place. But the chain-store's reputation paid a heavy price from that incident, and they have had an overly paranoid quality control unit ever since. So the only bad gas in my car was probably the result of my dinner (bangers & mash). [Man, those obvious, low-hanging-fruit jokes are always the best.]
My next thought was that I needed to check Toyota's recall list once again to see if perhaps my make and model had been recently added. I guess it could happen, however unlikely, that my accelerator would suddenly develop problems after so many years and untold thousands of miles of trouble-free operation. It was possible, if not plausible.
The more I analyzed the "something is wrong" feeling, the more I began to realize that it WAS the accelerator. It was immediately popping up when I raised my foot, no matter how quickly I pulled it away. "Holy crap, my car has design flaws that have proven fatal in some instances. It's late, I'm tired, and now I'm running the risk of becoming another statistic in a massive recall campaign." My brain went from sleepy to panicked in a hurry as I contemplated my options. "Man, it's almost like the accelerator is stuck to my boot!"
Then I tried to move my boot left and right across the gas pedal. It would not budge.
Goddammit.
I stepped in gum.
... ... ... ...
But maybe that's just the fix that Toyota needs for their accelerator issues: A stick of Juicy Fruit on the soles of your kicks - problem solved.
No one told me. Seriously. I thought what I was doing was in the best interest of everyone.
You see, I have a dirty mind and a crass mouth, and a hard time reining in either one. It's not really a secret, and I make no apologies for the abominations generated by my head. And, I can still see how it could easily offend some people. In fact, sometimes that's the point.
Like how my mind instantly converts "Slippery When Wet" into
the FAR more hilarious expression "Shit And Fall Back In It."
Yet I assure you, I was looking out for the delicate feelings of faceless, nameless people when I told Blogger I wanted to enable their Adult Content Warning. "This will be great," I told myself. "I won't have to apologize to nuns or justify myself in front of a federal judge or listen to crying kids tell me how I 'made baby Jesus cry'. Perfect solution."
And so I selected the option in my settings window and never gave it another thought...
Until today. Today I decided to "View Blog" and then (after clicking through the Adult Content thing) start clicking on "Next Blog" just to see what other interesting blogs I could dig up. It's a maneuver I try about twice a year in order to see what the other random prisoners of Blogger are up to, leave a few non-sequitur comments, and try to milk a slightly less pathetic number of followers (to no avail).
Four of the first five sites I visited using the above method were exclusively devoted to spanking and leather (not either, both). The fifth was just pictures of naked women from India. Now, whether or not these sites made me uncomfortable or became instantly bookmarked is beside the point. The point is, Blogger now assumes that I'm into some kinky-sex-tricks without my specifically and directly informing Blogger that if I am.
Actually, I suppose that's not entirely true. There are a number of possible explanations for my adventures through assland.
The first is that everyone except Captain Paddle And The Bare Assed Bandits abandoned Blogger in favor of some other venue. Judging by the amount of complaining I hear from bloggers about Blogger for its free and functional service, that is an equally sad and real possibility. People will complain about any damn thing if you give them enough time."These free and flawless diamonds just don't sparkle much on cloudy days. They must be shitty." Still, it seems unlikely that everyone just up and left one afternoon.
A second possibility is that when I enabled the Adult Content Warning, Blogger instantly assumed I was uploading photos of my weirdly half-shaved, half-tattooed crotch. Here again, I can see the inclination to stereotype anyone using the Adult Content Warning as a pierced fecalphile; there are a lot of freaks out there, and grouping them together helps maintain order in society. However, just because I use words like "cockshits" or "dickbeard" it doesn't make me a gimp-rubber (someone who rubs gimps, not a substance extracted and vulcanized from gimps).
Third, I've been assigning choice labels/tags to a few of my posts, and perhaps that controls the direction in which the Next Blog button points me. I've decided to test that theory by including some choice labels in this very post. I'll put on a white lab coat later, and analyze the results.
Finally, the most chilling thought is that before Google/Blogger sends me on my Next Blog journey, it first scans through my previous posts and picks out keywords and themes in order to give itself some direction. Which would indicate that there is an algorithm out there stained black by my barely-coherent, half-drunk rantings...
So when SkyNet becomes sentient in 2016, the first things it may seek out are butt beads and Pabst.
"I need Sarah Connor and a tube of lube."
Anyway, that's why I've disabled the Adult Content Warning again. And just in time for this lovely post.
In case someone has not already informed you, music totally kicks ass. Even the music that you don't like kicks ass. It may not kick YOUR ass, but then, this world isn't all about you. So stop being such a self-centered a-hole all the time. Jeez.
For example, while personally I might find the music of Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson or John Mayer to be limper than a transvestite's cock at the Playboy Mansion, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of women* out there who frequently finger their bean to the dulcet tones of this lifeless strain of acoustic adult contemporary vomit. Some people like it, some don't. I'm squarely in the "don't" camp. I like my music to fall to either side of that genre: slower and more mournful or faster with some growl and some teeth. I'm convinced that the Mayer Matthnson Band's music is what the house band plays in the musically flaccid limbo of weak-sauce purgatory, probably while everyone eats vanilla yogurt and stares into their cell phones. I can't help but think that this music is the "adult" equivalent of the Jonas Brothers; easily packaged lowest common denominator garbage. Anytime I catch a track from one of those artists, I find stirring within myself feelings that usually culminate with a huge yawn or a moderate dump.
(*Note: clearly the men who willingly listen to those artists have gaping manginas.)
But I will allow that there are people who are fans of that style of music and musician, a few of whom may even be regularly sober. It takes diff'rent strokes to move the world, Willis. Yes it does.
But just like "it's not all about you" it's also not all about me either. Except ... this is MY blog, so I guess it is all about me. So let's talk about a few songs that I like. And by "talk", I mean I'll write words, and then you'll read them.
... ... ...
Besides the ludicrous uptick in new and never used gym memberships, the dawn of the new year is also remarkable due to the engulfing flood of music blogs posting their "best of the year" collections. As such, it's a fine time to go catch up on the cream of the previous year.
Here are two of my favorites from 2009. One is by the son of actor Anthony Perkins, but totally reminds me of a dylan/springsteen/costello hybrid (in a good way) instead of Norman Bates.
The other is by a recently deceased supporter of my new favorite charity, Sweet Relief. I'm kinda bummed I didn't get into this guy until after he died.
Although both of these songs are written from a personal perspective, they approach the subject death in two strikingly different ways.
One is an upbeat, flippant-attitude, horn-heavy, toe-tapping good time (once it gets going). It is an overwhelmingly positive song that somehow gives a light feel to a very heavy topic. I'm not sure if it looks at death through the lens of naivete, or is just too damn positive to let even death kill the mood.
The other seems a good deal more personal, and (to me) therefore a bit more moving. When he sings about cancer and his mother, Vic Chesnutt pours out so much of himself that he actually makes me want to punch Death square in the cock-knuckle.
Oh, and not like you could tell from listening to that track, but Mr. Chesnutt was paralyzed from the waist down at age 18 in an accident that left him with limited use of his hands. That was in the early eighties, about six or seven years BEFORE he cut his first album. Looks like Vic grabbed Adversity by both balls and then slapped it around until it became his servant.
Kinda makes me feel like a mangina owner myself, considering what a total hack I am even with my two perfectly functional hands.
Anyhow, there's some music fo yo ass. Now you can get back to whatever self-involved thing you were doing before you foolishly surfed here.
Ever since I started writing in primary school, instructors have always advised me to know my audience, and write with them in mind. That's why I composed this post specifically for Blogger, a well-known and favored outlet for literate women with still-nested children and a penchant for some thing called etsy. Because really, what better audience or target demographic exists that could so easily relate to my previous weekend's activities?
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I was invited by some friends to a hunting cabin for a long weekend. Leaving early Friday morning, we drove out to the exact middle of nowhere, as pavement turned to gravel road turned to dirt road turned to trail, before finally devolving into just a pair of muddy ruts with two-foot tall saplings growing between them. Somewhere between dirt road and trail, the beer drinking began in earnest.
Though comprised exclusively of mud, this is still considered a "dirt" road. I can confidently classify it as "dirt" because I am holding a camera, not a beer.
After a few miles of tooth-rattling off-roading, we arrived at the cabin. From there, we proceeded to act like Anti-ATF Agents (the other Triple-A): Drinking copious amounts of beer, smoking ignorant amounts of tobacco, and firing MANY hundreds of rounds through a variety of firearms.
Sadly, this wasn't one of the guns.
I got to fire a sniper rifle this weekend. You know, those guns you always see in movies where some cop is on a rooftop with his cap on backwards while his lieutenant barks "as soon as you have a clear shot, TAKE HIM OUT!" through his headset. Yeah, one of those guns. What's more, the fellow camper that was instructing me on its use was an over-qualified professional with the weapon due to his exacting employment requirements. He showed me how to work the stabilizing sandbag that rests under the butt of the rifle (the more you squeeze, the further down it aims). It was super-cool. I killed a bearmountain lionwolf beer can from sixty yards out. I was pretty impressed with myself ... until he showed me how accurate he was at six hundred yards. Then he asked me if I needed a diaper change before I laid down for nappy-time.
Figure 3.7: a professional's perception of Krëg's firearms mastery.
I also got to fire a World War II-era Australian-made bolt action British 303, the recoil from which almost knocked me into the next county.
"He was last seen holding an Enfield rifle in one hand, a Pabst in the other, and flying ass-first towards Texas...."
The 303 was a solid weapon, and fired like a dream. I couldn't help but imagine I was plugging Nazis while squeezing the trigger. Blow ze heads off ze Germanz! Ja! Gut! But at a little over $2.50 per bullet, the owner was NOT enthusiastically handing out ammunition. So quite a few of the imaginary Nazis escaped to imaginary Argentina.
Other fine firearms I fired included a shotgun, a Beretta nine, and a Wather 22. It was speculated that the only sure way to shoot at and hit a beer car with a 22 caliber pistol is to hold the pistol firmly in your right hand and look squarely down the sights at the beer can target in your left hand.
But the camp "party" gun was the GSG 5, a semi-auto 22 with an expansive clip and a holographic sight.
Similar to this, except wielded by drunks.
Firing tiny .22 caliber bullets from a 22-shot clip as fast as you can pull the trigger, this little number is to straight adult males what the Red Ryder BB Gun was to Ralphie Parker. Except if you shoot your eye out with this thing, your brains go with it. Also, your mom isn't Melinda Dillon. Unlike pistols of the same caliber, this gun is actually capable of hitting a target further than ten feet out, and unlike rifles of a higher caliber, you won't go broke pulling the trigger.
This past weekend, the beer cans knew no end to their torment, as we would ritualistically rip their heads off, suck out their precious innards, and hang their empty husks on a nearby bush. Then we'd fill them full of holes. You'd probably think that we'd have grown bored of this rather quickly, but you'd only think that because you probably don't have a penis. It was fun on a bun.
It's been a little too long since I've spent much time away from an urban area, and I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. The campfire, the bedroll, the nickel-ante poker, the few dozen beers... [wistful sigh] As a bonus, we were able to gloat to the people back in town what lovely February weather we had. My hometown was shivering at around 40°F and blanketed with rain and gray skies. We wound up on the lucky side of the weekend cold front, as while we experienced a brief downpour Sunday morning, the temperature hovered around sixty, and the sun made things feel even warmer.
Who knew that the iPhone was good for something other than expressing your pretentiousness. Click this bad boy photo for panoramic goodness.
With all that drinking and smoking and shooting things and burning things, you'd think I spent the weekend at the cabin running a high risk of injury. And you'd be right. But oddly enough, the riskiest situation I was involved in all weekend occurred after we left camp and were back on blacktop.
I was riding in that red truck in front of which I am standing in the above photo, and my bedroll (fartsack!) and pillow were crammed into a garbage bag in the truck bed. Shortly after turning onto Highway 69 and blasting north out of Stringtown, we passed the prison. I had consumed a few (five) beers on the way out from camp (on private property only) because I didn't have to drive and I didn't want want those beers to get lonely in the back of the truck. So of course, my bedroll and pillow wait until the LEAST opportune moment to vacate the truckbed and onto 69. Even with the sober driver's lightning reflexes, we still rolled a good eighth of a mile further than my displaced gear. So piss drunk and filthy, wearing a jacket akin to John Rambo's in the movie with the same surname, I stumble down the breakdown lane to get my trashbag full of sleeping accoutrements. I sling it over my shoulder and proceed back towards the pickup. Only then do I notice a sign halfway between the truck an myself that issues a warning to motorists.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.
Also at this point, I notice that the weather has turned cold, gray, and windy, and that I REALLY need to pee. I was pretty sure that running to the truck would only arouse suspicion of any watching authorities, so I tried to remain calm while steeling myself against the brisk north wind.
When I got back to the truck and stowed my bag, my pilot only had one sentence for me: "I never took the truck out of gear, because I was sure the heat was going to show up and haul you in."
... ... ... ...
Three quotes overheard at camp: "I'd suck a fart straight out of her ass." (referring to a beautiful actress) "I've drank so much beer I could shit through a screen door." (referring to ... well you get the picture with this one) "My last three farts had beer head on them." (Come to think of it, I'm not sure we had any conversations that didn't reference beer or farts. I may have even had one heated discussion that consisted solely of pop-top noises, belches, and flatulence.)
Two jokes overheard at camp: funny Q: How many Hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb? A: It's a really obscure number that you've probably never heard of... and sick Q: What is so awesome about getting 14 year-old boys into the shower? A: When you slick their hair back, they look like they're eleven.
Here's some campfire for you (smell and heat not included).
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Next time I'll remember to update Twitter when I'm out of town. No wait. No I won't. ____________________________________________
When Gary coyly asked his wife for meatsleeves, she totally misunderstood.
I have a massive band-crush on Spoon. It's not a new thing. I've had it about eleven or twelve years, ever since a friend pushed A Series Of Sneaks under my nose. Their new album, Transference, dropped last week, maybe the week before (or several). It is one of their better albums to date, although a bit messier and without some of the studio polish which they regularly wield like a weapon. The low-fi sound, abrupt starts and ends, and smeared vocals all add up to a positive sum and leads to a good end. It's deliberately messy, and it works.
It took me a few (seven) listens through the entire album to isolate my favorite track. At first I thought it was Out Go The Lights, for the singular reason that it contained the lyric "You became like that on which your heart was fixed," one of the most ass-wrecking lines I've heard in a while. The songwriter in me is jealous of that lyric, mostly because it accurately describes the life paths of MANY of my friends, and possibly even my own. But that song also gave me a Coldplay vibe, which is a total non-starter. So it was removed from contention along with The Mystery Zone, with it's drums and bass counter-punctuating each other to create an infectious rhythm. Ultimately, I've settled on Trouble Come Running as my favorite, because of its tempo and ability to kick shit from wall to wall. I'd post a link to it, but I can't seem to find one. So go buy the album and listen for yourself.
A friend in town for NYE tested out his new camera on myself and friends. Considering how drunk everyone was, I'm surprised ANY photos came out as anything more than blurry abominations. Have a good weekend.
People have seen the image of Christ in everything from fridge mold to French toast to the shroud of Turin.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
In order to illustrate my point for a childish email argument earlier this week, I ran an image search on Google for the phrase "Jesus Puppy".
I was surprised by the wide variety of the results.
They ranged from oddball crackpottery
To aesthetically nauseating
To slightly amusing
There were even a few cute ones
But NOTHING quite as remarkable as the image of Jesus that one day appeared on a puppy. It must be the result of the Lord's divine intervention, as a symbol for us all to have faith in him.
Pictured: Finally! Evidence of God's divine, compassionate presence.
Or maybe it's just a dog's ass.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
People need to get a grip, and quit looking for "proof" or "evidence" of God. Belief doesn't work that way; science does. For all of science's proof and evidence and hard facts, when it comes down to base motivators for human action, it cannot trump the power of belief.
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Friday, on the property where I work there was a curious sight. A curious sight indeed.
"What the hell is that? A rug?" asks a coworker as we drive back from securing our mid-morning meals of sausage rolls and caffeine something healthy that all the cool kids are eating/drinking. He points to what looked like a small piece of dingy, cut-up carpet.
"Looks like a dog or something, curled up on that gravel pile," I reply as I drive through the parking lot.
"Holy shit, that's a coyote!" he responds.
"Bullshit. It looks too fat. Plus it's not covered in ACME products," says I.
"All right pull in. We'll walk over there and check it out," retorts the coworker.
In response to this comment, about four or five different thoughts jammed up in a synaptic cranial bottleneck all at once, much like that three stooges gag where they all try to walk through a doorway together. Fortunately, one mental image trumped the rest:
...And his last words were: "We'll walk over there and check it out."
My car's tires squealed a bit as I made a sudden, impulsive turn.
"Are you totally high, or just want rabies? Tell you what, we'll just drive over there, since Toyota Avalons are coyote-proof, and denim is only coyote-resistant. Whatdya think?"
"Solid plan," agrees the coworker.
So I edge my vehicle in close to get a better look at the animal. When I get within about thirty feet, the animal unfurls and stands up on super-long legs. While not exactly baring teeth, the coyote did pace back and forth atop the mound. Telltale ACME products must have been hidden in the gravel.
"See! I told you it was a coyote," crowed the coworker.
"Yes. Congratulations. And now we've not only awakened it, but apparently we've also pissed it off. Plus, I'm sure to the hyper-sensitive nose of that mammal-hunter, we both smell like giant sausage rolls."
"Shit," repeated the coworker.
"At least I can run faster than you."
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Coyotes are one of the most resilient mammals in nature, and have little trouble adapting to the very unnatural world of humans.
It's been suggested that I break up my massive, multi-topic posts into MANY smaller posts. So I'll try that for a minute and see how it goes. Here's one of my first.
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Don't go to Steve's House. Ever. It looks like the kind of place that will play host to cops unearthing corpses in another ten years. Seriously, that guy has some kinda fierce compulsive hoarding disorder. A disorder that might include hoarding human bones. Fresh human bones. You've been warned.
But hey ladies, he's single and a homeowner. What more could you really want?
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I told the woman I've been dating that I don't listen to the radio, and haven't listened in years. She sent me a text regarding Fred Flintstone and making a bed rock, and cited the radio and a guy named Lil Wayne. She was pointing out what I was missing by avoiding the radio, albeit in a cheeky fashion. She also mentioned that all the good lyrics have already been taken, which is a sentiment the songwriter in me does not share.
So, I'm wondering if I should tell her that in spite of my sanctions against broadcast radio, I'm already a Lil Wayne fan? Or just keep secretly pumping Shooter through my cans and clandestinely shaking my ass?
What do you think? Could Lil Wayne fandom be a deal-breaker?
"I turned around, I was staring at chrome (hello)"
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According to Google, today is the birthday of Norman Rockwell.
I used to think that Mr. Rockwell's paintings were overly contrived, with about four extra tablespoons schmaltz and nostalgia than ANY recipe ever called for.
I thought that for a long, long time.
Also, those little pricks at grandpa's right elbow are about to start some shit. Backhand those twerps!
It just always seemed like things were a bit too posed in his paintings. Almost fake.
... ... ... ...
My grandmother (father's mother) will be ninety this April. Born in 1920 (in case you can't do math), she's a tough lady with an even temper and an endless supply of patience. She has had the experience of seeing her corner of the world turn from agrarian to mechanized, and lived through some of the more interesting chapters of twentieth century history (including Oklahoma's depression-era dustbowl). I can't help but reflect upon how many advances mankind has made since my grandmother was a child: splitting the atom, walking on the moon, curing polio, eradicating malaria, national highway projects, radio, television, computers, advances in medicine, civil rights, and women's lib, breaking the sound barrier, 911 service, color photography...the list goes on forever. The advances of my generation (and subsequent generations) don't really look that impressive by comparison, and seem to serve only individual selfish purposes rather than humanity's greater good. (Got cancer or AIDS? There's an iPhone app for that! ... But no cure.)
In preparation for my grandma's upcoming birthday, the immediate family (all 20+ of us) are pulling out all the stops, and our current guest list for the event is only slightly smaller than the 400 or so blood relatives who came out to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of my great grandfather's purchase of the family farm in 1898.
Fourth from left: Sweetest old lady in the world
Third from left: Some asshole blogger
My contribution (chosen for me by less tech-savvy relatives) for the party is to sift through photographs and compile a photo/video DVD as a keepsake for attendees.
And actually, most of the photos come pre-"sifted" from my other relatives, as NO ONE wants to scan and email their ENTIRE library of photo albums. So I'm only getting the relevant and most cherry of all the photos.
Like this one. Notice how well behaved children were when they were regularly beaten.
... ... ... ...
A few things keep popping into my head as I pour through the photos....
The first is what a spoiled little bitch I am. My dad spent his second (and possibly third) year of life literally living in a chicken coop, because the lumber (and ALL other building materials) from the old farmhouse were taken apart to be used in the new farmhouse. So he spent a year and a half living in drafty makeshift quarters in the middle of the windy plains. DHS was NOT called in response to these living conditions, and not just because they had no phone service out in the country. Mainly no one dropped the DHS hammer because the living conditions were not considered unusual for the area at the time. Contrast that against what gets people in a twist these days, and I think you'll agree we've all become a lot softer over the past few generations.
I think the worst scenario I've ever had to endure was when my electricity was out for a week after an ice storm. It is relevant to note that my grandmother went without power for a week and a half during that exact same storm. So she even proved herself as more of a hard ass than I in a head-to-head challenge.
NOT PICTURED: Sissified whining cowardly wimps.
Another thought is that I have a pretty long family history, and that history has only recently intrigued me. I should take a week off work, plan a lengthy visit, and soak up every last tale my beloved grandmother has the inclination and energy to share. Because while "Joseph beget Mathias beget Henry beget Mathias beget Krëg" is good to know, it lacks the colorful details that make it more than just my lineage, more than just branches on my family tree. There are things I'd like to know, blanks I'd like filled in.
... Like where my granddad got his pimpin clothes.
Seriously, where can I get some fly-ass suits like that?
Ok, so maybe I don't want to know EVERYTHING...
Finally, I've decided that while they are overly nostalgic and schmaltzy, perhaps Norman Rockwell's paintings weren't quite so posed after all. From the photos I've been sent, it appears that's how people actually behaved before the hydra of mass media began trading us fear in return for our own independent thoughts, judgments, and emotions.
"Shit! Look out! Terrorists and Swine Flu! Hide! ... Oh wait. I forgot. We DON'T panic about over-hyped crap."
"Damn straight. Pass the catsup, miss bad-ass."
If that's the case, modern society got ripped off. It seems we traded character, camaraderie, and resourcefulness for mass-produced shiny baubles and blindly following the messages of our favorite talking heads. Perhaps the technology that we praise for connecting us has also taught us that we no longer need to look people in the eye while communicating, and that the act of texting "xox-hugs-xox lol" is an acceptable substitute for the real thing. Our newest and best technological distractions seemingly only disrupt opportunities for REAL connections, and while they plug us in to a vast world of communication possibilities, they seem to leave us increasingly isolated from our immediate communities.
After looking through piles (albeit digital piles) of old photos, Mr. Rockwell's paintings don't seem quite so posed and fake.
...And this past week I learned a valuable lesson: Sometimes it is best to listen to your friends.
When my friends initially told me not to watch pornography on a high-def screen, I thought they were just being cowards. "Surely," I thought to myself, "clearer, crisper picture will make ANY viewing experience better. Especially naked women being hammered by hairy trolls with horse-cocks." And I never stopped to consider that perhaps my friends were speaking from experience; that maybe they were trying to share their wisdom and spare my anguish. If I had only taken a moment to look into the frightened and bewildered eyes of my friends as they tried to warn me...
What a fool I was.
In stage and television, the fourth wall is ever-present. Some productions will poke at the fourth wall for humorous effect, but most have the good sense not to disturb the magic with which they've enchanted their audiences. High-def is making this more difficult, as the realism of the images get ever-closer to their real-world equivalents. And while high-def may be cool for some entertainment like Austin City Limits or CSI: Miami, it is less so for sweaty favorites like Justin's Titty Limits or CSI: MyAnus. As the fourth wall begins to fall away, never have I so deeply longed for a piece of glass to separate me from the greasy action. I didn't realize how safe it made me feel.
Imagine an entire person's body that looked like Edward James Olmos's face. Now image that person locked in coitus and writhing. NOT hot. Now imagine that they look SO real, that you could swear they were in the room with you. Seriously, I spent about 75% of my brain being teased and stimulated by the porno, and the other 25% wondering if the high-def images might somehow be giving my coffee table some hyper-virulant strain of herpes. (Okay, maybe it was more like 98% to 2%, but that is STILL too much "non-porn" thinking to be doing while watching porn)
If this story has a moral (and it DOESN'T, I promise), it is this: High-def pornography - Don't do it.
Happy 2010 to all of my friends and loved ones! And to you too!
Today is/was the shortest day of the year. I hope you celebrated as I did; by shaking your fist at the sun and calling it a coward.
In observance of this day, here's a grab bag of random musings that never quite made it to the 'post' button.
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I. Fucking. Knew. It. Seriously. This news comes as a shock only to morons.
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Bobby Bare Jr. is just one of the many fine reasons I need to schedule a trip to Austin for SXSW within the next few years.
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After owning a cell phone for almost an entire year, I remain nonplussed with the technology. Not that I don't think it's great that the technology works in ways we could have only dreamed about even a mere fifteen years ago, or that people around the world are finding it easier to communicate. But somehow this human achievement seems like building the Taj Mahal, only to fill it level-full with excrement. Millions and millions of people, all chattering away like magpies on crack, but never really doing much other than recycling information to each other. 56 channels and nothing on.
And I feel as if I'm just left with another damn thing I have to cram into my pocket every morning.
And don't even get me started about texting.
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I'm still unimpressed with Facebook. So unimpressed that it seems the only time I'm ever there is to verify the occasional friend request. Apparently there are community groups and games and applications for the site. But since I can't get into the virtual fun of farm mafias, nor milk a sense of community from the glowing, rectangular chunk of plastic I call a monitor, those cherries don't hold much flavor. But I suppose it's just as useful of a social tool for not giving a shit about people as my current one. Although, I could argue that my current method of not giving a shit requires no electricity and has zero carbon footprint. That's right, my ambivalence has gone green.
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And while I'm on the topic of flash-in-the-pan trends of the moment, I finally had a funny idea for Twitter account that wasn't already taken and then ruined. So now my penis has a twitter page. I know ultimately, it will prove to be too exciting for you to ignore.
I would make an impassioned plea for y'all to please stop using Twitter. That plea would include points like Twitter is not for mature, grown adults; it's for vacuous tween girls. I would argue that it's for people who would rather stare droolingly at their phones like lobotomized apes than actually notice (much less interact with) the world immediately in front of them.
I would even point out that mutha-humpin' RETAILOUTLETS now post updates on the service, and yet no one in their right mind would ever ask Sears to CALL them every time they updated a sale in their lawn care center:
"Hi! This is Skip over at A.V. & S. phone services, and I just wanted to let you know that we're having a 35% off sale on everything in our store for the next twelve minutes!"
"How did you get this number, Skip?!? And why do you keep calling every half hour?"
"Mention this phone call and get an additional 5% off any purchase over $57.00"
"What? Stop calling me! I only wanted to know about that one sale on wireless headsets ONCE, like three years ago, but you still call incessantly! I hate you Skip!"
"A.V. & S. wants to make this a Christmas to remember."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh......." [self-inflicted gunshot sounds]
But I can't argue any of that, because twitter is now finally home to the musings of my penis, in all of it's vascular and single-minded glory.
Do yourself a favor. Take a look at the last five tweets that you received. Was it worth it? Did it make your life any more precious or memorable? Is your life fuller as a result?
The answer can only be "yes" if one (or more) of those five tweets came from my johnson.
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So, when a primate goes mam-grabbing, everything's cool. Smile-for-the-camera-style cool. But god forbid if I should try something that bold, suddenly I'm testing the effectiveness of pepper spray. Lousy chimp/human double standards.
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I'm getting to be quite the artist with this stuff. Although I sometimes still "color" outside the lines...
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I was cooking dinner for some friends a few evenings past, and as I cooked, I learned some new things.
It was an Asian curry dish that required coconut milk, an ingredient I had never used before. In addition to being incredibly unhealthy, it turns out that coconut milk is also overpriced and hard to locate in the grocery store (ie. not in the 'bachelor' heat-and-eat section). Yet in spite of all that, it still tastes totally amazing. I want to breathe coconut milk instead of oxygen.
Like most other "milks", coconut milk is rather bland. This is only problematic because I like my curry to have some kick. So in an effort to crank up the heat, I began slicing peppers that a friend had grown and given away. The peppers sliced and seeds removed, I stirred them into the dish, and then went back to prepping other ingredients while talking with my friends.
Five to ten minutes later, as I'm drying my hands after rinsing them off, I notice they still feel as if warm water is running over them. Twenty minutes later I'm wondering if I didn't accidentally scald myself. An hour later, I've realized why many people advise you to wear gloves when cutting and handling peppers: their oils can cause an intense burning sensation to any skin exposed to them.
Once I realized the cause of my problem, my cousin immediately began scouring the internet for any suggested remedies. I'm not a super-scientist, but I could tell as soon as she began listing off homemade cures that they were all half-baked:
"Soak it in milk." : "My hand is not a veal cutlet."
"Soak it in vinegar" : "Balsamic or red wine vinegar?"
"Soak it in gasoline" : "Absolutely not. No. Just no."
It was painfully obvious that the only tried and true remedy was time. Wait while the burning sensation abates. Wait and wait and grind your teeth and wait. And no other choice but to just wait.
So I called a friend for one last shot at a miracle cure. "Sup?" "Hey man, I just sliced up some chili peppers, and my hand is burning pretty bad." "Tough." "Yeah. I remember you said something similar happened to you, so I thought you might have some pointers or ideas." "Here's a pointer: Don't touch your penis or your eyes." "Yeah, that's why I remembered your story. Any particular reason you mentioned penis before eyes?" "Last time I checked, unlike the eye, the penis is not self-flushing. Also, and this is from experience mind you, pepper oils on the cock hurt more and lingered longer than in the eyes." "So how long can I expect this hand-fire pleasure cruise to last?" "When does it stop? Sometimes, in the cold lonely hours just before dawn, I think I can still feel it burning..."
My hand quit hurting after about three hours.
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According to this article from BBC, for maximum matrimonial satisfaction, I should be shopping for a younger woman. Like I really needed the Fogbreather Broadcast Service to tell me that...
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Maybe It's Maybelline...
...but it's probably not.
I wouldn't think a major cosmetics retailer like Maybelline would be foolish enough to get caught up in the Peruvian human fat trade. But come to think of it, that's similar to what I said about Circuit City getting mixed up with tampering with the guinea pig genome, and look what happend there.
In case you're too lazy busy to read the above article, I'll give you a quick executive summary: Gangs in Peru are killing humans, draining their body fat, and selling it as a cosmetic that reduces wrinkles. Anyhow, I was most troubled when I read that Hilario Cudena, the group's leader, had "been killing to extract fluid for more than three decades". THREE. DECADES. Now, I don't live in Peru, so I'm not totally clear about what constitutes a criminal act in that country. But I would think murder would be on that list somewhere. Somewhere near the top. Further I would suspect that authorities would want round up anyone suspected of murder rather quickly, instead of, say for example, waiting three decades. But maybe law enforcement in that region displays an uncanny resemblance to Larry, Moe, and Curly (or Racket, Graft, and Lazy).
Or maybe instead, motive for the crime plays a part in a criminal's pursuit and prosecution. Killing for vengeance? 15-years-to-life. Killing to produce homemade Oil Of Olay? Seventy-five dollar fine and time served.
According to Hilario Cudena, this easily becomes a lifetime supply of Noxzema.
Anyhow, it might be wise to avoid unique boutique "bath & body" products for a while...
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