Ooh La La
Ok, Question #1 o the 30 Day Song Challenge: What is your favorite song?
This song means nothing profound to me. It’s significance is no more important than that of any other song I like in a lyrical aspect or the political views of anyone from Jersey. I just truly enjoy it more than any other song I’ve ever heard. That’s all.
It’s by The Faces, which was Rod Stewart’s old band before he wanted to ask all the ladies if they thought he was sexy. The band also features Ronnie Wood who’s best known as a guitar player for the Rolling Stones. Anyways, history lessons aside, I always thought Rod sang this song, because if he wasn’t singing, what the Hell was he even doing there? It sounds like Rod. Listen to it… See? Well, it’s not Rod. It’s fucking Ronnie. The f-ing guitarist. Ugh…I had no idea. Kyle Prater pointed this fact out to me while we were drinking and trying to out-trivia each other. I felt like a total schmo, as I’ve got a hard on for music knowledge, it’s my favorite song, and as it turns out I have no fucking clue who’s singing the damned thing. It’s like having the lactose intolerant chick at a party yelling in your ear that you should try the cheesecake.
Anyways, I’m retarded… Hope you dig the track (If you’ve ever seen Wes Anderson’s film Rushmore, you probably already do).
Something I wrote a long time ago, and upon reading it I believe I was probably on something at the time…
Chapter One:
What Might Have Been
“It was a dark and stormy night.”
That’s how I was going to start my first book. No, seriously.
Why? Probably because I walked outside and it was dark. And stormy. And night. Who’s to say it wasn’t? Not you. You weren’t there. So you don’t know. So where were you? I don’t know where you were, maybe out eating. Or playing golf. Or catching herpes. Bottom line is I don’t know where you were. I do know where I was. I was outside and it was dark. And stormy. And night.
Given, I could be lying. Maybe I went outside and it was beauitful. Maybe I went outside and it was a little dreary. Maybe I didn’t even go outside. Maybe I stayed in my house and ate corndogs while I watched some crime drama on television. Maybe. But what fun would that be in a book? Not much if you ask me, I’d rather have it all dark and spooky. And stormy, can’t forget that. Having it stormy almost makes the weather itself a character in the book. Neat, huh? I think so. People like it when books start out stormy and dark. Why? I don’t know why. Because they do. That’s why.
Anyway, that’s how I was going to start this book, and in retrospect I suppose I still did, but I changed some stuff from there until the last word (Which is “ugly stick” as it turns out). I don’t know why. It doesn’t make sense, really. Originaly, I’d written a great tale of epic proportions. It was about pirates. In Malibu. And they were mean! Well, not all of them. One was a reformed Jehova’s Witness. So, he was ok. For a pirate, I mean. His name was Clark. The other pirates were mean to him. They didn’t have a good reason, except that they were pirates and pirates are sometimes mean without knowing why. Maybe that’s why they became pirates in the first place, because they were so mean. That and their parents didn’t love them. Anyway, Clark was an ok guy, really. He liked to play peenuckle and wear silly hats. But this isn’t about old Clark the pirate. Honestly, I don’t know what it’s about. See, I’m still writing it. This is as far as I’ve gotten. Up to now. No, now. Wait… Now. You see what I mean. Not bad so far though is it? I know, it could be better. Could be worse too though, right? I hope it gets better though. I want to get money for it. I want a jacuzzi pretty bad. Man, that’d be cool. People like jacuzzis.
Another idea I had was to write a murder mystery. Man, people like those murder mysteries a lot too. Almost as much as they like pirates. I was going to write a murder mystery where the butler didn’t do it. How cool is that, huh? The butler always does it. Whenever there’s a question as to who did what, it’s always the butler. That’s why I don’t have a butler. That and because I can’t afford one. They’re expensive, I priced them out. You have to feed them and everything, so they’re a nuisance that way. I mean, I have a pet. A cat. His name’s Ralph. I like him a lot. You know, for a cat. But I have to feed that cat all the time. Sometimes more than that. It’s a hassle. So I don’t want a butler. No sir. But I was going to write about one who’s a real sneak. You know, so you’d think he was the one who did it (There was going to be a murder) and then you’d find out it wasn’t him! It was someone else, maybe even the dead guy. That would’ve been awesome! So, I was going to do that. Write about a creepy butler who didn’t do it. You would have liked it. I promise. It was going to be good. Really good. Maybe someday. I’m just kidding. About the butler, I mean. Of course he did it. He was a sneak, remember?
Yet another option was to make a book themed around current events. You know, like news and stuff. I could tackle the news world with ground-shaking facts and statistics. Show the people what’s really going on in the world. But, the problem with that is that it would take research. Yuck. I’ve never done any research. It sounds like too much work to me. Reading facts isn’t something that interests me. I’d rather watch baseball on tv. So, it would be much better if you just took my word for it. You know, just trust whatever I say like it’s fact. If you could do that, that’d be great. It’d make this a lot easier on me, and I think I’m owed that, seeing as I’m the one writing all this for you, the reader. For your entertainment. Yes, yours. See, I’m doing you a big favor, so you should be able to do this for me, right? Ok, good. Just to be sure, if I say something like, “Statistics show that 84% of white American men enjoy scuba diving with nude male models” or, “Research shows that 5 out of 7 crackbabies are born with the ability to fly” then you just have to go with it. Also, if I mention I spoke to someone who doesn’t exist (Spiderman, Darth Vader, Alf), you need to understand that it really did happen, no lie. Same goes for dead people. Simply, you need to trust me. Why would I make this stuff up? See, I’m like Clark, I’m a nice guy. No reason not to trust me, I’m swell and honest. I like ponies and cake. How could you disagree with a guy who likes ponies and cake? See, you can’t. So if you ever find yourself disagreeing with me, just remember that means you hate ponies. And cake. That would make you a bad person. So bad, in fact, I bet your mother would disown you. And people would stop liking you, because you hate ponies, remember? Everybody likes ponies. Except you. That’s why no one wants to come over to your house. You ponie-hater. I guess the best way to keep your friends is to just not question my fact checking. That’s all I’m saying, cause you like ponies, right? Right. Good.
I wanted to call this book “The First Monkey in Heaven” but I decided against it. Why would a monkey go to heaven? The throw poop on their own families for fun. That and they eat bugs. Gross. I think monkies probably go to Hell. They burn down there in Hell, but it’s ok. They’re just dirty, stinking monkies, right? Who needs them? They throw poop, like I said. That and they do other things, like abuse themselves. God doesn’t appreciate that, those monkies abusing themselves. That’s filthy and retchid, not too mention confusing. How do they do that while they’re hanging upside down in a tree? Man, that’s weird. Once I saw one hanging in a tree by his feet, abusing himself. He was also throwing poop at somebody’s kid. Really. Isn’t that weird? So, no. God doesn’t want that kind of thing in heaven, no sir. God’s more of a pony person I bet. Ponies can go into heaven, but not dirty monkies. They go to Hell. Hell’s right full of flaming monkies, they’re all over the place. In Hell, I bet it’s hard to set your drink down without a flaming monkey running by and knocking it over. I bet they scream real loud too. Ever been burned? Man, it hurts. Monkies don’t know that, they’re dumb. I bet the ones in Hell do, though. Hard to throw poop while you’re burning with eternal Hellfire, isn’t it monkies? Yeah, I bet it is. Filthy monkies.
Another idea was a recipe book. But I can’t cook, so that’d be silly. Who needs a recipe for toast? If you do, you probably can’t read any how. But I make good toast. The trick is to use bread. And, you know, a toaster. That’s the trick. Right there, that’s it. Isn’t it great? You should try my Chinese takeout too. Man, it’s good. When I call they say to pick it up in ten minutes, but I get there in seven. That way it’s hotter. I’m real crafty like that.
I make a mean ice water too. But I can’t get into that. It’s a secret. No, really, it is.
Thangs.
1. I made enchiladas using leftover pork carnitas and re-fried beans at 11:00 p.m. so I could eat them while I watch Saturday Night Live and drink beer. I have no reason to tell you this, outside of the possibility that it might piss you off. These are possibilities I’m willing to live with.
They looked kinda like this:
Yeah, I know.
2. Number 2′s for suckas.
3. If root beer were a lady, I’d marry her.
4. I HATE, HATE, HATE that new DirecTV commercial with David Spade in it redoing the clip from Tommy Boy. I don’t know, it just seems disrespectful to Chris Farley.
5. Shit, this was a bad idea, I have jack shit to say.
Monkey fart.
That One Song Everclear Put Out Totally Fucking Destroyed, Dude.
Jack Johnson, Linkin Park, Nickelback, and countless other bands all write the same song multiple times and call it a career in music. I don’t blame them, really, I blame the idiot consumer that’s foolish enough to get excited about upcoming releases from these bands when they really already own the new songs, just with different album art and titles. That said, I fucking love Everclear. Art Alexakis has been writing the same song about his heroin-overdosed girlfriend since 1992. Also, I don’t think he & his Dad got along too well. Anyways, I like that song. Which song you ask? Well, all of them. They all sound the fucking same. I don’t know why I like them, really, I don’t connect to the lyrics or anything. He does sound serious and heartfelt about all the Degrassi High bullshit he writes about. I twittered earlier about how I used to blast the shit out of “Father of Mine” when I lived with my Dad and he’d get concerned that I was trying to tell him something about his parenting skills. His fears were of course ill-founded, I love my Dad, I just liked hearing Art yell and scream about his distraught youth. Maybe it’s the crunchy gee-tars or something, I don’t know.
Any-hoo, Art’s got a new acoustic album out now called “In A Different Light” which is 2 new songs (both good) and 9 reworkings of older Everclear songs. I say try it out, the tracks hold up and they’re fun to sing along with.
Here’s a picture of Art Alexakis, tortured soul, looking like he just deuced in his pants and thinks no one noticed:
Oops!
My Thoughts on That Jesus Character.
I’m too lazy to actually write some fresh & new for this blog, so I just jacked this little nugget from my older blog which can still be found over here (I think). I’m trying to move all those posts over here, but who knows if that will happen, I may get distracted by a cup of coffee, a cigarette, a beer, or a commercial for tampons. Either way, I do plan to try to transfer all that stuff eventually. That said, here’s this:
To start, I can’t logically agree with the concept of Atheism. This should be a hard sale coming from someone who’s performed not one, but two Atheistic weddings in the past year. That aside, I just fail to see how many intelligent people can get behind a theory (or lack thereof as the case may be) that carries no logical weight whatsoever. To explain where I’m coming from, I use the example of the delicious lemon cake:
If I walk into a vacant room and there’s nothing in the room aside from a table with a delicious lemon cake on it, logic would dictate that someone made the delicious lemon cake. Someone also probably built the table. I think about this when I see an ocean or the sky.
See what I mean? I think religious groups are foolish, but I think Atheistic groups are just pandering to being undecided. That and the term “atheist” should be changed from “someone who’s not inclined toward any particular religious belief” to “someone who hates people that are inclined towards any particular religious belief.” Why? Because the religious people ask for it through action. Examples? Sure:
When people of the religious faction do something that is construed as being a sin, instead of taking blame for the action themselves, they tend to leans towards the approach of, “Satan made me do it,” or some other nonsensical slight of responsibility. This is certainly a common underlying theme in supplying blame to achieved sin amongst the faltering righteous. What I believe is overlooked is when these people do something correct and culturally nourishing to those around them. They seldom accredit God for these actions, they may thank Him, but they don’t step aside from the glory of the accomplishment and say, “Don’t say I did it, it was all the Man Upstairs.” In other words, if Ralphie plants a tomato plant and it supplies food for a hungry family, it was all Ralphie’s idea. But if Ralphie gets blown by the cleft-lipped babysitter, Sir Satan Supreme was the obvious cause. It’s logic like this that causes a lot of decent people to form a gorgeous policy of “Hey, you know what? Fuck Ralphie “>Ralphie.” Ralphie of course being the ever-blameless religion in this context. Oh Ralphie, fuck you indeed.
As another example, I’ll go to sports. In particular, football games. Even more particularly, football games that feature touchdowns where the player slams the ball onto the painted grass and throws a pointed finger into the heavens, thanking God for his assistance in the scoring play. On surface, I see no problems with this, but digging deeper I think it’s just as fair to flare a stiff middle finger into the air after a play goes awry. God gave you that touchdown? Awesome. He also caused your left leg to get too close to your right when you fell over and missed that pass, so you should scold him. Blame and thanks are equal opportunity employers, Dickweed. Think about it.
I suppose what I’m getting at is that people have a problem with taking responsibility for their own actions. Unless the action merits a reward, then they have a notarized account and photos of themselves doing it. On the opposite side, they constantly ask God for assistance and then sit around and wait for the Almighty to get of his ass and solve their quandaries when, really, if they weren’t so tactless and lazy they might not be in their position to begin with. God’s loyal fan base is a classy bunch.
Also, I think the list of broken promises to God would make a wonderful coffee table book.
Also again, I sincerely doubt God’s master plan is to have his message brought to the populace by way of bumper stickers. I refuse to believe that his follow up plan to sending his only born son to Earth was to have soccer moms and pretentious holier-than-thou douchebags endorse him with glued pieces of plastic on the back of their dusty minivans. What are they thinking with that stupid fish anyways? If I’m behind them and we both get into a car wreck, that they get a better parking space at God’s house? I really hope not. Yikes.
In closing, I can best state my belief in God as this: I feel about God the same way I feel about Dave Matthews. I mean, I like the guy, I just hate all the people that tell me how he’s the best thing ever and if I don’t love him more than life itself, I’m just not listening hard enough. That, to me, is incredibly fucking weak. I listen to Dave and talk to God on my own terms, not anyone else’s. That’s all I’m saying.
5
I probably listen to cooler music than you, so I’m listing 5 songs that will be helping me celebrate the 4th in the hope that you, too, might partake in their summery goodness.
- “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield. If you don’t like this song, you’re almost certainly a doouche, so there.
- “Cannonball” by the Breeders. If for no other reason than the odd drum fill about 17 seconds into it.
- “Volcano Girls” by Veruca Salt. Crunchy. Hot girls. Need I say more?
- “Sloop John B” by the Beach Boys. This is the perfect summer song. Like, ever, Man.
- “Last Goodbye” by Jeff Buckley. I don’t feel the need to explain this, hmm’k?
Ok, those are five out of my many, anyone else have anything to add?
Sanford’s Trip
What follows are excerpts for the week of June 18th – June 24th from Mark Sanford’s private journal:
June 18th, 2009 - I woke up today and just needed to drive, you know? Jenny and the kids were still in Sullivan’s
Island, so I thought, “Why the fuck not, Mark?” I thought about where
to drive for a while and quickly ruled out the beach, as I was just there and
didn’t need anymore sun. What I hadn’t seen in a good God-damned while though was Hartsfield International Airport. They have the best Seattle’s Best in there over by the International gate. I packed up my flip flops, a pair of
swimming trunks, and a few boxes of condoms (in case I ran into Jenny) for the
drive. It was going to be a great day.
June 19th, 2009 - I got into Buenos Ares mid afternoon yesterday. I got to the airport for a cup of coffee and decided to park in the long term parking deck because I saw a mangy-looking raccoon run into the
hourly one. In I went, bag of beach stuff and condoms in hand because the lock
mechanism in the car wasn’t working right, to get my cup of coffee. I knew the
coffee was good, but the line was huge! I waited in it for almost thirty
minutes when I discovered I wasn’t even in the Seattle’s Best line, but the
line for International Flights. Not wanting to be rude, I politely explained
the mix up and purchased a very affordable ticket to Buenos Ares (thank
goodness I always keep my passport in my condom boxes, that was a lifesaver!).
How nice this was going to be. A little away time for Mark at the beach. It’ll
be good to get a little sun, I haven’t been to the beach in forever! I called
the office and told them I was going hiking for a few days (that’s our code for
abruptly leaving the country) and boarded the plane. I got to the hotel, explained to the cute
girl at the hotel kiosk that she was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen
and that my marriage was going south, and went to my room for a soapy grunt n’
tug in the shower.
June 20th, 2009 – I woke up this morning at 2:00 and decided to go out for a bite. I took a shower,
tugged one out, and went for dinner. Now, Buenos Ares is weird, I thought at
2:15 in the morning people would be getting up and ready for work, but the
streets were just FULL of sexy brown women. Not letting that discourage me, I
went into an establishment called “The Clam Digger,” that I thought
specialized in seafood. It turns out the place didn’t even have any food, just
tequila drinks, Jaegar shots, and more women. I didn’t want to be rude, so I
stayed for a quick 9 drinks and ended up meeting a really nice girl from Miami
named Beth. I asked Beth if she’d be interested in coming back to the hotel for
a a cup of coffee and to see what was on Pay per View, but she declined. She
was still very nice. You know, for a cock-teasing bitch. I then went back to
the hotel, beat off to some spic weather girl, and went to bed.
June 21st, 2009 - My cell phone keeps ringing, but this is Mark Time so I’m not going to answer it. Today I went into what is called the “Drug District” to see if I could get some pain medication for a
headache I’ve been having. My headaches are awful, so I asked a guy at the bar
last night where I could get something that will just let me lay around and not
feel anything and he suggested something called “Roof and
All,” which I guess is called that because if you take one, you just lay
back and stare at the ceiling. I went down to the drug district and sure enough
someone had what I was looking for. I went out to the bars for the night and
accidentally dropped one into some local girl’s mojito (butterfingers, I know).
She got very tired, very quickly.Not wanting to be rude, I took
her back to the hotel so she could sleep it off. It was funny, me dragging her
around, it was like that “Weekend at Bernie’s” movie, except she
wasn’t dead and kept asking, “Who are you? Where are we going? Did you put
something in my drink?” It was cute. Anyways, we got back to the room and
she asked (practically begged) me to fuck her right before she passed
out on the bed. I explained to her I was married and had children, even though
the marriage was heading south and I never really liked those little shits
anyways. Again not wanting to be rude, I went ahead and did it (even though I
couldn’t remember where I put the condoms). It was magical, she even quietly
wept in the middle of it. To keep the mood playful, I held her by the hair and
told her that if she got pregnant I’d fucking kill her. HaHa, how we laughed!
When I was finished, I cleaned her up, took her down to the rental car, and
dropped her off in front of a 24 hour veterinary clinic.
June 23rd, 2009 – The damnedest thing happened. I accidentally took one of those roof pills for my
hangover and woke up almost a full day later. When I woke up, there was blood
all over my clothes and my penis had scratches on it. Also animal hair was
scattered around the hotel room (I want to say llama hair, but I have no idea).
I realized I hadn’t eaten in almost five days, so I went to the lobby for a
bagel and ended up offering the kiosk girl $4,000 to gum my dick in the
handicap stall of the lobby restroom. During the fellatio, I told her I loved
her (can you believe that!?) and told her I’d giver her an additional $20,000
if I could have her for the night, $25,000 if she let me bite her tits and cum
on her dirty whore face. After a trip to the bank, two daunting phone calls to
my accountant in Charelston, and sweating bullets for about five minutes, it
was handled. She was mine for the night. She came up to the room about 9:00ish
and asked where we were going for dinner at which point I slapped her across
the face and informed her the only thing she was going to be eating was 3 and a
half inches of United States Governor. This caused her to knee me very deeply
in the groin. While I was moaning on the ground in pleasure (Jenny never plays
rough like this girl does!), I noticed that the girl had gone over to the
dresser where I had placed the $25,000 cash, the box of condoms, and a black
rubber dildo roughly the size of David Beckham’s left leg. This really turned
me on, because she picked up the dildo first. I was getting into it, so far as
to say, “Who’s the dirty cunt who’s going to ass-fuck the next President
of the United States?” when she abruptly slapped me with it. I got so
hard, I could have rolled pie dough with my cock. After calling me an asshole a
few times, I guess she kicked me in the head or something because the next
thing I knew I was all alone, the sun was up, and the money was gone.
June 24th, 2009 – After realizing I had been robbed and seeing my picture on the spic news channel with
an upside down question mark next to it, I decided it was time to go home.
After landing at Hartsfield and doing a press conference, where I was forced by
my legal advisers to admit I cheated on my wife, I leave you with this week of
journal entries. Now you can see it from my perspective and realize that Jenny,
my little waste-of–cum-and-bank-account kids, and the entire U.S. Government
are just being little bitches in regards to this whole situation. Like Reagan
never flew abroad and raped a local. Shit, Ron Paul all but flat-out told me
that he once strangle-fucked some Mexican housemaid to death next to a dumpster
while on a FAMILY VACATION in Cuba. I bet that Buenos-Whoras cock-juggling twat
that I dropped at the vet’s office gets a fucking book deal. That’s great,
isn’t it? Get your pussy blown out by a United States Governor and you get a
free fucking meal ticket. Bitch. Listen, you can judge me all you want to,
America, but at least I’m not a queer like that faggot from Massachusetts. Good
luck with whatever prick you elect after me, I hope he gets AIDS from slurping
scabby dick at a rest stop bathroom. Blow me, America, I don’t have to take this
shit.
Klosterman’s 23
Chuck Klosterman’s “23 Questions I Ask Everybody I Meet In Order To Decide If I Can Really Love Them” (As Answered by Me)
1. Let us assume you met a
rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks–he
can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can
turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar
vein. These are his only tricks and he can’t learn any more; he can
only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he’s doing these five tricks
with real magic. It’s not an illusion; he can actually conjure the
bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He’s
legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence.
Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?
No. His ability would be impressive, but he himself, when compared to Einstein, falls short.
2.
Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has
his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with
thick rope. He is conscious and standing upright, but completely
immobile. And let us assume that–for some reason–every political
prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released
from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty
minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots.
Would you attempt to do this?
No, as there are some political prisoners who shouldn’t be released. Plus my foot isn’t sponsored by a a glue factory, so I’ll probably concentrate on releasing the fucking horse.
3.
Let us assume there are two boxes on a table. In one box, there is a
relatively normal turtle; in the other, Adolf Hitler’s skull. You have
to select one of these items for your home. If you select the turtle,
you can’t give it away and you have to keep it alive for two years; if
either of these parameters are not met, you will be fined $999 by the
state. If you select Hitler’s skull, you are required to display it in
a semi-prominent location in your living room for the same amount of
time, although you will be paid a stipend of $120 per month for doing
so. Display of the skull must be apolitical.
Which option do you select?
The
skull. The money’s good and who has to know whose skull it is? I could simply write “THEY” across the forehead and say it’s They Might Be Giants memorabilia.
4.
Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have
developed a so-called “super gorilla.” Though the animal cannot speak,
it has a sign language lexicon of over twelve thousand words, an I.Q.
of almost 85, and–most notably–a vague sense of self-awareness.
Oddly, the creature (who weighs seven hundred pounds) becomes
fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its
highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a
defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that this gorilla
would be “borderline unblockable” and would likely average six sacks a
game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to
counters and misdirection plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it
clear he would never intentionally injure any opponent.
You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?
Might as well, the NFL’s for overpaid apes already.
5.
You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years,
someone will break both of your soul mate’s collarbones with a Crescent
wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You
must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear–for the rest of
your life–sound as if it’s being performed by the band Alice in
Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it
will sound (to your ears) like it’s being played by Alice in Chains. If
you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it’s
being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on
TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the
shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley
performing a capella (but it will only sound this way to you).
Would you swallow the pill?
No. I’d also decide not to date the soul mate. The real question is how you’d keep a soul mate without any soul.
6.
At long last, someone invents “the dream VCR.” This machine allows you
to tape an entire evening’s worth of your own dreams, which you can
then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will
only allow you to use this device of you agree to a strange caveat:
When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family and your
closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along
with you. And if you don’t agree to this, you can’t use the dream VCR.
Would you still do this?
Not ever.
7.
Defying all expectation, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture
a live Loch Ness Monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear
hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh,
thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity.
These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president
announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later
that week.
You are the front page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
The President first, then Locky, then Bigfoot.
8.
You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You
find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating,
consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one
quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson’s gothic puppet
fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a
month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references,
uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and
occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film’s “deeper
philosophy.”
Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
As a slave to my own obsessions, what the Hell could I say to her?
9.
A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commerical
success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend
emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears
that almost 30 percent of the people who read this book immediately
become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book
for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite
the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no
homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man).
Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likliehood of you reading this book?
Shit, I liked the Da Vinci Code. But I steer away from the Oprah book club books, so I’d probably just read the sequel that got me started into some beastiality or worse.
10.
This is the opening line of Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City:
“You are not the kind of guy who would be in a place like this at this
time of the morning.” Think about that line in the context of the novel
(assuming you’ve read it). Now go to your CD collection and find
Heart’s Little Queen album (assuming you own it). Listen to the opening
riff to “Barracuda.”
Which of these two introductions is a higher form of art?
Neither or both. Sculpters cannot paint nor can painters sculpt. Whose to say what higher art is?
11.
You are watching a movie in a crowded theater. Though the plot is
mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with
twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable
feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died.
There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of
it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense
that–somewhere–your mom has just perished. But this is only an
intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your
mother has not been ill.
Would you immediately exit the theater, or would you finish watching the movie?
I’d exit the theater and make a phone call.
12.
You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make
you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process
works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at
this random stranger. The wizard says, “I will now make them a dollar
more attractive.” He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does
not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different.
But–somehow–this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The
tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can’t deny
that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule,
though–you can only pay him once. You can’t keep giving him money
until you’re satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front.
How much cash do you give the wizard?
Run to the bank, hold the place up, then come back with 1.9 million dollars for the wizard. Then, when the police some to collect me, I’d be all like, “Oh, that fugly loser, Eric? I haven’t seen him.”
13.
Every person you have ever slept with is invited to a banquet where you
are the guest of honor. No one will be in attendance except you, the
collection of your former lovers, and the catering service. After the
meal, you are asked to give a fifteen-minute speech to the assembly.
What do you talk about?
I’d fake an outbreak of Herpes and start apologizing.
14.
For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a
twelfth-grade level. They can’t talk and they can’t write, but they can
read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill,
because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the
house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces
them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the
utter frustration of being unable to express themselves).
This
being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or
would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature?
Up until my cat stops fighting the bottom half of the sofa, I think she’d have no reason to be upset of the caricature that Davis has presented.
15.
You have a brain tumor. Though there is no discomfort at the moment,
this tumor would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, your
life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that
there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the
surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be
a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have
a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand
complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks.
How do you spend the next fourteen days?
Tracking down pop star phone numbers for my future black book.
16.
Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of
your own life in the future (it’s essentially a crystal ball that shows
a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty
years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you
finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two
decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football
game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your
chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian
Football League, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You
are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical
moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that—for some
unknown reason—you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And
this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, this future
will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be
changed.
The
next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly
come across a pre-season CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the
Saskatchewan Roughriders. Knowing your inevitable future, do you now
watch it?
Not if it’s during a Dodgers game, no.
17.
You are sitting in an empty bar (in a town you’ve never before
visited), drinking Bacardi with a soft-spoken acquaintance you barely
know. After an hour, a third individual walks into the tavern and sits
by himself, and you ask your acquaintance who the new man is. “Be
careful of that guy,” you are told. “He is a man with a past.” A few
minutes later, a fourth person enters the bar; he also sits alone. You
ask your acquaintance who this new individual is. “Be careful of that
guy, too,” he says. “He is a man with no past.”
Which of these two people do you trust less?
The fucker next to me telling me shit about people I don’t even know.
18.
You have won a prize. The prize has two options, and you can choose
either (but not both). The first option is a year in Europe with a
monthly stipend of $2,000. The second option is ten minutes on the moon.
Which option do you select?
Europe. I can pretend to be mooning it in the desert at night with enough weed.
19.
Your best friend is taking a nap on the floor of your living room.
Suddenly, you are faced with a bizarre existential problem: This friend
is going to die unless you kick them (as hard as you can) in the rib
cage. If you don’t kick them while they slumber, they will never wake
up. However, you can never explain this to your friend; if you later
inform them that you did this to save their life, they will also die
from that. So you have to kick a sleeping friend in the ribs, and you
can’t tell them why.
Since you cannot tell your friend the truth, what excuse will you fabricate to explain this (seemingly inexplicable) attack?
There was a brown recluse on you.
20.
For whatever the reason, two unauthorized movies are made about your
life. The first is an independently released documentary, primarily
comprised of interviews with people who know you and bootleg footage
from your actual life. Critics are describing the documentary as
“brutally honest and relentlessly fair.” Meanwhile, Columbia Tri-Star
has produced a big-budget biopic of your life, casting major Hollywood
stars as you and all your acquaintances; though the movie is based on
actual events, screenwriters have taken some liberties with the facts.
Critics are split on the artistic merits of this fictionalized account,
but audiences love it.
Which film would you be most interested in seeing?
The big budget biopic. I was already there for my life, now I want to see who gets cast as me and everyone else.
21.
Imagine you could go back to the age of five and relive the rest of
your life, knowing everything that you know now. You will reexperience
your entire adolescence with both the cognitive ability of an adult and
the memories of everything you’ve learned form having lived your life
previously.
Would you lose your virginity earlier or later than you did the first time around (and by how many years)?
Later by six months.
22.
You work in an office. Generally, you are popular with your coworkers.
However, you discover that there are currently two rumors circulating
the office gossip mill, and both involve you. The first rumor is that
you got drunk at the office holiday party and had sex with one of your
married coworkers. This rumor is completely true, but most people don’t
believe it. The second rumor is that you have been stealing hundreds of
dollars of office supplies (and then selling them to cover a gambling
debt). This rumor is completely false, but virtually everyone assumes
it is factual.
Which of these two rumors is most troubling to you?
The second one.
23. Consider this possibility:
a. Think about deceased TV star John Ritter.
b.
Now, pretend Ritter had never become famous. Pretend he was never
affected by the trappings of fame, and try to imagine what his
personality would have been like.
c. Now, imagine that this person—the unfamous John Ritter—is a character in a situation comedy.
d. Now, you are also a character in this sitcom, and the unfamous John Ritter character is your sitcom father.
e.
However, this sitcom is actually your real life. In other words, you
are living inside a sitcom: Everything about our life is a
construction, featuring the unfamous John Ritter playing himself (in
the role of your TV father). But this is not a sitcom. This is your
real life.
How would you feel about this?
Badly, I’d miss my real father.
Random Four.
Wreck(ed) – Whilst planning to attend April’s Graduation, Janice and I got a phone call describing a slight wreck involving her sister & brother. Ok. Slight wreck. Fender-bender. All is well, we can carry on as planned. But as life sometimes does, it stuck it’s filthy, meandering fingers into the situation and we got another, slightly different phone call. There are flash terms that one hopes to avoid when hearing news of a car wreck involving one’s loved ones. “Jaws of Life,” comes to mind. Also, “Helicopter,” or any mention of anything (or anyone) being “Air-Lifted.” Anyways, we got the last two in spades, through a blanket of tears via Janice’s Mom. Pandemonium.
Of course it was raining. And to call Janice a “fast driver” would be like calling Mike Vick “more of a cat person,” so the ride to the hospital went rather quickly. We got there and eventually learned that all of our peeps were, for a lack of better words, beat to all shit. Breathing, but beat to all shit. We concentrated on the breathing aspect. I mean, you have to, really.
Now, a week later, the brusises are blush, the casts are firm, but they’re ok. Thank God. I suppose I should write something about how sacred life is and how we should all cherish every moment we have together, but if you had my friends & family, you’d be doing that already like I do. Anyways, I’m glad they’re ok and look forward to seeing them on Sunday.
Green Day, Cracker, Cat Stephens, & apparently Rusted Root – A lot of albums have been obtained by yours truly here in the last few days. From Cracker’s “Sunrise in the Land of Milk & Honey” to Green Day’s “21st Century Breakdown.” Hell, I even got a little Yusuf Islam and Rusted Root. The music’s all good, so I’m pleased about that.
Black Beans – I’ve pretty much perfected the art of Cuban black beans. I like them with eggs in the morning, but they’re pretty good at any hour of day. My recipe has gone from tolerable to flat-out, make-your-brain-bleed-they’re-so-fucking-good delicious. If you find some good black beans, I will pay you $50 if they’re better than mine. Promise.
2 Years, Man! – Today marks my second year here on Tammi Lane. The house is looking good (we’ve slowed down on kegging and picked up yard work as a hobby), I have a great friend in Geoff, who I barely knew from Adam when I moved in here, and Scampers still looks very innocent in her sleep but tends to do weird things like bring me snakes and have epic battles with the power cord to my laptop. It’s been a memorable two years, even through the clouds that enough 40 Creek and Sam Adams will create. I dig it.
Bea.
Bea was a classy woman. If for no other reason than the line, “No Rose, because they changed the formula for Coke.” If you know what I’m talking about, more power to you, if not than you should really treat yourself to a few episodes of the Golden Girls (not to even mention Maude). Anyways, Bea was a special lady that always made me laugh and I’ll miss her.
To Bea, 1922-2009
Yep.
