Kate Gosselin.....AAARRRRRGGGGHHH!

I was checking my Yahoo email the other day, when I had another one of those loud, overly obvious news headlines thrust into my face. You know the type, a big picture of a famous person, coupled with the perfect sound-byte headline, all of which is taking up huge amounts of browser space. You can' help but take it all in while you're trying to locate that little tiny button that actually leads you to your email. Every once in a while, this tactic works. There's something curious enough to actually pulls me away from my task and forces me to click for a new tab, just to learn more about this stirring piece of data. Nine times out of ten, I'm usually hugely disappointed with the result.

I know Yahoo has never claimed to be an authority on the news. And I know they're a company in pain, who's biggest draw at this point is their willingness to dish relentlessly on celebrity goings-on. I'm aware of all these things, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. And I reaaaaallly don't like them when they actually work too.

I could give two shits about why Sandra Bullock is getting an Oscar, or why she doesn't deserve it. And yet, finding myself suckered into a pointless article because of a captivating headline just makes me feel.....stupid. And I don't like to feel stupid people!

Or, you could get what happened the other day; an article so offensive and rage building, that it's amazing I didn't foam at the mouth and die on the spot.

It started off as it always does, I wanted to check my email. Upon signing in, I see the big bulbous picture of a blond woman who looks somewhat familiar. The eyes drift to the headline before my brain can stop them. The mental conversation that followed went something like this:

"Oh, it's Kate Gosselin, that's why I thought she looked familiar."

"According to these big words, she's gotten a make over so she could be on Dancing With The Stars."

"God how I hate Dancing With The Stars."

"You know it's funny, with this new look of hers, I don't really remember what she used to look like before."

"That's weird, I don't even remember what she was famous for either. She must be an actress or something."

"No wait, I do remember now. She was the mom of the eight kids with that Jon guy."

"Ooooh, okay! Kate Gosselin of Jon & Kate Plus 8, who recently got divorced and is now a single mother is going to be on Dancing With The Stars!"

"Wait..... what?"

Let us consider the math here. A woman, who's most well known public traits are a styled haircut and the ability to reproduce en' masse, who's home is currently broken by a philandering dipshit of an ex-husband, and is now a single mother to 8 children, is going to be taking part of a reality show where she dances in fluffly clothes and hip music. Someone with no sustainable income beyond being an interesting tidbit in People magazine, who has apparently left their career of being an RN in the dust, and is reliant on the child support payments of an idiot, is apparently using all of her time to do rumba's and tangos. Perhaps I'm a little too old fashioned or something, but I can't help but ask:

WHO'S WATCHING THE FUCKING CHILDREN??!!!!!!!!!!!!

I mean shit, one would figure that being responsible for 8 fucking children and having no true support network to speak of, might be something that occupies a good healthy chunk of your time! I've seen mothers all around me on a day to day basis, getting stressed out and overwhelmed with the existence of a single child. 8 should be hard labor people! Free time should be a at the back of your fucking mind! What are these kids gonna do while mommy is shaking her ass in front of a camera? Sit backstage with juiceboxes, hoping the stage hands don't have criminal records?

Oh wait, the article says that one of the judges is helping out by setting up a "special day care" for the youngsters. Isn't that nice? I mean, we're not going to trust the father of the children to look after the kids while mommy's playing whore but hey, why not let a TV judge whom you really don't know, make a "special day care" for your children? That sounds like a wonderfully stupid idea.

The article concludes on a quote. During an interview with Jimmy Kimmel, Gosselin said "If I can cook dinner and dance, then I'll be doing really well."

Hey Kate?

YOU'RE NOT COOKING DINNER!! YOU'RE NOT COOKING DINNER AT ALL!! YOU'RE DANCING! WITH STARS! SOMEBODY IN THIS WEIRD CULT DAY CARE FACILITY IS COOKING THE DINNER! AT LEAST I FUCKING HOPE THEY ARE! WHO THE FUCK KNOWS? MAYBE THEY'RE LEARNING HOW TO TALK BACKWARDS AND MAKE SHOES? ALL I FUCKING KNOW IS THAT THEY'RE NOT GETTING COOKED FOR BY YOU! BECAUSE YOU'RE DANCING AND GETTING DOLLED UP LIKE A FLUTTERY SKANK IN FRONT OF A COUNTRY FILLED WITH PARENTS! MOST OF WHOM ACTUALLY DO HAVE TO COOK DINNER! COOK SOME FUCKING DINNER KATE AND QUIT YOUR FUCKING DANCING!!!!!!!

But, I digress.......

Huh. No new emails, too bad.

Boy In The Balloon

Let's play a bit of reality math shall we? The treasured game where we add up real life situations, and calculate the results. Are you ready? Alright then, here we go....

• Take one 6 year old boy,
• add in a very big, very dangerous balloon capable of carrying a person,
• factor in one parent who's apparently far too busy to pay attention to either

What does that equal?

If you responded with, "Stupid stupid, dipshit fucking dumbasses" Then you are clearly a well rounded denizen with some common fucking sense.

I mean seriously, it's strange enough to spend a great deal of time and money to develop a balloon that can carry a person's body weight. That takes a level of commitment to insanity that I can't even begin to fathom. But then to be too cheap to build a garage for the damn thing, and too lazy to deflate it? Holy shit people! Who the fuck says "I just built a big ass balloon, but now I'm tired so I'm just going to lash it to my roof?" It almost seems kind of illegal in general to leave something big and capable of flight unattended. It may well be extremely illegal but I can't verify it (and am too lazy to try.)

And so daddy dearest leaves this big fucking thing on the house, with a curious 6 year old boy. And I guess never once did it cross his mind, to CHECK ON THEM! Holy fuck people, he has been a father for at least 6 years, and I'm almost positive a bit more, does he not know of the child-like tendency to explore shit? Especially when that shit is a big silver globe that glows in the sunlight and moves enticingly in the wind? Why not just lock the kid in a shed with fireworks and give him a lighter?

I feel safe asking these questions because it all turned out for the best. The kid was safe, nobody got hurt, all ended well. But frankly, it shouldn't have even been an issue. This kid shouldn't have even been put in a situation where that could've happened. And a capable fucking parent should have done everything in their power to insure that their child would be safe.

But what do I know? The whole thing might just be a hoax anyways.

At Some Point, They're Just Best Described As Dumb

I'm a man of pretty even temper.

Though these pages may never reveal it, I do try hard to think critically before I speak. I'm someone who puts a lot of emphasis into observing the world, and tries very hard to maintain perspective. People take a lot of interesting paths to become who they are, and it's that willingness to walk the journey that defines someone, not where they end up. And I know full well that money, job title, or education can never define a person as good or bad. You are what you make yourself, and how you choose to let the world view you. So, I do my best to avoid judgment, and always make an effort to hear the folks of the world out. I really don't want to dislike anybody.

Still, there are those things that I simply cannot abide by. The clear point where education and experience are no longer a factor, and you are making a purposeful attempt at being an idiot. We've all seen these things, quirky marks of jackassery caused by grungy, overly hormonal people with something to prove. And you sit there watching them do these things, and the whole time you think to yourself "C'mon! There's no way in hell you don't know any better!" Perhaps they smoke cigarettes on their porches while their kids run amok, or blast their way too loud car stereos at inappropriate times.....you know the little things. Those annoying acts that the dumb-fucks and dipshits of the world do, despite being completely pointless and somewhat dense. It's unforgivable in this day and age to be so dumb.

Witnessing such acts gets me in a bit of a rage. And I tend to fall into a pattern of retribution when I do them. Most of the time, my violent tendencies don't go too overboard. I've never set a house on fire, nor have I ever taken hostages. But they definitely are within a legal gray zone, and the world would probably be all the better if no one drove me to this point to begin with.

I'm speaking to you good people of this, because I just so happen to have one of the aforementioned idiots commiting one of these unforgivable sins outside of my home. And it's got me in a revenge-minded state, so I figured I'd use this time to issue a polite PSA on the matter:

People of the world, be warned: If you are the type of person who sits in their driveways and revs their ridiculously loud engine for more than five seconds, I will pee in your tailpipe.

A Poem Of Inadequacy At 4am

You ever sit back and think about the people you know, the people you read about, and the people you link to? Ever notice how their lives are taking off, and they're making great personal discoveries about themselves that are leading to successful places? Promotions, new careers, awards and rewards aplenty. Things are going well for these people.

And yet here you are, sitting at home staring at a screen, watching the world go by. Seated firmly in the middle of a self-imposed purgatory, wanting to reap some of the successes of these people, but lacking the motivation to try. Maybe you've sampled a few endeavors, but got unsure of the results, or where that inner fury is supposed to come from that makes you do this and nothing but. And now, here are people who know you. Shit some of them may even like you. And they're out there, kicking a bit of ass in the big game of life. And here you are, watching them. Envious of their bright future. Hell, you even find yourself hating them a little bit don't you? You do, despite the fact that they've worked hard and deserve all the rewards that are coming to them, it bugs the shit out of you knowing they're sitting alright while you continue to do jack. It doesn't make any sense to hate on these good folks, for doing what they're supposed to do. Hell, the smart thing to do would be to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and start doing something productive. Anything productive would do really, so long as it wasn't burning property or injuring people. You might just find that slice of pie you were looking for.

But you don't. You continue to sit there, staring. And feeling real pissed off.


Does that sound like you? Well no, it probably doesn't. You're probably one of those people who's on the high road to the promise land.

And I fucking hate you for it.

Megan Fox Gets It, Michael Bay Doesn't

Much to my dismay and general irritation, the second Transformers movie has laid waste to the box office this week. The tag team of Bay and Lebeouf have managed to molest segments of my childhood yet again.....at least I can only assume since I have successfully fought the forces that want me to actually watch this nonsense.

But that's not what this post is about. I'm not here to complain yet again about how Mr. Mullet and the Pimple managed to suck even more money out of something pitiful, I think everyone's pretty comfortable with where I stand on the matter. What I did decide to speak on briefly, was Megan Fox.

Here's someone that was utterly forgettable in the last movie, and fulfilled her role of female interest/damsel-in-distress with reasonable expectation. Not mind-blowing great, but not absolutely dreadful either. However, I am apparently a minority in my gender, as most of the male population of the world has gone positively apeshit over her. Articles of her everywhere, photos on iPhones, and a bunch of lonely men talking about "gettin' wit' her." No matter where you looked, there she was, and for me it had gotten to the point where I was getting pretty annoyed with it.

Surprisingly, my opinion has changed a bit. Over the last couple months, I've stumbled across a few articles of her responding to questions ranging from comparisons to Angelina Jolie to her acting abilities, and in all those interviews she proved her self to be a very capable smart-ass.....my kind of people.

Recently she made this particular statement, which I consider pretty damn brilliant:

"I mean, I can't shit on this movie because it did give me a career and open all these doors for me. But I don't want to blow smoke up people's ass. People are well aware that this is not a movie about acting."

Holy shit, she gets it! She is intelligent enough to comprehend that a movie entitled "Transformers" would probably be primarily focused on big fucking robots! This tickles me greatly, since the other dipshit who stars in this clearly didn't get the memo.

And apparently, neither did the guy who made this movie.

You know, I would have been totally cool if Michael Bay had just owned up to his creation. Admit to the world that he made a movie that was designed to do nothing more than occupy a couple hours of time in a very entertaining and popcorn-munching fashion. I would have had respected the guy if he had just said "Yeah, I made a goofy movie just to have fun with." But he didn't say that, no he responded with this bullshit.

"Nick Cage wasn't a big actor when I cast him, nor was Ben Affleck before I put him in 'Armageddon.' Shia LaBeouf wasn't a big movie star before he did 'Transformers' -- and then he exploded. Not to mention Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, from 'Bad Boys.' Nobody in the world knew about Megan Fox until I found her and put her in Transformers," I like to think that I've had some luck in building actors' careers with my films."

Sooooo.....apparently what you're saying is, your ability to hire a good casting director is what makes you an awesome director? Because I was under the impression that your job was to create a visually appealing movie that actually makes sense. But hey, maybe you don't have casting people, maybe you do everything by hand, I'll play along.

Let's go through your list. Nick Cage wasn't a big actor when you cast him you say? Do you mean the same Nick Cage who won a fucking academy award a year before starring in your dreck? Is that the same guy? How about that Ben Affleck fellow you mentioned? Didn't he also get an academy award? And coincidentally enough, one year before starring in a movie you made? Because if these are the same guys, you're basically saying you're able to hire guys who were recently received accolades for being talented, and that's not anything to write home about.

My personal favorites on this list are Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. Umm.....Michael? These guys had television shows before being in your movies. Which sort of means they were already well known before you involved.

In fact, it seems that everyone was off to a pretty good start before you started hiring them, which compels me to leave this small, miniscule tidbit of knowledge with your Mr. Bay, should you read this:

Ahem.....Michael? Hiring popular actors and putting big explodeys around them DOES NOT MAKE YOU FUCKING BRILLIANT!!!!!! It may be a successful formula for getting people into theaters but it does not "make" anyone's career. In fact, before you Nick Cage was a pretty decent dramatic actor. You had to go and give him the notion that he could cut it as an action star. You should be pretty ashamed of yourself.

As for Megan, she's found a minor fan in me. She's cynical, blunt, and doesn't take herself too seriously. I can dig on that. And, starring as a killer zombie thing in some campy horror film doesn't hurt your appeal. Rock on sister.

Newt Gingrich Claims Obama Already Failed

One of the many reasons I try very hard to avoid politics on this blog is that, put simply, politicians are dumb. The whole lot can be a bunch of hypocritical swine, spending more effort into saving face than doing the jobs we've hired them to do. And they have no qualms about stabbing a fellow politician in the back, claiming it's in my best interests, despite the fact that I've never once asked them to do it. I don't like people speaking on behalf of me, and really hate it when they say things I completely disagree with.

Of recent note is Mr. Newt Gingrich. At a recent Republican party fundraiser, the man fired off his mouth about the people currently in charge. And all of it as illogical and biased as we've come to expect from this man. The big quotable statement of the evening from New is that Obama's "already failed." That the ball has been dropped and the next three or so years are pretty much pointless since we're all screwed anyways.

This makes no damn sense to me, love him or hate him, the guy's only been in office since January. Exactly how much did you expect would get done in six months? Hell, it took your boy Bush two years before he claimed "Mission Accomplished," and even then nobody got to come home. Is Mr. Gingrich saying he can see into the future? And if so, why the hell didn't he warn anybody about the pickle this country finds ourselves in?

Other notable quotes include "Bureaucrats managing companies does not work, politicians dominating the economy does not work."

Okay, fair enough. I'm not sure I can argue with that. But I am curious Newt, exactly how is this different from when your boy was in office? Seems to me that bailout money had already been tossed to some pretty undeserving banks, and to a bunch of automakers who still couldn't get their act together to properly utilize those funds. That's my money tubbo, And watching a bunch of elitist capitalists take it and figure they get to keep their fancy suits and private jets is quite a sore spot for me.

As for politicians dominating the economy, exactly how many of your friend's companies were over in Iraq, spending huge amounts of our money? I don't have specific figures here, but I do remember hearing that it was quite a bit. Wouldn't that technically be politicians dominating the economy?

And if you're in doubt Mr. Gingrich, let me just ask you this........what economy? Your boy pretty much bankrupted everything, so really there is no true economy to speak of. So, what you're basically telling me is that people the people in your little clubhouse handed a broken-down pinto to the new administration, and are now pissing and moaning because it doesn't yet drive like a Ferrari. And frankly, that's not really anything worth giving you money for.

Like I said, I try very hard to avoid the political scene for source material, but when the lardy tend to sound this stupid, I just can't help myself. Forgive the break from the norm.

Britney Spears: If U Seek Amy

Britney Spears has just made headlines being as a sexy housewife.

Not for real of course, but definitely in music video form, as the video for "If U Seek Amy" was uploaded today on Britney's website (which I am not linking to because I have standards damnit!)

To summarize, Britney spends half of the video looking like a sleazy drug addled fiend, and then spends the other half looking like June Cleaver. The purpose of course being, to express through dance and skin how difficult it is to cope with the high expectations placed upon her by the media. Sounds deep you say? Well she also wrote the words, "Ha ha hee hee ha ha ho" as a verse of lyrics in the song, so do keep things in perspective.

Have people already forgotten that this snowballing pack of depressing and misguided uber-flesh is actually a mother? And according to the judgment of our modern legal system, a piss poor one at that? Of course the paparazzi is going to be interested in you if you don't show up to your court dates! Why not just hold up a liquor store with lit sparklers sticking out of your ass while you're at it.

So the idea of her portraying herself as the victimized housewife irks me, because nothing is further from the truth. She sucked as a mom, and I'm willing to believe she still does. And I don't think my standards are to high to expect things like car seats for the baby and a little sobriety.

Hell, even the video still kind of portrays her as unfit to procreate. When she's in front of the camera, she does the whole apple pie and sharp looking husband routine, but in the house? Apparently, it's multiple partners wearing scantily clad clothing, and either suffering from drug addiction or seizures. And what of the children? One of them appears to be wearing the exact same outfit and appearance as Britney in her first video "Hit Me Baby One More Time." Because nothing says good parenting like dressing them up to look like jailbait.

And perhaps, I'm not looking deep enough into this. Perhaps I'm just having a bad day and letting loose my venom on Britney without thinking this through. Maybe the video is satire? Maybe the whole thing is tounge-in-cheek, a big gag that I haven't taken the time to think through.

Fair enough, but it seems to me that making a gag about being an unfit mother, while being an unfit mother, just doesn't ring of much comedy. I mean, if you want to defend yourself, wouldn't it be easier to do one of those sappy music videos with slow music and pictures of you huging your children lovingly and making them laugh? Artists do that shit all the time, in fact I'm pretty sure it's a video like that which managed to keep Kid Rock being a viable artist in the modern age. So why not do something like that? Oh sure, I'd roll my eyes the whole time I was watching it, but at least it would inspire some kind of hope. I'd at least go to bed tonight not worrying that in 30 years time, I'd be hearing about the new Britney Spears video, portraying her as a sexy geriatric in a rest home filled with sluts.

And I'm sure, you would sleep better too.

Dear Rocky Mountain Power: WTF?

Well, since I decided to throw out how I handled my New Years, it seems only appropriate to get into how my Christmas went.

Let me give you a little backstory here, I live in a neighborhood with one of the oldest, most pathetic power grids ever. My block, including three or four other residential blocks, and one commerical grid near a relatively busy intersection, can often go from having light and heat, to having absolutely nothing at all. If it runs on electricity, you can bet your ass that it'll be shut down. And it is not uncommon to have these little power outages last for great lengths of time. Sometimes we lose power for a half hour, sometimes we go dark for more than half a day. On one particularly fun summer day, we lost power first thing at nine clear until three in the morning. My neighborhood is in buttfuck central, as far as the electric company is concerned.

Still, we have endured. We kind of have to, it's not like we have any other option really. But we in this particular grid have always comforted ourselves with the notion that these outages, though inconvenient, happen on your average lazy days. The kind of days where the expectation level is low and nothing major is going on.

A day like, oh I don't know, Christmas perhaps?

Imagine this, it's about 2pm on Christmas day, and your kitchen is loaded. You're about forty five minutes into the cooking. Two turkeys have hit the heat, one roasting in the oven, the other in a pot doing a bit of the sous vide action. In a small electrical cooker, a city ham is slow cooking away. You're in basic prep, getting dough ready for rolls, chopping vegetables for potato salads and so forth, and things are going good. Everything is synced to come out at the same time, we have all the ingredients we need, it's all as perfect as you could possibly imagine.

And then, the power goes out.

Now some of you out in the world may have gas ranges, and don't have to worry about this shit. Good for you man, but my shit is all electric, which means when the power goes out the whole bit goes down. We lost everything. No cooking food, no Christmas Story on television, hell there wasn't even any heat to keep the damn house warm.

Now, I know heat can be replaced with good jackets, and televised entertainment can be replaced with simple pleasures like board games and conversation, but what about the food man? My perfectly synced, magnificent eats aren't even an hour into cooking. And since all of our available resources had been pooled to making this meal possible, there wasn't even anything to snack on. Nothing but uncooked veggies, and severely undercooked meat.

"No worries," I thought to myself. "There's plenty of residual heat to keep things going for the time being. Besides, this can't possibly last more than half an hour, it's Christmas for fuck's sake."

Two hours later, the power still hadn't come out, and my optimism was fading.

At this point, I am losing my damn mind. I can already imagine various strains of bacteria setting up shop and having freak sex orgies all over my perfectly cultivated food. And yeah, I suppose once we regain power, if we regain power, that I can just cook all those fuck happy bacteria into nonexistence. But still! I'll have fuck happy bacteria corpses on my food!

And what about moisture? I work damn hard to make sure my turkey doesn't taste like cardboard every holiday season. brining, specialized roasting techniques, alternation of heat, the aforementioned sous vide, all because I hate dry turkey as much as the rest of the world. What kind of effect is this loss of heat doing to all that precious moisture? I won't go into explicit detail about how I handled this interesting situation. I will just say it involved profanity, grain alcohol, and some pretty blasphemous remarks about the newborn baby Jesus.

Thankfully, it was Mrs. Boogie and her kin that came to the rescue. By liberating a few Coleman outdoor propane burners and a few cans of "nature's gas," we were able to push forward. Starches and the sous vide hit the hot plates. We had a cooking tray of buns seated atop the fireplace, slow baking into strange amorpous, but edible shapes. Mrs. Boogie was getting ready to make preparations to take our forlorn roast turkey and ham to another house that still had electricity, and hopefully continue the cooking process. By god, we may not eat like kings, but damnit we are going to eat.

We had finally gotten the kitchen into sub-operational status and Mrs. Boogie was about four blocks away when suddenly and magically, the power came back on. At this point in the game, it's almost 6pm and nobody has eaten a thing. There is a mad scramble into the kitchen, sharp knives and victimized vegetables are flying everywhere. Professional chefs would've trembled in fear at the speed and precision we were throwing stuff together. We were a finely oiled machine, a force of god to fear and behold.

Until..........the power went out again.

Eventually it came back on....again. And we proceeded as furiously as quickly as very hungry people tend to work. By the time everything was said and done, we did not sit down to eat until 10 at night. And the food? Surprisingly good. Definitely better than it deserved to be considering the circumstances.

And with some time behind me, I can say that even with these circumstances the way they were, Christmas wasn't too bad. In fact, I dare say I kind of enjoyed the challenge. And it certainly kept everyone together enjoying the time. So, as far has shitty Christmases go, this one was nowhere near the bottom.

Still I can't help but be pissed at the power company. I mean, what the hell did we do to you people? Everyone on this grid pays their bills, don't we deserve to have as much security in our power source as every other fucking family in the city? And don't tell me you don't know what's going on, this clearly isn't the first time this has happened.

So Rocky Mountain Power, I'm warning you. Get your shit together and make our grid work. Because if I lose one more holiday to this bullshit, I'm coming for you. And anyone wearing your company logo, who happens to be within range of my cutting knives, is going to be left brunoised and unpleasant.

You have been warned, I know where you people work.

Employee Assistance (The Crazy Man)

My work thinks I'm crazy.

My job, like many other jobs, offers a free-0f-charge counseling service for its employees. It's called "employee assistance" which is just a dumbed- down, family-centric way of saying counseling and crisis resolution. It's the kind of place you go to discuss with professionals that stunted marriage, that pain in the ass co-worker, or that broken carburetor that's been bringing you down. By talking it out with smiling, well paid people in a plastic office, you're less likely to bring a chainsaw to work and start eviscerating the patrons. Win win for everyone involved.

When you start a job, you usually get a little brochure during your first week. This brochure informs you that such a program is available to you, and goes on to describes the types of services provided. Typically, they are colored in a non-threatening off-white and feature lots of pictures of happy smiling people and families surrounded by rounded and harmless Arial font. And the average person flips through it, considers the possibility of talking out some things, then gets involved in the day-to-day of the grind and completely forgets this service exists.

To date, I have received three of these brochures.

At three week intervals no less.

And I know I'm the only one who gets them. My inbox is in a stack with everyone else's inbox. I can plainly see what other people have received recently. And it's not like I have to snoop through the evaluation forms and time sheets of others or anything. It's a brochure for Christ's sake! They tend to stand out! This is all getting to be far past minor coincidence. Two of them I can see. Maybe they forgot to give me the first one, and they're handing me a second just to be safe. Perfectly reasonable. But three? No, that's a message.

I will admit, that I am not quite right in the head. I favor a lifestyle that is indeed uncommon, a bit strange to be sure. Perhaps, I'd even go so far as to call myself socially fucked. I don't play ball the way the rest of the mortals do. Call it a lifestyle choice or just sheer laziness, it is what it is.

And I'm okay with that. I enjoy being a bit off. It makes for an interesting life. I'm rarely bored when left to my own devices, and I almost always have a story to tell. But I do admit that with my particular zest for life, being part of the norm is tricky. Dealing with the regular masses of individuals who like being average, has lead to some mixed results. Disastrous even. It's made me the outcast in many circles. The weirdo, the bastard, that guy who brings unsettledness. I stick out in a big way.

But I'm not crazy. Granted, clock towers and heavy artillery have crossed the mind, but I've never actually done it. And yeah, the notion of slamming an annoying person's head into a table while singing Cumbaya has entered my thoughts on a bad day, but doesn't it to everyone? Temptations and frustrations aside, I still managed to stay ahead. I went to college, walked out with a degree. I've held respectable jobs. I haven't taken a bat to anyone's knees. This is socially acceptable. Even with the off tendencies, high levels of testosterone, and the vicious mean streak, I integrate well.

If there was a problem, it's that I'm expressive. I tend to say a lot of shit. I like to bitch and moan about things in the world as a form of therapeutic recuperation. Things like this blog are my zen baby. Burning calories into the nights trying to think up new and exciting ways of telling the stupid people of our time that they suck. It's what I do. But I'm smart enough to know when I can do it. And I know that when I walk into my profession, that needs to stay off. So, I stay in boyscout mode, talking proper, and focusing on what needs to be done. It's my job, so be it.

However, it tends to be a bit off-putting when I need to do this more than I should have to. When dealing with patrons and students, civility is part of the gig. But having to do it with colleagues and coworkers too? Then it gets to be a bit much. I can only sugarcoat so much before my teeth start hurting and I start getting mad. I have limits people, and the day gig tends to push on those limits like poking on a scab.

So, in an effort to try and retain the civility, I go quiet. Shut down and run silent. I've got nothing nice to say and I know it. So rather than blow up in some innocent being's face and tell them what I "really think" about their lame-brained ideas or their stupid optimism, I take a deep breath, swallow my natural tendencies, then walk away to go do some mindless repetitive task far far away. And typically this works, except when these same people start following me. Because, of course, they're caring and optimistic people. And people like this could never leave someone alone, that would just not be nice.

Even when that person is me.

So, I tend to start boiling Elmer Fudd style. Steam coming out of the ears, face turning red, all of that. And naturally I still can't say anything. So, I endure. And when my time is up, I race out the door, pushing people out of my way. I hastily climb into my vehicle and start swearing at traffic. Even if I'm not being cut off and getting all green lights, I'm still swearing. "Thank you very fucking much!" I'll growl. "Hey lady, you're a real nice fucking driver, you know that?" Expletive after expletive fire out of my jaws until I finally feel equalized.

My colleagues clearly can't understand this, so they keep slipping me one employee assistance brochure after another in the vain hopes that I'll take the hint and go help myself. Maybe I'll resolve my drinking excesses, or dabble in anger management, or finally cry to someone about how mommy was mean because she never bought me that G.I. Joe with the kung-fu grip. Whatever it is, I can go bang it out with people who care so I can come to work every day saying "Yay! Let's have fun!"

I don't know. I don't think I need counseling. Sure, there are things I wouldn't mind to get off my chest, and a neutral party is never a bad thing. But I'm not sure I'm doing it for the right reasons. If I'm doing it because I want to do it okay. But to feel pressured to do it so that strangers can feel like you're less of a shit to be around, well that's pushing it.

If there is any serious problem with my work ethic, it's this: I'm too nice. I'm too goddamned polite to the things that irritate me. Rather than tell someone they're a pain in the ass, I grimace then leave. Because despite being an idiot in my eyes, I acknowledge that these dumb fucks have feelings. And I try way too hard, at the expense of my own sanity, to protect those feelings. I'm too goddamn nice, that's my big issue here.

And you know what? It's making me crazy.

The Chair Thing

Written on a legal pad during a staff meeting:


You know what would be really satisfying right now? Throwing a chair.

Just grabbing any random chair in this room, and hurling it as hard as I can. There's enough chairs in here, so it wouldn't be like finding one would be hard. And I don't even need to throw it at a person. The wall over there will do just fine. I just think seeing one inanimate object colliding with another inanimate object would be fucking amazing right now.

And you know what would make this better? An audience. My co-workers perhaps. They wouldn't even need to push me over the edge or prompt me into the act in any way. They just have to be there. To observe me go all Incredible Hulk for a few seconds as I commit an act of destructive violence against nothing in particular.

Perhaps if they saw me throwing a chair around, they would realize that they work with someone who should be taken seriously. They would know that I'm a man's man, a competent individual with some measure of intelligence and decent aim. The loud yell that would precede the throwing of said chair would probably be enough to remind these people that the person they work with is both passionate and assertive. People who aren't dedicated would never throw a chair. No, only a committed individual is capable of such a thing.

In fact, more meetings should have "chair time." A five minute break where, after the usual routine of self serving brown nosers making pointless observations and added adjustments to already futile rules, where everyone picks up a chair, and flings it as hard as they can at a stable, stud-laden wall. Think what this would do for morale. Decent hard working people would look forward to weekly meetings. Hell, they'd be lining up ten minutes early picking out their chair for the day. And you'd never have to worry about those fringe people. The ones who are a little too quiet and are probably cleaning semi-automatic pistols every night after work waiting for "one more thing" to push them over the edge before they bring that motherfucker in and start unloading on innocent people. Those people need to toss a chair more than anyone. Probably two.

And how expensive are chairs anyways? No business pays for good chairs. They always opt for those $10 - $20 pieces of shit. Cheap and flimsy. Perfect fodder for breakage. And the costs would be offset in higher productivity, and a better understanding of your staff. Think about it, a person who can put all of their force into throwing a chair into a wall is capable of some great things. That's the person you want firing people during downsizing. That's the person you want telling the client that they're wrong, and they need to get over it and quit whining like a bitch. Do people really want the little kiss ass handing the dirty stuff? Fuck no! Get the guy who's not going to be stopped by anything to break a cheap ass chair. He'll shake shit up and be happy to do it.

And it's not like chair tossing is gender exclusive. Chairs are light these days. There isn't a woman alive who couldn't pick one of the damn things up and put some fury behind it. I know that the ladies could make at least as a good a show of it as the fellas. Probably better. In fact, there isn't anyone of any race, gender, background, or preference who couldn't get some sense of satisfaction out of watching a chair explode because of adrenaline and Newton's second law. This is universal peace we're talking about.

And I don't want to hear anyone whining about us being a civilized race. Fuck civility! Words like please and thank you are nice, but they don't help tame the primal instinct. You can't have sex civilized can you? Of course not, that shit is supposed to be done raw. Going for civility in the bedroom only leads to soft muscle tissue and people laughing at you. We've got the urge, fight or flight response, and it needs to come out. And we can either run into the streets trying to catch pigeons with our teeth, or we can bust up a few chairs. And you civilized freaks are welcome to join in. I bet once that first chair makes contact with the wall, you'll be rethinking your posh lifestyle. Maybe you won't press those clothes as thouroughly anymore. Maybe you'll even let a bird and some harsh language fly when you get cut off in traffic. I'm down with it, and you know damn well that it'll feel good. So good, that you'll be waiting for "Chair Day" to vent on that failed marriage, forclosure, cold coffee, burnt fries, or whatever it is that's got you down. And I'll be right there next to you, with my own chair in hand. We'll bond between bits of broken plastic, cheap aluminum, and a sense of quelled fury.

Now someone hand me a chair before I start killing some overpaid, underwhelming superiors goddamnit!


End transcript. God help us all.

The Moo Moo Queens

On any given day here in the real world, it’s inevitable that I get bombarded by the moo moo queens. Plump, bubbly women with short bob haircuts who wear bright colorful shirts sporting lower necklines than anyone should have to endure. These women typically push the line about 200 pounds, underuse the makeup while overusing the perfume, and have pumped out a healthy flock of kids. They never seem to be interested in their kids so much as using them for something to talk about with the other moo moo queens in the herd. These perky hulks are permanently locked into "baby talk" mode, and have a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Hey, look. You see that picture of a cheeseburger? This sign says that it's a bacon cheeseburger. Isn't that neat?"

A cheeseburger you say? Wowee, you certainly have your thumb on the pulse of the universe don't you?

How do people like this survive nature? Forget wolves and bears, I'm talking the basics of modern society. How is it that fatty acids or quick moving traffic hasn't removed them from the gene pool? How have they endured without someone like me wrapping fingers around that thick neck and squeezing until the knuckles meet? Because I guarantee you it's crossed my mind. And whether you'll admit it or not, you've considered it too.

And who would blame you? When they start shuffling about en masse, as the herd is prone to do, the annoyance factor can skyrocket. And while you have the option of turning and running in the day to day, when you’re stuck at the 9 to 5, dealing with them no longer becomes a choice. That is when the quirks of the herd become quite obvious.

First, there is the clucking. The constant barrage of mindless pointless banter that exists only to come out of the mouth of one, and bounce around the herd, growing in pitch and enthusiasm until climax. The climax being, a jolly round of laughter amongst the collective, one that is both jubilant and reserved. The kind of laughs that get those extended chins bouncing around like beach balls.

The topics of conversation are of course without merit. Usually revolving around things that are already well defined. If there was an apple on a pedestal with a sign next to it that read APPLE: COLOR RED, the conversation would go something like this:

“Hey, that looks like an apple.”
“It is an apple! See? It says it right here.”
“And look, it says that apples are red.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Me neither.”
“I thought I heard somewhere that apples were green.”
“Yeah, my cousin, you know the one who just had a baby girl, said she saw some green apples. Yellow ones too.”
“Really?”
“Wow, that is so neat.”
“It sure is.”
“I just thought of something funny.”
“Oooh! Tell us, tell us!”
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” 

“Tee hee hee.........”

This is about the point where the sane rational individual who has no choice but to be subjected to this shit puts the barrel of a gun under his chin and waits for the silence.

There is nothing to these people. No mark of personality whatsoever. These beasts exist to spread wide for some underweight sensitive man, spit out a few clones, then join the migrating herd to see the town. You never get the impression that they learn from their experiences. Nothing that is seen or done ever gets explained to another person later on, and the interesting elements of the universe that are within view, but have no choice but to be longer than a paragraph, are ignored like passing traffic. The world, in which there never seems to be enough time to learn about, becomes minute photographs where they can say, “Hey, that looks cool. Now I want a mocha latte.”

Maybe I’m harsh. Maybe Mr. Blood & Guts here has become a bit jaded in his years, but I can’t help but be a little pissy with this bunch. They’re mindless beings who learn and adapt to nothing, and somehow manage to consume four times the resources I do. You’d figure if you eat enough to be that jolly and have the time for herd drama and overpriced beverages, that you’d find time to read a fucking book. But they never do, they can watch Opera, but never buy the books she recommends.

I swear, some days when they walk into our libraries and zoos and museums, and other institutions for public learning for a bit of mindless gossip and amusing scenery, that there should be some kind of a test. Hand them a quiz sheet along with their ticket. On it should be a series of questions they have to research and answer during their stay. Call it a scavenger hunt if you like, but warn them that if they fail, we’ll be hefting their oversized behinds onto the world’s largest candlesticks, setting them ablaze, and seeing if all that tub and wax can stay lit longer than the olympic flame. And then we can see how well that bubble-headed mind can work when members of the herd are acting as the light source. Life takes effort damnit, prove your worth to the crowd or get out of the evolutionary chain.

Of course, this whole thing might be a testament to the reasoning that I should never write when I’m sick.

Eyeglasses

Mrs. Boogie was in need of a spectacular set of new spectacles. And as such, I was called upon to be present for the festivities. To be a source of comfort, give my honest opinion on whatever overpriced metals and plastics she puts on her face, and try to find something she's very happy with.

We've recently abandoned our last optical locale, a great source of comfort for many years, as such we're a little more vulnerable, and leery of any strange purveyor of fine eyewear. It's been a long time since we've even needed to set foot into one of these places. As such my tactical system is on high alert.

We walk into the establishment, the smell of strong perfumes and weak sterility filling the air. The women at the reception desk are an angry looking bunch. No medical training or optical professionals here. These women wake up every morning and thank their lucky stars that they're blind enough to get the work.

Yep blind. Everyone who works in this place is wearing glasses. I'm guessing most of these optician type places have standards similar to Hooters. Except instead of huge racks and bubbly personalities, we get combative women with corrective eyewear.

They don glasses of varying strangeness. The type of frames that the practical amongst us would probably never choose for ourselves. Loud colors sharp edges and fake diamonds hammered into the plastic. One almost suspects that they were given a dollar an hour raise if they picked something that was a bit more hip.

I turn my attention to my surroundings. Yards of mirror, tons of frames and weather-beaten furniture. But it was near the ceiling where the real fun was to be had. Renowned eyeglass frame manufacturers had paid to get models to pose with their product. It was a surreal thing to say the least, seeing these really beautiful people with really well done lighting, and wearing really stupid glasses. The sort with the sharp corners, and exaggerated edges. The kind of shit nobody in their right minds would wear on any day other than Halloween.

And make no delusions about it, these are professional models. Their whole fucking career is to stand still and look decent. You know these specs aren't something they wear on any kind of regular basis. The only reason they even put those monstrosities on their face is because some guy with a camera crew said "We'll pay you if you put these on." Shit, if the price was right, it could easily be a sea bass around the shoulders, or a half-empty can of tomato soup on the genitals. This is what they do.
.
But hey, when you're browsing for glasses and in need of some new spectacles, these people stand in front of you like Roman gods. You glasses-wearing folk know the routine. You go in there in need of some eyesight enhancement. But, secretly, you're scanning for a new style of frame to "define you." Those thin pieces of middle around plastic or glass have the magical ability to bring out parts of your soul that no one has ever seen before. And you just know that the right selection of eyewear will automatically make you appear more intelligent, deeper, sexier, or any other adjective you can think of.

You're vulnerable, no way around it. Glasses have always gotten a bad rap and you need this new set to go against tradition and make you even more amazing than you previously were. As such, your self conscious nature is in control. And then you look up to the ceiling and see the posters of these living gods, in their glorious glossy beauty. And those frames on their face, those frames! They stand out above the din, telling the world to notice. They make a statement on such magnificent faces, surely they could do the same for you. You have found your soul.

There are people who have forked out money for these frames based solely on the fact that they looked good on that picture of the model who was staring at the floor. And a few days later, when they strap on their overpriced troll-ware, they'll be flinching at their own reflection. Turns out that if you don't have a team of makeup artists and a photographer who knows your "good side," you may not be able to pull off these glasses.

This place suddenly feels a bit more icky as a result of this revelation. Good people come in and out of this place every day. People who probably already have issues with the fact that they have to wear glasses. It doesn't even have to be about physical beauty. Hell, the idea that you have one more piece of baggage to tote around because of your body's inherent flaws is enough for most. And of course, the cost of the fucking things can put anyone in a bad mood. Any of these factors can make someone more uncomfortable in the purchase of their new eyewear.
And considering that most eyeglass places offer the multitudes of frames that make their models look good, and yet a limited stock of the more casual, normal type frames that would make anyone look good. They're pushing crap people. High class named, hideous looking glasses that any person would regret within minutes of looking at themselves in the mirror in the comfort of their own homes. The modern spec monger is taking advantage of our discomfort with this kind of false advertising. Playing on the need to feel beautiful combined with the need to see is dirty pool.

So, for my glasses-wearing peers, when that time for the eye exam comes, and new eyewear is on the menu, be wary. Keep your eyes away from those ceilings and on the prize. Don't be swayed by a group of people who must eat tofu to remain employed, and who can lose their jobs at the sign of a few pimples. You are better than them, and more than capable of finding your inner beauty through a pair of specs all on your own.

Time And Cheetos

Have you noticed lately that when you wander through your friendly local supermarket, filled today with just as much new-age technology as food-related products , that sometimes it's the simple things that get missed?

I was there today in need of a couple of necessary ingredients for a fine dinner. I decided to leave my phone at home to charge, since I wouldn't be there long. I had to be back by 4, but I had a reasonable amount of time to play with, so no big deal, right? The grocery store is a treasure trove of modern convenience, surely I'll be able to keep tabs on my tight time schedules with ease.

As I collected by needs, I took a moment to take inventory of the technology available to he consumer. Needless to say, it was pretty incredible. Computerized touchscreen registers, machines that can convert change into cash, employment application stations, movie rental vending machines and flat screen televisions playing highlights from Food Network and the Tonight Show. Very impressive.

And not a single one of them had the fucking time on it.

I looked everywhere and couldn't find a single clock. Not even some old dusty analog number from years gone by. Time did not exist in this place. Those fancy flat screens hanging from the roof sensed my agony and decided to mock me by starting a kid friendly segment on how to build your own clock from a paper plate, push pin, and markers flashed over the screen. It was hosted by one of those failed children's show applicants. The kind that talks slow and is all teeth. Downright annoying, you know the sort. And she was as close as I was getting to a clock in this place. Unfortunately, I couldn't count on the damn thing to be able to actually tell me the time!

What the hell is this? Every one of these nifty conveniences are pretty damn complicated pieces of silicon and ingenuity. How hard could it have been to program the code so that some numbers that are tied into the position of the sun can be displayed?

For fuck's sake, the clock is one of the first real pieces of technology we ever developed. A wedge on a table that with some skill and imagination, you could figure out the time of day from. Ingenious. And we only improved from there. From classy brass pocket watches to devices you could wrap around the wrist, to your cell phone being able to not only tell the time, but serve as an alarm clock in a pinch. We've come a long way baby.

And yet, in a store filled with some moderately impressive technology, one cannot count on any of it to tell you the time. And it's not like time has lost it's importance. There are still deadlines out there. One can still be late for shit. As a matter of fact, people count on you to be punctual now more than ever. So the lack of such a basic thing seems, I don't know, odd?

Of course, maybe it's just me. Maybe the world expects me to have everything I need to stay within a timetable. It's certainly possible. iPods, the aforementioned cell phone, hell I could just get up and buy myself a fucking watch. There are ways to solve one's problems in time and space, and they're easy to find, and easier to own.

Still, it's disturbing thing to see how many expensive pieces of crap we have around, that are only capable of doing one thing. Uni-taskers aren't good for anybody, and this place is chock full of them. It's a waste of space and resources, that only makes for a disaster when any one of those damn things inevitably breaks down. What happens then? Well probably we'll just have to go back to the way we did things. You want your change broken into bills? Go to the fucking register. Want a job at this fine establishment? Then make a goddamned resume and hand it to customer service. It's quick, easy, and gives you the added priviledge of talking to a living breathing person instead of just staring at a big dumb box. A box that, at least to these tired and frustrated eyes, can't even tell you what time it is.

In the end, I manged to find out what time it was. And I didn't use any computer or television screen or other form of technology. Instead, I asked a very nice woman at the checkout stand who smiled polietly, and read to me the time from her wristwatch. And in the end, it's probably the best way to do things. Reliance on this kind of sophisticated crap only leads to further isolation from your shipmates on this big globe. Interaction with your peers is not only fun, but it's all part of the experience. In a time when it's easier to spend 5 minutes writing a text message to somebody, instead of calling them an talking to them for 3, we mustn't forget the value of one on one time with the people around us.

And for those who are unwilling to go that far, just remember to wear a watch.

Where No Raza Has Ever Gone Before

Here's something that's always bothered me about Star Trek...

Yes, I'm a fan of Star Trek. Not a trekkie of course, those people are weird, but a normal average individual who grew up with the show and still finds reasons to appreciate it in his maturing years. It's good entertainment and I make no apologies for it.

But, like I was saying, there is something about the program that bothers me. It's a subtle undercurrent that few would notice, but with keen eyes and a sense of balance it becomes very hard to miss. My problem is this: Where are all the Latinos?

Think back on the show. If time permits, maybe watch an episode or two. You will start to notice that despite a representation of every major cultural entity, as well the weird and crazy space-born types, that the whole of hispanic-dom, Chicanos, Tejanos, Mexicanos, Latinos, and every other variant in between is very much in absence. Sure we've got blue guys and women with breasts in triplicate, but not one person of the Latin persuasion.

And no, I'm not going to count Robert Beltran. Despite being a wonderful person, a proud Latin man, and someone with the ability to shoot off the mouth in a way that only I can appreciate, I can't in good faith count him. Why? Because the smart people in charge decided to take him, and paint him into some weird tattooed new age mystic who had zero ties to Hispanic culture. They didn't want a proud Latin man. They wanted some noble Native American that you'd expect to see on postcards in gas stations. And while Native American roots are definitely part of the Hispanic experience, He obviously wasn't made into someone with those facts in mind. They just wanted a gypsy boy with a medicine bag. Nothing more.

Many years ago in my more rebellious days, I was irked that no Chicano ever got to be captain. I mean hell, everyone else got a ship. Sulu insured the Asians were represented, Picard nailed the European vote. Avery Brooks stood proudly for African Americans, and the very uptight Kate Mulgrew made for the surliest, mother hen of a female representative ever put on the tube. And yet, never a Chicano. Basically, it's us and the Australians who never got their fair shake at helming an intergalactic starship.

And I'm not knocking the captains of days gone by (well except Kate Mulgrew, I can't stand that woman.) Kirk in his heyday could've probably seduced me into the sack. And Picard could be quite the badass. Cultured, but he'd crush your nuts if he had to. So, I'm not going to stand on the podium and say my culture could one-up these fine specimens, but it would've been nice to be invited.

But hey, what do I know? I was an angry kid with lots of venom to flick at a vicious world (I'm so much more mature now.) I simply dismissed it as foolishness. Pure paranoia. But, as I've had more time on my hands, and am actually around a television in the daytime, I watched the program again. As I watched I stood ready to dismiss the lack of Hispanic leadership on these programs as my overactive imagination. But, I never prepared myself for how underrepresented we were to become.

We're not in charge, we're not in the command chain, shit we're not even cleaning out grease traps in some intergalactic kitchen. We are simply not there.

So where exactly did we go? Was there some ethnic cleansing in the Third World War? Was brown declared illegal? Couldn't have been genetics, since any good geneticist would tell you those more people are likely to be Hispanic than any other cultural denomination. We're a culture of mixed bloods and the integration of polarized traditions, we ain't going nowhere.

Well, nowhere except space apparently.

This may sound like defensive nitpicking, but consider the times. This country's government has painted us to be just as dangerous as any terrorist organization. Our sheer presence has become a national threat. There are armed civilians pointing guns at a line in the dirt to kill people who look like me. And for what? Swimming? Trying to work and make a little money? Sure, there are some unruly types in the bunch, but no breed is perfect. The average American citizen is far more dangerous than any immigrant crossing that dusty river, so what the hell? I know at least half a dozen people who are undocumented citizens from places as extreme as London, Canada, and even New Zealand. Meanwhile I'm a born citizen and have been interrogated by Border Patrol officials at least three times that I remember. The present has not been kind, the future showing no improvement on celluloid.

it's scary that this fictionalized utopia doesn't include people like me. Maybe the current political situation can actually carry on to the 24th century with great effectiveness. Through tired eyes, you can almost look at those beautiful CGI images of futuristic San Fransisco, bear witness to clean air and a lack of crime, and know that if you drove south to that aged border line, you will see the Mexico of old still there. Even in this new civilized time, kids still run the streets without shoes. Poor people continue to sell Chicklets and cheap wares to hovercraft-riding tourists. That even in this era of civilized folk, we will remain a source of cheap booze and cheaper amusement amongst the status quo. And instead of angry rednecks, we will have honorable young men with plasma rifles and shiny brooches on their chests, keeping the heartland clear of our kind. We are a sin to this nation even in this new day, crimes stretching deep into the future. We are the galaxy's dirty little secret, a mistake of conquest and drunkenness. Unfit to lead, unfit to bear witness to the hopeful futures that only Hollywood can create. And in the end, a person with the face I see every day in the mirror has nothing to look forward to as we venture forth into the future.

And don't you Star War guys start acting all ultra righteous either. It's not like your representation of my kind has been any more generous.

The Friend Of My Enemy Is........

Surprising to many I'm sure, it's easy for me to make enemies. Oh sure, you can slap your faces in awe and fall into denial at the notion of this, but it doesn't change the truth. I have a knack for pissing people off. And I make few apologies for it. Either some folks just don't get me, or there's something wrong enough with their lifestyle that drives me to the brink of madness and hostility. Racists, sexists, egotistical selfish jerks, it's hard not to put up the war flags around these sort of people. As such, I have plenty of enemies.

I even have enemies that don't know I exist. Take MTV for instance.

I am one of those musical types, and as such I am required to consider MTV my enemy. And while I'm sure there are multitudes of reasons for artists to hate MTV, such as lack of actual music on Music Television, or how the Real World is in fact, not. It's a long list, and you've got stuff to do so I'll spare the minutiae and simply summarize. MTV is an evil and pathetic institution, and one that I will loathe entirely into the next lifetime.

But that doesn't mean I don't watch the channel.

Oh yeah, I pop in from time to time. Early morning if I'm awake, the only time they actually play music. I'll take in the sights and sounds of whatever big name artists are being promoted then try to write material that's exactly the opposite. None of those reality programs or "What celebrities do when they're not being paid too much" mockumentaries. That stuff will eat your soul as it pretends to entertain you. And MTV isn't entertainment for me. It's not something I watch with my boots off and seated on the couch. Nosiree. It's something I watch in the studio, when I'm surrounded by gear and equipment. I consider it "surveillance." The act of observing one's enemy to learn their methods and discover weak spots. It's tactics, my good people, and I strive to stay one step ahead of the pack.

I was employing a little surveillance the other day while trying to argue with my taxes. Switched on over to MTV so I could hate something other than the government. And there's nothing like generic bands in music videos trying to make me take them seriously to instill that "there are worse creatures than the government" brand of hate in me.

A couple hours go by, and I'm thick in the middle of computations and form hunting, when the music videos cease. Time's up good people, we're now resuming our regularly scheduled program of sugar-coated reality for the dumb. My first instinct is to pounce on the remote and rapidly changing the channel to something less irritating.

However, I can't do that. The remote is hidden somewhere past my vision, and I really don't want to get up to search for it, for fear of losing my tax rhythm. So I sigh, ready for the barrage of stupidity that awaits, swearing under my breath that as soon as I've processed these deductions, that remote will be found.

And what programming doth await me? Well, Rob & Big of course. I'm cringing inside. I hate programs with skateboarders, because they always act like pricks just to annoy innocent people. And I hate music television programs featuring African Americans, because they always paint them out like the stereotypical "Act tough, wear lots of fancy jewelery, and speak incomprehensibly," sorts that most of the culture isn't. So here I'm shafted with a program that mixes the two. My guts are wrenching themselves into a bow-tie and I can't stop it.

30 minutes later the program ends........and I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy it.

Granted, the characters could be over the top, and the antics were a bit cliche, but shit man, it was still pretty entertaining. Very entertaining actually. So much so, that I wouldn't have minded seeing it again. And what luck! There were back to back episodes of Rob & Big that day. For joy!

So, I got a crash course in the lives of Rob Derdyk and Christopher "Big Black" Boykin. And by the end of it, I was a fan. Two men who have no business knowing each other, being best buddies and doing stupid shit together, wow. It was far more impressive than I ever could've imagined.

Dear god, now I'm in trouble. My enemy actually has something that could weaken my resolve. My fury for that station was absolute, unquestionable. I could've taken down any army that they would've thrown at me, but I caved for a professional skateboarder and a former chef? Sneaky bastards. While I was observing their weaknesses, they were watching mine. And now I'm screwed. I'll have to publicly acknowledge that MTV "isn't that bad." Oh sure, they're evil. No question about that. But they have a few bright spots that must be taken into consideration. I got sucked into the flytrap now. Not sure I can escape this one intact.

However, the heavens smiled upon me that day. Turns out the back-to-back marathon was to publicize the series finale. Yup, ol' Rob and Big were parting ways and the program would be no more. And I was a bit bummed, because I did enjoy the program, and I am happy for Mr. Boykin and his new family. But really, there was only one thing I was thinking at that point...

HA! You bastards don't have me yet! Cringe in terror MTV, the war is back on baby!

Boogie And The Cat

There are very few sanctuaries anymore. The civilized world is buying up more and more of the real estate. The quiet corners of the world are slowly being paved away to make room for over sized gyms and coffee huts. And the poor souls of the world have fewer and fewer places to collect their thoughts.

Thankfully one bastion of peace remains, one that I'm sure most of my loyal readers can identify with: The bathroom.

Yes sir, four walls brought forth by our inherent need for porcelain and the private calm it can bring. A holy place of peace, meditation, and hygiene. Oftentimes modern man and woman rush home to barricade themselves in their bathrooms for a few minutes. There they pause and reflect on the inherent mental and physical relief that comes from those well worn walls. Some use the time to catch up on their reading, but most simply sigh and use their well-deserved time to ease the mind and reflect on the times ahead.

I am no stranger to this ritual. My restroom serves as an oasis when the mind goes numb. My deep breath in chaotic times. I cherish these quiet moments, for the absolute isolation of the restroom is without equal.

Naturally, I tend to get a mite ornery when these meditations are interrupted. Knocks on the doors, demands to get out, loud televisions, and children crying. All a threat against this finely barricaded fortress you've made for yourself. It puts great strain on a weary mind, the equivalent of being plucked from Heaven and dropped into a hangover. Hostilities flare up and suddenly the world is your enemy. You find yourself lashing out at these people, striking at them with harsh words and fierce tone. Most likely they're just craving some of the peace you have, but it matters not, this is your realm. You were here first.

These are not simple matters blown out of proportion. I would dare say that many a questionable marriage was destroyed because of these sanctified disturbances. Emerging couples have a hard time adjusting to each other, and the rules of the bathroom are not yet known. Divorce papers have been signed on the basis that one's spouse kept coming in at inopportune times to get her toothbrush. I'm sure a few friendships have been lost in the war too, probably a few family ties are a little more strained. The power of the bathroom is great, something that must be respected.

Lately, my bathroom time has been interrupted more than it should be. It has happened so much, that I've actually started getting nervous on my walk towards my porcelain kingdom. What's worse is that these interruptions are not caused by man, but by beast.

Yep, The Cat has taken to coming into the john with me.

There are two cats in this house. There is My Cat, and then there is The Cat. The distinction is simple: I own My cat. I pay to keep her fed and vaccinated and have trained her personally. My Cat knows the rules.

The Cat belongs to nobody. A derelict stray that is attached to all but has loyalties to none. The Cat has no regard for the rules. She is an outlaw in this house, a vagabond feeding upon the kindness and impartiality of those around her. And it is The Cat that likes to ruin my times of peace.

The scenario usually plays out like this: I walk to the bathroom in the same way many of you do. Slow and steady, very composed. A sense of anxiousness for the relief and quiet seperation, along with one part nervousness. You know, on the off chance you don't make it. As I open my bathroom door, I feel a furry sensation streak past my leg. As the lights come on, I see a cat, standing in the center of the floor, staring at me. It's too late to do anything now, I'm here for a reason after all. So I close the door, drop trou, and get to the matters at hand. Here's where things get weird. The cat then takes to rubbing the length of her body against my legs. Over and over again in some weird unsettling ritual. And if that wasn't strange enough, she will then sit upon the wad that is my pants and unmentionables, bathe herself, and occasionally reach her neck towards my hands in an effort to get some undeserved head-scratching. Upon completion of my duties and a good wash of the hands, she'll walk out the door with me. We'll head our separate ways, with her only pausing momentarily to look back at me, almost as if to say, "I enjoyed this quality time with you," before heading out to her normal pursuits.


Many might call it cute, and coo audibly with "Awww's." If this is you, then you are a fool. There is no comfort that can come from this arrangement. This is where the word "disturbed" finds its meaning. Remember good people, this is my quiet time, my Tibet. I am here to relax. And relaxation is hard to find when the meowing, shedding vermin is underfoot.

Also consider the physiology of the situation. In the bathroom, you will always find yourself in a contorted, postulated position staring at your ankles. It's a position that would make most observers nervous, but not you. You've seen this sort of thing before. You've had time to become quite comfortable with the shape of your leg or any hair that might befall them. It's part of your native lands and you accept it without question.

But, when you've got an animal standing on your underwear and rubbing themselves against the leg you've come to know, it makes things a bit more awkward. Now you're self conscious about yourself. Why is this animal touching you there? What does it all mean? Is it affection, loneliness, a sexual act? Dear god, please don't let it be sexual. You're petrified now, too uncomfortable to let her continue, but too afraid to make her stop. Odds are this cat won't sporadically leap in the air and start attacking your most precious of assets, but why play with the odds? No, just let her finish. Stare at the wall blankly, reach for the roll, and walk away without looking back. Nothing happened here, nothing at all.

This has occurred on enough of a regular basis to make me very unhinged. Usually, I love animals. I adore my dogs, and have a comfortable working relationship with My Cat. But, this distraction to my state of mind is too much. I'm starting to ponder things. Some very bad, very dark things. The other day, I actually caught myself staring at this cat and saying out loud, "If only I had a blender." There is no good ending to a sentence like that.

So, obviously I can't kill the critter as that would be cruel. But I can't have this precious time constantly intruded on either. I am left with one recourse when tinkle time comes a'calling: I must try to outrun the cat.

When approaching the bathroom, As soon as I hear the little tinkle bell on that maniacal beast's collar, I burst off like a madman. Full sprint, eyes on the prize, no time to look back. I can hear that damned bell catching up with me. One of the advantages of being a quadruped. She's gaining on me, the terror overwhelming. With a final burst of energy, and I get through the door. Now to spin around and close it quick. All it takes is the door being open a few inches for her to get though. I must move fast. Momentum is not my friend here.

Through some miracle, I get that door closed. The bell stops on the other side. Her prey has evaded her, now she must find someone else to victimize with her affections. Breathing heavy I stand there, hard pressed against the door. A stronger sense of victory I have never felt. I have won this match, the sanctuary is mine alone to cherish. With proud heart and belt unbuckled, I venture forth to claim my spoils.

The things one must do for sanity.

Half Asleep And Volatile

I am exhausted today. Fuzzy headed, corpsified, shouldn't be driving, but had to anyways because I had commitments, drifting into oncoming traffic and don't care, exhausted. I'm running on the most minimum levels of sleep and have faded in and out of consciousness all day.

And why am I so damn tired you might ask? Because I'm an idiot, that's why. I'm death-bed fatigued because I had to stay up and watch Resident Evil: Extinction, a movie that I knew would suck, but decided to watch anyways, because....I'm an idiot.

An hour and a half of plot holes, bad acting and stupid people. An hour and a half I'll never get back again. I'm beyond mere regret. Regret would've been feeling like I didn't do enough with my precious time. No, I'm feeling cheated. Like the makers of the film walked up behind me, and literally ripped 90 minutes away from me, then ran away laughing into the night.

And much as I would love to rip and tear this movie to shreds with my tuckered out, vengeful words. Or as much as I would like to buy a plane ticket to Hollywood and crowbar the knees of everyone associated with this film, I shall not. Nope, I'm gonna be good. Because despite how much I hate this film, I'm able to see that it's mediocrity is actually part of a much larger trend.

Yes my friends, I am talking about the trilogy. The modern day threesome that has become relatively popular as of late. I remember a few years back, that the third installment of a film series was something to be celebrated. It said to the world, "I made two things that were decent enough to make another one." And that's a pretty damn cool thing right? I mean, how often does a person get a third chance?

But today, the contemporary trilogy means something far worse. Now it says to the world, "I'm wrapping this shit up as quickly as I can, so I can forget I was ever involved in it." Don't believe me? Consider some of the more recent series to reach the threes:

X Men
Pirates Of The Caribbean
The Matrix
....and the aforementioned, Resident Evil

Now try and remember that sour taste you got in your mouth at the conclusion of el numero tres. Consider that feeling of disappointment after the credits. That sense of feeling robbed. Now, remember that feeling of seeing the first installment a few months later and thinking to yourself, "Why the hell did they make two more of these?" Admit it, you've all been there.

It's infuriating to reach that realization isn't it? You remember all the warm fuzzies you got from the first film, and then have to wrestle with the fact that those feelings are now diluted into pathetic semi-sappy endings.

And I know why these people do it. Hey, the first movie was pretty popular, well it makes good sense to make a follow-up. Of course, the sequel is never as good. Characters get weakened, the climaxes get more extreme, but not so extreme so there's room for a third, and the audience walks away going, "eh."

What I don't understand is why when someone puts money on the table for a third film, why the parties involved say, "I'll do it, but I won't like it." The animosity for having to make another movie in a series just leeches off the screen. The actors don't care. They read their fucking lines like Ben Stein smoking meth. When anything emotional happens, they kind of talk to the camera like a mother talks to her newborn. "Awww, dere dere. It's okay that a suppowting chawacter was pointwesswy kiwwed."

That's another thing about these trilogies, the writers just love to kill people off. Every chance they get. It's almost like they sit in rooms with the actor's face shots and say, "Wow, he's survived through the incidents of two films and is a fairly likable supporting character.....let's kill him!" And I know they're thinking in their fucking noodle heads that it's going to elicit a few "Aww's" out of us fools who paid money to see this dribble, but it doesn't work. Most of the time, we just sit there scratching our heads. Y'see, killing of characters has to be meaningful, but you guys just kind of rush the job, and now you've got an audience that's afraid to look away from the screen to sip a beverage, because there's a high chance that when they look back....someone will be dead.

And my favorite thing of all is the modern trilogy ending. Usually you end the movie with the ultra extreme feel-goods. Oh no, not any more. Now, there are so many story holes and plot fuck-ups in these things, that the only way you can end it is to throw something together and say, "Yeah, that's good enough." And for the rest of us, we walk out of that theater or get off our couches saying, "That was a happy ending.....wasn't it?"

I am so sickened by this. You would figure if you've made a name for yourself with a good product, you'd be smart enough to say, "I can't do another film as good as the first, so I'm not going to try." Yeah, you might miss out on all that box-office coin, but at least your reputation would be spared. Remember all those pats on the back you got for making such a good first outing? Never gonna happen again. Because people will never get over how bad the last one was. It was the most recent thing put in our heads guys, we won't forget it. And now, you have to deal with the knowledge that when you apply for your next job, movie, whatever, you'll have to say, "Well I made Blahblahblah the movie," and they'll retort with, "Yeah, but you also made Blahblahblah 2 and three. Get the fuck out of here." And nobody will ever take you as seriously again. I know I sure as hell won't.

Think about it............I'm going to bed!

The Happies

I think we can all agree that people who are constantly filled with happy sunshine pleasantries can just go die.

Now, It's entirely possible that I'm a little more irate about this simply because I live in Utah, which is ground zero for these overly ecstatic freaks of nature, whom I have dubbed the "Happies." Still, I'm fairly confident that you have someone that occupies your space with the bubblegum thoughts of joy. You know the sort, every day is an occassion to be lived for, nothing but positive energy in the air they breathe, every word is something reassuring and innocent. These poor beasts are completely devoid of frustration, wickedness, and cynicism.

And frankly, there's just no place on this earth for that kind of behavior.

The scariest damn thing is they seem to outnumber the rest of us. For as much as we've all tipped the phrase "Misery loves company," the truth remains that these happy joy joy freaks are the ones congregating. Congregating isn't even the right word for it. They're forming gangs, that's what they're doing. Nonprofit agencies, coffee shops, or anything that involves kids but not the word "school." You will find them there, being happy.

And people being happy isn't really a problem. But when they impose that happiness on us miserable sacks of shit, then things go awry. That's right, if you occupy any space within a 50 meter radius around these people, they will make you be happy too. Fail to comply, and they will do horrible things to you.

They won't shun you, or speak badly about you behind your back or anything like that. Those are the tactics of the realists, i.e. us normal folks. The tactics of the Happies are far more cruel.

They will integrate you.

They will beat you down with mundane small talk and random comments about people you don't know, then they'll sugarcoat it all by making small meaningless jokes about themselves in a sugary voice that could give you gingivitis. And they will mercilessly do this until you run screaming for your lives or until you play along.

Most of us play along without us realizing it. It starts with us being polite. They start dropping sunshine on us, and we smile and take it. Hell, we don't know these people, and they seem to be sitting pretty good with things, so why screw that up for them right? So we smile, hold back all the shrill comments the rest of the world gets, and wait for it to be over. Before you know it, they're asking you questions, that you must now answer in an aesthetically pleasing tone. You have to right? I mean, you've been polite and well-mannered up to this point. Can't change gears on them now. 20 minutes later when they've pulled out their wallets and are showing you pictures of a cousin who works at some lumber factory, you realize they've got you. You've been hooked by the lip and are now being dragged along. Your only hope is that they'll tire of your weakness and seek prey elsewhere.

If you want to be happy, then damnit go form a club and do it somewhere else. But don't lay it on me like I'm supposed to be buying into it. This is my air you're fucking with, and I get a mite onery when you drag your parade into my rain.
If you're concerned you may be one of these Happies, then I got a quick test for you. For you see, when one goes to sleep at night, there are really only three types of mental train you can book. The train you choose most often defines your personalty.

The categories are:

1. You go to bed knowing that the world is a wonderful place, and it'll be wonderful tomorrow because things are always wonderful and packed with cream-filled goodness. You sleep in the warm embrace of gumdrops and sugarplums.

2. You go to bed knowing that the world isn't perfect and can oftentimes be downright depressing. People can be cruel and ignorant, starvation and homelessness are very much in fashion, and some days you just don't know what you're even supposed to be doing with your life. You fall asleep hoping things will be better tomorrow, but not terribly surprised if it's not.

3. You go to bed and lull yourself to sleep with images of you fighting hordes of zombies, piloting interstellar starships, or fighting a rebellion against a government out to destroy you.

If you belong to category 2, chances are good we will eventually have a drink together and inevitably bitch about how bad thngs are. To everyone in category 3.....hell, you're all my friends too. We'll get together and have a few laughs. But it's you bastiches in category 1, whom I will eventually have to crush. Your spirits are just too chipper for your own good, and it's ruining our buzz.

Do you realize that even the hippies can't stand you? It's true, the hippes hate your guts. And when one of the most despised subcultures of our time has issues with you, something is definitely wrong. Granted, even though the hippies tend to wander through optimistic land, they're still well aware of the fact that the world isn't doing so well. They're even making a conscientious effort to change it with unwashed hair and knapsacks, which is more than we can say for you freakishly happy people.

You Happies really need to consider the feelings of other people. We're miserable dark souls, and we like it that way. Having something to bitch about is really all we've got. It's our endorphins. The equivalent to your mocha latte. They get us through things and insure we wake up in the morning. Still, you keep trying to mess with it, and it's making me testy. If this keeps up, bad things will occur.

So, I'm warning you hear and now, throw some sun on my gloom, and I will pop that euphoric balloon of yours. If you smile and wish me well, I will have to scar you.

Don't believe me? Try it. The next time you wish me a good day, I'll whip out something along the lines of "Is it? Maybe for you, but probably not for people in Sumatra who find themselves even more impoverished because a tsunami decided to give them a hug. So, if you want to ride a happy wave while riding on the backs of thousands of homeless Indonesians, do it without me you morbid freak!" Your hearts will be forever crippled, and you'll have no one to blame but yourselves.

Change Happies, or I will change you.