Random Fits.

Another One About Death, Done With Class.

2010-09-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

For some reason or another I end up writing about my father's death a lot, I'm not really sure why, I honestly don't think about it that much. Today though, I was doing something that I would normally never do; listening to Mark McGrath on the radio...but only because he was being interviewed by Howard Stern. He talked briefly about his father's recent passing and about his divorced parent's relationship and I guess that's why I thought of this.

As would seem typical of 1980's divorced fathers, my father seemed to be late or absent altogether when it came to child support. I was too young to know why and I'm now too old to care why, it just was what it was. They never really spoke after their divorce. We weren't the family who got the divorced members in the same room for birthdays, holidays, or anything other than the few moments they saw one another when passing us back and forth on Thursdays and a few weekends a year.

Later, my father moved out of state and their contact became even less, as we saw him less. Eventually we got our driver's licenses and the contact dropped out altogether; save a rare moment. I'd say, in the last 10 years of his life my father and mother were in the same place at the same time for a total of about 3 minutes.

When it became evident that my father was about to die my mother was calling me all the time to check in on her youngest son, as I'm sure she was with my brother as well. She was helpful. She is always helpful in times like that.

After he passed away I flew home for his funeral. Not really knowing what my father would've wanted my brother and I excused ourselves from the planning and it was evident by the total lack of class the event showed. I remember a "Top Ten" list that included 100% too many beer and "tit" jokes; let me also note that if you're going to be classless you should make damn sure you're going to be funny...it was a failure on all levels.

On the other hand there was a corner of the room that was 100% classy, it was where my mother and step father sat. Not only did they out-dress everyone other than my father's children and siblings but the fact that they were there at all, just sharing their sympathy was a life lesson that I will not soon forget. I can't even begin to say how impressed and proud I am that they were the ones who raised me.

Often you'll hear people say that men marry woman who remind them of their mother, normally the links between Georgia and my mother aren't easy to come by but this example really shows the most important thing; they have integrity and empathy. Tonight Georgia and I signed up to donate blood again and also, while I was home putting the finishing touches on an extremely long and arduous work day the love of my life was serving chicken to the homeless.

(Note: I've got it fucking good.)

Nature vs. Nurture, 101

2010-09-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

I really don't update this a lot, mostly because the thought of writing something can often be daunting but more likely than that is the idea that things are going really well in my life right now and who the hell wants to read me bragging about how great I've got it? Even I have a hard time sitting through that one. Speaking of great, Georgia, my beautiful fiancee has a new video up today and every Monday to follow (for 10 more weeks at least) on food2.com/drinks The videos are hilarious, informative, and, for my money, they start the sexiest little lady in the world. So, go and check those out right away! Believe me, this blog isn't going anywhere...or it's going nowhere to put it more bluntly.

With little to say or talk about I'll dive into the past for something....thinking....thinking...thinking...

My Aunt told me she recently checked out my blog for the first time, which is cool. She's from my father's side of the family, which, being the product of divorced parents actually means something.

Growing up in a small town that was stuck in the 1740's divorce was still somewhat novel an idea. Most of my best friends' parents were still together and the few who found themselves in the same situation as me all had it the same; we lived with our mothers, we saw our fathers very infrequently, and rarely did we ever see his side of the family. I've come to realize that not only is that a reality of divorce it's also a trait in my family; assume all is well and don't bother to ask.

It's neither good nor bad. It just is what it is. I remember fondly the times I did spend with my father's side of the family and it's not hard to remember them because they were rare the memories tend to stick out. When my father died the communication picked up some. For a few months I would speak to my Aunt and each Uncle on an almost monthly basis, usually a 2-3 minute conversation. When it came to my uncles, more of a 2-3 minute pissing match of "who can be funnier," I'd let them win because I'm that kind of guy.

As the years since my father's death have passed the communication has settled into what I imagine will be it's final pattern. Every couple of months I hear from one of them, there are a few emails tossed about, and all is well. It's well more than there was before but I would certainly welcome face-to-face meetings. Of course, we're dealing with 3 time zones and the unfortunate truth that old habits die hard.

I suppose, in some way, knowing that my Aunt will read my blog every now and again makes me feel good. It's nice to know that she has an idea what's going on in my life even if I haven't a clue what's going on in hers. My wedding will probably be the next time we're all in the same place at the same time and it only adds to my overwhelming excitement.

Possibly the most interesting thing is the study between nature and nurture that exists between Jared and I with our Aunt and Uncles. There can be no claim made that the Hughes side of our bloodline should influence us at all, in terms of straight "nurture" but get everyone in the same spot and there is no doubt that we are family. In terms of our senses of humor, our interests, and even our posture, we're family...and where is it written that family needs to be all up in your business?

That Little Moment

2010-09-08T19:09:00.001-07:00

There is a brief instance just before you fall asleep where the truth hides. It's that strange moment where, if you get stuck in it for enough time, you believe you are dying. It's a hazy, drifty mess, that feels like 1-part hypnotism, 1-part dream, and 1-part super-reality.

If there is a scientific name for this flash I am unaware of what it's called but I've been sick since Sunday so I've either been asleep or complaining. I've had more of these flashes in the past 4 days than I had in the month previous...yes, I've been sleeping that much! A small part of me believes that I'm either the last case of swine-flu or the first case of butterfly-flu, the next deadly uprising! By M. Night Shalmalamadingdong.

Anyway, for years I was convinced that the flash is exactly how it feels to die, which would be fine because our bodies would be telling our minds that we are just falling asleep, so that's comforting but now I think perhaps it's just a limbo between the conscience and the sub-conscience. And today, after work, I did what I've been doing, I fell asleep. I brought my fiancee into the bedroom under the guise of needing a nap partner when in reality being sick just sucks and I want her around me all the time (yes, men are pussies when they're sick, it's true.)

As I was drifting and wavering between sleep and awake I had my little flash. It was one that makes me think that there may be some sort of truth hidden inside of these moments. I didn't see myself back in time or anything like that I just knew, 100% that the feeling I was feeling was that of Christmas when I was a child. I felt taken care of, I felt safe, I felt cozy, and I felt loved beyond love.

This despite the mess that is going on around me outside of our little house where I'm giving myself to a job who no longer wants me, I'm going in sick despite everyone thinking I don't work even when I'm healthy. I'm frustrated by the fact that I've given so much and yet it's all for naught now because I've started to have a personal life and I feel punished for it. Probably, some of this is my own mind just digging holes for myself but it feels pretty truthful these days.

Heuristics

2010-09-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

I live in California where the state's motto is Eureka, as in "we've found gold!!!" It narrowly edged out the second place motto of "shit, we're out of gold, let's do cocaine." Eureka comes to us from Archimedes, the mathematician/philosopher dude who died of death some 10+ years ago. The point is that eureka was originally "heureka" and that is where we now get the word Heuristic from.

A few days ago my Psychology Today arrived in the mail and there is a little snippet that I read last night about Heuristics and it piqued my interest to turn to wikipedia. If I were going to dive into any sort of higher learning tonight this would be the field I would select. It's basically the grooves we created in our brain to deal with situations that often occur, of course it's not really that at all though...it's sort of common sense.

We wake up, we get ready, we go to work. That's the routine we are in. We start to feel comfortable in that, so we groove that shit into our soft and supple brains. After a while that groove becomes so deep and cavernous and us so deep within it that looking up we fail to see the sky, the path to the top of the walls, a clear way out. Looking up and seeing walls bending in over your head makes you dizzy, if you don't believe me go to NYC and find a really tight old avenue with tall buildings and look up, yes you can see the sky but still it fucks with your head enough to make you feel a little dizzy. Of course, that could just be me, I tend to stare up for a few solid hours and really trash my equilibrium.

Anyway. I'm off subject now, which happens every few moments.

I'd like to buy and read the book "On Second Thought" subtitled (let's ban subtitles shall we) 'Outsmarting Your Mind's Hard-Wired Habits" by Wray Herbert which deals with the subject at hand. Herbert says (via a snippet) that it's not always a good thing to listen to what your instincts tell you, even when you are being told to just stay safe.

It's making me wonder what I do everyday that forces me to walk past the path to the top. Am I trapped by routine in my daily work? Am I being held back by my own fears? Am I overcoming any of this stuff? It's all very interesting and I'm sort of trapped in these ideas tonight. Yes, they make for a boring blog post but imagine the possibilities in my mind right now!!!

Fuck it, I'm going to go eat ice cream.

The State That You Are Coming From

2010-08-21T12:35:00.001-07:00

Right, so I went private for a few days but I got a surprising amount of emails asking why I did that so I'm just going to go public, despite the agita it will undoubtedly cause. Instead of going through and battling every comment that I get, every negative blasting about how I'm an asshole, arrogant, or worse yet dealing with the emails that Georgia gets from her readers saying those same things let me just address your concerns here.

There are 3 types of people reading this, at least in my mind.

PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME. These people understand that I'm highly sarcastic and that everything I say should be taken with a grain of salt. They will not write to me and tell me that my opinions are stupid because they know me IRL and despite having heard; "it's hard to tell when you're joking and when you're serious," about a zillion times in my life I continue to joke the very same way and let the pieces fall where they may. It's led to my having to apologize several times but it is who I am so what can you do?
RANDOMLY STUMBLED INS. I'm going to assume that there aren't many people who just happen to find my blog. The internet is a pretty vast horizon and to just accidentally find this would be strange.
GEORGIA'S READERS. I won't lump all of you together but this is the group that scares me, honestly. Some have come over and they know her, know her humor, maybe you know me, regardless, you get the joke...when it's a joke - or at least they must assume I'm just kidding around. Then there are the comments I get that basically tell me they are taking my jokes seriously or perhaps you're double sarcastic-ing a sarcastic-izer....in which case, WELL DONE!!! You totally fucking got me!!!

I understand that this isn't a very concise "response" to the messages I get from some of you but I don't really know how to say what I'm trying to get out. I guess the best way to say it is honestly and maybe harshly; you don't really know the real me and I don't intend on giving you the real me on this blog. If you are hoping for a blog like Georgia's I'm sure there are more out there. I'm actually a very private person, I'm shy, I take things personally, and thus I would never really open myself up the way some bloggers do.

If you've been reading her blog for a long time then you know how intelligent and wonderful she is, those facts can't be missed, so trust her judgement!! I'm not really an asshole, I open her car door, I clean cat poop, I planned our proposal for nearly 3 months, I cook for her, I massage her, I listen, I empathize, and every bit of love I give, I get back. But I'm not going to be writing about these things very often.

This is not to say there won't be pieces that talk about who I really am, it's not to say that everything is a joke, it's just to say that if you're going to send me messages of hate I'm not going to give you the pleasure of responding and inciting some eWar, it's silly. I'll just chalk it up to you not really knowing me...because you don't...and I'm sorry but I like it that way.

That said, if you have honest questions for me, this post is your chance. I'll answer them...but just this once.

You Shouldn't Have!!!

2010-08-04T16:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was chatting with a good friend, Dave, and he said something that really stuck with me; "this is the last time I give unsolicited life advice," which wasn't entirely true because I had actually asked him for advice on something. However, I greatly appreciated the sentiment and continue to think that should be on the tip of everyone's mind.

Nobody Wants Your Advice

There is one time when this statement may not be true, which is when you are asked for advice. Even then, many still don't want your advice as much as they want a voice of consent; offer them this and you'll be appreciate, offer them a differing message and you'll be quietly dismissed. A perfect example of the person who asks for but doesn't want advice is person x who has just begun dating person y. X says they wonder what it means when Y tells them to stop calling; "it probably means they don't like you," is the obvious answer. Yet it will fall on deaf ears.

Strangers giving you advice can go any number of ways. You may read this blog for advice but let me assure you any time I've written about how you should act, I've been fucking around. I don't believe it, but if you want to, I really don't care. Anyway. I've received a lot of advice from strangers since I am amongst them all day for work. I've always worked for strangers, now as a salesman and before in the restaurant industry, every now and again the sun does shine on the dog's asshole and someone drops a gem on you:

"Always set a goal for failure," a blues musician told me at My Linh, "if you succeed it's a nice, and welcome surprise, but when you fail at least you succeeded in hitting your goal."

Obviously he was joking but not 100%. I find in situations when something seems impossible it's best to believe I'll succeed, I plan to succeed, but if I fail I remember this guy and think about the fact that, on some level, I knew the impossibility of the situation.

More often though, the advice you receive from strangers come from people who haven't the slightest idea of how you live your life, how you interact with your friends, and what kind of person you are. Often people will think they are wise because of age - which, in my opinion is a farce. People are wise. Age is experience, not wisdom. Yes, maybe they have been through a similar situation to the one you are going through but problems are like snowflakes.

TONY ROBBINS IS AN ASSHOLE because there are no 1SizeFitsAll solutions to shit, there just isn't.

I'm not telling you to stop giving advice, go forth and try your best, I really don't give a shit. I'm just saying that nobody is listening so do yourself a favor and get a cat or a dog. Or two cats and a dog...that's my audience and still, I get the feeling nobody is listening.

***Dave, I did want your advice and thanks again for it!***

Air Conditioner

2010-07-28T20:24:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles suffered through a mini heat wave a few weeks ago. On average the temperatures reached highs of really fucking hot and lows of still really fucking hot. So, I snapped into action and began sweating like a fat Greek* guy breathing. After about a day of that I decided to internet myself some air conditioners, four seconds into my online journey I opted for a DIY project in lieu of buying one (okay, we also bought one but I still did all this shit.)

*I have no real inclination to believe that the Greeks sweat more than Englishmen, Frenchmen, or any other ___men, save for a friend growing up named John who later became addicted to heroin. He sweat a lot and told me that it was a Greek thing. I didn't believe him but still, it's easy to site.

My habit is to look up plans, pull out the Ikea directions, or stare at a picture and then just make it up as I go, with a loose idea of what I'm doing. Sort of like the first time one has sex. You sort of know what your doing except, unlike the instructional videos you stole from your parents, you don't have a mustache.

So this is what I did....

Unrolled copper tubing around a fan. And as you can see I had help. They were like my very own Al Borland and Pamela Anderson.

Then I attached them with zip-ties. When I was a child zip-ties were the reason we let grandpa come to Christmas, as he was the only one who carried a knife and could cut them off. He also brought alcohol.

Cut plastic tubing, the same size as the copper you bought, into 2 pieces about 6 feet in length. Note: you can literally cut them to any length you want I just said 6 so it sounded more official. Then connect a plastic piece to each end of the copper jobber.

picture missing

because honestly...you

need a fucking picture

for this?

You hook up this little jobber which you buy from a really sketchy aquarium shop in LA. You'll know you're at the right shop because they have puppies in the window, most of them invisible to shoppers - hidden away except for their barks. When you walk in the clerks will be a brother and a sister, the later being the older responsible one of...let's say 12. Anyway, you'll trust these people with your life because you'll later drop this (very much plugged in item) into a tank of water and hope for the best. Oh yeah, by hooking it up, you put one of the plastic ends into the outward pump-a-ma-job.

Drag this contraption where you want it and pull a cooler in next to it. Basically what you do know is drop the pump into the cooler of water and run the other plastic tube into the same cooler. The water will run through the coils, copper stays cool - as does water, and the fan will blow on those coils and cool the room down by like 10 degrees. You can put ice into the cooler (with water of course) and it works even better!!

It's pretty awesome!!! Or it would be if I had done it right. I mean, I did it right except it leaked where the plastic hit the copper. To fix this I used used a couple zip ties coiled down tightly at the joints but not before Mona gave me the look of disapproval.

"My Daddy is an idiot. He can't do anything right!!!"

Mona was embarrassed, I was sweating and Georgia hit me...I totally deserved it though, it was only done to teach me so I totally appreciated it then, and still do.

Anyway, after blowing out the water I hacked it with the zip-ties and plugged everything in for one more go-round.

Anxiously, Mona watched on...wanting badly to give her approval.

He's the smartest! Man! Ever!

And then my beautiful fiancee hit me again!

**Georgia never hit me (well..."never" is a funny word isn't it?)

News From The Field

2010-07-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

I'll be the first to admit that I'm an expert in literally nothing, to the point where, if you quizzed me about my own stupid life I'd get most things wrong. However, I will not let that stop me from criticizing, chastising, and commenting on other people, be they nameless marketers, hookers, or professional football players.

These are notes from the field...

How hooker-ish do you have to be to justify going back and renaming things you've done in the past? For example, this album would be much more "real" if it were called "When I Was White," "Before I Turned Whore," or "Used To Be Less Scary (but you still knew I was a bitch.)" Maybe you have a better re-album idea.

Have you ever been Thousand Oaks, CA or Westlake Village, CA? These cities are about 12 minutes old and the only "ethnics" you see are rentals (bridge and tunnel if that sounds like a dickish statement.) I'm not saying these cities lack for culture, diversity, or anything interesting...I'm just saying, this is a reggae band. And where do they play? Why in an independent restaurant that models itself after TGIFridays, Applebees, or other tasteless houses of vomit.

Small picture, I know. This is up on a billboard on La Cienega and Santa Monica in West Hollywood, logic would tell me that this ad runs about 100k a minute and this company (I didn't place the tree there to block their name, I just didn't feel like walking for another angle) decides to use this ad. You can't really tell from this picture but it looks like a couple of corpses, on spit rods with cherries in their mouth. They look beyond dead. For the record, ladies, those big fake lips that a lot of (super fucking creepy) ladies (in Beverly Hills) get, are not attractive. In fact, when given the choice, I'd much rather eat all of my remaining meals at an Applebee's.

I didn't get around to opening this card because it looks stupid but I'm pretty sure the inside says something like:

"Ben Roethlisberger wishes you a Rapey Birthday!" Which, I find offensive...but as you can tell I'm very sensitive.

SPECIAL, NOTES FROM THE HOME:

I have recently become the (new) father of two lovely kitties. I've found myself actually telling people "I love cats," with the ease that may leave them believing that this was always the case, it wasn't, but it's very true now. I love the smell of cats, I love messing with them, and I love the feeling of them purring on your chest...I think it's called 'purring.'

Anyway, as a new cat father I don't know all the ins and outs just yet. Do I feed them or do I just hope there are mice in the house? Should I put water out or is the ramp I built going to the toilet ample? Where the fuck is Paddy's Pub so I can buy me some of them Kitten Mittens?? And are they really OneSizeFitsAll??

This here is Elvis. I was teaching him to fetch the football and he was relaxing afterwards. I went into the living room and drank a few (12) beers. What happened next was an absolute tragedy, luckily it sobered me up and I saved the day.

You may think that only dolphins are stupid enough to get caught in those plastic six-pack holders because the picture below is real fucking life people....this shit really happened! Look at how tangled up he got himself.

You can see the fear in his eyes and the fear in my hand (could be a cat treat, remember...12 fucking beers!) But luckily I was able to free him.

I'm learning a lot about cats and teaching a lot of other people about life as I go. How are you contributing to society, life, your neighborhood, your local recycling plant, or you friend's health??

Acceptable Pets

2010-07-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

I found a book on leaving the state of bachelorhood buried underneath my toilet a few years back. Here is a sample of the poetic and wonderful words of wisdom that it held. Right, I know it sounds as if I have written this myself but trust me, I didn't...although I had a very nice buzz on last night and there is no way of telling what I did or didn't do.

How many times must I tell everyone that I'm engaged...for the first time ever. Which means I'm better than anyone whose every been divorced, broken an engagement, or anyone who is in a "long term relationship." Basically I'm fucking winning at life, the aforementioned are...well surviving at best. I have a huge heart though! Literally. Doctors are fearful. So I'm here to help in my continuing series on Bachelordome: A Made Up Word But Real Words Of Wisdom (a working title.)

Today's installment: Pets.

The kind of animal you choose, as a single man, says a lot about you. Do not think for a minute that it is a decision that should be based on your own inward desires. So far your desires have left you single, lonely, nearly broke, and slightly rounded at every possible edge and corner of your body...basically, your desires, wants, and opinions of yourself are broken. You might think snakes are cool, read on to hear why your wrong...about almost everything.

Firstly, there are 3 acceptable pets; dogs, cats and fish. Out of those three you can refer to only two of them as pets - dogs and cats. On the other hand fish are simply decorations that cost consistent money to keep alive. Any other sort of animal is unacceptable and often overtly pathetic.

Ferrets, chinchillas, mice, hamsters and other furry animals are ways to tell the world that you are desperate to be considered creative or wacky or out-of-the-norm but really all they say is "I'm a guy who both tries to hard and doesn't try at all." Do you have a crazy single Aunt who you thought was cool until you turned 14, only to realize that a fridge with only mustard and A1 sauce isn't "cool" but lonely and sad? If you don't have this Aunt do you know a spinster like this? Good! She is exactly who you are attracting.

If a woman comes over and says "oh my god, you have xyz as a pet! How adorable are you?!?" She's honestly asking that question, it is not rhetorical. She is wondering aloud if you're cute or a boring loser who only wears the same khakis to work and to the bar only switching form shoes to sandals.

Note: we'll get to guys wearing sandals at a later date, just know this know...don't fucking do it.

Snakes, lizards, reptiles, any fucking animal that requires a heating lamp to keep alive: all of these "animals" are worse ideas than sleeping in line for Twilight because these animals are a dead give away that you either did sleep in line for Twilight or (perhaps worse) for the Metallica movie that came out...whenever that movie came out.

Living in LA I see dudes with pony tails walking down Hollywood Blvd. with snakes and I think; "wow, there goes a guy who screams 'fuck yeah Mama' during sex and then cries immediately after shooting his abnormally small load onto the third fat roll of his, still sweaty from her leather pants, partner. You think my assessment is bleak? Ask a girl who is above a 4 what she thinks of dudes with this "animals," you'll soon see how kind I'm being.

Fish. Fine, but don't be all weird about it and name them. If you own fish it should be for the challenge that is keeping them alive. It's the science, not the 'companionship' which doesn't exist. Unless you have a goldfish, then you best be a complete pot head seeking the same.

Dear Craigslist: Complete pot-head seeks same. Enjoys smoking weed looking at fish while listing to Phish. Makes a great grilled cheese and would love to make grilled cheese. Also loves Phish.

Cat's are a bit trickier than dogs for a single guy. For reasons that I don't care to go into right now (read: I'm drunk) I cannot go further into this, but there will be an entire page devoted to proper bachelor ownership of a cat, at a later date. Here are a few things to remember when owning a cat, sans significant woman in your life.

Pick a funny name. Something creative would help or something about the way they look. ie: Love-Box 9,000. Mister Cheesington. (note: switching the sex for the name makes it creative, Mister Cheesington should be a female.)
If you're not creative, funny, or interesting at all pick a name with a story. ie: I named her Lola after the Kinks song, which was the first song I heard after I learned my father was being returned to the US after spending 12 years as a POW.
Have a girl cat. I'm not sure why, it just helps if your a dude. It's way less creepy when you call her "sweety," or "poo-poo," or "peanut-butter-champion."
Love animals but recognize that a dog requires too much time.

Dogs. Oh fuck, again, this could go on forever. Let me break it down real quick for you, by category.

Little dogs. Don't do it!!! There are a few exceptions; it's your 2nd dog, it was willed to you, or it's a working dog. By no means should you have a toy breed and be single at the same time...unless you're a pussy and you want everyone to know that right up front.
Mutts. Yes! Yes! Yes! Women love nothing more than a slightly scraggled dog with a jagged tooth that you rescued from the pound when (s)he was 5 because it had been there for 2 years already and nobody was going to take it home. Honestly, this will also be the best dog you'll ever own. It'll love and appreciate you in ways that will make your mother realize what a failure she is as a parent.
"Mean Breeds." Personally, I think it's all about how you raise a dog but nothing says "I'm really insecure and I used to get beat up a lot," like having a big mean dog. If you own one of these just resign yourself to being single until the dog has gone the way of the...of, let's see...I guess, gone the way of a dead fucking dog.

Whatever you decide remember to spend good time naming your new pet, or at least coming up with a fun and creative back-story that will tickle the girl (or woman for you lucky few out there who feel you're up to that challenge) you will one day try win over.

I wish you, as always, luck...we all know you need it.

Improvements For The World

2010-07-20T20:54:00.001-07:00

Here are some slight tweaks, inventions, or innovations that would really advance mankind...probably womankind too.

COUNTING CASH REGISTERS. Everybody has gotten into the express lane at the grocery store, thinking to themselves that it'll be just a few minutes in line and then back home to drink their beers and eat their pretzels buuuuuttt nooooooooo...some asshole has decided to use the 15 items or less line as their own whipping post. There there are, two carts ahead, with 37 items. These people should be shot but this may be illegal so instead I propose cash registers that will not scan after a certain amount of items. For example, at item 15 it literally stops scanning. The moron can continue but they must start at the back of the line with whatever items they have.
FITTED SHEET BOXES. Show me one fucking person who knows how to fold these things without eventually just rolling it up and shoving them into the corner of some drawer. FUCKING SHOW ME A PERSON!?!?! You can't! Martha Stewart literally dribbles little spots of urine at the site of these sheets. All we need is a decorative box that fits them perfectly. That way I can still stack them in a drawer, only without the Catholic guilt (note: I'm an atheist but the guilt lives strongly on.)
ADJUSTED PARKING TICKETS. Having recently received a ticket of my own I'm quick to point out the flaw here. I literally could have left my car in it's spot for another hour and my ticket would have been the same. Doesn't it make sense to pay per minute you are past due? Two additional notes, if you're a "shopping street" and the meters max out at an hour you're losing money, you should complain. Secondly, is; "it's already started, I can't stop it now," the only thing they teach you at Meter Bitch School?
PICTURE PLACEMENT ON BLOGSPOT. You either know what I'm talking about or you don't, thus this will end number four.
USA JOBS. I don't want more jobs added, like most people, in fact I care very little about this, I feel like if you're unemployed and looking it'll eventually turn out in your favor. Good luck, I certainly hope the best for you but that isn't what I'm talking about right now. I've gone 3 years without a raise or added vacation time yet I'm asked to work harder with more responsibility. I am not alone in this, I know many people who have very similar stories. I ran into someone today who works in the same industry and he has double the vacation time that I get, despite his title being several steps below mine. My responsibilities are triple his yet his pay is just behind mine. It made me really sad to think of the fucking untold hours I've put my personal life on hold for my company only to be told that my personal stock is not going up. Maybe this is a personal battle but I do feel the US is expected to work hard and the only pay of is more hard work. No furthered mental stimulation, no benefit increase, pay increases perhaps but they will be small, and certainly no increased vacation because we want everyone to know that work comes first, life comes when you retire...you know, just before you die.

Those are just a few little ideas I have, do you have any that I overlooked? I'm interested to hear them!!

Some Idea

2010-07-19T22:02:00.000-07:00

When I was about 10 or so years old I started my first company with my best friend Emily Sniezyk (pronounced Snee-zack for those following along at home.) We called it CHES for our initials and we did yard work. We raked my grandmother's lawn for about 3 hours and our business sort of dissolved. But not for lack of trying, at least for 10 year olds.

We put up signs around town - which meant the corner store, being that the only store in town. And we told our mother's to tell people - which is the best small town billboard money can buy. Still, the phone wasn't exactly ringing off the hook.

Several years later my friend Brett and I, after becoming obsessed with the show Cheers decided to start our own bar. Being that we were in 7th grade we found the procurement of alcohol to be a difficult if not impossible task. We were young and didn't yet own that mental filter that causes people to readily give up, thus the lack of alcohol didn't stop us. We rode our bikes to the candy store and loaded the fuck up.

A week or so later and our locker based candy business was flourishing. We were charging double or triple what we paid and since we were the only source of jawbreakers, warheads, and the like, we were constantly busy. So busy that the principal soon found out and shut us down. Looking back now I'm disappointed that he never once told us that we were innovative, forward thinking, or anything like that, he basically just called us turds and gave us detention.

While the ideas kept popping; board games, t-shirt company, black top resealing, etc. the likeliness of my keeping on top of the idea faded with each failed launch. Until finally, it seems, I choose safety first.

I'd like to blame my principal but I really can't. Fuck, I'd like to blame anyone other than myself but the truth is, I need to stop listening to the failures of yesterday and look forward to the many failures yet to come because in the long run I look back on all of these memories as happy ones, despite my eventual shortcomings.

The Dark Year - Part 2

2010-07-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

With basically no money I had no option but to live without cable, it was the first time in my life that I had done so and while I’ve since come to love the lacking, at the time it only served to further my depression. Not knowing what to do with my over abundance of free time I eventually bought an antenna (Hulu and the like did not yet exist…remember 2003 kids?)

Telling people that I lived without television was a source of pride for me at that time. It made me feel cultured in ways that I never had before. I told people that I read a lot – it never felt like a lie because I did read a lot of bullshit on the internet. When Justin came over once he did note how few books I owned, with no library card to diffuse his argument I probably just said something along the lines of; “weird huh?” Meanwhile I was thinking, “you know internet books right? They look a lot like naked people playing WWE wrestling in 30 second clips,” 30 seconds porn clips were like full movies at that point in my life.

This was the first time in my life where I felt a clean break from the past, becoming ‘cultured’ was important to me in some way. Every fiber of my being wanted to change and escape aspects of my life before that year. My musical preferences had recently changed and I wanted to reflect that in action, style, sophistication, and everything else in my life. The music didn’t really matter much, it seemed important at the time, looking back though it was little more than a catalyst.

What I really wanted was Late Night With Conan O’Brien. Yes, there were things worth running from but Conan was a constant I hoped to keep. I had been sneaking his shows since I was about 15 years old (1995,) I watched it through college when nobody was around to advice (read: force) me to sleep, and I wanted to keep on watching. My work schedule was 4pm-9pm on the weekdays and 4pm-10pm on weekends, at the time it felt too long, I only wanted to return to my silent and depressing home. A splash of Midnight Red would, I felt, have helped.

My schedule otherwise was sort of crazy, wake up at about 3pm and go to sleep at about 6am. Sadly though, I kept this schedule without Conan, as NBC wouldn’t come in on my TV. Fox was really the only channel I got, so it was late night syndication for me – this is why I know every episode of “3^rd Rock From the Sun,” “Just Shoot Me,” and the Michael J. Fox episodes of “Spin City.”

Fox did 103 episodes of “Spin City” before Parkinson’s forced him to leave the show, Charlie Sheen amazingly lasted 45 in his stead. I’m not a television buff but I can think of no other show where the main character was replaced and the show continued to be a success, even if only a minor success. While you could argue this with Cheers, Diane was a highly important character but not the focus. Sheen has had some moderately good movies (and yes, some great as well but those movies were great in spite of him and in no part great because of him) but he is a well known asshole, who has done just about everything wrong and yet he remains on the number 1 show on television. Regardless of whom you were to put in the Sheen role on “Three and a Half Men” the show would remain offensively bad and just offensive to entertainment as a whole – yet America fucking loves this guy. It blows my mind. I guess there are just a lot more people out there who appreciate a good wife-beating than I know about. Needless to say, I only watched the M.J. Fox episodes.

I wrote down a line, from “3^rd Rock” that I will never forget, it’s the exact kind of misdirection humor which I so appreciate (see my affinity for Allen Woody,) I don’t remember the characters but it went like this:

- Character 1: “somebody wants you in the other room.”

- Character 2: “oh? Who?”

- Character 1: “everybody in this room.”

So that is how I spent part of my nights; watching 3 TV shows while my days were spent telling people that I didn’t have a TV. Again, I somehow never really felt like any of it was a lie. I didn’t watch a lot of TV, by most standards, an hour and a half was basically like no TV at all, except it isn’t no TV, it’s an hour an a half of TV. Part of me believed that the more I told people I didn’t have a set the more likely I would be to actually stop watching those shows. In a way though, my “programs,” were the one time in my apartment when I felt just slightly less than suicidal and lonely.

Of course there was also (teaser) MySpace, Ash In Concrete, LiveJournal/MySpace Blog, the 2004 elections, and god knows what else…but those come later.

Swear-A-Thon 1987

2010-07-12T16:13:00.000-07:00

On the first day of second grade, 1987, I extended my hand out from my side, slightly restricted from the suspenders I had selected as proper 'dress to impress' attire; "Hello, I'm Colin."

"Hi I'm Rodney."

"Ronnie," I obliviously asked.

"No, Rodney," he responded as though he had heard this just over a million times.

"Ronnie?" apparently I never heard Rodney Dangerfield before but I had heard Ronnie the Limo Driver...or something.

"Rod, like a fishing pole and knee," pointing.

"Oh Rod-Knee, I get it." The name remained more two thoughts than two syllables for a long time - much more quickly he became the coolest mother fucker I'd ever met.

He was from Denver, or Colorado, he was willing to fight for no apparent reason and he knew all of these wonderful words that I had never before heard but wanted so badly to know, understand and hopefully use properly at some point. Bitch was for women, bastard for men. Who knew?!

Kids were joining into the act, suddenly Jarrod brought a boom box to school, we listened to The Fat Boys rap about their respective pussy's getting fatter. By that point (about a month into school) I had learned the word cunt even though I thought it was a contraction - the one time I wrote it out, I spelled it "cun't." I wasn't sure what that word meant, it seemed to mean weakling or wimp, it seemed interchangeable with 'pussy.' It was all too much for me, but I was so loving it.

Every other word became a cuss, the entire class would openly, and jokingly, call each other dicks, pricks, assholes, and worse. I even got into a fight for calling a kid 'leatherneck' which in retrospect doesn't seem all that bad. He was the class bully, until I punched him in the nose and basically laid him out, after that he was knocked down a peg. I mean shit, the kid with suspenders just knocked you out.

I wasn't allowed to wear jeans, shorts, or shirts without collars because my mother found all three to be a sign of disrespect, yet, when she wasn't around I would regularly say things like; "did you see In Living Color last night? Fucking funny as shit wasn't it?"

Rodney was funny, charismatic, and handsome...all through school. He was always a decent friend, we peaked in 2nd grade but we remained buddies throughout school. He's now a NYC police officer now, married to his high school sweetheart, a very pretty girl who was also a friend of mine. I think she's a buyer for some large department store, or something like that.

What's really important is that I can now use almost any swear word in context but I'm a little sad that I never got the chance to thank him.

Radio Days

2010-07-08T16:38:00.000-07:00

My job can be pretty fun at times. I'm in sales so the highs and the lows are not, in any way, stable, they're all over the map. The driving required is never ending, although it is comprised of 10 minute jaunts from one location to another. Either way my radio time is fierce. My love for the talk radio format knows no ends.

Television is fine, sports can be interesting, movies I can usually do without, but fucking talk radio is perfect, when done right of course. Very few do it right and even those who even tire me out after 4 years of listening to them. So now I play several different Sirius games.

Recently I've started at Hit's 1 and run through the dial through 90's on 9. The channels, best I can tell, go like this.

Today's awful hits.
Basically the songs you hear while grocery shopping, mostly the ones you don't recognize.
Love. Think classic love songs here, more dentist waiting room variety than Bright Eyes.
40's on 4. Amazing jazz from the swinging 40's, great stuff. Duke Ellington was on today.
50's on 5. The pop music that eventually turned into Chuck Berry and the Beatles.
60's on 6. The same as 50's only 10 years older. Add to the mix some Woodstock bands.
70's on 7. Mix of tight leather pants rock and Disco, either way nearly un-listenable.
80's on 8. Pretty good, a lot of soundtrack bull shit that makes it harder to love.
90's on 9. This is like riding the bus in middle/high school. It makes me sick but I know all the fucking words.

I start on 1 and only change the station when I come across a song whose lyrics are completely unfamiliar to me. This game goes rather quickly.

I don't last a song. Fuck, I don't last a chorus and I'm better for it.
Last week I knew a song.
I could snag up here for about 1-4 songs. Today I had 3 in a row (Endless Love was in there somewhere.)
Wish I knew these lyrics, this is (other than Howard 100) my favorite channel on Sirius.
I could spend a really long time here, but usually there is one thrown in that is new to me. I'd say about 10 songs is my record.
This station could keep me all day if I'm not lucky. A lot of the songs are annoying but I know them regardless.
Please let it be disco!!! If it is, I won't know it and off I go. It's wonderful. If it's rock I'm stuck for a while thanks to a job I had painting houses with a bunch of old school rocker-types.
Surprisingly difficult. This station can throw real curve balls at you via pop music that sucks as much now as it did then.
The bane of my life. I can never get away from this station. I know every fucking song from Creed to Snoop Dee-oh-double-gee.

Why is 90's music so fucking awful? Why didn't radio stations play the Pixies, Pavement, and other relevant bands who survived the test of time? Literally nobody who really blew up in the 90's is still alive today save for Pearl Jam and Phish. Do you know what else those bands have in common??? If you said "They're unbelievably boring," congratulations!!! You're not an idiot! (sorry Jay.)

If you could go back in time and tell your 12 year old self to listen to any band who would it be?

Everything Is Wonderful, Let's Go To Therapy!!!

2010-07-07T15:18:00.000-07:00

I repeat very few things in life, there was 2nd grade, 3rd grade, 5th grade, 8th grade, and 12th grade, but other than that I try to repeat very little, at least on this blog, regardless I know that I've said these two things many times; (a) I have the best fucking girl ever invented as my fiancé and (b) I subscribe to Psychology Today. This magazine is, in fact, the resource that led me to my therapist. Now, it's led us both there.

If you've not been following along to my blog or you don't follow my wonderful twitter than perhaps you don't know that I'm fucking way engaged right now!!! (She makes sense of it all in ways that I cannot, so read this.) This relationship, we together as a couple, I mean...shit, we'd make you puke. Honestly, we are stupidly perfect for each other, we make each other laugh like tomorrow is nothing more than a welcome surprise. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that we are a million times happier than you are...so we decided to go to couple's therapy.

In the latest Psychology Today there is an article (written by some girl from Santa Monica who you hate because she writes like she's super fucking annoying) about a couple who went to therapy waaaay early on. Maybe this spurred the idea to go discuss a few things or maybe we just thought it would be fun, either way that's where we were yesterday.

Running down the street, laughing and joking (read: walking slowly while I made stupid jokes and she humored me) we made it a few minutes late to my normal therapist. We spent the next 50 minutes talking about little thing. Our entire reasoning was this relationship is it. It's fucking it!!! There is no other relationship, so let's get the oil changed rather than letting the engine blow up and having to later replace it (which is my small-town way of saying let's keep everything wonderful and gay! (gay is my non-small-town way of saying happy.))

I'm not going to go into the things we talked about because it's both personal and small I'm just so excited that my life has turned into this wonderful little story. I feel like Duke Ellington is playing as I'm walking around Echo Park Lake in some Woody Allen (dark match) comedy about how relationships can actually work out. So, go get help while things are good! I think it'll keep them that way.

We walked into therapy smiling, laughing, and reassuring one another, we walked out, bought cupcakes and laughed about how small things can become serious when you're paying $100 an hour. In the end though, it seems right...at least Woody would be proud...we hope.

You and Me Now Buddy

2010-07-01T17:14:00.001-07:00

A few minutes ago I was matching socks in the office, it seemed an important step even if I had no idea where I was going to put them, once the job was complete. Things are still a bit hectic in our new home, each cupboard as mysterious as the buildings in a Sarah McLachlan song. Different boxes await Georgia and my approval, each item - it's new home.

Elvis and Mama (cats) have learned to sleep on the same bed as Mona (dog.) My family loves to nap, it will eventually be the bind that brings all the animals together, I think.

Elvis is her Siamese, he's much more hesitant towards anyone who isn't Georgia. It's as if he found her and said to himself; "how could I ask for anything more?" I know the feeling. He was weary of me at the start and now he's a bit afraid of Mona.

Oh right. Socks. Well, Elvis came in to see what the deal was while Georgia and Mona napped in the bed. Mama was on the couch, where she's set up base camp since about Tuesday. Yes, all of these names make this seem a bit more like Dickens than blogspot but I figure you're best just to get used to the names, they are my family after all.

I matched and set up a shirt, that is between my closet and Goodwill, for Elvis. He chilled and watched what I was doing (I think...he's very cross-eyed and it's impossible to tell where he's looking. Between socks I was scratching him, we chatted, I did most of the talking. He was purring.

"It's just you and me now buddy," I said, eluding to the fact that everyone else was sleeping but it struck me how many times those words fell from my lips to Mona's ears and I'm sure how many times Elvis has heard those words from Georgia. And while the two will remain with us, hopefully for many many years to come, it's not just them anymore.

I wish I could tell you all how amazing Georgia is, how much I love her, how much better my life has become since I met her, but I simply could never find the words. We met at the perfect time, it has been the perfect storm.

Tomorrow will be a week, I woke up more nervous than ever before in my life. I went through the day as normally as possible. We went on a wonderful date. Later that night I asked her to marry me, she said yes and suddenly I know why people say "I feel like the luckiest man in the world." Because I do. I am.

Since I started typing this out she has come out and sat at the table with me and right now she has no idea I'm looking over at her, thinking about the amazing luck that I have had...look at her...she's perfect for me in every way.

Oh right, you can't see her, sorry. I'm going to go enjoy the view.

Quick Update

2010-06-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

I'm moving, no internet for a few more days, it's a real pain in the ass but I really don't notice because, I proposed to the most wonderful person I've ever met!

She's amazing, brilliant, beautiful, funny, and she never stops making me smile!!! So...I proposed, she said yes!

Much more, sooner than later.

Newspapers, One Idiot's Take

2010-06-24T17:41:00.001-07:00

I've never pretended to be a genius*, in fact I once tried out a genius costume for Halloween and I couldn't even pull that off but you'd have to be near death to understand why newspapers are failing, why they aren't able to save themselves, and how their demise will be horrific for our society.

*Disregard those times I was drunk and I told you; "I'm the smartest person you'll ever meet."

For the past 2 years I have subscribed to the LA Times. I live in Los Angeles and I want to support the news medium that I believe to be most important. About five minutes ago I wrote to cancel my subscription. The past 4 months have gone by without me even unrolling the paper, save for when I was packing my dishes a few nights ago.

It's not that the LA Times is poorly written or that it doesn't have good articles, in fact it's nothing like that, I truly believe it's one of the finest papers I've had the pleasure to read. The paper has not always enjoyed the best reputation but I believe it's making a comeback, in terms of article quality...at the same time, they've lost me.

I want the news that affects me and only me, it's that simple. Right now there is a helicopter flying overhead in Echo Park, Los Angeles and the LA Times' website has no mention of this on the front page. The Eastsider LA and Echo Park Now are both tweeting and posting blogs about the ongoing situation. Between these blog and some others, I no longer need an entire paper, especially the entertainment, sports, and classifieds (goodbye Calendar and Food. Miss you.)

Los Angeles is a big city and the paper covers a lot of ground. 2 people being shot outside (perhaps inside?) of a marijuana clinic may not be huge news in a city of this magnitude, with this murder rate, etc. But this is Echo Park, a neighborhood enjoying a resurgence of reputation over the past several years. It's not a murder in Beverly Hills, which would garner a lot of attention, but on the same note it's not high-res photos of the Lakers either, which IS getting attention on the @LATimes twitter feed. It's all at once mind boggling and upsetting.

Upsetting because we count on print media. Without it the 24 hour news channels would have nothing to talk about, do you think they actually go hit the streets? But these days our reporting is done very locally and by people with the same vested interests as you. I don't believe for a moment that the girls over at Echo Park Now are going to score an interview with Pelosi anytime soon, like the LA Times might, so it's this larger broad news that will eventually fall apart. We'll miss that! I think we all know that our politicians deserve several watchful eyes on them at all times.

It seems that as we get more global as a society we are perhaps become more local with our news. Somewhere, the two sides must meet. I'm not sure where that will but I hope the "when" is soon.

I went to school for Music Industry (yeah, that is a major) during the rise and fall of Napster. Our teachers were talking about the great, record breaking sales of albums and then the lawsuits started and my professors predicted that record company's were going to ruin their own industry by taking apart the website. These were smart people, by no means were my professors genius level, but they were, for the most part, somewhat intelligent and that's all it took to see the forest through the trees.

Technology is hear to stay, the Unabomber be damned. So newspapers can either "Music Industry" themselves or embrace localization...then hopefully the food industry will do the same.

**tl:dr - blogs good, newspapers bad...both are needed. And I went to school.

Truth Be Told

2010-06-23T12:07:00.000-07:00

Even if it's false, wrong, non-factual, or outright stupid I'm interested, mostly, in the truth. Over the years I've given great thought to what is the binding tie between the music that I like; why do I love The Avett Brothers and at the same time really love 1940's big band? Where does Motown fit in here? Why do I really only like New Orleans jazz and no other type of jazz? Is there a single tie in there that, if I spent the time, I could figure out.

More importantly, what does that first sentence have to do with the rest of the paragraph? I'm not sure, but it really seems to me like there is a 1:1 relationship. Here is the path I took to get there, maybe that will help:

I LIKE THIS BOOK - IT'S NON-FICTION - BUT IT'S OPINION REALLY SO IT'S SOMEWHAT FICTIONAL IN THAT THE TRUTH MAY NOT BE CORRECT - I HATE FICTION BOOKS - DO I HATE FICTION MOVIES? - NO - BUT THE TIME INVESTED IS MUCH LESS WITH A MOVIE - I DO LIKE MOVIES THAT SEEM TO BE TRUTHFUL TO MY LIFE - IS THAT THE CASE WITH MUSIC AS WELL?

Now here I am...wondering, silently aloud on a keyboard. Why do we select the styles and arts we select? Why does my girlfriend love vintage? Why did Jay follow Phish? Why did anyone in the world like Phish? Why do hippies love sandals? Why do people who used to love Death Cab now pretend they never did?

We seem to move in packs from one style to another, based on what we identify with. This is all a larger topic for people much smarter than myself but when it comes to me personally I wonder if there is one tie to all of it, I'm thinking it may be 'truth,' in some form.

Truth: noun. [as I need it] anything said by anyone when that person believes the statement to be factual.

I sort of think the reason I never got into rap is that it wasn't a truth that I could relate to, I never had bitches. Then again I love opinion based books where the author believes they're telling the truth. Perhaps truth isn't the answer but it's a theory, not even really a theory if this were a scientific experiment I'd say it's a hypothesis at best.

Do you think that everyone who likes Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream also likes early Elvis Costello better than later EC, is excited about the new Devo album, has at least 1 piece of Ikea furniture, and doesn't have the money in the bank they thought they would have by this point in their life???

I like raspberry swirl ice cream.

Dearest Reader, I'm Sorry.

2010-06-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

Just a note.

My posts are long. I get that. If I saw so many fucking words I would think to myself "..." well I probably wouldn't even get to the thinking to myself phase, I'd probably just click off and go look at dogs who sound like they're talking or old women fight on YouTube.

What I hope you all realize is that I appreciate you. I'd buy you a cake or something fancy if I could find you. Also, truth be told, I suck at telling stories face to face as well.

They never go A-B-C-D. Instead they go A-B-oh you should probably have a little background information on this minor character in part B-B.2 in which I explain why B isn't really all that important to the narrative but important in a general thematic way as it relates to my life as a whole-C-back to A for a small call back, you'll forget by this ponint and I'll wonder why you aren't laughing-C/B, also known as "where the fuck were we...oh right"-duh-duh, where was I going with this..oh right to-D.

If my parents beat the fuck out of me when I was a kid I would be better off and so would you. But on the other hand, those of you reading, you make me feel like a natural woman.

The Dark Year - Part 1

2010-06-21T21:31:00.000-07:00

September, 2003.

I remember arriving just after Jay was cleared of cancer, he was the only one who helped me move in and he also had just cost me $50 off my security deposit from my Saratoga Springs apartment. His little joke was to open a condom and throw it at me, it was night, we never picked it up thus the landlords dinged my roommate and me for $100. Despite being emaciated from just having cancer he sort of owed me the move in and he delivered. Then he left and I was alone. Real alone.

It’s a strange feeling to be so alone and yet so close to home. The laundry drive was 45-50 minutes yet I was in a city where I knew absolutely nobody. I had no job nor did I have a prospective job, no interviews, nothing, just the money in my pocket, which was less than $50. I promptly bought about $50 worth of cigarettes and went out hunting for a job.

When you just spent your last money on smokes you really need to get a job before you waste any of your gas, so I walked. Luckily there was a Vietnamese restaurant just down the street, they hired me to wait tables and I was off and running.

Weirdest application for a restaurant ever! I rarely brought home more than $75 on a given night yet the interview was over an hour and featured questions like 'what's more important the ends or the means.' While I don't remember my answer I do recall thinking 'this is fucking stupid.'

My friends quickly became the people I worked with. Susan (whose mother and sister owned the restaurant) and her boyfriend, Justin, also waited tables. He was in school to become a massage therapist at the time and she was just trying to figure shit out, she and I were both 23, he was about 27.

Then there was Courtney, she was in law school and she was the only republican of the group, which stands to reason as she was in law school and the rest of us were pot heads. She definitely had a crush on me (at times) but she wasn’t my type (in fact she was a republican…remember) so I walked a fine line with her – always trying to remain buddies.

Lastly there was BK, she was in her late 30’s and a real estate agent by day, and a waitress by night, mostly because she didn’t seem to be succeeding during normal business hours, but she was fucking rad as shit. There were others who worked there but these four were the ones I liked. So they were quickly adopted as my only friends in town.

The next best way to make friends was the bar. So I would go and sit at this bar called Suzy’s, a sleepy little dive that rested between the only two trendy bars in town. Albany has a downtown area with “clubs” and an uptown area where the University of Albany kids drink. Then there are the bars in between, one street, probably 5-8 bars, 2 of which were considered “cool” and I went to the sleepiest bar, with older (considerably dirtier) cliental. Not dirty because they were hipsters but dirty because they were “salt of the earth” types of people who claim Springstein songs are about their lives. The bartender/owner/namesake would play cards with me and open a Miller High Life for me as soon as I walked in, which I would drink, regardless of what I wanted.

The last yelp review was so long ago at Suzie's...I sure hope all is well, she was a sweet woman. If Albany had cooler people, I think they'd hang out here.

All told though, I don’t remember my first year of living in Albany for the things that happened to me outside of my apartment. Those times were fillers. I was alone as fuck and I lived that way. I was sad, horribly sad…and not just some of the time. Maybe I wasn’t really ready to be alone but I learned more that year than any year prior. It was the start of a transition that has brought me to the point where I am today and it was an extremely formative time.

Eventually I would start dating a girl, right about the end of my first year, and that would take me off course, but when that relationship ended I would soon after find myself in Los Angeles right back onto the slow track that has brought me to this point in my life. I have several different journals that spell out this first year, several albums that bring back the emotions of that year, but all I really need to do is stop and think about it for a minute and it all comes back to me.

It was sort of the year I became an adult, even though I’m pretty sure I wasn't doing it right.

5 Days! ! ! ! !

2010-06-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

In college I would always plan to cram for an exam, telling people, "I'm better off just going nuts the night before." Honestly though it was my way of not studying and then, when it came time to cram I would probably read over the material for a few minutes and decide that I wasn't really interested in it.

I did fine on tests, despite my lack of preparation. However, I did horrible in school because I didn't go to class, didn't turn in work, and didn't care. The tests though...I did alright on those, usually a B or better. Throughout that whole time I remember thinking how I was just dumb.

Recently on the phone with my brother he said that he always thought, "[he was] functionally retarded until [he was] about 25 years old and [he] realized [he] was actually intelligent." He said that and I felt the same way, although I never really took the time to put it into derogatory and funny words.

These days I'm less interested in putting things off for the last moment and even less interested in not finishing things altogether. This is why, 2 weeks away from actually moving, I started packing, painting, and generally getting ready. Until this afternoon my apartment was a fucking wreck and it drove me up the wall every time I walked through the door. Now, after a solid 6+ hours of work today there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

5 days!

This week is finally here! I've been looking forward to it for so many reasons I cannot begin to explain them all here. In due time I suppose I'll explore them all but for now I'm really only going to say that I'm blown away with excitement. There have been weeks where my alarm goes off after a solid 2 hours of just laying in bed, awake, thinking about the new apartment and all that means. It's a really great feeling and I'm so excited that the time has finally (almost) come.

What are you excited about right now?

What's your favorite/least favorite part about moving?

I love unpacking and organizing the new apartment. The carrying of boxes, the sweating, the heat, I love all of that too. Painting and fixing up my previous abode is actually a lot of fun too. The one thing that I hate is burdening a friend to help. Usually, Nate would help out but he's gone this weekend so I've had to ask someone whom I've not seen in a long time. I feel bad about it, even though he seems very happy to help.

Another Reason I Hate You

2010-06-17T20:55:00.000-07:00

Screams are going off all around me, some fireworks, generally douchebaggary will be in abundance tonight in Los Angeles because a bunch of fat assholes who couldn't dribble a basketball if you gave them a month to practice are celebrating their hard fought victory. Nothing makes me hate sports like the fans, it's no different than religion in that respect.

Coming to LA I have no favorite basketball, hockey, or baseball team and while I'd love to adopt one from my new hometown I cannot endorse any of them because when they win our city turns into a fucking disgrace, the same way that Florida is always a scar on our country. Except winning a championship means our broke city will pay millions of dollars for a parade where people will loot, stab each other, and probably also find women being slapped about by men.

I'm not saying all sports fans are moron jocks I'm just saying the ones who go to the parades and feel some sort of "pride" when their team wins seriously need to fucking get a life.

So far I've had to deal with nothing other than a few screams but I'm already sick of it.

"LAAAAKKKERSSSSS!!!" Why? What the fuck do you get from this? Oh, right, one less fireman.

Dudley Benjamin Franklin Hughes

2010-06-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

When something goes wrong, I'll bring it up...even if it was my fault. Actually, I pride myself in my ability to admit when I'm wrong and also to do the hard thing first (or at least quickly.) I'm not saying this makes me a good person or a bad person. I'm not saying it makes me anything other than a little proud at times. It certainly can get me into trouble and often times it leaves me feeling less than great.

I moved to LA almost 5 years ago and I acquired a dog shortly thereafter (not Mona - who rode shotgun from NY.) His name was Dudley, which not only fit him well but also sounded pretty awesome, so I expanded on it, but kept it. Dudley Benjamin Franklin Hughes.

This post could be sentimental as all fuck. Dripping with emotion. Etc. But, I think it's all too soon still honestly.

Mona is a high strung and active dog, as Corgis tend to be, so I wanted the yin to her yang and found Dudley at an adoption event. It was at a small dog ranch's booth where ~20 dogs were behind a wire fence; yipping, yapping, and jumping at every person who walked by. Then in the back, there sat one dog, who stole people's seats when they got up and happily jumped down when the person returned. All he wanted, it seemed, was a comfortable seat. 5 days later I brought him home.

He is a fantastic dog, I truly love him. Now, with a heavy heart I must find him a new home as our journey together must sadly end. He is the most loving dog you could ever meet. He wants to cuddle, he wants a scratching, he wants some love, he wants to nap, and he wants someone to love...that's about all. As far as what he doesn't want it's really just one thing; cat friends. He has no interest in cats, in fact I'm pretty sure he hates them.

Next Saturday will be an amazing day for many reason. I'm starting my new life with the girl I plan to marry and with any luck (and yes, I will need luck) Dudley will also be starting a wonderful new chapter in his little doggie life too. While I love Dudley so very much I have no doubt that I'm making the right decision. When trying to introduce him to my girlfriend's cats he got so stressed that by the time we left the house his hair was literally coming out in clumps...there is no way to make him happy with cats around.

I feel horrible. So if you're going to comment about what an asshole I am, go right ahead, pile it on.

Many of my friends have watched him over the years and never has there been a problem. He loves everyone and is as happy with them as he is with me. I've never been jealous of his ability to spread his love around, I've always just been glad that he is so welcoming of all people. He's truly a great dog.

He is a goofy boy with a tongue that doesn't always stay in his mouth while sleeping.

He's a hell of a science-fiction novelist.

And honestly, if you have 2 legs, he has nothing but love in his heart for you.

Dudley, I know you can't read (and if you could you'd probably not waste your time on my blog) but I hope you know how much happiness you've brought me over the past four years. I'm so sorry to see you go ole chap but I promise that you'll be going somewhere where love is pouring out the doorway to greet you...I don't really know where that will be just yet but I'm sure to figure it out before too long. I promise, however, that we will go to all lengths to make sure it's the best fit for you.

Remember me fondly but bring your love to another lonely soul, after all, that's how you found me and you're leaving me in a much better place. Perhaps it's your job, you're a loneliness-hacking-dog.

I miss your stupid face already.

(Editors Note: I think it's awful when people 'abandon' their pets. Honestly I'm up against a wall here. He would never be happy in a house with cats and I want for him to be loved, be a part of a family and not be sequestered off in some room by himself. Believe me, I feel awful about this...I can't see the computer screen right now because my glasses are going through the car-wash, or something. If you are reading this and you have any suggestions they are very welcome at this point. I'm so overwhelmed with happiness in all other aspects of my life, if you can help me give that same feeling to Dudley, I'll forever be indebted. Cheers.)

The Real World: Yoga City

2010-06-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

If you are reading this and you grew up in the Northeast than you know exactly what a crisp autumn afternoon feels like. It's nearly indescribable by most people and 100% by me, try as I may no words I've ever strung side by side have come close to the feeling of a fall day.

There is something magical about the way clothing grows a thick fuzz and the leaves turn towards the ground and stare at the impending fate. The air is as rich with fresh tides as the trees are as ripe with decay. Summer's heat gives way enough for the snap to return to the parade of people enjoying their last moments of outside solace before the winter takes them back into the covers that thinly protect the bone chilled air creeping through old construction. Autumn is magic and everyone who has spent time where I grew up knows this simple fact.

To me, the snap of the season is a feeling of childhood and a feeling of being home again. While this is simple because it is where I spent 1/4 of my first 18 years (not to mention probably the most memorable parts due to it also being back to school time) but I believe there is a romance that would be noticed by most anyone. Perhaps it's generational but somehow walking into my first ever Yoga class today I was struck with the feeling that I was walking into early 90's New York or San Francisco.

Somehow the glamor of going to yoga seemed so grown up, sophisticated, and big city...mostly though, it seemed very Real World - circa when it was important (read: first few seasons.) There are few things that really make me feel like I'm one of those people and somehow being at yoga gave me the sense that even I, if it had timed out properly, could have been a great character on The Real World.

Do you remember when reality shows seemed real? When they weren't a giant money making formula created to sell soap? Do you remember when they taught us (Small Town USA) to love people who were a different color? Do you remember when you first realized you liked gay people (thanks Norman!)? Life was so much more simple when you could watch The Real World and figure out what to wear and who to emulate; when owning the soundtrack to 'Singles' meant you had an older sibling who was pretty mainstream; and when flannel meant you were in touch with your emotions on some level.

I pretty much hate the 90's. I don't miss them at all. I'm just glad that it only took me to 2010 and the age of 30 to realize my 1992 (12 year old) dream of being sophisticated.

Oh right, I should mention that I waited until after class to fart, I feel like (while hilarious it may have been) it may have ruined the sophistication level that I was hoping to feel. Also, I was always really scared to go to yoga because I have no clue what I'm doing, if you feel the same way, you really shouldn't, it's easy - just go with an awesome friend and co-conspirator, that makes it easy and wonderful.

Dog Training

2010-06-11T01:55:00.000-07:00

People will often tell you that older couples begin to look like one another after a certain point in their time together. Perhaps this is a truth for some couples but I often fail to recognize the ways in which the man and woman actually resemble one another. If you really take the time to break it all down, all old people have certain core similarities; they smell like mothballs, I seem to be the only one willing to honk my horn and flip them off, they love polyester, gravity is winning, and their ears are way too big for their faces -- other than that they look like two different people.

When you listen to a few nearby peeps chatting over coffee at the local coffee shop they are often talking about themselves, I know that (most of the time) I'm doing that, but if they aren't they are probably talking about another person, rarely do they talk about dogs. That's why you hear about old couples looking alike but rarely do you hear about how fucking unbelievably inline a dog's personalities are in relation to their owners.

I started this little one at obedience school two weeks ago and I was quickly overwhelmed by the owner/pet similarities and later even more overwhelmed with the idea that my poor dog was stuck with my personality. There are only 4 other dogs in the class, I don't remember their names (which makes me almost feel bad because they all remember my Mona.)

There is the goofy, tallest dog. He's eager to please and as middle of the road as his owners. They seem really great and if I were going to be friends with anyone in class it would be them. If there were a man beating up a woman in the middle of the park the male owner would tell the female that they shouldn't get involved, she'd agree, but later she'd be indignant about it.

There is the painfully shy couple with the dog that hides behind them all class long. They are the type of people who you hope are going to break out of their shells at some point but you really doubt it, instead they'll probably just shoot up a mall in St. Louis (not telling which one though...good luck! The winner of this contest gets DEAD!! Yay!!) (I mean 'yay' for us, not for you.)

Finally there is a girl who you can tell is pretty fond of the way she looks. She seems nice and all but she's sadly mistaken about her level of attractiveness. Not that she is horrible to look at but she's also not at all exciting to look at. She seems sort of distant and ambivalent, he dog has trouble paying attention. This dog is actually way cuter than the owner but their inability to see beyond themselves makes them both less attractive.

This past week was the first week for a new dog/owner. She (owner) was pretty outgoing, kind, and wearing leopard print shoes. I am in no danger of becoming a fashion blogger but leopard was annoying in 2001, fodder for stupid sorority girls to feel "fancy," it's the single easiest red flag to see in any girl (the easiest on guys: sandals - but believe me when I tell you there will be more on this later, likely an entire post that will last far too long.)

Anyway...the new dog/owner. She was nice to me right away so I'm stuck - I act in a kindly way back to her but I'm uncomfortable by the simple notion that her shoes keep me from wanting to actually talk to her, it tells me more about her than I care to know and her dog is equally uninteresting, yet kindly nonetheless. And then Mona bites the dog's face (no blood, not hard.)

Fuck.

Now, I'm the asshole with the dog who bites other dog's faces. We are removed from playtime which gives me time to think about the similarities between all the dogs and their owners and it really gives me a fucking complex. I've always felt people didn't like me from the start but maybe that's because I'll only give them a little whiff of my anus before I start to show my teeth. I've worked hard at being nicer to people but somehow, now, I'm thinking that it's all been for naught.

Am I the person who bites your face for looking at me too long? I know I'm the person who judges you on footwear*.

*I really only judge men on if they are wearing sandals and they are not on the beach. Other than that there are few missteps you can make. I guess any sort of animal print anything is always a horrific idea but that's not about the shoes, it's about the late 90's aesthetics.

Women Getting Ready

2010-06-10T01:16:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend said she was interested to hear what guys think about when a girl is getting ready. Unfortunately she doesn't have internet, television, or an EZ Bake Oven so thinking is all I'm really left with. I suppose I could read but then I'd be reading, sounds awful right?

So yes, I am writing this so that my girlfriend will continue to eat cheescake from the platter at 11:30pm with me but also as a lesson to every single person in the world. If you're a woman, listen up, this is what you're missing. If you're a man, keep reading because you're probably doing it wrong.

First a little code-breaking:

"Okay sweetie, I'll be ready in ___ minutes." This is an example of woman-math. I'm not saying that women can't do math, in fact I think they're the smarter sex, that is to say they're mead intelligence is greater than that of the male population, all I'm really saying is there is math, then there is getting ready, girl-math. The equation is fairly easy, you take what ever number of minutes they said, double it and then add a fuck turd more time onto the end of it. 15 minutes = at least 39-47 minutes. This is the exact amount of time you have to accomplish anything you need to accomplish, so long as it doesn't involve you going into the bathroom...just don't go in the fucking bathroom.
"Does this look alright," actually means "this is only the first outfit, there will be more...many more, sight tight and put down that beer I don't want my mother/friends to think you're an alcoholic." Be honest with your answer here, if she does't look great tell her it's not your favorite outfit. You're fucked anyway, you might as well go down with dignity (note: if you're interested there is a great movie called "Going Down on Dignity.")
"...but I'm not going to wash my hair." This is a time saving gambit many girls employ, the thought is that the time it would take to wash, dry, and style their hair would take too long and she would rather ask, with trepidation throughout the night, "are you sure my hair doesn't look greasy." And this is an unfair question because you wash your own hair twice a week (read: month) and you don't really care, by this point your pillow case has a higher fat content than bacon.

I'm sure there are some more codes that I'm leaving out, I apologize but in due time. If you have any questions about this section I can try my best to help you out, just leave them in the comment, email me directly, or just pray them to me.

Onward!!! What do we think about/what should we think about when getting ready?

When she says that she's going to get ready the first thing we think is, "let me quickly finish this beer so that I can open another one before the 'why are you opening that now, I'm almost ready' time. Done! Do it! If this means you're doubled up for a few minutes just hid it and do your best to keep both chilled.
The shower is over and now she's in the bathroom. You say, "Can you leave the door open so we can talk?" If you're like me you love your girlfriend, you love listening to what she has to say, you love seeing her naked, and she makes you laugh so much that it's literally stupid to think you wouldn't want to chat while she puts on make-up.
Why do girls wear make-up often comes to mind. A woman is most beautiful right in the morning, their faces shine with the possibilities of hitting the snooze, the make-up is all removed, they look natural, they look beautiful and their breath smells like a fresh, crisp, Spring's compost pile. Listen women, you're better looking than us, it's that simple, you don't really need make-up every time.
When the make-up is done, Man realizes the reason make-up can be great. Yes, everything in #3 is true but still make-up has it's place (at this point I'm wondering if all women are getting annoyed by the way I type make-up because I don't really know/care if that's the proper way.) Clitoris envy is starting to set in.

Quick note on clitoris envy.

I've heard the term "penis envy" before but I've never been sitting around watching the sports television with the guys, screaming "Go team of men" at the television and called out for more chips only to brush fingers with a friend and think, "fuck, I wish I had Derrick's penis." But when I think about being in a warm/dark/romantic place all day long...the only time I come out of my little cave is when it's time to orgasm...suffice it to say, I believe in one, and only one, form or 'dirty part envy.'

(back to 1 because I don't know how to fix that...anyway.) Women, make-up, hair, it's unfair really. Not only are they the more attractive sex but they can also change their appearance in ways that men cannot. It's amazing that they were built be amazing beautiful creatures and we were built to be annoying, hairy, odor inventing, assholes, with awkward bodies. I think about this for a while, maybe it's the reason I needed the second beer in the first place.
The only part about a woman's ready-getting that makes no sense to me is the amount of worry it causes them. While I fully understand the need to get everything just right, to feel like a million dollars, or like the most beautiful version of themselves, or like they hold the key to forever curing athlete's foot as they walk out the door but what drives me a bit insane is that they (and now I'm speaking of my girlfriend who is better than your girlfriend) already look like that, without effort.
You've sat and waited, being jealous, patient, and slightly buzzed, but not comes the critical walk out the door moment. This is important because you best not have 1 more thing to do. She's ready dammit...you had all that time, granted she was in the bathroom so you couldn't really use it but there is certainly a bush within walking distance, or a Bush, which would not only work but make you cooler in my mind. So be fucking ready when she is or face the not so pretty consequences.

Guys: be thankful you don't have to go through what girls go through. If you're fly is zipped and you don't have an obvious boner showing, you're pretty much ready to roll. It's not so easy for them. Think about it this way, before you shower in a group setting at the gym, country club, prison, or family reunion you always go pee first, where you fluff it, just a little. Well, girls have to fluff themselves every time you leave the house and don't be jealous they aren't fluffing themselves so that other dudes will want to fluff them, they're doing it so other girls will think "I wish I could fluff like that."

Girls: yes, it took you a little longer to get ready than you thought, but not longer than we thought, so be happy when you're done. If it helps take a picture of yourself before you get in the shower and look at it once you've completed, sit back and realize what you've done. The man in your life doesn't really care how long it took, just go out wherever he is, ask him if he's ready and walk out the door with him and all the swagger you need, because you deserve that at least. I mean you deserve more but unfortunately all we have to offer is idle chit-chat about 1980's video games and "shit we hate" currently. *It's as if you're doing charity work just dating us.

*Not me. I'm awesome.

Airing dirty laundry

2010-06-08T17:36:00.000-07:00

Matt is from Texas, he's a great guy. We have worked together for the past 3-4 years and he's grown so much over that time. He's always been a health and fitness type of guy but now he's more aerobic than weight lifting. Recently Matt married his girlfriend and he's actually lost about 40lbs (note: he was never fat but now he's skinny and in shape.) I used to pick up produce once a week from a co-op, he still does that and is looking into buying sides of grass-fed beef from a local farmer. Before, years ago, he used to make some inappropriate jokes about things...those days are over, he seems to have traded them for a sweeter, softer side.

As it is with all people though, some things just never change. Today at a meeting I told Matt that I was moving, actually he overheard me asking for use of a company van.

"Y'all," Texas remember, "move more than any group of people I've ever met."

"I'm moving in with my girlfriend at the end of the month," he smiled when I told him, he was formulating something to say.

And low, his response was the best I've heard yet; "do you like her or you just want to save money?"

It's the locker room version of him, slowly dying, he asked how long before I get a ring and all of those questions as well. Only with an air of sincerity that has grown in the past years, also the reason people love him and the reason he's become a fantastic sales rep.

Of course I'm not moving in with Georgia to save money, I'm very much in love with her and I hope that I get the rest of my stupid life with her. Whenever I start plucking down words into this blog I have to force myself not to dedicate each post to her, it's a lot more difficult a task than you may imagine. There will be posts about moving sooner or later, this is just one story of something I'm not sad to never do again....laundry...by hand.

Because I hate the laundromat as much as I hate parties where I don't know a single person I did my best to avoid them these past 14 months. After leaving an apartment with a washer and dryer the idea of sitting in an odd place pumping money into a machine was horrible, I mean, I hate Vegas and those machines might make you rich (note: they won't) but these machines might just lose your socks, thats about the most exciting thing.

So I, pretty literally, took matters into my own hands. And let me finally come clean here today and say that I in no way, shape or form did I buy this machine to go "green," despite what you may have heard. Believe me, when looking down two gun barrels one that reads "Good Guy" and the other reads "Scared of People" I'll opt for the alliteration every time. So I bought a hand crank washing machine and this is how it works.

You fill this guy up with dirty clothes, water, and soap.

Then you just screw the top on, grab that handle thing and start turning. It's air tight (obviously or else it'd be a mess) and it's pressurized so as you turn the soap is constantly pulling through the material...that's what the directions say at least and I've yet been called stinky.

You can see the blue bucket in the sink, that is filling with cold water, which, according to my 3 days on the job as a large appliance salesman, rinses water much more efficiently than does hot water. The next step is to let the water drain out of the tub and then fill it up with the cold water for a quick rinse.

From here I'll just pull all the clothes out and give them one more quick rinse in the sink.

(I took a picture of this...it looks like a sink full of socks, I would honestly post it here but I think you can guess what a sink full of socks looks like and you can allow me a few minutes back of my time. Of course typing all of this out actually took about the same amount of time, now more due to this tag on but as you can see by my laundry methods, "saving time," isn't always my first interest.)

Then put the clothes in the dryer.

In about 4/1's the time (yes, I reversed that fraction of purpose) you've done about 1/4's the amount of laundry you could do by simply driving 4 blocks to the laundromat! Life is really beautiful isn't it!?

Now listen, I realize this doesn't seem very green but I don't really care, that angle sort of worked, for the most part. All that really matters is I'm gladly leaving this form of laundry right where it belongs, in the "lonely bachelor" days of my 29's. Onward to washing machines, cats and dog playing together, porch swings, sailboats, and most her.

Somewhere along the lines someone handed me a scratcher for life, I'm finally scratching off the last little bit of that weird silver shit to reveal the life that I actually get. Who knew it'd be pretty awesome? I've always been lucky with scratchers.

Coffee and Pie

2010-06-07T19:03:00.000-07:00

Pigeons love each other for ever and ever, totally monogamous. I should mention that I say this with as much certainty as I lack in credibility. This is a self-theory that I've not bothered to research. Yes, I'm on my computer at this moment and it would take two words typed into my searcher space but I'm happy to believe my little dream.

For the past year there have been pigeons that live above my back *patio and we've grown together over that time. The won't eat out of my hand yet and while I've not tried it with actual food, just paper drawings of pizza slices, I'm leaving in less than a month and I can't stomach the idea of leaving birds who eat from my hand, so that part of my experimenting will have to stop. They really do seem to love one another though and I've enjoyed watching them groom each other and just chill out, watching people...people being people.

They did lose a loved one earlier this year, I put bread out for them, as you do when a loved one dies. (Note: If you are making food for a person, who has recently lost a loved-one, don't just put a steak on top of a fence, it ruins most of the effect.) Somewhere I have a picture of the egg laying on the ground, cracked, but I will not post it, as I want to protect their privacy.

My eyes happened up today as they were grooming and I got lost in the moment for a few seconds too long. When I looked down again Georgia's birthday cheesecake was filled up to the very top of the spring form pan. I had no idea what to do, looking back I could have scooped it out but sometimes I just don't think, I go full steam ahead like the moron that I am. The fucking cake looks like a pile of cheese-puke now, there is no upper stiffened, slightly browned crust. Instead it looks like someone cut the top off a cheesecake and put that part into their fat face.

I will salvage this mess the only way I know how = A HEART MADE OF RASPBERRIES!!!

This is an example of me trying something and being unhappy with the results. Not unlike my cowboy coffee this weekend. Ever try this? Apparently you can....

boil coffee and water in a pot.

Throw an egg in there, as it cooks the grounds get caught up in there...yes, crack it first.

The cooked egg looks like fucking hell.

But in the end the coffee wasn't all that bad and the egg caught a lot of the coffee (not pictured is when I poured the coffee through a paper towel.)

In all honesty I didn't really want coffee anyway, Georgia did and I made this for her, she thought it was fine but I still ended up buying an iced coffee for her as I always feel the need to "make up" for sloppy work. She now has her coffee maker back from her friend (I think) and I'm still not in the mood for coffee...I'm going to have to eat more cheesecake tonight though, which I'll manage...I'm sure.

PS. I've found a new Weapon of Mass Distraction in the raspberry heart:

*Patio - in this case, simply means a 4x10 foot slab of cement behind my apartment that smells of dead fish.

Modern Manhood: The Most Important Meal of the Date.

2010-06-05T08:13:00.000-07:00

In the dark year* I started many projects, some of which will never be realized, many of which I have completely forgotten about but will occasionally stumble across in an old notebook or on a scrap of paper taped to the bottom of an elephant while on safari in Whittier.

Of all the things I started, or thought of starting, only two have really stuck around and have been occasionally worked on in some way/shape/form. The first of those is my "album" which is a loose term for a bunch of incongruent songs that are recorded at different levels over the span of 10 (probably more like 40) years. A few weeks ago I did a solid amount of work on these songs, someday, when they are more finished, I will post them here, there, or somewhere.

The second project is about to restart...in some form.

Modern Manhood

By: C. Hughes

Volume 1

The Most Important Meal of the Date

You've done it! You've brought a girl back to your house, where you will sleep beside her for the evening. Step 1: don't have sex. You don't need to have sex on the first sleep over night, not if you're looking for a real relationship. Rather than submerging your penis you should build trust, the best way to do so - show that you can sleep next to her without constantly rubbing your boner on her back, legs, stomach, etc. A dry humping is fine, but when you begin to chaff (and possibly bleed) excuse yourself from the situation. Slip away into sleep.

The morning has come! She is still there! It's as if you're doing something right, for the first time in your life, congratulations are almost in order but there are still many opportunities to fuck this up before the afternoon ever even has a chance to begin. So you must continue to make her comfortable. Lie there, talk. Pee, brush your teeth, go back and talk some more. Avoid farting, it's still too early in your relationship.

While you are laying there with her tell her how much you'd love to make a simple breakfast while she's getting ready. You must talk her into this because it is the most important meal of your relationship; the tone-setting-breakfast. "I'll just put something together really quick," don't lie and say you love cooking if you don't, don't lie and say you're good at it if you aren't, there is only one lie and that is the lie that you are just 'throwing something together.' No, my friends, you will not simply throw some eggs into a pan, that is not how we win. You are going to crush this breakfast the same way you are crushing the spirits of her other suitors.

It's important to have a few 'go-to' meals for breakfast and dinner. These meals are the ones you can cook a million times and never screw them up. Look around at the menu of your favorite restaurants, pick a few fancy sounding meals, go home and look them up on the internet. Learn them inside and out. These dishes will come in handy a million times over, so long as you perfect them. Just by practicing these few (say 3 breakfast, 5 dinner) dishes over and over you will also learn the basics of cooking...you know, if you're a rube.

She's getting ready and you're in the kitchen, your moment is now! You are about to debut a 'go-to' dish for the lady of your dreams, don't fuck up - this is why you've practiced this dish a million times. And in a few minutes when she walks out of the bathroom and you aren't done, just tell her to hang out for a minute, watch television, read a magazine (if you have Maxim in your apartment just forget this girl and admit to yourself your life has been a waste and will continue to be the same,) or, best idea of all, she can join you in the kitchen. Don't let her help though, (a) you want her to see that you can do this on your own and (b) you want to treat her to a nice breakfast.

I don't give a shit what you made; eggs Benedict, crepes, chocolate-coconut pancakes, it really doesn't matter. What matters is 3 things: this is not a breakfast that one just 'whips' up - it's thoughtful, the breakfast tastes good, and (perhaps most importantly) the presentation is nice. A simple way to jazz up any presentation is to cut up some fresh fruit and put it on the plate; banana, apple, pear, strawberry, etc. I give examples because some asshole would probably slice blueberries in half and put them on the plate. Any berry will work, just don't be a fucknut and cut them.

Good luck with your first breakfast. The next time you'll tell her to wait in bed and you feed her another one of your 'go-to' dishes. And if you've successfully pulled off this breakfast (and you aren't a sloppy bag of oatmeal looking sloth) I promise there will be a next time. Listen, anyone can be a dick, only 84.2% of men can be nice with a little effort.

(note: no statistics have been researched.)

*my first year in Albany was horrific...much much more on this someday soon.

How I Quit Smoking

2010-06-03T19:12:00.000-07:00

Probably 6'6" I would guess. That is how tall my new landlord is, which is 3" taller than me, never rented from someone taller than me before. We just got of the phone, he is pulling down the "For Rent" signs as I type these words. (I cannot confirm this timing is true but I assume poetic license applies to blogging.) The new apartment is officially ours and I couldn't be more excited about it.

After work I dropped off three things to the new landlord's wife (not taller than me, still tall though):

Georgia's lease, signed, initialed, and so on.
A little one-sheet of information, also Georgia's. (I had already handed in these 2 earlier in the week.)
The third was a book, it's for the shorter of my two landlords, it looks like this:

Never in the 10 years when I was smoking did I every really consider myself a smoker...it was funny, I smoked more than anyone I knew but somehow in my mind it was all temporary. Let's assume it was an even 10 years to the day, that means it was 120 months - I probably smoked for 80 of them, or about 65% of the time. At first I would quit for like 6/12 months, or 7, or 4, who the fuck really knows...I sure don't. Towards the end it was more permanent.

Before moving to LA I had quit for several months, somewhere about 4 minutes into my drive across country I started back up again....it stuck for a while, not even a year. Then I got my sales job, sitting in my car for 40-70 hours a week...cigarettes quickly followed. There was a 4-6 month break, another 3 month break, and about 2 more months...each time more miserable than the last.

I would go on the patch most of the time but I've been hypnotized, cold turkey, etc. All of them eventually failed. This book, however, has left me with zero desire to smoke.

Here is a play by play of how I remember quitting, all the way back 2 months ago:

Quit for a week. Some small amount of stress popped up, I flew off the handle, started smoking again.
I heard about the book a few times in the same week. I wasn't asking about it, or about quitting. I didn't care. Georgia is cool and didn't really care all that much if I was smoking or if I wasn't.
Bought the book in Glendale.
Had zero desire to quit, but I started reading it. Followed it to the T (tea? tee?)
Smoked. Read. Smoked. Read.
Got to the last page with a cigarette behind my ear, the last of the pack. Camel Turkish Silver, just hanging out, in the on-deck circle.
Finished the last words, walked outside feeling no different at all.
Smoked the cigarette to the bitter/harsh end.
Did a little; "I'm never going to smoke again," dance.
Went inside, washed up, went to bed.

Since that day I have not smoked a single drag. I have wanted one a few different times, but never enough to even consider giving in and actually smoking one. The urge comes and goes quicker than I could have ever imagined.

The thing is, it was easy. Throughout the book, Carr tells you, it's going to be easy, you aren't going to gain weight, etc. I had a hard time believing him; not anymore.

I can say, with the utmost confidence that I will never smoke another cigarette again for the rest of my life. You should say the same. If you only smoke a few when you drink, you're a smoker - wise up. If you smoke a pack a day, you're a smoker - buy the book.

This blog will rarely be used as a blatant ad but this book honestly changed my life and I felt a swarm of pride passing it off to Landlord-Short today, so I wanted to have that flash again with this post.

Painting Your Stupid Apartment.

2010-06-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

There has been too much "I'll tell you about that later" going on within this blog lately but I'm about to say it again because I signed a new lease today, with my girlfriend and this is the first time in my life when I'm moving in with a GF and her alone. I'm not as nervous as I should be but....wait for it...more on that later. Now I'm going to relive my current place a little.

This apartment is not unlike Jewel's hands; it's small, I know...but it is my own. It's served me very well, despite this having been one of the shittiest years of my life. The leg cancer thing really dampened the mood of the overall year honestly, so despite the grand and wonderful things that happened to me the overall tone is sour...or lumpy.

But I do not blame my apartment for this! (please read that last sentence a few times, aloud, and really play it up as a politician would. Keep trying until you get it just so, we'll all compare at a later date.)

In lieu of decorating I often opt to paint. This is mostly because I really don't know what kind of style I wanted to go for, I suppose mostly an organized clutter but my brain organizes clutter so that it's no longer clutter and the process of building up to the amount of pieces I would need is maddening to me. It's like growing a beard, the first few weeks are awkward but then you end up looking like a really sexy...well, you end up looking like a dude with a beard.

As evidenced here, I can wait the beard time but the collecting time never really happened.

Just before my leg thing I painted. I fucking painted hard core too. Here is how you do it.

STEP 1

Pick a wall, take some shit off.

STEP 2

Tape some more shit off.

STEP 3

Realize you've already fucked up, take off some tape and paint an obnoxious color as your base.

STEP 4

Try to be random with your color selections, this "random act" took me a few hours of drawing on a piece of paper, flipping several coins and finally just crying over paint swatches.

STEP 5

Tape more boxes...also, forget to take a picture of this step; if only to remind the world that you aren't without your own flaws.

STEP 6

This one you can't be random with, you need to really plan the colors so that you don't overlap the same ones. That's the type of shit that will get you uninvited to next years Christmas party.

STEP 7

Wait a bunch of beers (5-15) and then peel the tape off the wall.

STEP 8

Move in closer and take another picture.

WARNING: REAL LIFE TIPS AHEAD:

Paint fumes are not as good for you as scientists and doctors used to think (side note: did you know doctors no longer think Camel cigarettes are good for you?!?). So to minimize the fumes there are 5 steps to take, these really work:

Open all your windows. If you didn't already know this "hint" please also note that you should not drink the paint.
Fans, put them around your place. Again, if you've read this far and you don't know this you're obviously just looking for more pictures of me with a beard.
Vanilla. Yes, the shit you add to pancakes sometimes, just to make yourself feel fancy. You can add this to paint. While it doesn't actually do anything about the fumes it does help with the smell, which means you can inhale the fumes without even knowing. Yay! You can add a few drops or (I've heard) up to a small bottle. Just mix up the paint again afterwards and you're good to go. Plus your roommate (read: spouse) will think you're cooking something yummy and when they realize you aren't they be so set on eating something sweet that they may go get you a Twix ice cream bar.
Onions. Chop a few large onions up and put them on plates, spread them around the room. Put about 2 bowls out as well, with enough water to just cause some floating action. This will actually work on 3 levels; 1. it actually absorbs fumes, 2. the smell overpowers most anything, 3. the smell overpowers most anything - saves shower water, saves the earth, makes you seem really green and shit.
Vinegar. Seriously what the fuck can't you do with vinegar? This absorbs the fumes and also stanks the joint out a bit. The smell of vinegar actually isn't nearly as potent as the rest of these so don't worry too much about it.

And that's it kids! Now you can spend an entire weekend painting your wall, only to hate the yellow you used as a base and paint over it some, 18 days later.

(NOTE: YES, SHIT IS UNDERLINED. YES I FUCKED UP (SEE STEP 5 ABOVE.) I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT, I DON'T CARE, JUST FUCKING LET IT RIDE.)

My Panic Button Takes Several Months to Activate

2010-06-01T21:30:00.001-07:00

I'm planning and working on a series of posts about the most depressing year of my fucking life. It's taking some time to write but, unlike every other post I've put out there, I'm at least thinking about it ahead of time. There is a problem I have when it comes to thinking, I either over think the fuck out of it or I don't think at all.

There was a knock on my door. I froze. Mona started to bark but I turned her volume to a rumble. A girls voice said my name as I laid flat, still, and stiff on my bed. My heart raced. Mona grumbled. Butterflies filled my stomach. My name, "Colin," rang out one final time. The high heels trailed off and the moment was over, only it lasted and kept elevating in my mind. The panic increased.

I stood up, out of bed and threw shoes on, I needed to leave. I had no idea where but it felt like I had taken about 150 milligrams of Adderall (normal dose: 5-20mgs.) my body wasn't attached to my head, neither attached to reality. So I did the only thing you can do in those situations. I went to Glendale and bought new work shoes.

"I need your address and phone number," said the old lady at the counter who had facial fuzz longer than Zooey Deschenal's, whose is longer than my arm hair. I had spent the 20 minute ride to the shoe store convincing myself that I needed to move because too many people knew where I lived and this woman told me to proclaim it to the store, all in the name of a shitty pair of shoes I've worn 3 times - and only because I don't like wasting money.

"Why do you need my address, I'm buying shoes. You need it." She explained that it was for coupons or something I had no interest in but I was not grounded in reality at the moment so I sort of lost my shit. "How can you tell me you need my address??? You want it, and that's a totally different thing." I proceeded to pay in cash, which I never do, simply because handing over my credit card was handing over too much information.

When I got back home I spent the next 2 hours looking up and emailing therapists.

Now, to complete what I started that day in January I'm moving. I'll give more details and pictures when the location is finalized but my girlfriend and I just looked at a place in...gulp...Silver Lake (I love you Echo Park) and it was fucking perfect. The front room is open and airy, seems bright and fits as a perfect entry into the house. There is a small office/work-out room just off of that, which will serve as music studio/sweat lodge. The bedroom is cute and just right. Amazingly I would describe the kitchen as large which is unheard of in a city. There is a little patio in the front and an cave in the back.

Let's just assume that I'll link you to my girlfriend's blog when it comes time to describe the house and you can come here for details on the cave.

I'm not sure who knocked on my door that day, it's safe to say that without her I would still be putting off going to a therapist so I'm actually thankful that she did send me into a state of frenzied panic. What I never expected my therapist to tell me, but he did so on day 1, was that he sees me as a bit of a perfectionist. He says that I over-think things so badly that I end up taking no action at all. My blog is my no thought, unfiltered (uninteresting?) link to my creative side. Now that I'm planning one out we'll have to see what happens.

There is a tie to these stories, somewhere. I'm just not sure I know where it is and I don't feel like taking the time to look for it. If I reread the post I'm likely to not click the "PUBLISH POST" key, which looks less like a panic button every time I click it.

Aaaaannnnd click.

I Suppose I'm Scared of Lions

2010-05-31T20:58:00.000-07:00

Emotions can be extremely sneaky. My life, as noted yesterday, is pretty fantastic and I love it, but that doesn't mean that I'm not prone (or at least, subjected at times) to momentary flashes of insanity.

I've noticed before that each day takes us further away from our youth...pretty fucked up right? When you're young your able to power through things. Any sort of challenge in my life has been met head to head as if I was some half naked warrior fighting a lion with a sword. The lion doesn't have the sword, I do, I mean, in my imagination I have a sword, I guess all I mean is that I'm half naked with a piece of sharp metal fighting a really fucking big/scary cat. But the older we get the less likely we are to fight that cat.

Fear has often crippled me and I have no shortage of reasons (read: excuses) why it's always been someone else's fault. This is not to say that mistakes haven't turned up for the best. For example Los Angeles was never on my short list of places to live, I doubt that it was even on my long list. By some twist in fate I moved here and thought, for a long time, that it was a mistake. It turns out now that it's been the best decision I've made 100% on my own. (Of course that previous statement was written without given much thought at any other decisions I've made in my life.)

I'm not sure what it is I'm afraid of or which cat I should be fighting. I just get the feeling, in flashes, that there is a lion out there and that I would be pretty fucking sexy in a metal skirt with a sword. However, sometimes I look at where I am in life and wonder why I'm not further along. Why have I not progressed in work? Why do I still sometimes worry about money? Why am I not the next Batman? Why wont the god-damned lion just show himself?

Fuck lions, right ladies?

Nap.

2010-05-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

Fresh cilantro being chopped in a nearby apartment, cuts through the warm dry desert air and slips in through the windows. It's wafted in along side of an Asian stir fry and some nearby charcoal grill, just lit in time to catch the waning hours of the hot spring sun.

Not far off children shout, playing tag, catch, or maybe just chasing each other for no other reason than to run. Sirens break the shouts and laughs, but as suddenly as they start, they stop. These flashing lights will not be seen from where we lay but the noise will come up every so often. We won't flinch.

There are dogs beside us, silent and contented by the presence of an arm around them they situate themselves - just enough to be comfortable, sometimes it feels like they are trying to be invisible so that they aren't asked to move away from the humans they love so much. At their weakest moments they only sigh at the faded sounds of several other dogs, barking at cars, children, neighbors or, my favorite, howling at the siren bursts as they come closer. Dogs are a chain reaction, rarely is there only one who is barking so the will power in our bed is made even more impressive.

Then there are murmurs next to me. A reposition or a little wiggling mouth arduously breathing and swallowing. A faint moan or hum. A tug on the pillow, a push on the other. An arm finding a home on my chest and finally a head on my shoulder. My own sleep is broken for a moment as I realize how lucky I am. I smile, admire my own life for a moment and close my eyes again.

Ten years ago I wasn't a very good napper. I would wake up in a fog that would remain un-lifted for the remainder of the day. Ten years ago I was in the silence of the country but now the noises of the city calm and comfort me they lull me the way that a baby is lulled by the open road, a car seat, and a warm back seat; the way we all were comforted to sleep by Bob Barker on those days when we were just to tired of school and we convinced our parents that we were best suited for the sofa that day. All the noises, all the bursts, the scents, the shakes of the bed, the three bodies breathing around me, they all become a soup on a winter's day. Shortly after I lay down I cannot tell one sound from another.

She has also taught me that a properly utilized nap can make the day even better and I'm inclined to listen to her when she speaks, she's already made me happier than I thought possible - why question her. I now know her noises, her way of sleeping and even when there is a faint gun shot some several blocks away I'm comforted.

My life is pretty fucking amazing.

The Internet. Sort of.

2010-05-29T17:48:00.001-07:00

Last night I had a few beers with Georgia and we walked home (to my place) from a party. Along the way we stopped into a little shop who is open late, it's a little vintage place. Georgia offered to buy clothes for them or something, I offered to drink the sangria that was free and keep my fucking mouth sealed shut. She chatted with the woman who owns the place and eventually got her email address. I didn't know this to be the case until I just opened up the notebook on my cell phone to see it there. It's a hotmail account. Nothing says, "I don't use the internets very good" like giving someone an email address that ends with hotmail.com. It's either that or they person is saying "here's an account that I don't use anymore, save for assholes such as yourself."

My computer comes from work and it was previously used by an older guy on the East Coast. He was fired for being old as fuck and drunk a lot...or because he sucked at his job, who really knows. I only met him twice and he seemed like a drunk uncle who you sort of stay away from at the family party until you are drunk yourself - at which time you go up to him and ask him to recall fucked up shit about his youth, he'll do it, you'll go back and tell your friends about it. In fact, other than the creepy factor, I hope my nephews brag about my life at some point. I guess that means I should start doing more stupid shit, increase my baseline stories.

Alls I'm really saying is I wanted to post something today because now I'm seeing how many people are looking at my site, I just set that shit up and I'm excited to find out. On my phone's notebook I have different post ideas but the hotmail.com got in the way. So this is what you get, shit about the internet that makes you seem like a rube.

Firstly if you are using anything other than google or bing you're probably at least 1/4 retarded, and if you're using Bing you're most definitely a republican - which is fine (except that it isn't fine at all.) I think that Yahoo is good for going to see what middle America is doing, via their front page, but why search with it? Is the the exclamation point? Fuck, I do love over punctuating.

I won't get into social networking because it seems that I'm alone in hating this with a passion that burns when I piss. MySpace is no longer acceptable unless you are in a band, want to hear a song from a band, or from Singapore. Facebook is, I hate to tell all of you assholes this, equally fucking worthless. "But I catch up with people I haven't seen in years." Fuck you. Listen, there are a ton of people I haven't seen in years and guess what...I'm not fucking looking for them. I would get friend requests from my friend's old high school girlfriend's grandmother. My "Suggested Friends" looked like a graveyard of girls who I dated once or my friends dated for a month. Please stop. Tumblr and Twitter, you don't need more than that.

When I used to go through Reddit a lot there was such a buzz around Maddox coming back into the blogging scene. I've met him, he seems like a nice enough dude but honestly do we need him? And he seems to rail against people who would go ape-shit for him "coming back," honestly wouldn't we all rather see an Epic return of Cliff Yablonski? Or would that be a Fail?

You internet people have ruined many a fine word with your white-collar ebonics but what you've done to the words epic and fail will never stop pissing me off.

It has crossed my mind, as well, that people are still probably jerking off to a series of 5-10 second porn clips...call your son, as him where the longer clips are, he'll tell you. Porn is free now. Sure, it's going to ruin the industry but then again, it's going to ruin the industry! Which may force your son out of the house, maybe he'll actually find a girlfriend, maybe you'll have granddaughters...she'll probably get into porn because it's all a big fucking cycle. Have no fear though, you're penis will have long since died - you're not far behind it either.

The cynicism has hit level 9...that means I must be leaving.

Pictures of shit I hate

2010-05-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

My job involves a lot of driving...which means it also involves a lot of anger. Here is a short list of things that piss me off to no end.

These cars are all stopped. Why the fuck does this ass hole need to leave 25 feet between himself and the car ahead of him? Honestly, is there a single good reason that doesn't involve someone being insane? (No. The answer is no.)

PEOPLE: They are generally fat, we start that young too. We create products that are intended for fat people only.

If they aren't fat they are probably horribly confused about life (Ed Hardy applies):

Every now and again I'll stumble upon some graffiti that actually makes me chuckle:

But more often than not it's just not that funny:

And if you can find your very own fuck up (aka: "fail" but really, who isn't sick of that word,) you will now momentary joy:

And for the love of god, when you start your own company and your friends give you the advice to make the store's name ironic, please know that you'll be opening yourself up for the harassment you deserve:

The only thing that's worse than claiming Happiness via being a fat turd is putting your face on your product, it's never a good idea. NEVER!!!

I get it...you're a hippie selling hippie peanut butter but guess what...nobody wants a hippie touching their fucking food.

Honestly, the amount of things that piss me off on a given work day number in the thousands, these are just a few scant examples. I'm a really happy person, I couldn't imagine having this job, seeing all the miserable shit I see and not having a positive outlook on life, I'd've jumped off a fucking building 3 years ago.

Music ruined your life

2010-05-26T18:01:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the 90's meant I was subjected to pretty awful music; Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Stone Temple Pilots ruled the airwaves. If you were cool you knew Weezer 14 seconds before they blew up and you stuck with them until the Green Album when you realized they were never really that interesting they were just pop music with guitars, which was not otherwise played on alternative rock radio at the time.

If you think about the music that this generation spawned it's difficult to hate the actual Columbus's of the scene because their offspring was so horrible. Offspring was also horrible but that's a different story altogether, sort of, but it could be said that Nirvana was more punk than Green Day ever was and Offspring was ushered into prominence on the back of Green Day who owed a great deal of their success to the grunge scene.

Green Day along with Offspring and many others were simply Weezers with fewer chords and effect pedals. If it weren't for these pop bands sneaking into the otherwise super grunged-out radio airwaves we would never have gotten the pop backlash that struck those same dials.

Suddenly a Nirvana song was followed by a Soundgarden song, followed by a Green Day song followed by Lit's "My Own Worst Enemy" which went into Eve 6's "Inside Out" at which point you were already turning into a musical idiot. I'm no fan of Nirvana now and I was only slightly a fan then. I had already discovered Ween, They Might Be Giants, Pixies, and some slightly off the radar bands and was falling into that but Green Day did kick off a shitty pop-punk phase that I'm embarrassed to talk about.

After hearing "Inside Out" the radio stations started to slip in Sugar Ray, Smashmouth, fucking shit, even Hootie and the Blowfish had their moment. It was awful adult contemporary and it was pretending to be "alternative," which lost all meaning at the same time I lost all interest in Nirvana. How could something be both alternative and be charting so high? It doesn't work that way. What was really upsetting was three bands with one very common link:

THIRD EYE BLIND

SUGAR RAY

RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS

On the surface they are pretty different, RHCP have always had some sort of credibility (thanks Flea) where Sugar Ray was the obvious over-hypedness of a slightly attractive lead singer and Third Eye Blind was...I don't really know, I guess they had some hits but the world has never really been able to explain it. So what do they have in common??? Tone-deaf lead singers.

Nobody really cared about Anthony Kiedis, he's pretty fucking awful but people didn't care at the time and now he's probably at least a little better. Unlistenable:

Nobody cares about Third Eye Blind, I won't even bother with a link because I'm not going to give anyone any reason to remember them.

But Sugar fucking Ray. There is no finer example of a bunch of douche bags with no talent becoming famous than this right here (try to stick with it):

And in this clip we see why there are so many disillusioned failures walking among us today. We all have some calling to become famous, we all deserve it. We tweet, we blog, we seek our own slice of fame. We find ourselves hilarious and entertaining. We believe we are special. All we really want is the life we deserve because in the end Mark McGrath is famous so don't we deserve it too?

Mark McGrath sir, you are the reason Americans are reality obsessed ass holes who have an inborn belief that they are somehow entitled to be rich and famous. With your complete lack of talent and "best looking kid in the trailer park" looks you've shown everyone how easy it can be if you just suck the correct cock.

And yes, he is in fact ugly. Look at him. American teenage girls were told to think he was good looking because it was a transitional phase. First these young girls fell in love with Kurt Cobain who took it open himself to do a little plastic surgery, via a shotgun in his face-hole. They they either turned down BoyBand Road or SoftRockDouche Lane, which certainly included Steven Jenkins from Third Eye Blind but the class president was Mark McGrath.

I do not say that Americans are ass holes for believing they are owed some level of fame and pretend for a moment that I am above this. I've tried to record an album, I find myself to be attractive, hilarious, intelligent, and at times I almost think I could "make it" but at the end of the day I have nothing to say that isn't said a million times over by a million other people across the planet and thankfully I know that. But I'm not above anyone and I'm not saying that I am, at times I suffer from The Mark McGrath Disease but I snap out of it quickly.

Hopefully someday all these fucktards who go on reality shows will see that, while they are probably more talented (in every way) than McGrath, the sun only shines on the dog's ass hole a few times a century and Ryan Seacrest has used up most of the Universe's free ticket allowance for the next 10-20 years.

So get in line with all of the other untalented people and bring me a sandwich if you think of it because I'll be there too - even though I have no preconceived notion that I am deserving of any sort of fame. I'm only there so that if I ever get to the front I can slap Mark McGrath in the face and quietly return to my life.

Music Monday - Tenacious D? Sort of.

2010-05-24T18:11:00.000-07:00

I've given some thought to my blog, which makes it decidedly more serious than I anticipated it ever being but basically I've come up with a theme for each day. There is no hard and fast rule that I have to adhere to the thematic decision that was made at random one afternoon a few weeks ago, case in point - I've yet to follow it (save one post,) but when I'm stuck it gives me something to do. Today is supposed to be Music Monday, I'll give you a quick look before I jump into MM.

Music Monday - anything about music. I love music but I have no hopes of ever being one of those MP3 bloggers who gets all the newest music sent to their homes. The amount of work that those (Gorilla vs. Bear, MOKB, Skatterbrain, et al.) must put into their work guarantees that I'll never have the time to do that, nor the patience, and mostly I'd never be interested enough. That said, I do love music.
Revieusday - clever huh? Alliteration on Monday to using a play on a first-syllabic-rhyme for Tuesday. I'm really living life to the fullest. Basically I can just review shit on Tuesdays. Beer, books, beards, perhaps even things that start with different letters.
Memory Lane Wednesday - Seriously uncute name. But an important day if there ever was one. This is where I'll tell you about the shit that makes me who I am...and when my therapist tells me who I am I'll even let you in on that.
Thurecipe - Not always food. I've remade chairs and tables, built art projects and I can fill them in like recipes. Probably a good way to fill my blog with pictures.
Facing Fear Friday - This is under protest and I'll revisit it at another time.
Hacky Saturday - Just life hacks. I often don't feel like/have time to write on Saturdays so it's likely to devolve into lists of shit.
Blech Sabbath - I can do whatever I like.

So here is an example of how loose this format is going to be...

Tenacious D. "Friendship is Rare"

See, growing up I never really realized that my parents didn't have friends really. They kept a very tight circle whom they never visited, spoke with, or generally seemed too interested in spending any time with. For a long time I believe my mother when she would talk about how busy she was but now I'm an adult and I realize that working 2 or 3 days a week and complaining about being busy is really ludicrous. The only reason she's busy is because of the amount of time she wastes complaining about just that.

The further I get from home the more I want certain traits to pass me over, my nephews too. Hopefully we can weed them right out of our gene-pool altogether. When the Tenacious D album came out I was living with Jay, we were then and are today great friends..."besties" sure but dudes with units like ours don't use words like that (read: if you average our penis sizes we are somewhere around average for Sri Lanka...and I have no idea what that means.) I always attribute that song to him and that time. Music really does suck me right back to the time when I first heard it.

Now I realize, friendship is fucking rare. It's tough work being friends with people. First of all people are pretty annoying; they are rarely exactly who you want them to be, and when they are you just marry the fuck out of them regardless of their sex. At 30 years old I've had so many friends come and go, I can only imagine this will continue on through my life. My brother and I have spoken about making friends and how it only gets more difficult. Thankfully right now my girlfriend is wonderful and her friends, for the most part, are pretty alright.

We are applying to be bestie-couple friends with some couple we met at a party. I don't think this other couple understands that we are actually going to stalk them until they relent and become friends with us, in fact I'm 99.9% certain he doesn't have the foggiest clue what my name is, which would put us on equal footing but he is a director and we found some of his (extremely popular) videos online, so we yanked his name from the credits. Hopefully someday they'll read this and it'll ruin our friendship, my ladymate would be so pissed ("hopefully" was sarcastic baby...just kidding she doesn't read this blog, if she did she would know that I'm functionally retarded. (I hope "functionally" applies at least.))

Only Nate has been to each of my birthdays since I moved to LA. 1 person. He came to dinner the first and and then left right away, the next year he hung out despite his ex being there, the next year we were living together, this year he and the ladytron were the only peeps there. I do have a bunch of friends whom I could call up and hang out with but of them few wedding invitations would I receive should things go that way. This is not to say that I don't love these people, I do; alls I am saying is that friendship is rare and it takes fucking hard work.

You think the Gorilla vs. Bear dude has friends??!! Probably, but his best relationships have undoubtedly taken at least the same effort to create as did his blog. And kudos for it. But don't ever think the work is done. It's tough to stay in touch with Jay. It's difficult to see Nate. I rarely talk to Kyle, Emily, Brad, Courtney, etc. of those people only 2 of them even know I have this blog...it's tough work but then again I don't want the tough part to be the part where I say it's difficult and put forth zero effort, then I'd just be my mother...and that's why I start therapy again tomorrow.

Memory Lane Wednesday: Woodstock 1999

2010-05-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

There is always that one friend, who, at a given moment, can piss you off to the very brink of your own sanity. They are always there when you stumble on a slightly raised sidewalk, he is the one who claps and fake laughs loud enough to draw extra eyes onto the situation. When you’ve had a few too many shots of tequila and you find yourself slung over a bar toilet he is there, standing with the bathroom door open shouting the play-by-play back across the bar to your seated friends. And he was there in 1999 when I went to the worst, and subsequently the last ever (hopefully) Woodstock.

He was driving in from Cape Cod so he picked me up along the way in upstate New York. We made the hour and a half trip blood free. I sat in the back and the excitement of it all carried us along the way, so did the open windows and lack of general conversation. That was where the niceties primarily stopped. We searched out parking when he informed me that his aunt and uncle would be meeting us, they were both about 50, their children where much younger, but also coming. I figured I could deal with that, he told me the uncle was bringing an ounce of weed and his aunt has cancer so she had good pain killers. However odd I found the idea of a cancer stricken woman bringing her 15 and 12 year old boys to Woodstock, I took solace in the mention of the drugs.

Then we got stoned in the parking lot. Summers, for me, were a slower fare than were the school years. In high school I was the rare unpopular homecoming king/quarterback. I was a straight edge loser it what I really was, so parties were never mentioned to me, thus I spent a lot of time sitting around alone throughout my high school days, so returning home for the summer meant working…pretty much exclusively. So when we got high, I recall getting very high.

After finding his family we walked into the combine. “This spot is good,” or “let’s settle here,” I said about 90 times. Each time I found a spot to set up camp I was turned away. We were off to find a better spot. We walked, mind you with a cancer stricken mother, to the complete other side of the combine, away from the car and set our stuff down. I didn’t like the spot one bit. We would later learn that we set our bags down directly on a patch of poison ivy; the joke was on him as I’m not allergic to it.

He decided we would use his tent so I didn’t bother to bring the one that I had just bought. Mine – brand new, big, clean, etc. His…well it looked like a 1974 tent with sides that didn’t stay up, broken polls, missing pieces, it was exactly the type of thing that he would do. I should mention he was my largest friend, at least 260lbs and about 6 feet tall. During the setting up of our tent his uncle had to come over and tell us to calm down as I was screaming; “you fucking idiot, you don’t even know how to set up a god damn tent,” and he was screaming; “get your fucking hands off the tent you jack ass, you’re going to fucking rip it,” generally nice things like that.

Eventually we set up the tent. Sort of. Each morning I would wake up with the nylon of the tent stuck to my back as the sides would cave in on us. You could spend the entire day walking around the campgrounds and I honestly don’t think you would find a worse tent than ours. If you were able to find one I wouldn’t have gone within 50 yards of it, as it was probably a mobile meth lab.

Until the fires started I don’t remember much. I remember taking a poop once and wiping my ass with my own sock, it was during Limp Bizkit and I’m still sure missing them to wipe my ass on a sock was my best decision to that point of my life.

But then the fires started.

In the middle of the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s set we could spin around and see fire starting in 14 different spots. I don’t know why I remember the number, I just do. If they met we could have been surrounded by fire and things could have gone much worse, fortunately I didn’t die via Woodstock. The set was rather weak, I thought, and we walked back to our befallen-Charlie-Brown-Christmas-Tree little tent. We pushed passed people smashing open ATM machines with rocks, others openly selling Portobello mushrooms as if they would get you high, and aged hippies condemning our generation for being so violent and evil towards one another. One man in particular was saying things like; “these are your brothers! Your Sisters! You mustn’t destroy you must love!”

A lot was later made of the cost of water, food, etc. At the time none of that bothered me, that’s what happens, you go to a concert and get raped by vendors, you should expect that much. I’ve always known the real reason things went ablaze was nothing more than the fact that people where handing out candles, a few people wanted to be tough, and thus fires happened. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time and it still really doesn’t. I remember walking the mile back to the car with police and military on either side of us, standing shoulder to shoulder as we marched, dirtied and beaten, back to the parking lots and back to real life. It still seems really extreme. But that was the following day, we still had some time left at camp.

“Let’s go see the fires,” I was pestering him to go get into the action. He kept denying and then getting pissed when I was going to go off on my own. I don’t know how I eventually got him to go with me but after an hour or so of prodding him we finally struck out, and it was easily the most interesting time of our Woodstock experience.

Initially we stopped to watch a kid sit in a fire for about 3 minutes. He was on a piece of plywood in the middle of a huge fire, the board was getting smaller by the minute and he was getting stupider by the second. Of course the crowd was full of comedians yelling at him to keep going. We eventually left, not because the fire dude was going to die but because a group of young hippies had surrounded a tree and were keeping it safe from the fires. Of course the only fire near that tree was 40 feet away, with a shirtless bro sitting in it, the tree was in no danger but young hippies are annoying.

We walked amongst the looters for a while. There were rows and rows of concessions. Tee shirts, food, watches, all sorts of shit. It was the first time we had visited this area, the entire weekend he ate MREs that his family brought and I ate ice cream (just once, the rest of the time I fasted out of brokedome.) We wanted to steal something so I jumped into a booth and grabbed a few keychains. When I say we wanted to steal something I really mean that we were scared to steal anything big so we grabbed stuff that nobody else wanted so we could later recall how fucking cool we were.

Walking down there was a booth that stood out, we walked towards it. There was true madness around us. There were people running around with bags and boxes of stolen merch, there were Ryder trucks now parked near the booths, and fights were breaking out; it was like jock-heaven.

“Please, help me and I give you whatever you want.” At first we had no idea where the voice had come from but eventually, out of the darkness, arose the booth we had set out for. “These people are going to rob me, help me get the boxes in my truck and you can grab tee shirts for yourself.” Perfect! Finally, life was working out for me. I knew instantly that I was going to be able to tell people heroic (and fake) stories about how I jacked all this merch from “the man” and all the while I would actually be helping a guy out of a sticky situation. I jumped over the booth’s wall and started stuffing boxes. There was a small box that I set aside and I would occasionally toss a shirt or a keychain in there, this was my box – I was keeping it.

“What do you want?” my friend had stopped me from throwing stuff into the Ryder truck, his absence from helping me was really noticeable but I chalked it up to his unbelievably lazy nature. He was like a sloth…a stoned, fat sloth.

“We need to go…now.”

“but we’re helping this dude out,” his face repeated the ‘now’ over and over, hundreds of times, and in increasing volume. We turned to see the back door of the Ryder truck slam shut. We watched in awe as it cut through the human traffic and drove straight through a fence. I was standing with my little box, not having the slightest clue what was going on when he explained it to me.

“I was talking to the dude who ran this booth…he was all fucked up on something. A security guard came and asked him if he had the vendor pass or something and then the other guy,” there was another guy who was somewhat directing us on how best to pack shit, but mostly just screaming at us to go faster, “he runs up and smashed the security guard over the head with something. They both took off towards the truck, I grabbed you.”

Basically we were too scared to steal but in the end we helped someone who had apparently rented a truck in case there was an opportunity to loot. This same truck was in the local news for about a week. It had knocked over about 10 different booths. Of course, it would have been 9.9 if it weren’t for my help but I don’t want to brag about it.

The security guard was fine, he went on to study engineering at MIT and now works for NASA…I mean, perhaps. He did get up on his own and walk away so we figured he went on to great things in life, as have we all.

I’ve not actually spoken to that friend since senior year of college (three years after Woodstock.) We remained good friends throughout college. I’ve heard he’s married, has a baby girl, and is bald. If I ever see him again I wonder if we’ll start arguing right away or if we’ll try to avoid it. My honest feeling is that we won’t be able to avoid it, we had to be held back from punching one another several times…but we were mostly great friends and I miss him.

Taking Action; For No Reason

2010-05-17T18:27:00.001-07:00

There are reasons to break routine or just to do something for the sake of doing something; rarely is the result amazing or ground breaking but it passes the time.

I can imagine the scene at my landlord's home this weekend; "I haven't done anything recently over at the apartments," to his wife. She probably wasn't listening, certainly nobody with any sense heard him.

While my apartment is very small it does have the benefit of having zero shared walls. It is a tiny bungalow where you could hear me farting from any room. I do like it here, it certainly wouldn't be for everyone but it's plenty for me. It stays relatively cool in the summer and doesn't need much heat in the winter, granted this is Los Angeles. Although, I have a large tree in front that blocks much of my roof from the sun during the summer months.

There is a small shelf that I built into my kitchen window. It hold's my vitamins, salt, pepper, oil, and maybe a few more things. It's the one window that I can always leave open, no blinds.

2 windows in my bedroom, each looking directly into my neighbor's apartments from maybe 10 feet, probably less.
3 in my living room, all of which are frequently walked past by the other members of our little bungalow block. Easy to look into, hard to be private.
2 windows in my kitchen, they face opposite directions. The one that looks West is the one that I open while I'm doing dishes but the hard core Christian sisters (about 55-65 years old) that live next door are awfully "screamy" about their lawn decorations (read: outside cats.) The other window is small, it's the one with the shelf and it's perfect, the blinds have never been down because it faces only the tree in my front yard.

Of course, I arrived home today to find that my tree has been 99% removed. It's going to be hot as shit in here soon and my blind is already closed. It didn't take me walking into my apartment to realize the awfulness of this idea. When these situations arise there is always a moment where you are forced to bite your tongue or get into a conversation that is of no interest to any party.

"Oh you trimmed the tree huh? Lot's!"

"Yeah, looks good right?"

"Yeah." Unlock my door, walk in, shake my head and think about the stupid shit I've done just to feel as if I'm doing something. It's not the worst thing that's happened to me, just another annoyance that will piss me off for a few days.

One Fear Down.

2010-05-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

The list of things that make me nervous in this world is about double the length of Oprah’s grocery list. Suffice it to say, I’ve never had a shortage of paranoia in my life. Anything from the mundane fear of driving to the somewhat crippling inability to use 2 different types of cleaners on the same day, I can span all fears. Today I’m conquering one that has been on my list for some time.

Today, my good friends, I’m whitening my teeth.

I’ll either be the first person in history to give himself completely white gums or I’ll swallow way too much and actually die. Can you imagine the services, or my friend’s explanations to their bosses; “well, he was young, it’s really sad, so can I have Thursday off,” they would ask, and eventually ‘what happened’ would arise, to which, one can only imagine they would feel embarrassment for me. It’s difficult to be embarrassed when your dead but it’s even harder to check things off your to do list. My list is all written for someone who is still alive; perhaps that’s a flaw in my planning.

I chose the Rembrandt 2 Hour Whitening System after reading a few Amazon reviews in line at CVS. Amazon, while I hardly use it to actually order things, has become my most trusted source of reviews, anywhere. I’ve read recently that Yelp pads their reviews depending upon if the stores give up the $ for ads and shit like that, so I can’t even trust yelp anymore. Not that I would go to yelp for a tooth whitening review. Anyway, Amazon said to use Rembrandt so here I am, mouthful of spit, waiting another three minutes before my first rinsing.

It goes like this: 20 minutes on, 10 minutes off, 20/10, 20/10, and 20/10. Basically it’s enough time to get started on something and then not be able to finish it, which is perfect for my ADD.

Maybe I should let you all know that my cleaner days have also been conquered, at least somewhat. It stems from first hearing about mixing bleach and ammonia, I got nervous cleaning a window outside of my house with window shit and then cleaning the shower, inside and totally on the other side of the house, with some sort of shower cleaner. What if residue was hanging out on my hands? What if they mixed and I was killed as a result.

First 20 minutes is up. Time to rinse.

Holy shit, they actually look whiter. I’ll know this works when I see my girlfriend later, if she notices something different. She won’t. Then I’ll tell her and she’ll say; “oh yeah, I thought something was different,” no she didn’t but it’s sweet of her to say so…or rather, it will be sweet of her to say something assuming she will.

Create-a-day

2010-05-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

After being open and untouched for about 35 minutes my screen saver pops up with the single word "create," to gently remind me of my only goal for 2010; create something everyday.

The goal is an imprecise as it is lofty, in many ways. Surely days have gone by and I've failed to create anything substantial my overall tally sits well above the amount of days we've conquered in 2010 so far. I didn't really give myself rules for this creation experiment so I've been forced to make them up as I go along. Here are a few that I can readily think of:

Creating a blog counts only once. I cannot simply post something on my blog and have it count towards a creation. However, if I were to write a piece of fiction and post it here I would surely count that.
Meals can count but they need be a challenge and completely new to me. A few meals that I've counted have been; fish tacos, chard and tomato gnocchi, and chicken noodle soup from scratch.
Starting can be creating. Some projects cannot be finished in one day so if I make some serious progress towards an end it will count. Case in point: demo - I've been working on it very hard in spurts.
Recreating is very much in play.

Yesterday, I had hoped to work on my demo but my girlfriend and her friend are recording new videos for a certain television network's website and they needed a little help. They will be filming at my-not-girlfriend's apartment so they were busy setting things up all week. It's been crazy really; 12 new drinks, dresses, recipes, scripts, etc. They told me they were going to redo her kitchen table so that it would look nice. They were going to sneak this project into the middle of their day. This is the type of project that actually offends me when I'm not asked to help. Power tools?! Remaking furniture?! And I'm not invited.

I offered to do the table. Saying that they had enough to worry about, or something along those lines. It gave me boyfriend points, it gave me my daily creation, and it gave me a chance to put my blue-collar-perfectionism to a task.

while not too much of a perfectionist there are certain projects types of things (mostly blue collar in nature) where I cannot settle for "decent" or "done enough" or "reality show quality work," I have to go all the fuck out and make it look like someone did it who knows what the fuck they are doing. usually I don't know but I fake it.

So after about 2 hours of sanding the topside of the table I stained it. According to my inside sources it came out looking just great...then again, one of them is in love with me and the other is in love with me as a boyfriend for her friend, so the bias is heavy. I'm sure, when I eventually see it, the flaws will be the only things I see, which is pretty much the way it goes.

Today's creations revolve around my "album" or demo, or whatever the hell it is, even I'm not sure.

demoalbum: update

2010-05-11T21:29:00.000-07:00

Tonight I changed directions. I hit a point, I said; "this isn't working," and now I've reworked my songs, it's going in an indie pop direction now. I've narrowed it down to 20 songs. That's it, I won't add a single song. While I might not be asked to play the Nebraska Pop Festival this year it's bound to happen.

Blissful, shiny pop music.

Back to the music (only in bed, while sleeping and not actually listening to anything.)

Life Wink: 1

2010-05-09T09:46:00.000-07:00

Have you listened to This American Life #379 where Dan Savage talks about his mother dying? Did you get tears in your eyes? It's playing right now in the background and it's really freaking good, as Dan Savage usually is.

Today is mother's day, I have called mine to tell her that I won't be able to come home in June, as I had planned...more leg bills are holding me back from a lot of shit, travel being one of them. She was sad. And, there is nothing like a little slap in the face of your mother on her day. I would feel worse if I had decided just not to go home but it's more a matter of money than anything really, I just feel I should continue to save.

I woke up at my girlfriend's house this morning, ran home to walk to dogs, shower, and do a few things before heading back over there to celebrate mother's day with her family.

It's strange how things get connected in our everyday life. I didn't know that I would listen to TAL while I was filling out a spreadsheet for work. I didn't know that the third act of the radio show would be a gay man talking about his mother's death, my listening on mother's day. I didn't know that gay man would talk about his faith, his religion but for whatever reason I took this picture at my girlfriend's house, where people put little items they don't want anymore.

Whenever I see a book on the ledge I stop and leaf through it briefly to see if it would be of any interest whatsoever. Today there were these two books, both dealing with the gay community. Both intended for gay men to read them. And inside a bookmark of a saint. Some religion from a gay man, on mother's day. 30 minutes later I would fall into more of the same. It's just pretty cool when those little life winks happen.

My...Album..??

2010-05-08T18:56:00.000-07:00

There are a few different ways I record song that I write.

eMac. Yes, it's an ancient computer at best but it still works really well and when I use it to record I can easily convert songs over to MP3 and then listen to them in my car. The idea here is that I'll eventually edit them down someday, rewrite lyrics, perfect bridges, etc.
iPhone. I have a little recorder on there, the sound is shit but I can actually email the file to myself and throw it onto my iTunes. It's my "in a pinch" go to though. It takes about 5 minutes to set up my eMac and sometimes I'll forget in that time. So I'll pull out my phone and take a quick little recording. This is also my means of keeping one line songs alive, these are the songs I write in my car whilst working; driving around with the radio off singing to myself.
Video Camera. When my aunt died I got a corgi named Moanna (pronounced Mona - was named Mitzy or Bitzy when I got her though) and a shitty camcorder. I'm not sure if it's even made by a company or just made by the early 90's itself. It's the kind that records to mini tapes that you then physically place into a larger tape which will play in a VCR. The reason this works out well is for solos (note: I have never written a solo in my life) and playing weird chords that I don't know the name to. Basically if I don't think I'll be able to remember the song, without a visual aid, I turn to the camera. It's between eMac and iPhone.
Old School: I have a digital 16 track recorder with 2 inputs. I use this as my mixer for the eMac, it holds up. At one point, it was all I had and it was really when I started recording music. I spent $1,000 for it at the time, it may still be the single largest purchase I've made to date. I've never even bought a car that cost that much.

From 1999 through 2003 I recorded somewhere around 200 songs. I'm not sure if they were country, indie, pop, punk, or what...probably a mix. One day I wanted to bounce these songs over to my eMac so I could edit them. It would have taken about 5 days to record each song into it's own track so instead I was going to put them onto CD and then import them. I had to format the hard-drive on the recorder in order to do so. I did. It was the last time I ever heard any of those songs.

Now, I understand they were probably 99.9% shit (especially now, as tastes have drastically changed) but they were mine and now they are totally gone. Seriously I was crushed. A few weeks later I happened to rent "Comedian" and was inspired to just say good bye to my music. A brief rundown, Jerry Seinfeld throws away all of his stand up and starts over...I'm not Seinfeld so I figured it would matter even less.

It was easy. I threw out papers, forgot songs. Went along on my way. Shortly after my tastes went way more indie and way less punk. None of this is the actual point. The point is, I've been trying to write an album since probably 1997 when I wanted to do a choral christmas album with my friend Jon. Today, 13 years later I've spent several hours pouring through songs to come up with a list. It's a working list. Some songs are old, some new, some will be lost, some fixed, but I'm pretty determined this time to finish something.

I have a CD made now that is a collection that spans very rough to nearly finished. The songs are:

Nervous Man. This is the last song I've written and I honestly like it.
Boring States. Circa 2004-5. It's stuck around because I have a soft spot for it.
Die Young. Wrote this just after New Years 2006, it's extremely rough, I forgot about it but I like the form of it.
Good Eye. Second song I ever wrote on banjo, mid 2006.
An Instance. The first song I wrote after "throwing out my library."
National Anthem. I have a sneaking suspicion that this song will fall short of making the cut. Written in 2004-5.
Play On. Sometime just after moving to CA.
Royal. Old song, has been reworked so many times I have no idea what I originally intended it to sound like.
The Slipping Kids. I'm not sure why I kept this one on the demo. I don't think I like it.
Trouble 2-Step. First song I ever wrote on banjo, first day I bought my banjo. I like it, it could work.
Be The One. Wrote this in the waiting room to find out if I had cancer in my leg. Not as sad as you would think it would be, given the situation.
The Way I Left. It's new, I have no idea.

Beyond this there are about 15 others that need to find their way onto my eMac somehow over the next few units of time. I'm not sure what those units are though.

Fuck reddit.com

2010-05-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

Today, fishing around reddit.com I realized that I had been given my first 'trophy.' Which is a stupid thing they give to losers like me who spend too much time on that site, participating in the destruction of our own usefulness. Apparently my 1 year anniversary has occurred, so now I'm leaving.

Everyday, the first website I check when I get home is Reddit. I sometimes spend an hour but usually I spend 4-5. I never learn anything it just feeds into my ADD. Headline. Comments. This guy is an ass hole. Leave a comment. Look at my karma to see what people thought of my comments. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Lately though, I've realized that comments have been completely unfunny and a few funny ones I've left have been completely misread. In short, the people of Reddit, not unlike the people of Earth, are fucking ass holes. So I'm gone.

The other, and probably the real, reason I'm leaving is that it's just a waste of time. There are funny things to be found, usually with little effort but in the long run it's adding nothing to my life. So I'm leaving for a year. Fuck it. I have bigger things to pursue...for the most part I have no idea what they are but I'm pretty sure they're bigger and there is no doubt they are better.

Delhi or Saratoga Springs, NY?

2010-05-06T20:34:00.000-07:00

I was tossing around the idea of taking comedy classes in Chicago, pouring every bit of myself into the alt-country scene in Nashville, or becoming an indie-pop-lo-fi sensation in Portland. I kept going back and forth and had a trip planned to the first two which would lead me to decide between the 3.

One day my friend Nick calls and says, "I'm out in LA visiting Jay and Kyle, I'm going to stay. Should I get a 2 bedroom apartment?" I didn't want to say yes. But, eventually, I did. It was about 2 weeks after that when I left. Just packed my shit and left. No job and even less prospects for one. It didn't matter, I'm a survivor so I just left.

How did you end up in Los Angeles? That was the question. Until today my answer seemed sort of brave or at least I felt brave in my leaving, sight unseen, for a city I had heard mixed reactions about. Los Angeles is a love/hate city, every ass hole out there has an immediate reaction when asked about it. "Ugh...I fucking hate LA," is the usual response but I gave it a shot because I don't generally give a shit what other people think, mostly because they are always wrong.

Today I learned I'm not brave at all.

Vib (pronounced like bib with a v, just like it looks) met up with my boss and me today to interview for an internship. He's Indian. Holy fuck is he Indian. He's been in the country for 9 months. A country nobody from his family has ever visited. We won't hire him because it's a sales job and he doesn't drive, in fact he arrived via taxi, from USC to Beverly Hills. I don't want to posit a guess as to how much money he wasted on that - but being curious I offered him a ride back home. Mostly I wanted to pick his brain.

Cricket is the national sport of India, when asked if he played; "of course, everyone in India plays cricket." We love football, baseball, basketball, and NASCAR here and not everyone plays, fuck...as for NASCAR we all turn right all the fucking time. Delhi, the capital, is where he is from. Random bull shit chit chat like that happened for a while but I pressed on, stealth style into the good stuff.

He appears to be a virgin and totally unconcerned about it, even though he's about to get his masters in some stupid shit from USC. How does this happen? Some people like sex more than others, I understand that, but why would you want to wait to figure that out? If you hate the color blue, you look at it, you say, "I don't like that," and then you know. If you hate spicy chicken wings it's probably because you've tried them and decided they weren't for you. I don't know if India is uptight about sex or not but I know that Christians are...and I figured I would ask; "yes, I went to a Catholic school." Weird right? India seems to have a lot of cool religions and he picks the shittiest of all.

The most interesting thing I gained from Vib on our little drive was his journey here. Firstly, he is here because his family's business has struggled with the world's flailing economy and they need a jump start, they need new ideas. He, being apparently a family first type of guy, said to his family that he would come study in an American university.

Secondly, the coolest thing was for me to think about the other roads Vib could have turned down. He applied to several schools, accepted to all, and selected USC because of the engineering graduate school. He turned down, among others, North Carolina State, some school in Chicago, another in Texas, and something in the Northeast. I don't remember but it really doesn't matter.

Vib knows what Southern California looks like, he knows a little about Los Angeles, a frowned upon city, and to him this is The States. He could have such a different opinion on our country depending upon where he landed. Now, where USC is in this city I love is...fucking horrifically unlivable, at best. I love LA like no other city and yet I almost wish, for him, he ended up somewhere else. USC does drive me fucking insane because of it's nepotistic nature and the arrogance of people who go there. Listen, I grew up in the north-east, we are unimpressed with your cute little education.

What would he think if he went home with the bitter cold memories of Chicago? Or if his take away impression was the kindly urban south and the crazy moronic rednecks who come into those cities on Friday night? Will he forever think that shitty south-downtown LA is America? Most importantly will I soon forget about him and give the balls back to my own migration story...I seriously hope so.

Why would I care about xkcd's color bull shit?

2010-05-04T20:58:00.000-07:00

Why the fuck do we care?

It's all over Tumblr, it's front page on Reddit, it's probably on Digg (but that site is so fucking awful I refuse to even go check,) and some ass hole friend has already emailed it to you.

THIS JUST IN: men and women are different!!!

Okay, so women know colors better, they give a shit about the difference between the many different greens, men don't care. To men green is either "yeah, I like that green," or "I don't really like that green." Do we really need more? No, probably not. But if we do, well we turn to our left and say, "woman, what color green is that?" When they answer we pat them on the head and reward them later by slathering our tongues all up on their vaginas.

I just don't fucking get why anyone cares about how we all differently label colors? Of course the Reddit comments are no help, it's a bunch of ass holes thinking they are funny, I'm often one of these ass holes so I get it but again it leads me to no conclusion why anyone would care.

My favorite magazines are Psychology Today, Wired, and Money the main reason is that they are all studies and statistics (breaking it waaay down, I realize they are all more than that) just like this little color bull shit...but still I don't care. The same way I don't think that Ron Paul will win the Republican nomination just because a Fox News poll shows him leading Romney, Huckabee, and Palin by the count of 48%, 44%, 38%, and 36%...because, you know, call me crazy but something seems wrong there.

It should also be noted that I've realized that I'm color-retarded. It is very different than being color blind. I never fail to see the different numbers in those color blind tests and shit like that, but ask me what colors they are and I have no idea. There is a certain type of green that looks blue and certain blue that looks green, yellow and orange often trip me up, but in the end it's just that I don't really give a shit.

What I do care about is when people refer to sweatshirts as sweaters. It's a California thing and it's almost reason enough to never move here...well, that and we don't want you.

When I'm President

2010-05-03T21:33:00.000-07:00

Today, I can proclaim to the world with 100 percent assuredness that, as surely as I will one day walk on the sun I will also be elected to the highest office in the land. Yes, I will be the president of the United States of America, unlike my friend Alturk who aspires to be vice-president and at the least speaker of the international house of pancakes. My sights, however are set much higher. Rather than worry about policy my campaign will focus on some things that all presidents get wrong these days. Here are my non-issue-issues.

Firstly I will not vacation. There is plenty of travel involved with the job already. My family will have grown up by the time I run and my wife has grown tired of me already. Believe me, working 365 days a year will be a welcome escape from the rut my life will be in at the time I run. Yes, I will slack off from time to time, mostly after 11am each day, I will do so from my office, plane, mobile office, or submarine.

There will finally be Submarine-One, when I’m elected. It’s going to be cool as shit too. I’m going to have one of those round beds in there and everything will be very 1970’s because I’m sure people were pretty in to submarines in the 70’s.

No professional or college sports teams will be visiting my office. I like sports as much as most Iraqi children like the Detroit Lions but I feel this is outdated and a huge waste of time. You won the league, you make millions of dollars, what the fuck do you need me for? You don’t. Honestly I would like to meet with some of you but only in my teams win and when I say teams that’s assuming I start to enjoy more sports than currently are on my roster of zero to one. I’ll send one of those e-cards that don’t cost any money. “Congratulations on winning you’re THE LEAGUE! We all loved following your season, especially that time against your rivals when you almost were going to lose/win! How crazy right?? Remember to floss, dental hygiene is important no matter the month.”

Every month will be wiped clean. No longer will February be Black History Mont, dental hygiene month, Corgi awareness month, whale nectar tasting month, and scat porn month. No, to this I say clean slate. We will auction off the months to the highest moral bidder. This is to say that if the NAACP wants January as Black History Month and Coke wants January to be Coke History Month we will see who has the better reason. Right off the bat I’m going to side with the NAACP because I despise soda but I’m going to have to play impartial referee between the two. The beautiful kicker is the that the loser will have to pay a hefty fine for having wasted my time. They may have to meet with that year’s sports winners – while I like this idea we will have to think tank that over at HeadQuarters.

Camp David will be renamed “Overnight Camp for World Leaders.” I’ll then invite the leaders of all different countries over for scary stories, mostly about my wanting to bomb them; smores, this will depend on if I invite a cocoa producing nation or not; and our first homosexual experiences, making our meetings afterwards very awkward. Can you imagine the Swedish President or Premier or whatever they are (mental note, learn some of this shit incase my opponent gets all dickish in our debates) watching me and the President of Antarctica speaking after a OCWL session, the Swedish dude will totes know that I forced the Antarcticbro to make out and look at my wiener. Can you imagine the power I would have?

All those who oppose equal rights for everyone will be forced to give up the very rights they oppose. If you’re against gay marriage you can’t get married. If you’re against illegal immigrants assimilating naturally you will have the burden of proof that your first ancestor became a citizen legally (I like this one a lot.) If you ever voted for or owned a pin for Sarah Palin you have to move to Alaska.

I will allow Alaska to succeed from the union…gladly. Once they are gone we will bomb the fuck out of them and take them over. We will allow them to succeed again. We will then bomb them. We will do this for as long as it takes until they realize how much they love being American. Check it out Canada, Mexico, we’re done fucking around.

NAFTA will be abolished. This was President Clinton’s biggest mistake, it’s killing our industry and ruining Mexico. Plus we can’t compete with Canadian timber. Right? Right.

Tax rates will be as followed: If you’re rich as all fucktard you’ll be allowed to take home $2 million dollars if you’re single, $2.5 if you’re married, and you’ll get an extra $500,000 per child. That’s it. We are taking the rest. Nobody born poor becomes rich unless they accidentally suck the right guys penis and get thrown into a movie. So those of you who will complain about wealth redistribution please understand this; at 26 years old I was making $60,000, if you’re 40+ and making less than me you’re fucked. I’m helping you most of all so stop being so fucking stupid and republican.

(R) and (D) will forever be abolished. All the god damned minions will be forced to listen to the actual issues. I know it’s going to suck especially since, we are going to nationally subsidize news, your anchors can make as much as the highest paid teacher in a public high school in the town or city from which they broadcast. There will be no multimillion dollar O’Reilly shows or Maddow shows. Nope, it’ll be people who care about news, people, and not ratings. Don’t like it? Move to Alaska but for fuck’s sake, bring a helmet.

Finally, 4 day work week, full month of vacation, and a 35 hour work week. That’s it. I would also like to have more water slide parks but that is going to be the cherry atop the second term.

Look out Florida! Arizona wants to be the crazy state!

2010-04-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

Making a bid to out-crazy Florida, Arizona signs a new law called "we're crazy, somewhat Nazi, definitely racists...law." Basically, if a police officer has reason to believe someone is in the country illegally they detain that person.

About 31% of Arizona's population is of Latin or Hispanic decent. I cannot find the statistics but I'm fairly certain that 1 or 2 police officers must have recently checked a box other than "white" on the census form.

I hope they start detaining every single white person they come across and hold them under the suspicion that they are illegally in the country from Canada. I mean, let's face it Arizona, you are filled with crazy old white people who, just a few months ago, claimed that Canadians were coming to your state in search of health care...now you have the means to round those fuckers up and arrest the shit out of them.

Another idea to really piss off white republicans - everyone learn and use Spanish exclusively. Listen I love Thomas Jefferson as much as the next guy but just because he said we needed a national language doesn't mean we should all get to have 225 slaves does it? Everyone is wrong sometimes and Jefferson may have been wrong about the language thing (he surely was NOT wrong about the religion stuff.)

Here is the real fucking deal. All of the issues you look at today are connected in so many ways, yet American fail to see that. "Mexicans are taking our jobs!! And they ain't payin taxes!!!" Okay, first thing first, they are paying taxes, income taxes paid by employers and sales taxes, but guess what, they don't get to use Social Security or DBI or Medicare, so it's almost a bonus for us. Unless they're paid under the table which is the business owners fault (9.2% of Arizona business are owned by Latin/Hispanic, so they are a 10th to blame there.)

Well, it's the illegal drugs. Right, so remind me why they are illegal? Because it's keeping people from using them? No. Because the government shouldn't make money off a death industry...well no, they tax the shit out of cigarettes and alcohol (both contain DRUGS by the way.) So why don't we legalize it? Because the population of white fucktards who are over 50 and now somehow think weed has changed since they smoked it.

Our society is now at the point where most people alive today have smoked weed at one point in their lives. It's illegal because that keeps our jails in business. Of course Arizona is trying to privatize all their prisons, some already are. So we make money...or no wait, we have to pay them money, but they pay taxes back so...so...so it seems like we are continually electing the stupidest members of our society to office.

Of course Mexicans (at this point I'm going to stop pretending the new law is targeting anyone else) are coming to this country because NAFTA taught them how great America is!! That or it completely destroyed their agricultural industries...you know, other than weed. It's now cheaper for Mexicans to buy corn from the US than to grow their own. Thanks to our good pals at Monsanto and our "change" president, not to mention the 2 brahs before him.

The financially poor, the lower middle class, lower class minions of the republican party actually listen, while their life savings disappear, to their leaders telling them that "spreading the wealth" will hurt their chances of being rich. Listen to me very carefully, if you're a fat, white, middle-american-dwelling, citizen who has used the word "nigger" outside of quoting somebody else in disgust you will NEVER BE RICH. Look around, do you see rich people in your neighborhood? No, you know why? No, because you're stupid, which will also hurt your bid for money in the future. So let's not reform the financial system...big government is bad, just the way W. tripled the size.

I'm not saying republicans are to blame, I'm saying stupid white people are always to blame. Fucking ALWAYS! Now, I'm proud to be white...small penises are easy to carry around, moderate jumping skills keep me from ceiling fans, and my perceived ability to think comes in handy too, but in the long run we really are the ass hole race. We ruin countries for a living. Obama is white because, I'm not sure if you knew this but, since 9/11 and since immigrantgate blacks are now white...sorry guys. Guess you won't be getting that 40 acre/mule package we promised.

tl;dr: White people don't like sharing. So we ruin the world for everyone else. Arizona is old and stupid. We could fix problems but that would stop people from being so stupidly rich that they'll never spend all of their money. Obama is white.

fun.

2010-04-25T18:29:00.000-07:00

I don't review things all that often, every now and again I'll stop by Yelp to read reviews but I've also heard that Yelp is a racket and it's all bull shit when you get right down to the heart. Basically I look at the pictures that have been submitted and decide for myself if I'd like to go wherever it is I am considering. But I buy records from time to time and I happened upon a great one recently.

On record store day I went and set up some Function: Alternative Energy Strawberry Guava Margaritas, at Origami Vinyl, it was crazy. There were a ton of people floating in and out, catching some live music in the loft and buying up albums at discounted prices. I got a little drunk and left my set up there. The following day I had to work at a Costco in Torrance. When I got back home from there I immediately fell asleep and didn't pick up my shit.

That Monday I went down to pick up a table, an ice barrel, and some other random things so I decided to buy an album as well. Usually the wall is reserved for the special albums, it is where I bought the Dum Dum Girls, The Thermals, and a few other albums, new releases, limiteds, etc. Then in the bins are an eclectic collection of indie music for hipsters. That Monday, after record store day wrecked havoc on inventory I was looking at 5-6 different Pantera albums on the wall. Perhaps I picked the wrong day to buy an album but I can't help but just buy one when my heart is set on it.

Looking for a few albums I've been wanting but are never there; The Bees, Welcome Wagon, or Noah and the Whale (all "summer" albums to me.) Not only where those albums not there, neither were any that I really wanted. It was time to shop by cover art only. I guess they're famous and shit but I had never heard of "fun." but I bought it and let me tell you, it's a fucking party.

I threw it in and started to shake my hips a little, my feet started to swim around my kitchen and minutes into the first song the dogs where jumping at me as I danced around my apartment as though I was an extra on Fame.

It's like Elton John were born in 1984, he got caught up in the indie-pop scene of Olympia and moved to Portland at the age of 21, he kicked around for a while until he finally met a man around the same age. His name was Freddy Mercury. Freddy had just arrived from Athens, Georgia and was looking for a band that matched up with his pop-sensibility...this is what I think of when I think of fun. Even though their name sort of pisses me of, being lowercase, with a period, and so easy to use in the describing of the band itself...oh well.

One of the owners of OVinyl, who took my $, said something like; "nice, I can't believe this copy made it through record store day." I agreed as if I had some fucking clue who they were. I paid, drove home, and just like magic there was Freddy and Elton...sort of.

Other albums I bought without knowing who the band was, that worked out:

- Ween, Chocolate and Cheese (this album got me into non-radio music)

- Ryan Adams, Demolition (got me to explore alt-country)

- Avett Brothers - 4 Thieves (now my favorite band in the world)

Pretty good track record so far.

Weed

2010-04-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

It's 4/20 and if there is one thing I am not, it's an expert...of anything. It simply makes sense to me that weed be legalized. Personally, I have smoked in the past, probably more than most people but it plays no role in my everyday life. There are several studies on the harmful effects, from what I can gather it has mostly been for naught.

There are a few things that I think make perfect sense though;

Letting out of jail, all minor drug offenders would save a turd-load of money.
Taxing the sale of marijuana would earn the government a lot of money.
Stopping a major drug trade would surely stop money going to drug lords.
Weed doesn't really hurt people.
Prohibition doesn't work.

Prohibition is essentially a way of the government saying; "don't do this, or okay, do it but you're breaking the law." Why are alcohol and tobacco legal? Why are handguns (mostly) legal? It's my libertarian streak, which admittedly is pretty small, but I believe all drugs should be legal and we should work to treat the addicted. Although, judging by the way our government helps smokers out, we would certainly fail at that too. Fuck it, let people kill themselves on drugs then...just tax them on the way to the grave.

I'm not a higher tax kind of guy but this isn't income tax we are talking about. If we could offer more social services by making drugs legal go forward! The problem is, we would probably just bomb Iran, if we had the extra capital laying around. But tax talk is for tomorrow.

The Case For Detroit

2010-04-19T15:04:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen the movie About Schmidt? It is one of the many movies I bought on the $1-$5 rack at a Blockbuster Video, that is, before Blockbuster became the Detroit, MI of chain stores. It never made sense to me that I could rent a movie for about $3, watch it once, not really like it, be too pissy to want to go back to the video store, accrue late fees and end up spending $25 on a night of disappointment. Just remembering large chunks of my life is free and equally upsetting.

Why not just by the shit movie and become angry on your own time. Remember, someone put up millions of dollars to have these movies made...fucking stupid isn't it? Well, AS wasn't really all that awful but Jack Nicholson and his wife in the movie had a plan to tour the country in an RV, it's always something I've wanted to do myself...someday.

Timing is everything in life, I believe that almost 50% of the time - which is a lot for me, I think...I don't really know. Anyway, I had a plane ticket to go to New Orleans, that same weekend Katrina hit, I'm planning on going back this year. Sometime I really want to see Missoula, Portland, Seattle, Chicago, Nashville, the list goes on, but there is no city in America that is as interesting to me as Detroit. I have many questions about this city.

It seems as though Detroit will become the first American city to go completely bust and eventually downsize into a suburbs only community mesh. Those suburbs will grow, the buildings will be repurposed, people will flock back to the city and suddenly we'll all hear about how, "Detroit is back!" or "Detroit is making a huge comeback." But the people who remember how the city was during it's peak would likely say that Detroit is gone forever. But how does that happen?

Motor City and at the same time Motown! The only major US city (although 'major' may be in jeopardy) that looks south on Canada. It's a sports city; the Red Wings are one of the original NHL teams and as far as I know they are still amazing (I don't know very far,) the Tigers (MLB,) Pistons (NBA,) and if you're looking for something as luck-lorn as the city itself look no further than their NFL team the Lions. But none of this interests me all that much.

Just quickly glancing at the population you can see that while the city and metro section's population has dropped off considerably the region hasn't taken the same hit. Yes, the US car industry is slow to move and has been left behind by the rest of the world, so jobs left but people, 5+ million actually, still mean Detroit when they say; "I'm going into the city." That is what made me really interested in seeing the city for myself.

The media is shit. There is no way around the fact that they, as a body, don't serve the population. (It may be our fault for buying US Weekly over the local paper but nonetheless the media as a whole are feeding into their own failures.) The way we see Detroit on TV or on the internet is as a wasteland. Empty buildings that are falling apart, boarded houses, empty lots, just depressing shit. But we are never shown the areas that are still cool. I don't know if they exist but I have to imagine that they do. Yes, people have flocked to the suburbs but that doesn't mean there are hold outs who will tell you about the great things the city still offers.

I spend a good deal of time on reddit where may a Detroit post goes up and every single time there is a comment about how much better the city actually is, than gets credit for being. Now, I would still defend Albany, NY to people because I spent time there but not always with the fervor I seen on reddit. So who is going to do that story? Who is going to show us the hip bars near the river where white 20-30 somethings hang out after work? Who is going to show us where the hipsters are living? You know they are there...the city is ripe for hipster takeover.

Someday, when Detroit has been downsized there will be vinyl shops, microbrew infested dark pubs, little stages in 50 seat venues where bands will emerge again. My prediction is that Detroit will again become a music haven, just not Motown. This time it'll be white kids in tight pants. They will bring life back to the city and claim to have been there through the bad times, when in fact, they just moved from Williamsburg, Echo Park, Asheville, Mobile, or some other music city.

I just hope I get there for a visit before someone spills hipster into the city.

Skip this.

2010-04-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

There is an air of unease today and it's made all the worse by the fact that there is no real reason for it.

132 or so people were arrested yesterday at the Dodger's opening home game, I can almost smell the peanuts from the living room of my apartment. I could certainly have heard the gun shot yesterday had I been home for it, that wasn't from the stadium, instead it was on my corner. Walking my dogs on their (nearly) final walk of the night at about 11:30 there was a triple flash of a very odd green light that was accompanied by some sort of War of the World's noise - this incident remains little more than just another mystery to me today. I've searched online, helicopters and sirens followed within minutes yet the online community has been silent.

Laying back down in bed to snuggle up with some YouTube conspiracy videos, I was quickly heading for sleep. The videos are not an every night thing for me, especially this brand, but I was in a certain mood so I embraced it. A little while after starting my videos my dog jumped up into bed with me and rested her head on my arm. There was a few minutes left to the day before I shut my computer and closed my eyes, so I let her stay there.

Sleep wouldn't come. No matter what I tried. Eventually she started shaking and moving around a lot so I had to bring her back outside for a quick piss. For what it's worth I woke up at about 6am today but I went to sleep at about 2:30. Or that's my guess for when I actually fell asleep.

Perhaps there is an answer why I've been in such a strange mood today but I've been known to get less sleep. I feel almost empty today, not tired. Fuck it. I'll just try again tomorrow I suppose.

Jesse Ventura. Awesome? I think yes.

2010-04-13T23:08:00.000-07:00

I didn't really screen these, I just love listening to this guy. I don't agree with everything he says but I agree with most of it and the parts where I don't, the way he delivers it makes up for it.

Trump

2010-04-10T12:46:00.001-07:00

Why has nobody figured out the Donald Trump has obviously had hair flap surgery? For the amount that people talk (or did talk) about his hair when he comes into the news nobody ever suggests the obvious. I looked at pictures of hair flapping a few months ago and it is easily the answer.

After my leg bull shit I started losing my hair. Initially I had no interest in using gels or liquids so I figured I'd just let it get to a certain point, save a shit load of money and fap. Once done with that I would flap. After seeing the pictures I decided to just try Rogain. I used it for about a month and my hair stopped falling out. Then I got a girlfriend, stopped using it altogether and my hair has actually grown back. That isn't supposed to happen but I guess it was just stress that was making my hair fall out.

With the flapping they basically cut a chunk of your scalp off along the side of your head, fold it over the balding part and bam, you have hair again. The problem is that the hair continues to grow in the same direction that it has always grown, giving you crazy parts and generally weird looking hair. Donald Trump fits the bill. Yet, no part of me cares, at all.

No idea.

2010-04-08T16:59:00.001-07:00

May day involves several, 20+, interactions a day, all of which last about 2-5 minutes. Other than that I'm alone in my car and trapped in my head. It's usually a series of 5-15 minute drives. Because my thoughts are always being broken up I usually become fixated on a few thoughts that come and go throughout the week. The pace to my life is frenzied from about 7am - 5pm, at which point it slows down....way the fuck down. For whatever reason though, my mind does not.

Years ago, I asked my friends what my most annoying habit was and Kyle told me it's that I come up with lots of big ideas and do nothing with them. He was as right then as that statement still is today. I feel a great part of that is due to my in-and-out job carrying over into the rest of my life.

Don't get me wrong, I fucking love my job. I really can't imagine doing anything else but there are times when I work from sun up to sun down and it'll drive anyone crazy. I've made, in the past months, an effort to put it away at a certain time. That may mean 8pm one night and 5pm the next night. This blog is one way I put away work - it's probably the only reason I have it in the first place.

Today, a recurring theme in my brain was all the big ideas that have come and gone or still linger. Do you have ideas that have rested just on the sidelines for years? Why aren't you doing them? What is your excuse? Do you live by the 'why put of until tomorrow what you can put off until next week' model?

It's funny because at work I always just do it now. I hate saying that I'll come back and finish something, rather than just taking care of it right then and there. That part of work does not carry over.

My Seder

2010-04-05T15:46:00.000-07:00

Somewhere around 4th grade we start cultivating our sense of humor based on the scenario of someone standing in front of a group of people, of the same age, and speaking. We all learn what jokes work with our small surrounding group, which jokes can be said a little louder to entertain a slightly larger scope, and if you are at all like me which jokes will work for the lecturer themselves so that they may be shouted across the entire room. I was always the one who made the teacher laugh and my peers think, "he's stupid." Growing up either my jokes froze or my sense of humor reverted because now I feel like my jokes would entertain 4th graders best of all.

Sadly, we rarely get the opportunity to put this learned skill to work. Maybe some of us get the opportunity to go watch TED Talks and we quietly make jokes to our neighbor. But we rarely get to test a small subsection of a larger group. For me though, I was recently given that opportunity and I had no issue jumping right back into my younger self and making fun of everything. Georgia invited me to her family's Passover Seder.

We took a seat against the wall of a nice prefab house in the West Valley, a upper class little gated community not far from where all the porn you watch is made. Little did I know that the table would be the perfect setting for being an ass hole. Little did I know what I was getting in to in the first place. I grew up Christian so we don't really talk about what holidays mean, in fact I'm pretty sure most Christians have no idea why Easter is always jumping around the calendar. The Jewish people take their shit seriously. There were 2 packets on my plate, one a song book and the other the story of Passover.

In the lead was an uncle/cousin/I can't remember. He is apparently a lawyer and likes to take charge. He would read and give assignments out. I was asked to read a little with Georgia. Neither of us stumbled over any words so I'd say job done. The emcee was as far away from me as he could possibly be. Three tables away, opposite wall. He could see me but then again he probably didn't really give a shit if I was being a classroom comedian.

Georgia's mom explained; "There are four questions to Seder, there are four thises and four thats. Four is an important number for the Jews at Passover."

Smiling and nodding I replied; "Except for the foreskins right?" That's the only joke I really remember saying but later she explained to me that four and fore are spelled differently. She quipped back something about my having a foreskin. I didn't reply, my words were as far from my mind as my long forgotten foreskin which was chopped off some 30 years ago. Even in hindsight, where most of my best jokes live, I have nothing. It was the second time I met the woman whose daughter I'm stupidly in love with, what the fuck do you say to a question about your penis???

I really have no idea, but here are a few thoughts from the top of my head.

Foreskin? Not me ma'am, my doctor was a god damned artist. My shapely head should be on display.
I may not be Jewish but my penis is...at least the first 2 inches. (Note: I have no idea how big/small Jewish penises are, so perhaps not that funny.)
I was circumsized, hoping of course that a cut Christian penis could provide a spark towards bringing peace to Israel.

And it really only takes 3 examples to prove that I was best off not responding. It would have been hard to top the foreskin joke, which I was very proud of.

I do, however, love lists so here are some things to remember for your first Seder:

You're going to read something so chill out on the wine.
Elysia may or may not show up, but don't drink his wine.
Gefilte fish may look a little weird but it's fucking tasty.
Jewish people don't believe in Jesus but they believe in flat, dry, stale bread just like Christians.
Slouch a little, especially if you didn't bring a pillow.
Talk to all the family one by one, try to put in a little face time with all of them. They're as likely to forget you as you are them but in the long run if there is a wedding in the future there are several lawyers and producers in the room, it's best to be nice (not always true, but was for me.)
Dress nice and be handsome. A good rule no matter where you are going.
If asked to wear a yarmulke they've probably all seen it used to simulate a purple tit so don't bother.

As a Christian, if you are one, just be ready to convert. After 1 Seder I like it better, as a faith, already.

It's written in the stars, via the newspaper

2010-03-30T18:42:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in Manitoba (I believe,) sometime way in the early part of the last century my grandmother was born, her last name Young. The town, or area was the same as another Young, his name Neil. Somehow, we believe, that we may be related. I tell people he's my cousin but I don't really know that for sure.

Neil Young plans recording sessions and tours around the cycles of the moon. He believes in the creative energy of a full moon, you can see it referenced throughout his music. It makes me think that we are perhaps related because I believe the same thing...in a way.

I always feel different with a full moon, I'll be acting weird, full of energy and excited, when the past week has been down and dumpy, I'll look up at night and sure enough the sky is brightened by a full moon. Or conversely, my mood will be relatively great and I'll suddenly have a somber night, only to realize there is a full moon. It's probably not 100% of the time but I do notice these things happening quiet often.

The sky doesn't really tell us shit, for example I never believe my horoscope unless it reads like I would like my day to read out. Every now and again it seems to fall exactly in line with life and it's these little coincidences that people catch that probably lead them to follow blindly any sort of horoscope, religion, politician, etc.

Tomorrow I have a review with my CEO and my horoscope for tomorrow only talks about work, getting a raise, and things like that. But tonight is a full moon and my horoscope is telling me to be creative...so I'll listen. Maybe if I make tonight's true, tomorrow's will fall in line.

Differences

2010-03-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend Georgia, my girlfriend, and I met up with her family for lunch. It was her mom's birthday. This was my first time meeting her mom, she was great. Her family is really nice and generally fun to be around. I'm not going to write about them but rather, something I noted and now I'm wondering how universal it is.

When we are just hanging out and chatting about our families we both tend to talk about the things that we have in common with our siblings or parents. This past week she was telling me the story of her secret handshake with her brother and how it was borne of a common hatred for a common foe. I told her about how my brother and I share a common hatred for everything.

I've told her that I look like my mom but act like a Hughes. My sister and I, though not of blood relation, share our sense of humor. She looks like her father and cooks like her mother. It goes on.

Yet, for the amount of stories I've been told I found myself pulling out the differences. When her sister said something I thought to myself, "Georgia wouldn't have said that," and then I wondered why I instantly thought that. I guess it was because we don't talk about the differences so much. People like to look at the ways they fit into their families as well as the ways we don't fit it - yet it's easier and lighter to talk about those similarities we have. So why then, as an outsider was I looking only for differences.

It wasn't as if I didn't want to see any similarities, as I said earlier I really do enjoy her family, but I think I always do this. I also think it's pretty natural whenever we meet a friend's family. Those striking physical similarities aside, I always start to notice the differences right away.

Why is this? Is that a negative trait? I'm pretty curious now.

Jay's NHL: The Saratoga Part

2010-03-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

Sitting across from me in a new bar, in a new city, was a new kind of girl. One, who I assumed, I should like. You can go to a new city at 23 and reinvent yourself, it's not a gradual evolution over time, it's a moment. It's the last box you unpack. It's the first shit you take in your new city. It's that first girl you kiss. You've remade your world, you've remade yourself. Or, at least, that's what I had figured at the time. So she was my reinvention. A new kind of girl. Tattoo'd arms, back, and legs. Thick, chunky black glasses that matched her thick, chunky black boots. This is where I would remake myself. She would pull me into the counter culture, the indie scene, the punk world...I wasn't sure where she would pull me but I was ready to launch regardless.

Over a few beers things were going just fine, I was funny - she was purposefully quirky. She drank micro-brews for a totally different reason than I did. Up until that point I thought I liked the taste, suddenly though, I liked them for some reason that I don't even remember now. We shared stories and eventually it came time for me to talk about moving. The one person who helped me was my best friend Jay so I talked about him for a minute. At this point in my life the story escapes me, one of triumph? Doubtful because I started it as such, and this part I recall with absolute clarity because of the way she misunderstood my inflected aside; "my best friend is an idiot, he had cancer..."

She chuckled thinking I called him an idiot for having cancer but I'm sure the story was some misadventure where I led him to being an idiot while I escaped being only a silent instigator - as was often the case in my college+ years. Somehow though I've always thought it amazing that somebody would imagine I was calling my best friend an idiot for getting cancer.

"Hey, what are you doing tonight?" Nick asked, calling from Saratoga a quick 20 minutes from my parents house. It was a weird point where I was working a job I hated, just out of school, and living with my parents; I was driving to Saratoga a lot. Maybe to smoke weed, drink a few beers, whatever the case was, I was just anxious to get out.

"Nothing, what's going on?"

"You should come here, Jay's in the hospital, he might have cancer."

From there it's a bit blurry for a while. I know that I ran out the door within a minute of hanging up the phone and got over to Saratoga Hospital. Yes, I know what you're thinking, it is the same hospital where Donnie Wahlberg went after he fell through a trap door at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. Wahlberg, as you know, was fine, no serious injuries and NKOTB went on to be the bestest band who every lived in the history of the universe.

To say you could hear a pin drop would be underselling what the room was like. We stood around, a bunch of college kids, wondering what the fuck was going on. His aunt broke the mood up a little when she walked in with a box of Dunkin Donuts coffee; "anyone want coffee?" I still remember how the words sounded almost too chipper when they fell out of her mouth. She was a nurse, she was 30 years our elder, she was, in a word, experienced. The five or six of us in the young group milled around the room, not knowing when to speak, when to leave, when it was "family time" and when it wasn't.

Nick and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. Probably not the thing you do when you're trying to find out if your best friend has cancer. Not just my best friend, Nick's as well. We were only friends because of Jay. A lot of people are only friends because of Jay. He has a gentle way about him that instantly gains trust. He's quick witted and even quicker to laugh at a half way decent joke. I've never heard him be mean, it's in him, but somehow he doesn't feel the need to let that out like most people do. Eventually, Jen and Eric joined us. I think the only thing we said, through dry throats and wet eyes, was, "this is so fucked." I mean, we did talk for a while out there, but every sentenced included fuck in one of its glorious forms.

We sat outside of a closed door for what seemed liked several hours, although I'm sure it was more like 10 minutes. Inside the door Jay was sitting with just his parents.

"Dude, you're fucking killing me, what is wrong with you?" I kept asking Jay when he came to visit me my last semester at college. His breathing was so loud that we had to turn up the television several times. I remember watching Friends and laughing...we must have been stoned. I remember it was the kind of laughing that you only enjoy with a great friend. That night we went to the bar and got pretty drunk. Not so drunk that we couldn't walk home - but drunk enough that we had to walk backwards so that Jay wouldn't puke on his shoes as we walked.

"Turns out that breathing thing...you were right, there was something there. I have mono." Case closed right? We all thought it was. He got better. And life went on.

Jay was always skinny. For a tall guy, about 6'5" to weight 165lbs though, is crazy. "I'm still getting over the mono." It wasn't as if he didn't eat but he was always as broke as he was tall so nobody knew if he was eating his own food or only eating our food. That type of thing doesn't matter when its Jay though. You let him have as much food as he wants - it's that trust thing. Also, there is never any doubt that if he bought a pizza you would get half of it, even if you showed up unannounced just as it arrived. Believe me, that scenario would have never happened. In the off chance that it did happen though, he'd have come through.

When the door finally opened we walked in to Jay's teary eyes. His parents, I remember looking at them and seeing their heartbreak, thinly veiled with a tough "everything is going to be alright" exterior. We, his friends, were not so tough. Although, I believe we all waited until we were outside and away from him to actually start crying.

Later we would learn that the tumor, the one pressing on both of his lungs and his heart, was non Hodgkin's lymphoma - it disguises itself as mono. Tricky mother fucking tumor if you ask me.

He was going to be transferred to Albany Med. Albany being the only real city, or at least in the clump of only real cities that was near us. But we aren't in Albany yet. We are still in Saratoga deciding what, as friends, we can do.

There was nothing. There is never anything you can do in that situation. You can be a friend. You learn to look around at the people in your daily life and tell them you love them. You learn that your friends are more important than you had given them credit for and you learn that helplessness is an awful, shitty, horrific feeling. But you learn that it's not as bad as cancer. Especially when you have to watch an amazing friend and an amazing person go through it.

It was right around his 22nd birthday. He'll be 29 in a month and I'm overwhelmingly happy to say that I'll text him when I hit the "publish post" button to tell him that I posted this.

You can't force a moment to change your life and when it does it's often a change you would never want.

He went to Albany Med. but that story is for another day.

Newphew/Nephew

2010-03-24T17:00:00.000-07:00

In high school a few of my friends started asking me which "Hughes Time" I was following that day; meaning I was either extremely early or extremely late. I guess it's continued to this day. When I'm excited I tend to clean my apartment and wait until it's an acceptable time to leave. I try my best to be less than 15 minutes early, any more and you run the risk of looking somewhat crazy depending on the situation. My parents always forced us to be late to everything, I try to correct that impulse in my life.

In October of 2008 I was going to go back East to upstate New York and also to Vermont. My brother and his wife were expecting their second boy to be born around the time I planned my trip. It's a crap shoot with these expected birth dates, from the limited information I've gathered. Yes, this is based on two to three kids being born two to three days outside of their expected dates - I'm not big on actual research. My plan though, was to time it up right to meet the new baby and fly back before the crying began.

My flight arrived in NYC where I visited Jay, Kyle and (although she's only become a friend recently, I'll count her) fiancé Emily. We spent a night or two together, getting drunk and talking about fun we used to have - we probably would have added new memories to the bank but we made sure to drink enough so that we wouldn't have to worry about it the next time we met up. My phone was constantly on my hip, ready to hear the news; "baby is coming!" But I made it through the 2 days without any water breaking on my sister-in-law. I'd like to think I had something to do with that.

On Monday I took the bus from NYC to Albany, because, after flying for 6-7 hours my parents still won't take the ~2 hour drive to come get me. I could take a bus much closer to their house but I don't, the 45 minutes each way to Albany is 100% my spite. I spent that and the following night at my parents house and then borrowed a car to head to Vermont.

When I arrived in Vermont my nephew (the one who had already been born) knew I was coming, shockingly he remembered me too, he greeted me at the door. It was amazing. He's such a cool little man. My brother wasn't yet home from work so my sister-in-law and I spoke for a little while, she looked somewhat like she swallowed a watermelon, an angry fucking watermelon who wanted the fuck out!

After a quick hello and a hug my brother said he was taking her to the hospital to induce labor and asked if I could watch the little man. I of course was there to help. Honestly though, I was there to see the three of them, welcome the fourth but I was excited to have some alone time with my little nephew. He was almost 4 at the time and I had never had a chunk of time alone with him.

At first I was really excited. However, I quickly realized that we didn't have a lot to talk about; we don't read any of the same periodicals, we don't watch the same news programs, I thought we might be headed for a quiet 3-4 hours before I put him to sleep. There would be no silence that night.

Kids, I don't know what you've heard but they have a shit ton of energy. You literally can't slow them down...but you can outsmart them into playing lazily. That came just after dinner, when I was tired. 2 hours of babysitting tired. Which for me, at that point in my life, was like a super marathon. Not that I was fat and lazy but I was certainly out of shape and I lived a life that really required little movement other than walking to my car. The travel and the time difference wasn't helping either...but those are all just excuses.

When you need "lazy play time" you build a couch fort. That is the answer. I'm not sure who was more excited. He got to build a fort and pretend we were under attack, and I was too big to sit in it so I got to lay down - legs popping out, protected by a wall of invisibility, of course.

After a while it was time for bed so I told him that, he said okay, reached for my hand so I could tuck him in and read to him. Along the way he turned and said; "Uncle Colin, I have to poop." I told him to go ahead, I'd wait downstairs. It was then he explained that he didn't poop on his own just yet. He needed a hand. A hand stuffed with toilet paper, scraping the left overs out of his mini man crack. My brother didn't tell me about this.

"Okay, buddy," what the fuck else are you supposed to say? Although, holding him up to the sprayer on the sink crossed my mind. I could explain how it's much cleaner than wiping but then again he was a bit too young to understand my perfect rational. So we walked towards the bathroom, we slowed the pace a bit as I braced myself. We hit the door and turned back to say; "oh, I don't have to go."

I quickly ran him up the stairs and put him in bed. I spent at least an hour reading to him, poop was never mentioned again.

That night both sets of grandparents arrived. The next morning I got my nephew ready for preschool. Just after the grandparents left I drove him, he gave me directions - which is adorable when he could hardly see out the window he was so tiny...also he was sitting in car seat that was slightly more bulky than a roller coaster chair. I dropped him off, went directly to the hospital.

As I was walking into the hospital I called my mom and step father's cell phones, but neither answered. I walked in the doors and looked for an elevator, my phone rang. "The baby just came."

By the time I found the room all the bloody shit was over. The new nephew was cleaned and ready to begin his life. My sister-in-law was starting to calm down, the nephew was brought into the room just seconds before I came walking in. I avoided the baby blood, I avoided the nephew-poo. 28 years into my life, I had finally mastered "Hughes Time."

My Leg...part 1

2010-03-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

Over the past year, since Obama has been elected, we have all been bombarded with talk of health care reform. It seems as though, no matter why you voted the way you voted, the only thing that has mattered over the last 200+ years was a shitty health care system in need of serious overhaul. I happened to vote for Obama and my reasons were varied, while health care was a small part of that I have been anxious to move past that and get on the next issue. Hopefully gay marriage...if my vote counted.

Now that reform is on it's way I am looking back at what was the worst ever year in my life. One of the many varied reasons for the awfulness that was '09 was my leg issue.

Somewhere around mid October I started to have some leg pain. It would prove to be extremely expensive, arduous, and educational. Quiet simply said though it was the biggest fucking pain in the ass (yes, in the leg actually) that I've ever gone through in my life. What I know know, and wish I knew then, was that I was part of the problem, causing myself to owe several extra thousand dollars atop the already inflated and high costs that came outside of my own ignorance.

For a few days it felt like I was sleeping atop a pebble, I would brush it away while laying on my stomach waiting for sleep to win out. Inevitably there was nothing on the bed and brushing away (even the smallest) nothing does no good whatsoever. I began to realize that the section of my leg where I thought was a pebble, living in my bed, was tighter than normal during regular business hours. Originally I thought it was a pulled muscle.

In high school I played a bunch of sports, I'm no stranger to a muscle pull or ache. A simple fact that I overlooked initially was that a pull/strain starts off really bad, very painful, and eventually lessens over time. This little pebble was starting small and sort of growing.

A few days, perhaps a few weeks, went by and the problem persisted but wasn't really effecting my life in any sizable way. As the pain grew I noticed it was worse when the blood rushed towards it; when I would first stand after having sat for a while it would go from annoying little thing that I didn't want to touch or bump to a hugely painful charley horse (note: I tried both 'charlie' and 'charley' there, even charly but none look right at the moment, you get the EY version.)

I work for a doctor who started a company outside of the medical field. He is still a practicing physician who works at a prestigious hospital in NYC and I work for his other company...in Los Angeles. I was calling him to mine for answers over the phone. As is always the case, he was extremely helpful and as luck would have it he was in town the following weekend. We set up a time to meet up so he could have a look. He warned me several times that without the use of diagnostic machines it was likely that he wouldn't be able to help me.

"There is a noticeable bulge, I'm going to get you an appointment at UCLA." Oh, I knew there was a lump. By this point it felt like 1/4 of a chicken breast was sliding around just under the skin, resting above my upper right quad muscle. If you want to know exactly where, to scale on your own body stand up, place your right palm on your hip bone, line your middle finger up with the seem of your pants, spread your fingers out comfortably and press in with your index finger. Now, imagine when your pressing in causes a nice size chunk of chicken to slide around inside of your leg.

By this point, the week waiting for the doctor's appointment, my pain had reached a level that I cannot properly describe. I would wake up at 4am, take 2 ibuprofen and try to go back to sleep - get out of bed at 6am and walk my dogs to the end of the driveway and back inside. All the while I would never stand erect, as that hurt far too much. Every 6 hours, on the dot, I was shoving more ibuprofen in my face. It helped, somewhat. I mean, as much as it could help I suppose. Although, the pain was consistent and I walked around all day like a 105 year old man. Bent slightly at the waist, shuffling my right leg along, often grabbing at it in pain. I would stand slowly and brace myself as I did. On two separate occasions I had to catch myself from falling to the ground because of the pain.

Most people, wherever you are in the world, know who Shaq is. Imagine for a moment he was the world's most famous ballet dancer instead of basketball player. He is hovering over you with his ballet shoes on, all of his weight supported by parallel bars. He touches your leg with his toe. Over the span of 10-15 seconds he allows for all of his weight to press down onto your leg, all of it pinpointed by his awesome (pink and sparkle filled) ballet shoes...that's what it felt like to stand up...every time I stood up.

So off I go to see a specialist, on the suggestion of my company president - who is also a friend, I trust his opinion without question now as I did then. Little did I realize then though that I was feeding into the health care problem. Initially I get a "required" x-ray even though the Dr. tells me it isn't necessary and won't tell us anything ($ for me $$$$ for insurance company.) As he said it told us nothing. He examines me and asks me some basic questions; how does it feel, can you do this, can you do that, nothing too big. Until he asks an important question; "when I poke at it, does it send little electrical shock waves down your leg." I hate these questions because I wasn't really sure. I felt them sometimes, one poke would shoot pain downwards, the next poke would be an isolated pain. So how do I answer? Obviously he wants me to say yes, so I do. Not knowing if it was the right answer. It's the same as when the eye doctor flips the lens and asks; "which is more clear, a or b?" I always feel like I'm getting it wrong.

Based on the shock-wave pain that may or may not have been really there he thinks I have what is called a schwannoma tumor (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schwannoma) the same thing that my company's president thinks. I'm relieved because this is most likely not cancer. But, to find out I'll need a CT scan. Well, not really, but this will rule out some other things ($$ for me $$$$$ for my insurance company.) Was this needed? Maybe a little more than the x-ray but still, not essential. I go, the same day, same building, for the CT scan. I waited for about 3 hours.

A long 3 hours. I called my mother, my brother, and J, my best friend who had and survived (as evidenced by the fact that I was able to call him) cancer. Everyone was reassuring and I was still playing it very cool with everyone in my life. "I'm sure it's nothing, maybe an operation. I'm more worried about the money it's going to cost," was my standard line. While, at home, in private I was a wreck. My nights were spent crying in pain and in anticipation of the worst. I would soak myself in a warm bath, which was my cure-all growing up. Sweating, I would lay there thinking of the things I wanted to do before chemotherapy started in. Tears would come up more quickly than I could stand. My dogs had no idea what was going on, all they knew was our walks were getting shorter and shorter by the day.

The pain only worsened the next few days/weeks. It was too the point that I felt like ibuprofen was my only friend. One time Nate wanted to go to the bar so I skipped 2 pills so that I could enjoy a beer. We shuffled to the bar - although this was much earlier in the story it was the last time anyone asked me for a social evening throughout this process - it was a horrible experience, I don't fault him for not wanting to hang out with a dying senior citizen.

I called the doctor. I called the doctor. I called the doctor. Over and over and finally I emailed my president, who studied under the doctor he recommended, he began calling the doctor, emailing him, etc. Eventually, late one evening the doctor called me, it was the first day that my leg actually started to feel a little better. At the time I wondered if I had gotten used to the pain or if it was really clearing up. "I'm just waiting to hear the results of your biopsy," he told me. After I explained to him that he never ordered me to have a biopsy he pushed me through for a test that Friday, or three days later. The biopsy was essential. This was going to tell me if I had cancer or not. So, finally an test that was worth paying for.

Whenever a doctor says; "well we want to test all options," I say be weary. Find out what is essential and what isn't. It happens, a schwannoma tumor, while extremely painful isn't cancerous. Cancer was always my worry and it was really the only awful outcome we could get from all of this. The bills I received were pretty horrific, nearly 6 months later I'm still paying them off, but money comes and goes - cancer doesn't go so easily. I just downloaded and listened to the two part "This American Life" that explains far better than I ever could about the health insurance industry, the medical industry, etc. I won't bother even trying but I honestly urge you to download them and listen for yourself. Believe me you are being sold a lot of bull shit from both sides of the aisle when it comes to health care reform. In iTunes they are episodes #391 and #392.

In case you don't want to listen to the 2 hours of "This American Life" listen to this, you don't need all the tests they say you need! Always buy generic drugs. And for fuck's sake, how could you read this blog all the way to this point and claim you don't have an extra 2 hours to listen to the most amazing radio broadcast I've ever heard? This coming from a total talk radio junkie too.

Anyway.

The night before the biopsy was easily the worst. It was the first day where I went ibuprofen free. The pain was finally starting to subside and I couldn't have been happier but that was 100% overshadowed by the remaining fact that I may still have cancer and the biopsy is the only way to find out.

When I say that a biopsy isn't a comfortable experience what I mean to say is that it fucking hurts like shit. My leg was finally feeling better and then this. A thick needle going directly into my chunk of chicken, sucking out some cells to be tested at a later date. It was fucking awful. Although, maybe your first biopsy won't be so bad. See, by this point the chicken chunk was starting to become frozen chicken. It was hardened as opposed to feeling like a slimy raw piece of meat. It was because of this hardening that the needle was having a difficult time in penetrating the bulge.

After about 20 minutes of prodding, poking, and jabbing with a "serious" needle, I'm talking like the Samuel L. Jackson of needles, it was in the bulge. After a few painful clicks, several warnings not to move, it was all over. They told me not to worry, it was "too hard, too solid to be cancer."

I continued to worry. I continued to have tear filled nights. A few days later I was driving along Santa Monica Blvd., approaching Highland. I got a call that I rarely answer, "unknown," only this time I did answer. It was the doctor, it wasn't cancer. It was an old injury that had taken years to calcify...essentially part of my muscle had become bone. Again, I cried...I'm a fucking pussy...only this time I cried with a smile.

It was difficult to call people because I still wasn't letting on that it had effected me the way that it had. I'm in therapy, in large part, because of that situation.

For the record it was about $4,000 out of pocket and about $20,000 for my insurance company. All to tell me that I was healthy. So, we are all fucked, but at least we all don't have leg cancer.

Intro to Hacksmanship

2010-03-20T19:35:00.000-07:00

It's so easy to get annoyed with yourself and blame the fucking world. I happen to know, from reading Psychology Today for over a year, that anything that goes wrong in your head is your own god damn fault. Blame is always the first answer and it has to do with the way that we all grew up I think.

While growing up I learned quickly that taking all the blame for any sort of shit I did in school was pointless. Generally you could bury someone else and when that didn't work you could always spread the blame over several parties to lessen the blow. Obviously the older you get the more people catch on to your bull shit. Your friends aren't as happy to accept your excuses of being tricked into telling on them or; "she already knew you were there when it happened, I tried to say you weren't though."

After you're done with school and into the real world you have tasks that are expected to be completed by you and you alone...tough to spread the blame on something that is 100% your own doing. And then there are new interpersonal relationships. When you get annoyed with a friend or a lover it's easy to lay the blame on them because they don't live their lives exactly as you live yours. When, as it turns out, you live your life like a wretched ass hole because you are, in fact, nothing more than a wretched ass hole.

It's a nice option to take a step back and think about why you hate a situation and how you are the blame. When you realize you're to blame you also realize that you're the one who has the remedy. I'm not saying I'm always to blame when shit goes wrong but realizing that I'm usually a majority of it has made my life seem easier.

When you fuck something up, you can hack a solution. You can hack anything.

Powerful Ass Holes

2010-03-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

There should be little doubt that the world is filled with ass holes. If, however, you do doubt this please go talk to someone who owns a boat. If upon first speaking with them you are still unconvinced as them how many times they’ve had it on the water, how many times they’ve had to fix it, if they needed to buy a new car to tow it, and if they wish they could get out on the water more often. Much like the Brady Bunch’s bicycles, which were never ridden but always being fixed, boats remain either docked or in the shop for a majority of their life. Yes, they are a great deal of fun but the air of arrogance the swirls around a boat owner (particularly one in Southern California) is fucking filthy.

Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely; this is a saying that is familiar to most people. It has been psychologically tested throughout time and yet again recently in France. Using a well known television game show host (think Tom Bergeron here in the US) and filled an audience. The idea of the show was to pull someone at random to administer a shock of electricity to the contestant each time they got a question wrong. The contestant was acting – not really receiving the juice at all. Both audience and “shocker” were under the impression that the shocks were being received and out of 100 different “shockers” only 18 stopped before putting the contestant to death.

Fucking France!! These are the rational people who always knew that the Iraq war was bull shit. The people who came to our defense in the Revolutionary War, essentially helping us turn away the British troops. Sorry France, we don’t mention that last bit in our high school history classes but we do mention that you gave us the Statue of Liberty…oh, and we serve French Freedom Fries.

As a country we have no idea how many Iraqis we have killed, how many Vietnamese we killed. We have no understanding of why the Germans were persuaded to start killing so many Jews. We are apathetic. Most of us are fat and stupid too, but that’s mostly just for the fun of it. A very small portion of our population can afford to own a boat but we’ve all found room in our budgets, here and world wide, to be ass holes.

Ultimate Thrift Shopping

2010-03-16T18:49:00.000-07:00

The past two weeks I've gone to estate sales in Beverly Hills and then in the Hollywood Hills. The rich people who lived in both houses had an affinity for ungodly ugly wallpapers, usually featuring gold foiling of some sort. There has also been an unusual amount of carpeted bathrooms and kitchens which hadn't been updated since the 70's.

At my first house I found only a trivet that has a picture of an obvious Lifesman at a bar. Since I aspire to attain lifesmanship status sometime in the near future I bought it and promptly hung it on my wall. I will later devise a story worthy of, at least, some gamesmanship's approval.

This past Saturday though, as luck would have it, this family kept a nice little bar. Just walking into this room you had an overwhelming sense that this was the very place that sprung many of the late (I assume, I mean I at least like to think they're dead) couple's arguments. The rug was a little older than all other rooms. It still smelled of cigarettes despite the crisp mountain air blowing in off the pool through two large, and very open, doors. The shelves were littered with poker chips, well kept decks of cards, and sets of dice. The bar was in the corner by the door.

Georgia bought a little garbage that was kept in the room, it was not placed there by the organizers of the estate sale, as it smelled exactly like a plastic tomb for hundreds of thousands of cigarette butts stretched over 20 years. Where did people buy such items before Target? Best not to think about it, that's where stress wrinkles come from.

While she was excited by the garbage, she excites easily (see: the fact that she's dating me,) I was drawn to the bar itself. Several bottles of old liquor, I didn't trust those so I looked through glasses, stirrers, napkins, and other small items. Eventually though I stumbled upon an amazing set of 4 glass containers labeled; Scotch, Rum, Vodka, and Bourbon. They had a metal piece atop them with a carb in the middle, when pressed they doll out an even shot.

Of course I now own them.

I almost felt bad the following day when I had some friends over for a BBQ and I made some flity drink using white wine (from a box,) with pureed banana, papaya, and cherimoya. Then again, we all got a little buzz so I think it'd be alright with the previous owner. From here on out though I'm using them as labeled. With an off chance that from time to time they will have some fruity little drink but I'll claim that I've only made that drink for the ladies.

3 Podcasts and a Calendar

2010-03-15T16:41:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to write a few notes today, I came home and sat down to do some more work and as I often do while pouring through spreadsheets I opened up my iTunes, waited a few minutes to see what podcasts updated and then started listening through my work.

Here are some suggestions:

1. Everyone I know already listens to This American Life and Radiolab. Good, you should continue to do so because they are simply amazing - I won't even go into why they are great because most of you already know.

2. I've suggested this to a few people and if you're creative at all, in any field, you should be listening to Accidental Creative. I believe it could help you even if you are, like me, a salesman. No matter where your income comes from we live in a world where the creative people win, this is a great tool for all creative people, pretty simple.

3. Upon the suggestion of the Accidental Creative podcast that is currently listening to I'm going to check into Seth Godin the author. For reference, I'm listening to AC #186.

I've also begun, again, to use my calendar on my phone. I've put in some important dates, birthdays and the like but I've also put in an hour on Monday for creative ideation and an hour on Tuesdays for ideation that will benefit the glorious nation of my company. An hours worth of my hard thinking is worth about four seconds of most people's thoughts but perhaps I'll have a break through and invent a flat edible thing that we can use on either side of sandwich meats so that they stop falling all over our pants.

Defining things only you know

2010-03-13T00:57:00.001-08:00

When do you get serious with your friends? If your friends are anything like mine the answer to that is simple - rarely and when it does happen it either happens due to tragedy, accident, alcohol, or some combination of the three. Why is that? How can you really know people if you aren't speaking to them about real life issues.

I can understand people's need for privacy on some issues but at the same time I've never sat at a bar with friends to discuss and debate our varied ideas of what 'love' really means. The most in depth issue people touch upon is politics; when among friends that means a lot of repeated ideals and head shaking agreement.

The first reason we steer clear of serious conversation is because, in America, we never learn to argue in a proper way. Debate is not taught to us at a young age; particularly in under-privileged families. I read once where a group of psychiatrists (probably read this in Psychology Today - a fantastic magazine) studied the different behaviors of children going to the doctor's office. The more money the child's family had the more question she would ask the doctor. Also, a few months back, after reading an interesting article online about a man who taught his children to argue, I sent the article to my brother saying; "you need to read this and teach my nephews to argue."

In school you listen to the teachers, they are god and we are not to argue with them. You argue with your friends about stupid things like what to do after school or who has the better looking girlfriend. The idea on how to best debate or argue comes from our parents. If we grow up watching our parents scream at one another we are more likely to believe that is how all arguing is done, at least until a certain age. If however, we grow up watching civil disagreements - that is how we are more likely to react. And lastly, as I grew up, some of us just learn to say "fine" and walk away.

We are doing our youngest generations a huge disservice by not teaching them that disagreements lead to discoveries, new ideas, new ways of thinking, simply they lead us to learn. Or at least, they could. Instead most people I know are conditioned to think that if you don't "win" an argument it wasn't worth having. If you are debating and your idea doesn't have as much back up data to show up whomever you are speaking with you have somehow lost. Maybe it's a problem with the speed and readiness of information but I think it's more than that, I think it's simply that we've never been properly taught how to debate where both sides share information and come out with, perhaps, a new joint view of things where everyone wins.

I had a girlfriend once who would refuse to learn anything. If I so much as said; "Oh did you know that you can..." a fight would break out. As if learning were an evil thing. That, needless to say, lasted a few months, at best. It was really strange and I didn't know how to deal with it but at the same time I have no idea how my best friends describe love.

Of course I'm using the definition of love as an example only. I have no idea why some of my friends believe in a god and some don't - I know, for the most part, which way they go but that is simply surface information, I'm learning the cliff notes of their lives. While I'm not afraid to challenge either side of that, or any, argument it's probably that I feel like I have enough information and we can move along to the next topic. Not tomorrow.

I'm meeting Georgia's mom tomorrow, hanging out with her sister and brother (and his family) and I'm going to try to ask one uncomfortable question. A question that isn't easily answered with a yes or no, a question that will make the family member I pick (most likely her sister or sister-in-law) feel kind of strange for having been asked that question. It's a small goal but it's something. I also hope to not die tomorrow, sometimes I think goals that are really easily attained are good to put on your list. Plus, even if I did die, I probably wouldn't notice, so I'd never think; "shit, my goal was to stay alive and I fucked it up."

How do you define love?

Come and Sell to me.

2010-03-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

Often our instincts are dead on, sometimes we talk ourselves out of listening. Even when we do listen we are likely to give in to the temptation to try other ways, although most of the time we return to our initial action. This weekend was attempt 4 of rearranging my apartment. It's now back to mostly it's original form.

I took apart a desk that was far too big for the space that I have and I bought a cheap coffee table, other than that I've spent no money. My entertainment stand is one that I built before moving in and it used to house the coolest technologies from 1997. There was a 37" tube style television, an eMac from 2004, record player, and several other antiquated items. Honestly I would have been so fucking cool ten years ago.

There is no better way to feel good about yourself than by doing something for someone else. This is especially true when you're benefiting yourself in some way. My huge, waste of space, television was eventually put up for free on craigslist. The woman who came to pick it up was helping her newly divorced friend put together a new apartment. Right now (well, it's late but probably earlier today) two young kids where watching that television. So now, instead of telling people; "it was way too big for my apartment," I can say things about how I gave it to a newly divorced woman who was on her own for the first time in 12 years. The only lie in that statement is that I'm playing the "12 years" portion off as fact - but I have no idea how long it's been.

Now I'm watching movies on the tube television version of an Apple computer. I blame Best Buy. For the past several months I have had the money and the good credit to buy the iMac that I want. There are a few things holding me back.

The first thing is that I know, for what I want, I could just as easily save several hundred dollars by buying a Mac Mini and a monitor. All I really want it for is a place to watch Hulu and Netflix, record songs, and surf around the internet a little. It seems somehow wasteful to go buy a really nice computer for that. But, I think to myself, that an iMac will last a long time and I'll end up using it for so much more.

The main reason, however, comes back to Best Buy and their floor sales team. As a salesman myself I want to be sold. I go in hoping that someone will talk me into their financing program. There is nothing I love more that another monthly bill. Every three to five weeks I stumble into a Best Buy on a Saturday hoping to be sold, only one time has someone approached me and he said; "we're going to be getting the really good ones this Saturday." What the fuck kind of sales approach is that? A shitty one. So I wouldn't buy one then.

Now though, with my new apartment set up I really would like to have that new iMac sitting out here. However, no matter how much I want it, it has become a game. I'll stop by after work sometime this week and see if they'll sell me, if not the game continues. I'm pretty sure I started this around September or October so I see no need to end it now.

Great Gift

2010-03-06T17:30:00.000-08:00

On Valentine’s Day I met a girl, I know how ominous that is for a year from now when, if she keeps me around, we’ll celebrate 1 year of meeting each other and Valentine’s Day all at the same time. I tend to go overboard when it comes to gifts so I might better start saving/planning now. Every year, twelve days after Valentine’s, I celebrate 1 more year on Earth and this year was no different.

Birthdays are generally a quiet celebration for me. I tend to go grab food with Nate and another person or two. This year it was just Georgia, my new lady friend, and Nate. The three of us went out for laughs at the expense of everyone we could think of – not people we know, just groups of people. We basically turned the conversation towards awful theme restaurants, ones that nobody would ever invent. Such as KKK’s Fried Foods – where the staff would act as horrifically as you would assume. We all had a great time and it’s always a sure test to bring a new girl around to show your friends, they tend to give you an honest read. The only problem with that test is when your friend doesn’t like the new girl/boy you’re dating because then you just say; “you just need to get to know them better, you’ll love them.” They won’t. But nobody listens to advice they don’t want.

(I don't have a glass, lazy, or otherwise strange looking eye...other than in this picture.)

The real story was the night before my birthday when Georgia did the sweetest thing that any girl has ever done for me…a short 12 days after having first met me. We shoot text message emails to each other throughout the day. I call them that because they are usually really short. We include weird facts about ourselves. She offered her love for McDonald’s soft serve vanilla ice cream to which I responded that I love Thursdays at Dairy Frost in Broadalbin, NY where I would get a soft pistachio cone with cherry dip. It was a throw away comment as few people know what Dairy Frost is, and even if they do it wouldn’t much matter here in Los Angeles. Anyway, those are the silly little things we talk about. Maybe not completely unusual for people getting to know one another but often we get weird on each other too.

“Hey, will you come over and we can grab a drink for your birthday?”

“My birthday is tomorrow. We are going out to dinner; you really don’t have to buy me a drink tonight.”

I said all of that but there was no way I wasn’t going to go over. She could have said; “come over and listen to me play tuba, I just bought it today and I have no idea what I’m doing,” I’d’ve still gone over. When I got there she told me to stay out of her kitchen. She sat me down in her living room and got me a glass of wine, followed by several mixing blades, spatulas, and other kitchen tools filthy with some concoction she was creating to surprise me.

Applebee’s is a shitty theme restaurant, not exactly KKK’s Fried Foods, but nonetheless a chain restaurant, which is to food what Nickleback is to rock and roll music. A crappy chain that I happened to work at for over a year. The tips fly in fast as tables turn and you get to eat crappy food all week long. It was a pretty fun job for the most part and I was a manager once or twice a week, I waited most of the time but when in a pinch I would cook for a shift. With all those wonderful skills at my disposal I wouldn’t settle for menu food when I sat down to eat myself. Often I would take the best ingredients, smash them together until it was edible. I mentioned a little of this on my first date with Georgia, nothing beat an Applebee’s Maple Butter Blondie. Fuck. Good stuff, honestly.

“Do you know what it is?” I had no idea, based on the batter it was uncooked, that’s about all I could surmise.

She came and sat with me as it baked. We laughed because I’m fucking funny (so is she but read her blog for that.) About a half hour or so later a little bell went off (I don’t really know if there was a bell but in my mind it makes this story easier,) and she went in, cut a piece and brought it out for me. I made her sing because she said she’s not a karaoke type so I wanted to put her on the spot. Sweetly she complied. I should have made her sing it several times until she was ready to kill me, humor hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

The other day I had an appointment at a therapist, because my head is broken, and when I got into the elevator a woman followed me; “what floor do you need.”

She shot back with; “can I have 5 please.” I pushed the button and then laughed a little bit. I could tell she thought I was crazy so I had to explain that my humor hindsight really wishes I had turned to give her a high five and not pushed a button. She actually thought it was funny – or at least she figured she should laugh rather than be uncomfortably stuck for 5 floors with a weirdo who was angry that his joke failed.

I didn’t make Georgia sing again. What she brought me was a recipe built of innocuous/throw away comments I had made in just 12 short days; but those comments created an amazing pistachio-cherry blondie. I was really blown away. A little nervous because cooked cherries are questionable in my opinion but my nerves were quickly dispelled as I took my first bite. It was delicious and even better cold over the next several days.

Now the blondie is gone. Georgia is napping on my bed as I write this though, I win.

Quick Fiction.

2010-03-04T21:37:00.000-08:00

I do not have, what you would call a “glass-jaw,” in fact, I’m not even sure where you get one. Well, I should tell you, where I’m going with this is that I was recently in a fight. It was hardly a fight actually. It was totally unfair and I was taken off guard. I was out, somewhere I rarely go, I was in public. This guy hit me in my one weak spot, see I’m particularly susceptible in well, my entire body and face. Well anyway this guy walks up to me and says; “were you just staring at my girlfriend?”

“Is that (pointing) your girlfriend right there?” and he told me it was and I told him how terribly sorry I was and that I had no idea.

He became angry and said; “well what did you think, I’m standing right next to her.”

I said “I’m sorry, how was I supposed to know that this creature is a girl? Surely she's been mistaken for less than human before no?”

And he just hauled off and socked me in the nose. As it turns out, there is one place I can take a punch. I’m not actually sure how I figured this out, but I can take, and it should be noted, that it doesn’t matter how big or strong, or how hard the guy can hit, I can always take a hit in the friend. Sadly that day I was alone.

After he hit me I was shocked and didn’t know what to do. I thought about hitting him back, but opted not to because, as it were, I had just recently learned how badly it hurt to be hit. Although, at the moment I couldn’t remember how I had learned that. He started to walk away as I sat dazed on the sidewalk, or grass, I don’t remember, all that’s important is that I was sitting. Not sitting because I was hurt, but rather because I figured it would be harder for him to hit me again if I stayed low to the ground. And as I was sitting there I was awestruck and couldn’t think of anything to say. He began to walk away and I said, mustering up all kinds of courage, piss and vinegar, and I cheerfully said, “have a good one.”

“Have a good one???” I’m not sure why I said that, maybe because I was confused after being struck down or perhaps because I thought that - passive aggressively - it was the only way to win. Sure enough, he continued to walk away and I started to feel good about my choice, knowing that he was already feeling bad for striking me. I saw him later that day, and he came towards me, but this time with a sorry look on his face and his hand extended as a peace offering. As I reached out to take his hand I instead pushed him into traffic. He was hit by a large truck, which, incidentally I found out later, was only his girlfriend. Last I had heard, they are now happily married and have several stone like children who punch other children about the face whenever the opportunity presents itself.

My Father Died. Part I

2010-03-01T20:26:00.000-08:00

My father died on Friday, July 6^th 2007. This is what I wrote on the second half, the puddle jumper portion, of the flight home.

_____________

Flight 1454; departing ten minutes ahead of schedule with a strong tail wind, should touch down in just under an hour and ten minutes. It's taking off from an airport and landing in another, beyond that the details are only in the faces and polite whispers that whirl around the 7 foot wide steep hallway with rows of seats all facing home, or the future, or the past. No conversation is loud enough for the man sitting alone to hear.

The plane seems empty, although most rows have at least three of four seats filled. It is that man and this man, we are the only two people aboard who have rows to ourselves. He was sitting near me in the lobby. What faces him upon touchdown? He has the face of a blue collared man, but his hands are holding a newspaper and look untouched by hammer or nail. Is he deciding if his father should die today? What is his battle?

When I last heard, my father was still alive. Sunday he went to the hospital, Monday he would be fine, Tuesday I was boarding a red-eye to make the counsel that will decide his life from here. Or as the ominous tones from phones connected 3,000 miles would foreshadow, we are to decide his death.

I should take more pictures. California is a beautiful place. One of only two "Mediterranean" climates in the world. I've driven Angel's Crest and walked into waterfalls; I've come over city mountains and stumbled upon the lakes for which neighborhoods were named.

Takeoff. The woman at 1 o'clock has stopped shifting her tongue against her bottom lip and closed her mouth. The decidedly American couple behind me is now only speaking English to their obviously bilingual children; Air France has better seat belts for infants than any plane in America.

Some Monday, soon, I'll go to Columbos's for Jazz Night. The garlic bread there is pretty good. Dat, I can usually finish my plate now. Although my waist line prefers I leave some pasta for the dishwasher to snack on.

When deciding if a loved one would like to live six more months in a shell of who they perceive themselves to be, what should the counsel debate? And who, exactly, should begin that debate? My brother has always felt second to me in many regards when dealing with my father, although he’s never said so. My uncles I've not seen in some 20 years. That's actually an average, one pushed back to be dramatic, Patrick 23 years, Keith 10.

Maybe connections should leave doubt, but I'm hoping this will recount to me the strange mix someday. I'm newly in a relationship. I’m generally very happy in my life, with work progressing and making me feel like a star. This mix. "He can hear you," they'll tell me. But what do they know? Can he still cry? To hear all these voices in one room again, will it leave any doubt in his mind? He'll probably let go. As we talk about what to do, he might allow himself that final decision.

My Aunt is in Paris. If anyone is able to contact her, at least she'll have fantastic seat belts.

55 minutes. I've never pissed on a plane in my adult life.

What could I possibly add to any conversations? I want Evan to remember me next time. And to take more pictures.

A surprise 60th birthday party. He was supposed to visit in August or September. He was starting to dodge the visit. LA can be scary to some people. Although, I think he knew. What projects had he not finished? Can you begin to realize how much death would get in the way of deadlines? Why, if this plane were to take its cue from Newton's apple tree and I fell to an early death, I highly doubt I'd be able to hit my annual sales goals.

Who writes about their own plane crashing while they are in the air? I don't think I'm unique, there have certainly been people to jot that down before me, although the US Airways magazine probably does not have "Plane Crash" as 10-down in their crossword puzzle.

"A black coffee," does that really require the cream and sugar question? I'm admittedly on edge. 27 still feels like 17 to me, too young for this. I'm now about twice the age of my mother when her father passed away. Fuck that, they die. There is no passing, only dying.

It's not time for me to wake up yet, or maybe it is. I had to turn off my watch because if someone called it the plane would implode. The dogs will be fine. She'll be back to LA only days after me. And the beverage aisles can survive without me for a few days.

I've set out to turn over new leaves several times before. Each time I failed. Now I'm somewhere on the greenest side of the most beautiful leaf in the world. It's from here that I will most likely say, "he wouldn't want to live like that."

-Now I'm crying.

-------------------------------
(Several weeks/months later…Not really sure)

That was it.

There turned out to be very little in the line of decisions. He passed in his sleep. He knew we were all there, I could see it in his eyes. He squeezed my hand. He struggled to talk, but couldn't. I said, with tears filling my eyes, as I stared into a face that was almost unrecognizable "Dat, I know you're proud of me, I know you love me, what else matters?" I said more than that over the few hours. We got him to smile. He knew love.

Pat (his wife) was staring at him through all of it. She watched him labor over each gasp of air. She kept staring hours after he was no longer there. He did "pass away" it is possible. She knew love; he did, after all, know how to give it. They had something that I hope to find, simply put it’s an unwavering feeling that you know exactly where you are supposed to be.

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A New Neighborhood

2010-02-26T18:36:00.000-08:00

There is a part of town known as Echo Park/Silver Lake and it is overrun with young white post-college, liberal; hipsters, pre-yuppies, and the sort. I happen to live here as well most likely blurring several of those lines depending on whom you ask. At one point it was an artists ‘get-away,’ be that from Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Downtown, etc. it really depends upon the time in which said artist settled him or herself here. White people know about this. Now they know about Downtown where rent has dipped and ‘artists’ are flocking.

In general it goes like this, in terms of the socially influenced migratory behaviors of young whites: artists move there because they are ‘struggling’ (read: living off their parents) to make ends meat while pursuing their dreams. A few years go by and these frail creatures have been harassed enough so that the police start to drive by a little more thus creating a wave of ‘newcomers’ these are the people who come along because; ‘I’ve been trying to move to this neighborhood for years.’ The direct translation of that quote actually reads; ‘I didn’t have the balls to move here because I’m a giant pussy but now I see cops drive around from time to time.”

The next two waves are the saddest. The third coming is when the neighborhood gets its first ‘theme bar’ which leads to new community members who wear flip flops with jeans, baseball caps, and still go out to “get fucked up and slam some bitches.” The girl version being the girl who sees a mannequin, buys exactly that outfit and is thusly considered the ‘trendsetter’ of her group. If you are looking for an example I invite you to visit Stinker’s in Silver Lake, who is leading the way for the final step for this once proud little community.

“Hi Shark, how are you? I’m a pretty neat neighborhood”

“Oh I’m fine neighborhood, do you need to get by?”

“If you don’t mind I’ll just hop over you.”

“No, that’s fine. Go for it.”

Ah, the jump the shark phase. Everyone feels safe, which is fine, except when people from Santa Monica, Redondo Beach, et al. stop asking; “how could you live there with all the gangs?” your neighborhood has officially jumped the shark. It happens slowly sometimes, but it seems to always eventually happen. Things will ebb and flow, jump and revert again eventually – long after we all die. Look at Los Feliz, instead of bros with white baseball caps it was swing dancers who eventually turned it into a strip mall of independent shops. Granted, I appreciate the independence of the shops themselves but I also feel like they’re weeks away from erecting “You Are Here” kiosks.

Silver Lake, thanks to Stinkers, you’re on the board.

So a great flock to Downtown has happened recently. It’s only in the 1.5/4 stage right now but I feel many neighborhoods that exist in a true stage #1 (see: art’s district) are easy corrupted and may soon go the way of Downtown City Walk (read: LA Live.)

Where to next? Where does one go if they seek a truly hip experience? If you are a genuine independent person who is seeking refuge in a place you can call your own where should you flock? Let’s look at what you really want. You don’t want a major chain anywhere within walking distance. You want your friends to say, after you tell them where you are moving; “what? Where is that?” You want people to come out to your place as a ‘destination visit’ but once they are there you want them to be amazed by the awesomeness of your apartment and even more floored by the rent that you don’t pay. Don’t worry, I know you’ll hem and haw first, pretending you don’t want to tell them, but you will and fuck if you won’t enjoy the looks on their faces.

“I don’t know if I could live out here yet, I’m so used to having things within walking distance,” is fucking pure bliss to hear pouring out of a scared white person’s face hole and you want it! You want it so fucking bad. You’ll revel in the fact that you can explain where to buy anything you need within a few blocks, the names of the people at the shops, even their schedules; “Raul, the owner is usually around, except for Thursday nights.” The only thing that will top that is when you tell them where NOT to walk – due to it not being safe. Oh, you’ll be warm inside.

I’m not writing this to simply give a list of questions and a commentary on how stupid you sound. No, I come bearing the answer.

Drive Sunset Blvd. through Echo Park, after the CVS and past the entrance to the 10 and the 101. Go past Spring Street BBQ and Olivera Street. Take a left on Main, pause at the light facing the post office and ponder if the 900 is the address or if that’s the central post office for all zip codes starting with 900, it’s a big building right? It may just be big enough to house all that mail. Scoot right just before Felipe’s and drive mother fucker drive. You’ll eventually hit Lincoln Park (see future entry: the three best parks in LA that white people have never been to) where you’ll take a left. Sooner or later say hello to your new home; El Sereno.

At this point I must admit that all kidding aside this is my favorite little slice of LA. The low, slow rolling green mountains are sparsely checkered with apartments and houses, none of which appear to be unaffordable. The streets are as quaint as Montrose but without the mall feeling that even tops Los Feliz. If you are anything like me you’ll easily find yourself wandering off onto side streets where people keep their properties nice and neat, smile as you drive by, and you may even receive a wave. It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen in East LA.

That is the other part. It’s ½ East LA and ½ San Gabriel Valley and it has flavors of both but mostly looks like what Echo Park (the reigning Queen of all LA neighborhoods) must’ve looked like before it became what it is today. You can see it everywhere, you can almost taste it. What is ‘it’? It’s potential. And for chrissakes this little haven is bursting with it.

Come on, take a ride with me sometime. I’ll show you one of the coolest places you’ve never seen unless you’ve taken a wrong turn. I drive it whenever I get the chance. And yeah, Huel Howser you can suck it because my LA and yours are very different but my love is still that of a new father’s.