It's Almost A New Year And I Could Not Care Less

It's New Years Eve again.  Perhaps it's blasphemous, but I don't really care about New Years.  Mondays will still suck wind.  I will still write the wrong year on legal forms and freak out, sometimes publicly.  Old people will still think it's 1934 and that the computer is a fancy calculator.

Shows what you know, elder folk!

Calculators don't get viruses and cost hundreds of dollars to fix.

I suppose the the celebration is the result of one of two things.  Either people are excited at the prospect of a new beginning, or we are celebrating how the world has yet to explode from the inside out in a massive demon inferno.  From what I've heard, it's mostly the first one.

How lame.

I'm not big on resolutions.  I've learned that I am so good at letting myself down it's practically an art form.  However, I do have hopes for the new year.  First, I hope to test my limits and refine my abilities, both in writing and existing.  Secondly, I hope the Green Lantern movie doesn't make me suicidal.  Thirdly, I hope to go even grayer than I am now.

For the record, I hate Holden Caulfield.

I'm just odd.

To all of you, I hope this New Year ushers in the marvelous and the humorous.  May all your hopes, resolutions, prayers, wants, wishes, needs, hankerings, cravings, and desires get fulfilled.  So, when that ball drops, think about this year and reflect.

On how much it sucked.

Make next year suck less.

What's In A Name?

I have a fascination with names.  Name meanings, specifically.  I don't do research or obsess over name meaning and lineage or hoopla like that, but there is one aspect I find rather amusing.  I remember hearing that many last names were created based off of a trait or occupation of a person.  For example, if a person made shoes for a living, they very easily could have the last name Shoemacher.  Now, these names are acquired through lineage.

Or legal documents.

Ochocinco may or may not be a family name.

Recently, a friend and I were discussing this idea when I realized something about this method of naming I had never considered.  If this method did, in fact, exist and was the origin of many last names, some names really have to be called into question.  My mom once told me she knew a woman who's last name was Hair.  Does that mean that centuries ago there was a family who's most prominent defining trait was a thick, Sasquatch-like coat of hair?  Could there have been a nameless family walking through town when some bystander said, "What ho!  It seems the Hairs are out for their mid-day stroll," and it just stuck?

Everything sticks to hair.

Gum, lollipops, physically descriptive names, etc.

Another interesting one lies with the Hollywood hunk, Mr. Brad Pitt.  Pitt.  I suppose the implication is that at one time or another, a person was either an astoundingly talented hole digger, or they strongly resembled a hole in the ground.  All the girls were clamoring for the guy who looked like a hole, I'm sure.  I'm honestly unsure of what that could look like, but I have a hankering it's not pretty.

Sorry, Brad.

Your ancestors were holes.

Oh, and Walker.  This is the 25th most common last name.  What this says to me is that at the birth of this name, there were people sitting around going, "So, what does he do?"  "Well... He walks."  "That he does, Bernard!  That he does!  From this point forward, his name is Walker."  And this happened almost 21% of the time.  How unfathomably boring were these people that their only known activity was using their legs?  I mean I'm no daredevil, but I'm sure I could find at least 25 things I do on any given day that are more interesting than walking.  We lost the badassery of the Velociraptor, but we got to keep the people who's defining characteristic was unenthusiastic movement?

Anyone else feel really jipped?

I have to say this next one takes the cake.  The glorious last name of Weiner.  Call me immature, but the concept of a weinersmith is one of the funniest things in the world.  Seriously.  A weiner smith.  One who smiths weiners.  A creator and fixer of wein.  I dare you to find something funnier than that.  I'm not going to go into what exactly a weinersmith could have done.  For all intents and purposes we'll say the person ran Ye Olde Hotdog Stand.

Pretty ballsy endeavor.

This one has nothing to do with name meanings, but I thought it was so spectacular that I had to share it.  Years ago, I was taking a shortcut to a friend's house that led through a cemetery.  While there, I saw a headstone that had the name Haskew.  That by itself is not funny, except the name was engraved off center and at an angle.  The name Haskew was literally askew.  Even this person's death was a hilarious play on words.  That level of comedic commitment is nothing short of legendary. 

To Mr./Mrs. Haskew,

You are a genius.

My First Stitches, Broken Arm, And Prostate Exam

For a pretty safe fellow, I've ended up in the hospital a fair amount of times.  And not for routine scrapes and bruises, mind you, but for major issues.  I hate going to any kind of medical facility, but I end up in the sterile, tiled, florescent, freezing hell-pockets frequently.  Why?  Why must I so often find myself with grievous injuries?

Long story short: You're an ass.

Longer story below.

The first incident I can recall was when I was 11 years old.  I had just come home from Tae Kwon Do (You all did it when you were younger, so can it), so I was still in my white uniform.  I ran to my front door, jumping over some small shrubs and going inside the house.  Apparently, I cut my knee open on a lawn gnome that was right behind the shrubbery, but didn't notice.  I didn't feel anything when it happened, only knowing I was cut because my once white pants were covered in blood.

Don't worry.  I took revenge on the gnome.

I kicked it's f**king head off.

Realizing I was gushing blood, I did what any would do.  I cried, hyperventilated, and passed out.  I ended up having to go to the ER, where they gave me an injection of Novocaine just left of my kneecap.  If you've never had a pre-stitches Novocaine shot, the needle is the size of one of those movie theater slushie straws.  You know, with the spoon end.  I got seven stitches and had them in for however long I was told to keep them in before they were taken out by yours truly.  Relax.  My parents had a suture kit so I had all the tools to get those bad boys out safely.  They came out with no trouble and I had them laminated!

Well... That's 10 kinds of not normal.

Or how about the time I broke my arm?  In some absent-minded attempt to replicate the thrill of snowboarding, I rode a sled, standing, down a steep hill in my backyard.  I ended up slipping backwards and landed on my wrist with all my weight.  In case your wondering, yes I did hear a crunch.  Once I had dragged myself inside and removed my snow gear, I covered my now large, purple arm with ice packs.  An hour had passed before my parents decided I needed to go to the hospital.  They said they knew something was wrong because I wasn't bitching about the pain.

Hardy har, jerks.

By the time I got to the hospital, I had gotten used to the immense pain.  This was quite helpful as I was stuck in the ER for over three hours because they put my X-Ray request in the Done folder.  Luckily, a nice woman brought me a stress ball.

I destroyed my arm.

Do you understand the flaw with her logic?

Eventually, I got ushered into the X-Ray room where a lovely technician disregarded my purple arm and twisted it to get a clearer shot.  OW.  The results came back and my arm was broken in three places.  Once on both bones in my arm and a fracture in my wrist.  I got a cast that went past my elbow, which is how I learned to not take scratching for granted.  Incidentally, my mother had just seen a show that told her not to use wire coat hangers, so my house had nary a wire hanger.  I thought I would just have to chop my arm off.

Reminder: Wire hangers are essential with casts.

I didn't have to suffer long, though.  I got an X-Ray to check how I was healing and something weird came up on the image, something my mother said looked like "A tiny penis."  It was an eraser cap.  During one of my vigorous scratching sessions, I got an eraser jammed in my cast.  They had to saw an opening in my cast to get the damn thing out.  Scratch hole!  Woo!  The cast was then reassembled with the latest in medical technology.

Packing tape.

So, this next one is a doozy, and I can almost not believe I'm saying this on the internet.  For the sake of humor, I make this sacrifice.  Appreciate it.  One day before the first day of my junior year, I hit a tree on my bicycle.  Yea, I know.  Stupid.  I flipped over the handle bars, got thrown 6 feet, and skid along the ground another 2 feet.  I could barely stand, but I staggered home covered in blood.  My mother met me with a calm, "What in the Hell happened to you!?"

Oh, mother.  Beacon of composure.

I washed myself off (which was excruciating), and bandaged my whole body up.  Two days later I peed blood.  Yep.  Man period.   I went to the doctor in hopes that he could halt my flow problem.  He gave me a prostate exam.  I can honestly say I never expected the appointment to go there.  It was, for lack of a better phrase, the most awkward experience of my life.

And no dinner after.

Just saying.

Following this probing, I was ordered to get three ultrasounds on my... Uh... Boys... over a 6 month period.  First time: Female technician.  Second time: Female technician who recently became a mother.  Third time: Female technician, machine broke, brought in another female technician.  Two female technicians.  Not that I'm against so many lovely ladies paying attention to my manhood, but this wasn't my ideal situation.  The end result?  A clean bill of health and ANOTHER PROSTATE EXAM.  Wasn't that not supposed to happen until I was 50!?

I guess I'm just lucky.

Ben Reinhardt, come on down.

I have no real way to end this, so I will leave you with the last thing my Urologist said to me.  He took me into his office to tell me I was healthy and to contact him with any other issues.  He finished our meeting by saying, "I'll see you when you're 50 for your vasectomy."

Doctor humor.

Hilarious.

A Very Bitchin' Christmas Sum Up

Disclaimer: The following image is an example of the horrors of snowman body part candy.  It is graphic, so all small children and those with weak constitutions should exit now.

 

Snow blood?

Nothing about this candy is normal!

Now, on to the main event.  Let's talk Christmas.  I hope you all got every useless knick knack, doohickey, whatsitcalled, and Rotato you asked for.  (Look up the Rotato if your unaware of it's existence.)  I pulled in quite a haul this year.  I guess Santa reads blogs written by sarcastic, oddball teenagers.  How lucky!

Doubt it.

Verizon Fios doesn't reach the North Pole.

Want to know what I received?  Well, you do now!  No choice!  My blog, my rules!  I got some totally badass gifts and I feel the need to share my bounty with the world!  So, let's start with this piece of high fashion.

WOO!

I love Bruce Campbell.  I love Army of Darkness.  Now, I can shove it in the face of everyone I see, which is something I enjoy greatly.  Diggin' this puppy 200%.  Or how about this one?

Look familiar?

If it doesn't... Pay attention!

This is the beloved shirt I was forced to throw away because of my mother's obsession with me wearing hole-free clothes.  Only now, I have a fresh one that my mom has no gripes against.  And this time, it's not going anywhere.  Ever.

Seriously.

EVER.

Creatures of the deep, circa 1975, ASSSSEEEEMMMBLEEEE!

 

Zowie!

This thing is way cool.  It is an Aquaman doll from DC's retro toy line.  It has original box art and the doll is clothed in that unrecognizable action figure fabric that feels like cheese cloth.  (You can't spell fun without... Cheese cloth.)  Plus, he comes with a plastic trident, because what would the King of Atlantis be without his trident?

A weird, tridentless, homeless guy who talks to fish.

Not as prestigious.

Very soon I will be doing a post on my Wall of Guitars.  As for right now, I will introduce you to the newest edition to my collection.  I have named her Giselle.

*Goo Goo eyes*

Beautiful.  This classy lady is a Rodriguez nylon string, gypsy style guitar.  I am so in love with this curvaceous cutie.  She sound amazing, plays amazing, looks amazing, and I just can't keep my hands off her.  Sex with strings.

I feel like makin' love.

Do do do.

Y'all ready for this next one?  Doubt it, but I'm saying it anyway.  I'm a rebel.  So, it is pretty clear that I enjoy writing.  I have always thought the image of a writer at a oak desk with a typewriter and a desk lamp was the epitome of cool.  I never thought I would be able to be that person, but it seems I can now.

We're peakin' the badass-o-meter.

This is my fully manual Sears vintage typewriter.  Oh, yea.  It has ink/whiteout ribbons.  I have reached my ideal awesome image.  I don't care if this is the embodiment of my inner pretentious hipster, I love it.  You will never feel as author-y as when you are typing away on these keys.  I don't need spell check!  I have a dictionary!

Plus, Microsoft work doesn't *Ping* when it hits the margin.

Oh, Microsoft.  It's OK.  We can't all be progressive.

I got everything I wanted.  I got all these lovely items, plus DVDs, books, gift cards, and other lovely trinkets.  I cannot thank my family enough for their generosity.  It was a bitchin' Christmas.  Strange sentiment, but you get the point.  Twas a success.  And for next Christmas, I'm thinking something a little grander.

Anyone know a guy who sells scuba gear and live oysters?

I'm going on a Kraken hunt.

Merry Christmas Eve

It's Christmas Eve everyone!  Christmas'  presentless cock-tease of a predecessor is here and now we all get to enjoy not working, eating, giving, getting, parties, booze, hideous holiday sweaters, our weirdo families, and unusual TV movies.

How The Newt Gin-Grinch Stole Christmas.

Classic.

So, from all of us here at The Chair Fort, a.k.a me, merry Christmas and happy holidays.  Enjoy this bit of my Christmas from your computer-machine monitor.  Our topper is a spinning lighthouse and we've yet to put our ornaments on, but I think it's a charmer.  (In fear that I would further embarrass her on the internet, my mom made sure we got the tree days ago, on a day without apocalyptic weather conditions.  Here's to the power of influence.)

Don't forget to make a wish when you blow out your birthday tree, Jesus.

How The Eighties Made Me Eighty

Recently, a friend and I were discussing what super power we would most like to have.  The standards were tossed around.  Flying, invisibility, super strength, etc.  Through some twisted time warp, I ended up settling on a power that I don't believe has ever been used for a hero.  Shocking as it may sound, it seems that I figured out the only remaining unimagined super power.  Y'all ready?

The ability to create reality changing eighties montages.

Take notes, Stan Lee.

I don't really think this would be terribly useful in a crime-fighting sense, but that isn't why I want it.  How many times in your life are you engaged in a boring project or long car ride and wish you could skip ahead?  My guess is a lot.  Not a problem for Montage Man!  I would only need to begin a montage and watch as intense camera angles and androgynous vocalists compressed time.  Three hours? Hah!  No more!  Try thirty seconds!

Which is just enough time.

I can only listen to White Snake for thirty seconds before I vomit.

But, I foresee a problem.  I am not an extremely patient person and I imagine that if I could compress time, I might do it too frequently.  Like instead of using it to speed through awkward encounters with the manager of Staples, who apparently doesn't like it when you swivel comfortable arm chairs around the store, even though you tried to explain that you were testing it's travel durability and you might one day buy one, and how he's just using his seat of authority to pick on people and-

Stop.

You're weirding us all out.

Back to what I was saying.  My problem would be that I would get so comfortable with using the montage power, that I would wind up using it on really menial shit.  Things like making toast or brushing my teeth would soon become seem tedious that I would use the montage powers to speed them up.  Entire days would rocket by in minutes.  I would be 80 by the end of the week, and all because I thought getting the mail took ten seconds too long.

Maybe they shouldn't put the damn mail box so far away!

Fifteen feet?  What am I, The Flash?

If great power comes with great responsibility, then eighties montage power comes with some weird rapid-aging glitch.  (Slightly less profound, I feel).  I'm not ready to be  80.  I don't want my life speeding by me at an uncontrollable and disheartening rate until I'm at LEAST 40.  I am still spry enough to suffer, it seems.  Oh well.  I don't like eighties music anyway.  I guess I should be happy that a power ballad from Poison won't destroy my life.

That spot is reserved for Guns N' Roses.

Heated 4 AM Cardboard Combat

I got home at 10:30 AM today and crawled into my shower to wash last night/this morning off.  My friends are home for the holidays and we had ourselves a grand old get together last night.  I'm sure all of you are assuming I got hammered and had a wild party.  Well, clearly you do not know how my friends and I roll.  We have had wild parties, but last night's festivities were of a different breed.

Some mutant, nerdy, weirdo breed, but a breed none the less.

I got to my friend's house some time yesterday afternoon, where we played Tropico 3, a Sim City style game where you get to be the dictator of a third world country and build it from the ground up.  Play it.  See how long your fair-trade, equality loving hippie friends can resist running a fascist dictatorship.  I'll guarantee not long.  Nobody can resist building a strip joint that is actually a Secret Service headquarters.

They don't like people trying to stuff dollar bills into their underpants.

Fives are OK.

Once the rest of my hombres arrived, we engaged in the main event of the evening.  Magic: The Gathering.  Yeah!  I play it!  I'm a man and I do what I want!

Men don't play Magic.

Oh, really?  How about you say that to my assistant, Mr. Condescending Sub-Text.

...

Not so tough now, huh?!  Moving on!  Some time during the night I had to make a quick run home, allowing me to pick up my two Nerf battle titans.  Remember my Vulcan EBF-25 Blaster?  Well, she has a sister now!  The Stampede!

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

*Ahem*  So, I returned to my buddy's house with both the Vulcan and the Stampede.  What ensued was a dart-filled war zone that involved tactical stakeouts, Matrix-style dodge moves, and human shields.  After we had thoroughly shot the living crap out of each other, we found a machete that one of us had lost years ago.  It was on top of the kitchen cabinets because... Yeah.

Can you say blindfolded machete tag?

Don't worry.  We were smart enough to have deemed that a stupid idea.  (No blindfolds).  By this point, it was roughly two in the morning and most of my friends had left.  We played another game of Magic and ate Easy Mac, which is like the nerd version of fine dining and the theater.

Army of Darkness and Hamburger Helper is also applicable.

Somewhere around four, the hour where things start to go hazy, one of my friends suggested we bet on a Magic game.  Not for money, though.  The loser had to drink the water out of a can of vegetables.  You know, that nasty green bean water that gives everyone within 500 feet the heaves.  Guess who lost...  NOT ME!

Hah!  Had you worried for a moment!

Your concern is very sweet.

My buddy drank the bean water and clearly did not enjoy the experience.  Though, I did see the same kid eat a Chipotle menu once, so it probably wasn't the worst thing he'd ever ingested.  We went to bed somewhere around five and woke up at nine.  It had been so long since I stayed up until five and slept on my friend's futon for an insufficient amount of time.  I missed it dearly.  I think I'll keep doing it.  Especially the Magic: The Gathering part.

Although, I don't have a choice in the matter.

This guy said so.

'Twas Less Than A Week Before Christmas

Christmas is right around the bend, as at least 30% of you know, and I'm realizing that my view of Christmas time may be slightly different than other people's.  While, I'm sure, most of your thoughts are on your family, friends, and empty bank accounts, my brain seeks out the unusual aspects of the season (And everything else).  So, what are these abnormalities I have noticed?  I'll tell you.

Because I just love knowing you will listen.

I'll start off with something that has become a tradition in my family, but it is by no means a joyous family dinner.  We couldn't have a real tree for years.  My mom has some kind of pine tree allergy, or she is just a major weenie.

Didn't Major Weenie land on the moon?

One giant leap for... Uh... I'll stop.

Either way, she said we could finally get a real tree a few years ago.  Ever year we have gone to get said tree, however, we end up having to run out at 8:30 at night on Christmas Eve.  We get to pick from the reject trees.  Now, I normally wouldn't care, but every single time we have gone to get the tree we have been hit with a rain storm or a blizzard.   So it becomes my responsibility to force a 70 pound tree 5 feet off the ground onto the top of a car in a snow storm.  My mom keeps saying how we won't wait until the last minute this year.  I also heard her say that we would get the tree this weekend.  It seems she forgot Christmas is Saturday, and thus the tradition continues.  And while it is not snowing yet, I have a strong feeling it will.

Just as I'm lifting a pine tree over my head.

Slip, fall, dead.

This time of year also brings about one of my favorite holiday decorations: Nativity scenes!  Don't worry, I'm not in the business of bashing religious people.  Live and let live.  However, you have to admit, some of these life-sized biblical play sets go overboard.

Robo-Joseph!  Now with kung fu chop action and light-up laser eyes!

Batteries not yet available.

One in particular stands out in my mind.  While driving, I passed a large house built on a huge plot of land.  Right in front of the house was a nativity scene that spanned no less than 25 feet.  I want you to think long and hard about the people present at Jesus' birth.  Let's see...  Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the three wise men.  How on Earth could this be stretched to 25 feet?  Well, you forgot the farm animals!  Yes.  According to this household, there were over 15 animals present at the birthing of Christ.  The parents, the wise men, and the petting zoo from the Jerusalem State Fair were all present.

If you hold out your hand, Baby Jesus will eat sugar cubes out of it.

It seemed a bit ridiculous that a nativity scene could be expanded just by using a truck full of plastic goats, but what do I know?  In front of the nativity scene were a bunch of 3 foot high, glowing letters that read, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS."  This really pissed me off.  Like, severely pissed me off.  Want to know why?

No comma between BIRTHDAY and JESUS.

I don't care if any more lights would blackout the neighborhood.  There is no excuse for the public use of poor grammar.  This is Christmas time, damn it!  Don't ruin my holiday season with your inability to use punctuation.  Some people just don't understand the meaning of Christmas.

It means running your decorations through Microsoft Grammar Check.

Like you could come up with something better.

I guess I don't have the typical view on Christmas, but I do get to have boatloads of fun warping the holiday in all kinds of ways.  Maybe I'm just progressive in my Christmas ways, ahead of my time or something.  The Van Gogh of Christmas.  I won't cut off my ear or anything, though.  I doubt too many people would find that festive.

Bah!  What do I care!?

Off with my ear in the name of Jesus!

Technological Disconnect

I am a music lover.  I am a musician (I will post about my guitar wall soon) and an avid listener.  So, naturally, having portable music is a huge must for me.  My need to have groovy tunes on my person at all times has made having an iPod not only enjoyable, but mandatory.  What would I do if I couldn't listen to More Than A Feeling all the time!?

Probably what any of us would do.

Implode like a dying star.

Unfortunately, my luck with electronics is complete crap.  I can use it with ease, but I can never seem to keep it functional for all that long.  Within just the past year, I've had my laptop charging cable break,  I've gone through 3 pairs of headphones, had to have my cell phone replaced, and had my Xbox red ring.  (For those of you who don't know, that means my Xbox hates me and has ceased functionality out of spite).

Now it has to live in my gross closet in a plastic box.

Who won that battle, Xbox?

However, this post is specifically about my experience with iPods.  Until Christmas of last year, I had one of those 32 Gigabyte Video iPods.  I loved it.  It was everything I needed, which was nothing but portable music.  I could obviously put videos on it, but if I want to watch Evil Dead, I'm not going to do it on a screen that's 2 inches wide.  I had two of these iPods, actually.  The first one I had to get replaced due to technical difficulties.

i.e., I sat on it.

Knowing precautions had to be taken to preserve the life of my replacement, I put a plastic, impact/scratch resistant cover on the iPod.

Roses an skulls, huh?

I know it's lame, but it was free and that was enough.

I no longer use this i Pod.  "Why", you may be asking.  "Surely this pristine piece of electronics could fuel your portable music addiction well."  You would be right.  Except for one major problem.  As it would seem, the Great iPod Fairy (Steve Jobs with butterfly wings) saw my attempt to prevent both scratches AND impacts and became infuriated.  So, one day my iPod did this.

Not a scratch or dent to be found, though.

Oh, and a bonus!  I had to dig this iPod out of my car and I found it stuck to a magazine page by some manner of  mysterious, ominous adhesive compound.  It didn't detach too smoothly.

I couldn't get that paper off with a Howitzer.

So, needless to say, this iPod no longer works.  At the time this sucker broke, I was left without portable music, which resulted in my own personal "Dark Age."  Luckily, Christmas 2009 was rolling around and I could ask for a new one.  My mom and I went to the Apple store in search of the same iPod.  No dice.  That iPod doubled in price (Some 400 dollars) and the iTouch was much cheaper (Around 200 bucks).  I didn't want an iTouch, but the price was undeniable.  I was told of all the super cool crazy fun things I could do with an iTouch.  All the fun and useful apps that I could download.

Yea, like I care I can download 16 different pedometers.

I now use all the immense computing power of my iTouch to play music and solitaire.  Oh, and I have 6 apps that make gun/light saber noises, because why not?  I looked for apps I would like.  I really did, but the majority of free apps (Like hell I'm paying) are not-fun puzzle games, quizzes, and pictures of sexy ladies.

Useful?

Ugh.  Whatever.  At least my electronic bad luck has seemingly stopped, as the iTouch is still in one piece.  Wait, what do you mean my lap top hard drive crashed?  What do you mean my iTunes library got wiped!?  WHAT DO YOU MEAN iTUNES WILL ONLY IMPORT THE 800 SONGS I BOUGHT FROM THEM?  WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T PLUG IN MY iTOUCH OR I'LL LOSE 1400 SONGS!?

*zzzt*

Brain cannot sync.  Files corrupted.

Immediate shut down recommended.

Snow Man Slaughter

I opened the snack drawer in my kitchen and found this.

Hmm.  Curious.

So, what you are looking at is essentially a bag of body parts.  It seems that someone has taken to offing snow men in an Ed Gein-esque way and then bagging the remains.  Yep.  This is simply a pouch of eyes, noses, and faces.  I don't know about you, but I'm not a big fan of eating satchels of face pieces.

Save me some cheek.

Kind of a disturbing thing to see, really.  I mean candy that resembles stuff is one thing, but a bag of body parts you have to mold together and then devour kind of skeeves me out.  I would feel like some weirdo scientist who created life and then went, "Oh my... You look delicious."  Imagine how different Frankenstein would have been.  It would have had to been called Franken-dine.

Heh...  Franken-dine.

I'm so clever.

Postless

Sorry about no real post today (No I do not count this).  I've had a super busy day and I just rescued a dog.  It was walking down the street and a I brought it back to the owner.  I know.  I'm spectacular.  Either way, I will have a post for you all tomorrow!  I don't know if it will be as exciting as dog rescuing, but it will be here.

Who am I kidding?

Everything I say is monumentally exciting.

Children's Games Scar My Childhood

Having just completed my college finals and my first semester a college, I cannot help but feel kind of old.  I know I'm not, but I feel like I was just 10 and now I'm almost 20.  While pondering my past in an attempt to recapture my 4 year old self, I remembered a part of my youth I hadn't thought about in a while.  My toys!  Specifically a few games I owned.  At the time, they were harmless fun and plenty of it. However, looking at them now, I can't help but think they were a bit odd.

Odd meaning f**king weird.

So, lets start with the infamous Gooey Louie.  Gooey Louie can be summed up as, "Pick the right booger and his brain flies out."  Yea.  This was a good one.  It was a fun game, but the premise is kind of gross, don't you think?  Just grab some large dangling booger from a man's nose in the hope that his skull will fly open and his brain will flop out.  Interesting lesson.

Grab all boogers you see!  It's a game!

Fun ahoy.

 

Now, well move on to another game based on bodily functions.  Eat At Ralph's.  I'm pretty sure this game fell under the radar and I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one that had it.  The game included the cardboard face of an chef with a mouth that had a motor behind it.  The top of the mouth would take in cardboard food and the bottom part of the mouth would push the cardboard food back out.  The premise was to take turns stuffing food into this guy's face and hope he didn't hork it back up on your lap.  Ah...  I loved this game, but I think I just liked watching him shoot out cardboard pizza.  I wasn't a big fan of getting thrown up on.

These days I don't mind as much.

Kidding! Haha!

...

Or how about this little gem?

Oh yea!  Big John!  What a game!  Basically, you would spin the roll of toilet paper and it would land on a number from 1 to 4. Then, you would put that many little turd balls (which looked like peas with really angry faces) into the bowl and flush it.  Then turd balls would go into your little zone and you'd spin the toilet and the next person would go.  The person with the least turds at the end won.  It was kind of like golf in that way.

Ya know...  Lowest number wins...

Kinda?  No?  OK.

This next one is my favorite.  For one of my birthdays, I was given a game called Chicken Limbo.  It was a limbo game that screamed some obnoxious clucking song the entire game.  And I played the hell out of it.  From what I was told, my parents hated it.  Like despised it.  Like wished it to die and rot in hell.  I GUESS the clucking song was irritating or something.  They told me that they were so desperate to get rid of it that when the batteries ran out, they told me it was broken and wouldn't work anymore.  I was heartbroken.  Although, now that I'm looking back, I see something else wrong with this game. See if you can spot it.

Do you see it?

Look closely at the small picture in the oval.

Do you see that hanging part?

It would seem this chicken's purpose in life was to dangle it's chickeny genitals in front of children.  Oh, and when you lost the game by slamming your face against the chicken's...  *Ahem*  limbo stick, it screamed.

Then lit up a cigarette.

I'm beginning to think I should seek some form of therapy.  Maybe my current strangeness has a lot to do with my unfortunate run in's with toilets, vomiting chefs, long boogers, and sexually aggressive chickens.  Oh, well.  No reason to worry about that now.  I've got a date tonight!  It's this really handsome rooster who is exceptional at splits!

Wait...

Oh God...

My Clothes Go To Heaven And I Become An Inventor

ATTENTION: By the time you read this, my battle with my English paper will be over.  It will be a tough war, but I must face my opponent.  If an entirely unrelated post follows this message, you will know I slayed the monster.  If no post follows, I was defeated and eaten alive by a 12 page word document.

...

WOO!  I won!  Suck it, paper!

On to something completely different!

My mom has this thing.  This kind of tic or compulsion, if you will.  If she sees a hole, no matter the size, in any article of clothing I own, she wants to throw it out.  Nay, she DEMANDS I throw it out.  I don't find this to be very fair.  I wear the pants, not her.  

Oh, haha... It's like a man of the house joke...

Good one?

I like getting all the wear I can out of my clothes.  I have trouble finding clothes I like and I don't like wasting money, so I figured my hesitance would be embraced.  Au contraire.  She must view the holes in my clothes as some kind of territorial challenge; some primal instinct triggered by how threadbare my jeans are.  There are holes because I wear them so much!  Is that not the entire point of owning clothes you like?  To wear them all the time until there is nothing left?

I think the point is to keep you from walking through King's Supermarket in the nude.

But, sure.  Yours works too.

So, for a long time I would just let her have her way to avoid arguments.  I would like a shirt, I would wear it, a tiny hole would for in the armpit, I no longer got to enjoy my shirt.  This went on for some time and I lost many fine t-shirts.  Then, one day she went too far.  I had a Bouncing Souls shirt I had gotten my freshman year of high school.  It was my favorite shirt and I intended to keep it forever.

Yea.  I don't know why I'm holding that either.

My mother, using her hole-spotting hawk vision, saw a hole in the armpit and one on the shoulder.  She demanded I throw it away.  I begged and pleaded, but it was no use.  The shirt was thrown out and I've been bitter ever since.

Nothing says maturity like a 5 year long grudge over a ratty t-shirt.

Oh how far you've come.

I didn't understand why I had to throw out all my comfortable, broken in clothes.  So what if their were some holes?  She didn't have to wear them!  Well, I actually think I figured out the purpose of getting rid of old clothes.  Two nights ago I was wearing a pair of my older boxers in bed.  While scratching my *Ahem* posterior, the boxers tore right down the middle.  Imagine my surprise!

Good job.  You invented the butt fly.

You're going right up there with Thomas Edison and Henry Ford.

Perhaps some newer clothes wouldn't be so bad...  Having your underwear tear right down the middle isn't a risk I'm interested in taking twice.  (I didn't know I was taking it once).  So, fine.  I'll wear the new clothes and throw out my beloved old ones.  It's a shame, but I guess it beats having your clothes commit suicide in public.

R.I.P clothes.

I'll bury you out back 'cause you would probably clog the toilet.

Oh! To all of you who read my blog, but are not friends with me on Facebook or Twitter.  I just got over a thousand views and I want to thank you all for your support.  I started this blog to make people laugh and it means a lot that so many people do just that.  Expect much, much more.

The Secret Word Is "Desperation"

 Strap in.  This is may take a while.

This weekend was like Kitty Hawk.  There was failure, followed by desperation, followed by sweat, followed by hair pulling, followed by stress, followed by a brief moment of unbridled happiness, followed by a hard landing back to the ground.  Plus, I felt like I was as stable as sticks and paper.  Don't you worry, folks.  I shall tell you all about my week of distress and  momentary enjoyment.  And you WILL listen to my story.

Remember: YOU came here to read about ME.

This is my house, baby.

I missed school two weeks ago because I was sick.  It was the first time I had missed any classes, but what days to miss.  As it turned out, my English professor gave the class a PowerPoint assignment, the due date on our final papers, and told us the date of our final exam.  My music history professor also gave the class the due date on our final papers and exam.  Meanwhile, I was at home in bed among a veritable wonderland of used tissues and cough drop wrappers, coughing till my voice was gone and watching Rosanne.

Magical.

A friend of mine messaged me to let me know all the things I had missed.  Have you ever been told when you have to do something by and you just don't connect it with being very very very very soon?  I didn't!

You never do.

So, let me put this in perspective for you.  I have a English research paper due on the 15th.  It has to be between 8 and 13 pages long and 50 completed surveys have to be included.  My English final, which includes an essay, is also the 15th.  There is a English PowerPoint project I knew nothing about due the 13th.  My music paper (Four Pages) is due on the 15th and my final is that day as well.  There was also a College Experience group project involving a 20 minute presentation on a college of our choice that I did not know the due date for.  I got this information on the 7th.  This is not the kind of list you want to see and go, "I've got time."

I am so smart.

Tuck chin down.  Thrust head firmly into wall.

A few days later, I wrote the music paper at a very leisurely pace, because I wasn't pressed for time or anything.  The PowerPoint project for English wasn't terrible.  It was an in-class group project, so by Monday it was mostly done.  Then, I hit a bit of a snag at about 6 that night.  I found out my College Experience project was due the next day.  Guess who didn't have a group, a college, or a presentation for the group presentation on a college?

My money's on you, oh master of preparedness.

I spent that entire night into the next day creating a presentation by myself.  I got it done, but not before I yelled at everyone I knew for no particular reason other than uncontrollable frustration.  (Good self control, thy name is Ben).  I presented it the next day in new jeans, a button down, and a suit vest.  I figured if my project sucked, at least it would suck and I'd look damn fine.  It went well enough, but I felt as though I had forgotten something.  Something really really important... The surveys!

I remember those! Aren't they critically important to your paper?

Hahaha.

Yes.

Since I forgot all about bringing the surveys to that class, I only had one chance left to get them done.  I was gonna bring them to music the next day and it would be fine.  The universe decided I was really tired that morning and that no amount of alarm clock ringing should wake me from my peaceful slumber.  Thanks, universe.

Sleep with one eye open, you cosmic bastard.

By this point I had completed part one of the paper, which was an analysis of the research I did aside from the surveys.  As luck would have it, barely any articles or statistics are available on my topic, and the closest I could get was a journal published in 1909.  You know what it's main point was?  That there was a lack of information on the topic.  I don't even care.  I'll use it.

Universe... You are going to get it SO hard. 

So, this weekend has been a Hell-storm of paper writing, survey analyzing, final studying, and PowerPointing, but there is a silver lining.  On Sunday, I went into the city and saw The Pee Wee Herman Show on Broadway.  I laughed until I thought I was going to throw up.  (In a good way).  It was reminiscent of his original stage show, which was more innuendo, tongue and cheek, adult friendly humor.  But, all that went right over the kids' heads and it was still just like watching the TV show again.  The secret word was "Fun" and I shouted just like I did when I was 6.  It was amazing.  I left with a T-Shirt and a Pee Wee University track jacket.  Not to mention a big ass smile.

No punch line here.  The show is hilarious.  Go see it.

Now.

I got home and... Went straight back to writing my English paper.  I'm not done with it even now.  I'll probably slay the life-sucking leech tomorrow.  I have to remind myself sometimes that I chose to put myself through this.  So maybe the papers are torturous.  And maybe I had to get creative with some data.  And maybe I'm not very good at planning.  And maybe my psyche nearly shattered from stress.  But, it is worth it.  It's important to see the brighter side of things.  Pee Wee taught me that sometimes we we aren't shouting because we are ready to collapse, but because someone said the secret word.  Fun.  Remember that.

Mecca Lecca Hi Mecca Hiney Ho-my God this paper is going to kill me.

Sorry.  Relapse.

I Clocked You Doing Zero... Sir?

The other day I was driving and I passed a cemetery.  The cemetery had a long path leading down to the road and a small, cul-de-sac like thing big enough for one car.  Well, in that small spot sat a police car.  And in that police car sat a police officer.  And in that police officer's hand sat a speed gun.  He was trying to hand out tickets by clocking people outside a cemetery.  I can't think of the right word to describe that...

Disrespectful, distasteful, despicable...

Take your pick.

But then it dawned on me!  The officer was protecting all the drivers from the dead people, not acting like a discourteous potato sack full of speeding tickets.  Because, as we all know, the dead are the number one threat to our safety.  So, I saw thank you Officer Asshat.  Your willingness to fine people from atop a grave has once again saved our lovely community.

To Serve and Protect us from the already deceased.

Good job, boys.

Why Hollywood May Cause The Nerd Uprising

I'm excited.  Like really excited.  Do you know why?  Of course you don't!  You aren't me!  (I'll give that sad truth a moment to sink in.)  Moment over!  I'm excited because Tron: Legacy is almost out!

Commence squeals and mouth foaming.

I can barely wait to speed over to the theater 2 hours early to make sure I have good seats.  (I have been waiting too long to get stuck in those neck-wrecking front seats that put you 10 feet in front of a 100 foot screen.)  I am going to pay for my $20 dollar ticket, buy my $50 sandwich baggie of popcorn and $35 thimble full of Mountain Dew, and enjoy the hell out of the movie.  It shall be awesome!  Tron was such an incredible movie, and an underrated one, I might add.  I found out a lot of people have never even heard of Tron.  What!?  That is insanity!  Tron is a classic film!

No, Casablanca is a classic film.

Just because you're a dorky loser doesn't mean the whole world has to be.

I do have one major fear, though.  I have seen what Hollywood has done to remakes and childhood favorites lately, and it is less than comforting.  (I'm terrified.)  I was hopeful when G.I. Joe came out, but it turned into another testosterone-oozing action film with lame jokes.  And power suits.

Go Joe?

No.  No, don't go.

Or how about Transformers?  I am a huge Optimus Prime guy and I will admit I liked the first one.  I went in to see giant robots fight and to hear Peter Cullen's original Optimus Prime voice.  In that regard, it worked.  As for the second one, I'm not doing that to myself.  I refuse to see it lest it's notorious awfulness taint my love of the Transformers.  I don't want to see the Autobot symbol and have to make a b-line for the closest garbage can.  Plus, Shia Labeouf annoys the hell out of me.  Can someone please pull the Transformers out of the pit they've been forced into?

Autobots!  Roll the f**k out of Dodge!

Lastly, and possibly most infuriatingly, The Last Airbender.  ...*Sigh*.  OK.  I can do this.  That movie was the most impressive movie I'd ever seen.  I didn't know, before seeing the movie, that it was possible to get   every part of an already completed story wrong.  I'm a fan of the series, but I sat in my seat and nearly tore off the arm rests in frustration.  They pronounced most of the character's names wrong for starters.  How?  I could discuss this at great length (and probably will eventually, so be ready), but I won't for right now.  I'm working myself up into a weirdo fanboy frenzy.

I bet you get all the ladies with your vast knowledge of Nickelodeon cartoons, don't you?

James Bond is nothing compared to your catalog of Spongebob quotes.

While I can barely wait for it to come out, Tron: Legacy is a product of Hollywood and I'm nervous about trusting them.  All they need to do is make a nerdy sci-fi computer movie full of Lightcycles and Lightdisks and I will have my creepy nerd-gasm and walk away happy.  Be warned, Disney.  You have a dangerous task ahead of you.  If you destroy Tron, you will have to deal with millions of disgruntled fanboys.  Once they puff their inhalers, start up their segways, and equip their rubber battle axes of +4 ass kicking, they will knock down your doors.  Nerd furry is dangerous (And sweaty.)  We will be watching, Disney.  We will be watching.

As long as the 3-D glasses can be worn over large prescription glasses.

If they can't, then only some of us will be watching.

Norse Mythology And Why It Would Make The World Better

The world seems kind of boring to me.  Call me old fashioned, but things like the stock market and innovated space-age quality sleep technology just don't get me riled.  However, I feel I have discovered the perfect way to bring much need oomph to the whole world.  Bring back crazy Norse mythology.  Wouldn't that be cool!?

Don't bother thinking because the answer is yes.

Think for a moment of all the interesting things you would experience with a world full of insane mythology.  For example, flying in an airplane.  If you've never been on a plane, it is basically like sitting in a Motel 8 room for 2 hours.  Oh, and you only have 6 inches of room.  And you have to eat crappy food.  And you could crash and die.  Actually... Planes are just like Motel 8s... Except for the crashing part... That should be there new slogan...

Motel 8: It is like being on a plane except you won't die at 32,000 feet in the air.

Catchy, no?

Back to the point.  Can you imagine being in an airplane and hearing the pilot come over the intercom and saying, "This is your captain speaking.  We are cruising at 35,000 feet from Newark to Seattle and will be arriving at roughly 5:30.  We have clear skies on the horizon, so would all passengers please remember to praise Thor.  Remember that if the plane begins to descend rapidly, it is because we have angered the Gods.  If this is the case, 4 goats and a knife will drop down.  If anyone has any special dietary needs, please tell the flight attendant.  Thank you."  I'm just saying flying would be more interesting if I thought the smoothness of my flight was controlled by a hammer-wielding storm god.

Does Thor also control the crappiness of my in-flight movie?

Yes.  

Thor really liked Couples Retreat.

How about this scenario?  A friend wants to know why you couldn't make it to their Arbor Day Bonanza.  Thanks to Norse mythology, you no longer have to make up an excuse involving a 6 rubber gloves, a cardboard box, and a Dodge Dart.

Boy... Haven't we all been in THAT situation.

Instead, you could simply tell your friend that Loki broke into your house and replaced your kitchen sink with a boa constrictor, and you couldn't think of leaving your house with a sink full of dirty dishes.  For, as we all know, that would be ludicrous.  Thank you, Loki.  Your mischievous ways have spared a friendship.  

Did you want a friend who throws Arbor Day Bonanzas?

Yes.

Thor also really likes Arbor Day.

Or how about this?  Your on a cruise for vacation.  Your having dinner in the ship's dining hall.  Your looking sharp, sipping wine, eating a suspiciously gay French pastry.  All of the sudden, you see the ship's captain and strike up a conversation.  You discuss art, music, whether or not cummerbunds look good, and how devilishly irritating that damned Kraken is.  Can you figure out which one of the conversation topics could NOT happen without Norse legends?

Kraken: 1

Cummerbunds: 0

Thor really likes cummerbunds.

And now for the ultimate reason to bring back Norse mythology.  VALHALLA!  I want Valhalla!  Never has there been such an epic concept of the after life.  You spend every day beating the crap out of people in with giant hammers until you get killed.  Then what?  You go to an endless buffet!  Mutton as far as the eye can see!  Who wouldn't like existing in this!?

Pacifists, vegetarians, intellectuals, and The People's Commission Against Giant Hammers... 

Just to name a few...

So I implore the world to return to the ways of the vikings.  I don't think modern day whackjobs should be running around with large weapons and fur tunics (*cough* Kanye West *cough*), but I would totally dig the mythology.  So what if we have to ignore 50% of modern science!?  Throw caution to the wind, everyone!  Embrace the Norse!  For Valhalla!

Thor is really happy for you and he's gonna let you finish, but he thinks The Citizen's Coalition Against Over-sized Swords is the best group against giant weapons of all time.

Of all time.

Virtual Morality

I am a lover of video games.  One of my crowning achievements was killing Ganon and finishing the Legend Of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, an endeavor that I started at 7 and didn't complete until 17.  Unfortunately, my Xbox is broken these days and I have no way to play games anymore.  (Get the hint, Microsoft?  Wanna shoot me a new Xbox for Christmas?  'Tis the season.)  Thankfully, my friends DO have working consoles and I get to play all the new snazzy games with them.  Through my second hand playing, I've experienced numerous games that all seem to have gaming's newest fad nail-gunned into their cores.  Game changing moral choice systems.  The system rates your moral fiber and changes how the game world treats you based on that rating.  I have to say though, I'm beginning to dislike it greatly.

Did I just say I dislike taking responsibility for my actions?

-20 Moral Points.

At first, it is a blast.  I played Fallout 3 forever, roaming the wastes as a angelic defender of justice and making life or death decisions .  I saved the good guys and killed the bad guys, plain and simple.  I got to play the way I wanted to, and that was great!  For a while.  The real conflict started when I played the follow-up title, Fallout: New Vegas.  This game added a new concept into the mix.  No win situations.  Those aren't always a bad thing though, adding suspense and pressure and all that.  The problem was that nobody, and I do mean nobody, was actually the good guy.  The game didn't say "These people are good, these people are bad."  This game hit me with "All these people are actually bad, but you have to side with one of them anyway so just pick who you hate the least."  However I didn't know that all the choices had tremendous downsides at the time, so I ended up siding with the military who was the least infuriating.  Well, they were fine... Right up until they made me slaughter the only people I liked in the whole game.  Wait, game!  You told me they were the good guys!  It isn't a moral choice if you lied about the choices!  I was stressed from playing the game.  Stress is not a normal response to playing video games.  Oh! And one more thing about New Vegas!  There is a mode called "Hardcore Mode" where you have to manage not only your health meter, but constantly draining thirst and sleep meters as you trek through the wasteland.

That's called camping!  Just go f**king camping!

That brings me to my second point.  With the morality system comes realism, and not just "Oh, that kinda looks like a real person" realism.  I'll explain.  A friend and I were playing Fable III and we managed to become king of the land, as per the story line.  We spent the whole time before becoming king fighting, hunting, gathering allies, doing quests, finding treasure, and so on.  You know, fun gamey stuff.  Guess what our first order of business was upon becoming king!  Manage the taxation of the kingdom!

Uh... Yay?

I am playing a game, right?  Not using Turbo Tax?  OK.  Just checking. 

 We then had to make decisions on what to do with the kingdom, such as whether or not to build a school or drain a lake.  This wouldn't be so bad if not for the underlying moral system.  See, an evil force is going to attack your kingdom and you have to protect it.  So, you have to get money to pay for soldiers to ward off the attack, but the options that get you money are always against what the good guys want.  We found ourselves having to decide whether to build an orphanage or a brothel.  We ended up in a huge philosophical argument with each other over whether it was better to be unhappy and alive or happy and dead.  I just wanted to shoot stuff with fire balls!  Why I am in an argument about the sanctity of virtual life instead!?

Because you get way too into games, ya jackass.

I'm not against a moral system in games.  In fact, I generally like it.  The issue is that some games don't test your convictions as much as they beat them with giant hammers.  At this point, my virtual game life is more stressful than my real life.  I have papers to write, classes to attend, and snow to drive in, but playing Xbox means I have to add "Make stressful, morally compromising/crushing decision about innocent lives" to the list.  I'm concerned the realism is getting a little out of hand.  I imagine it is only a matter of time before games like James Gets Up And Goes To Work 2 are on the shelves.  I mean, seriously.  What's next?

Murder Case Jury Duty on the Nintendo Wii.

And just in time for the holidays!  Can you say Family Game Night?

Hanukkah Knows How To Prevent Indigestion

Hanukkah came without my knowledge.  I know now obviously, but I only found out one day before the holiday started.  I don't think that says much for my Jewishness.  I dont't like the way Jewishness sounds.  How about apti-JEW-de?  JEW-ffectivness?  JEW-ficiency?   I suppose the terminology is really irrelevant to the holiday.

Like hell it's irrelevant!  It's JEW-ssential!

It is always nice to wake up for eight days knowing a gift is coming your way.  It's as if someone said, "I gotta give you 8 whole presents?  Well, your getting one a day, buster!  I'm not schlepping 8 presents in this house at once.  You will wait and you will be grateful!"  (To be said with the inflection of an old Jewish man.)  It is all for the better, anyway.  You wouldn't want to get all your gifts at once and wear yourself out.  What's that, Christmas?  You have a stomach ache from spreading all your cheer too fast?  Perhaps you should have been like Hanukkah and learned portion control.

Hanukkah: It's about not doing too much at any one time.

How's that for holiday spirit?

I Write Because I Saw Bill Murray Shoot a Type Writer

I love writing as I'm sure you've figured out by now.  I want to write as a career.  However, until recently I refused to tell people for fear that they would find it to be a stupid idea.  As of late, I have gotten over that fear due to many people telling me that they enjoy my writing and are attracted to my unique voice.  I'm just repeating what I've heard.  I'm not trying to toot my own horn.

I am the King of Words!  

*Hearty laughter*

I must admit, though, I wasn't always a good writer.  Actually, I sucked.  The worst part about being so horrendous was that I genuinely wanted to write well.  I could live without understanding polynomials.  I had no trouble ignoring the reasons why Lithium turns into a firebomb in water.  Latin... Yea, good one.  But, writing was something else.  The problem was that writing took me (And still takes me) a VERY long time. I also thought my ideas were too weird for people to want to read.  Plus, I had no sense of organization, so it took me all of ten seconds to get frustrated and give up... In a very loud, throwing stuff kinda way...

For those who are curious, this is a terrible writing strategy.  It seldom lightens the load.

...And you may break the couch... (Oops)

Well, thanks to a series of English teachers pushing me to my breaking point, I got the hang of writing.  One teacher in particular went the extra mile to motivate me.  I was picking up my grades, but failed a test somewhere along the way.  He handed me the test, said "You can do better," and delivered a hard slap to the back of my head.

Motivation comes in many forms.  Sometimes it leaves a bruise on your head.

"But, Ben! When did you decide to be a writer? And What does any of this have to do with Bill Murray," I hear you asking.  Well, it just does, now hush up.  It's rude to interrupt people.  My longing to be a writer came from two images of writers, one being a photograph and the other being a scene from a movie.  The photo was of Ken Kesey and the movie was Where The Buffalo Roam.  If you don't know, Kesey is a bit of a nut from psychotherapy and drug use, and Where The Buffalo Roam  is about Hunter S. Thompson, who... Uh... Is a bit eccentric.

Prince is eccentric.  Hunter S. Thompson embodied the word "Bonkers."

I'll start with the photo.  I saw an image of Ken Kesey on the back of my favorite book, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and it forever altered my perception of writers.  I thought in order to be a writer, you had to be:

A) A high-brow, suit wearing, ivy league graduate.

or

B) An insane person.

Both seemed slightly out of reach.

I know this was extremely narrow thinking, but back then I didn't have a clear understanding of who writers were.  So many books are saturated with satire, drama, and complexity, that it seemed like you had to be either a genius or a mental patient to want to write one.  The image of Kesey portrayed something different.  It showed him sitting up on his elbows in a sweater and boots.  He was in a small carpeted room with papers, books, and a desk.  He looked like an average guy and that made me view a writing career as attainable.  A fairly reasonable conclusion, I feel.

Hold on.  The next one isn't as normal.

Where The Buffalo Roam was a film that starred Bill Murray as Hunter S. Thompson. (Ah, see.  I told you this had to do with Bill Murray).  I'm not a fan of Hunter S. Thompson, but the guy led an interesting life to say the least.  In the movie, there is a scene where Murray shoots his type writer.  I loved this!  It was if someone had said, "Guess what!  There aren't rules for being an author!"  I just watched a writer shoot a bullet through his type writer because he wanted to.  I translated this to mean that people love weird writers.  He got famous BECAUSE he was so strange.  I'm strange!  I like writing!  I'm perfect for this!

I was inspired by the assault of a type writer... Huh...

I'm currently working on a book, I have ideas for others, and I write here.  Needless to say, I'm drowning myself in writing.  Air is unimportant.  I'll breathe when I finish the first book.

I can hold my breathe for over a minute!  That will be enough, right?

What?  Novels take how long?

Maybe I should have brought an air tank.

What I Learned In Guitar School Is...

Seeing as I just wrote a serious post about guitar school, I thought I would write a funny one to set the record straight.  While guitar school was about a hundred times harder than it sounds and I learned a lot of difficult lessons, I did have a lot of really funny experiences.  Looking back it was a split down the middle between boisterous yelling and uncontrollable laughter.  So here is a list of things I learned that were far less serious!

1) If you hit a table with an acoustic guitar, you will not only break the guitar, but the table as well.  Like... You'll take the entire corner off.

2) In a workshop, having "a taste of wine" means having a 9 oz. solo cup full of wine.  I got yelled at for sipping the wine.  Ya know... To taste it.

3) Don't give a 6 foot 2 inch, 300 pound ex-cop an exact replica of Gallagher's Sledge-O-Matic.  He will destroy tables, fences, and old gumball machines.  Plus, he'll break the Sledge-O-Matic.

4) Witnessing the same guy yell at twelve construction workers because he thinks they caused his toilets to back up and flood the bathroom is always hilarious.  Side note: I was told the back up happens every six months because he refuses to fix the plumbing.  I think this furthers the hilarity.

5) It does not matter who you are, when a FedEx delivery man brings you an Army regulation, olive drab parachute without the harness or string, everyone will think your a weirdo.  They will think you are even stranger when you defend yourself by saying you bought it to cover your RV to fool zombies.  (I was not the one who did this).

6) Guitar pickups work because of tiny electricity gnomes.

7) Orthodox Jews do not want to stay in a store that has a swastika hung on the wall, even if the swastika has a large No Symbol (/) around it.  No amount of explanation will convince them otherwise.

8) There, in fact, are traveling bootleg movie/porn salesmen.

9) In some situations, abundant cursing is not only accepted, but mandatory.

10) Being given a wedgie so hard it rips your underwear makes wedgies a thousand times funnier. (This did happen to me).

11) Sometimes it takes 8 hours and 4 guys to put together a 5 piece buffing wheel.

12) It does not matter how busy the workday is, it is OK to halt everything for two hours on Whiskey Tuesdays. Hint: Every Tuesday is Whiskey Tuesday.

13) It is possible for a person to be entirely wrong, but still be right because they say so.  Additionally, they will be willing to explain why they are right at length and will frequently end the conversation with "Ya f**king idiot!"

13) It is possible to superglue your hand to 15 separate items in a 6 hour period. (Guilty)

14) There are people who believe homosexuality and cancer are contagious airborne pathogens.  Uh... Yea...

15) Delicate is a made up word.  A firm hit with a hammer and/or chisel will fix most problems.  If that doesn't fix the problem, it wasn't ever fixable.

There you have it!  That was my list of not-so-serious lessons I learned in guitar repair school.  See, it wasn't all bad.  Ludicrous, sure, but not entirely torturous. I urge you all to seek new experiences.  You'll walk away with some pretty funny stuff if you look for it.