http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080622025045AA2lqvi
I remember when I was fourteen, I had my first moustache. It was sparse, but with thick hairs, like a giant novelty comb you would get at a carnival. My mother thought it was cute, but I thought it was trashy, so I decided to shave it off. Only, I had never shaved before, so I went horizontally across my lip instead of vertically. Not only did I not actually shave any hairs, I managed to slice my lip open pretty severely. Blood poured down my lip and into my mouth, onto the counter and into the sink.
I got the hang of shaving eventually, but decided that it just wasn't worth the hassle. I would grow a full beard if I could, but I wasn't quite blessed with the facial hair growing prowess of some, so I just keep a sort of bandito look, a chin beard and a moustache that aren't connected. I have kept that look for almost a decade at this point, only changing it for one ill fated fortnight where I shaved my moustache and looked very much like Maynard G. Krebs.
Having this hair on my face has spurned a new and unfortunate nervous trait. I seem to be plucking my moustache hairs out one at a time at random moments throughout the day. I'm not sure if it's stress or boredom that has brought on this new habit, but it has produced a weird bald spot the on left side of my lip and left it red and irritated.
I feel like I should just shave it off, just so I won't do it anymore, but I think I would look weird at this point without facial hair, and my wife probably wouldn't like me anymore. Also, I kind of fear that I may just start plucking my hair out, which was a trait I had in eight grade, or rather Ryan Nady had for my head (I would fall asleep during movies in classes and he would pull out my split ends and any stray hairs, which for me was a lot). Either way I need to break this habit, or I will soon probably irritate my lip enough that the old scar from my first shaving attempt will just burst open and blood will pour everywhere again. Or, if nothing else, I will just look like I have some sort of weird lip mange. Either way, it won't be healthy.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
I'm Not Much of a Preacher
http://blogs.salon.com/0001772/
My grandfather passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was a life long smoker who refused to give it up even right to the end. Even after they told him it would help his chances of living, he still refused to give them up. We were told that he probably only had a year or two left, but then a couple of weeks later, he just stopped living. They say it might have been a stroke, but no one is really all that sure. I think because of the shape he was in, we were all expecting the phone call at any moment. When I first heard the news, it was upsetting, but not life altering, it wasn't unexpected and we weren't all that close, but it was still a bit of a cold slap to the mouth.
While I sat in the funeral home and listened to the Johnny Cash song my father picked to play, I kept looking around the room. Sad faces, but nothing crushing. I thought about my father and how with each passing year, he looks more and more like his father, and with each passing year and each passing cigarette, he is closer and closer to having the same thing happen to him. The preacher spoke and opened up his salvo with today's GoogleTube, and then proceeded to live up to that with each word he spoke. After, he was done talking though, I immediately thought of myself, which I guess (or at least to ease my mind of being too self absorbed) everyone tends to do at these kind of things.
I promise, I didn't want this to be one of those "I have to deal with my own mortality because of the mortality of others" things, but it really my own mortality was the first thing I thought of. I wondered if I died tomorrow, what would people think about my life. I think at this point, people would talk about how young I was, and how I left a young wife behind and how I had so much more to accomplish. But I'm starting to fear that even if I die at 38 or 48 or 98, people are still going to talk about how I had so much more to accomplish. I have been dogged by the word potential since I was a kid in the talented and gifted program at my elementary school, and now I'm starting to wonder if I will die with all that unfulfilled. I think that's the problem with people having high expectations of you, is that they expect you to do things, and even when you don't do the things they expect, they still just keep expecting. Almost makes you want to take up smoking.
My grandfather passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was a life long smoker who refused to give it up even right to the end. Even after they told him it would help his chances of living, he still refused to give them up. We were told that he probably only had a year or two left, but then a couple of weeks later, he just stopped living. They say it might have been a stroke, but no one is really all that sure. I think because of the shape he was in, we were all expecting the phone call at any moment. When I first heard the news, it was upsetting, but not life altering, it wasn't unexpected and we weren't all that close, but it was still a bit of a cold slap to the mouth.
While I sat in the funeral home and listened to the Johnny Cash song my father picked to play, I kept looking around the room. Sad faces, but nothing crushing. I thought about my father and how with each passing year, he looks more and more like his father, and with each passing year and each passing cigarette, he is closer and closer to having the same thing happen to him. The preacher spoke and opened up his salvo with today's GoogleTube, and then proceeded to live up to that with each word he spoke. After, he was done talking though, I immediately thought of myself, which I guess (or at least to ease my mind of being too self absorbed) everyone tends to do at these kind of things.
I promise, I didn't want this to be one of those "I have to deal with my own mortality because of the mortality of others" things, but it really my own mortality was the first thing I thought of. I wondered if I died tomorrow, what would people think about my life. I think at this point, people would talk about how young I was, and how I left a young wife behind and how I had so much more to accomplish. But I'm starting to fear that even if I die at 38 or 48 or 98, people are still going to talk about how I had so much more to accomplish. I have been dogged by the word potential since I was a kid in the talented and gifted program at my elementary school, and now I'm starting to wonder if I will die with all that unfulfilled. I think that's the problem with people having high expectations of you, is that they expect you to do things, and even when you don't do the things they expect, they still just keep expecting. Almost makes you want to take up smoking.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Stephen A Smith Heckled at the 2007 NBA Draft
Today is the NBA Draft, so you know what this means!!!!!!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Who Would Have Thought the Teenagers In the Sesame Street Shirts Would Be So Angry
http://blog.donnawilliams.net/2007/04/26/emo-wasnt-he-on-sesame-street/
Emo kids are funny, but this lady is funnier. She has a frank and open discussion on the effects of being emo, but opens it with a joke about Elmo. Its like ha ha, two kids are dead, but aren't I clever. I appreciate her talk of teenage suicide, which is and always will be a problem, but I have found that the kids who write sad things on their facebook page and dress like Robert Smith, probably aren't the ones to worry about. She kind of understands this, and undresses the idea of Emo a little bit, but at the same time I think she misses out on a pretty key thing.
Here is what I know about being emo, it means they want people to look at them because they are sad. They want the attention of other people, because look how messed up I am. And sure, sometimes they take that attention thing too far sometimes, but I think the ones to worry about are the ones who sit in the back of the class and never say anything, then sprint out of the room, hoping none of the football team catches up to them.
When I was in high school, I was one of those kids. I didn't want anyone to look at me. I wanted to go into my bedroom and shut off the lights and fall asleep. I wanted to pass through the halls of my high school with as little notice as possible. I wanted to be left the fuck alone. So that sure as hell didn't mean posting emoticons on myspace or dressing in all black and putting on eye makeup. I wanted the least amount of attention drawn to me as possible.
This isn't where I wanted to go with this I guess. I wanted to talk about this band I saw last night. They all had floppy hair and they all wore different Sesame Street characters on their shirts. When the music started, they sounded like any other high school garage band, not Earth shattering, but not offensive. But when the "singer" opened his mouth, he let out just a guttural, 115-lbs throaty death growl, for pretty much their whole set. I wanted to talk about how awesome they were in a spectacularly awful sense. I wanted to talk about how we made jokes about how his song was brought to you by the letter "BWWWWWAAAHHHHHHH" and the number "GRRARRGHG". I wanted to talk about eating fish and chips and listening to my sister bitch, but this lady's blog kind of got my mind started on something.
Emo kids are funny, but this lady is funnier. She has a frank and open discussion on the effects of being emo, but opens it with a joke about Elmo. Its like ha ha, two kids are dead, but aren't I clever. I appreciate her talk of teenage suicide, which is and always will be a problem, but I have found that the kids who write sad things on their facebook page and dress like Robert Smith, probably aren't the ones to worry about. She kind of understands this, and undresses the idea of Emo a little bit, but at the same time I think she misses out on a pretty key thing.
Here is what I know about being emo, it means they want people to look at them because they are sad. They want the attention of other people, because look how messed up I am. And sure, sometimes they take that attention thing too far sometimes, but I think the ones to worry about are the ones who sit in the back of the class and never say anything, then sprint out of the room, hoping none of the football team catches up to them.
When I was in high school, I was one of those kids. I didn't want anyone to look at me. I wanted to go into my bedroom and shut off the lights and fall asleep. I wanted to pass through the halls of my high school with as little notice as possible. I wanted to be left the fuck alone. So that sure as hell didn't mean posting emoticons on myspace or dressing in all black and putting on eye makeup. I wanted the least amount of attention drawn to me as possible.
This isn't where I wanted to go with this I guess. I wanted to talk about this band I saw last night. They all had floppy hair and they all wore different Sesame Street characters on their shirts. When the music started, they sounded like any other high school garage band, not Earth shattering, but not offensive. But when the "singer" opened his mouth, he let out just a guttural, 115-lbs throaty death growl, for pretty much their whole set. I wanted to talk about how awesome they were in a spectacularly awful sense. I wanted to talk about how we made jokes about how his song was brought to you by the letter "BWWWWWAAAHHHHHHH" and the number "GRRARRGHG". I wanted to talk about eating fish and chips and listening to my sister bitch, but this lady's blog kind of got my mind started on something.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I'm Not Sure, But I Still Think Tiger Woods is Pretty Good
http://www.pgatour.com/2007/tournaments/r028/09/08/woods.transcript/?eref=sitesearch
I have a friend named Balls. He is about the nicest person you'll ever meet. He's generous, warm, funny and an all around good dude. However, there is a rule we all share: "Don't Argue Sports With Balls". It's not that he's dumb or that he doesn't know what he's talking about a lot. It's just that when he gets an idea in his head, no line of rational thought can dissuade that idea, no matter how ridiculous his thought may be. Also, a lot of the time he's dumb and doesn't know what he's talking about.
As a group, we are all guilty of breaking this rule, because sometimes he adopts positions on topics that are just too silly to let slide. The only time I've broken the rule was when he told me that Tim Tebow sucked and Colt Brennan is a better pro prospect and a better quarterback than him. Needless to say, that is not a very astute observation, since Brennan has a noodle arm and Tim Tebow might be Jesus.
On Saturday, I fell for it again. We were watching Tiger Woods's ridiculous third round of the US Open and noting how impressive he was since he was doing it on basically a knee held together by kelp and bubble gum. Balls, however disagreed and said Tiger wasn't that impressive at all. I immediately got up and went to the bathroom. When I came back, no one had broken the rule, but Balls was giving a dissertation to no one in particular on why it was unimpressive that Tiger was good, but very impressive that a similar athlete in another sport, Michael Jordan, could be at the top of his game. I broke the rule.
"Why would you say that Tiger isn't impressive?" I asked.
"Because he came from money and Jordan came from nothing," he said.
He was arguing that even though they had Dad's who pushed them into sports at a young age and nertured and coached and trained their kids since they were toddlers, he said that since Earl Woods had money and Jeffery Jordan didn't, Mike was more impressive.
I was immediately taken aback. For the last thirty years, there have been overly pushy dads that famously shoved their sons into sports, and maybe 1% have succeeded and of that 1% only three have made claims to being the very best of all time in their sport: Jordan, Tiger and Wayne Gretzky. Of those three, two came from a well off upbringing.
I asked Balls why he would discredit Tiger's ability just because he came from money, his response was that anyone with his upbringing could do just as well as he could.
I dismissed his claim as quickly as anyone could dismiss anything. I think that true talent cannot be contained, and if Tiger grew up hitting an acorn with a mop he would be, at the very least, a professional golfer who wins a lot. But his claim did make me think, is it really more impressive when people come up from nothing to make something of themselves? Shouldn't their current actions be taken equally regardless of where they came from? I dunno, while it's impressive that someone could be super poor and then make something from themselves, I don't think it's fair to discredit someone just because they weren't impoverished. And I grew up awfully darn poor.
I guess maybe it's just time for me to pull myself up from my bootstraps and overcome my upbringing. Although, I guess having world class talent might be an issue for me. I guess if I were to overcome my upbringing, at least I know I would have a fan in Balls if I do make it to the big time.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Rejected Google Tubes Extravaganza
http://blogscript.blogspot.com/2006_11_01_archive.html
This isn't a real post either. I know, it was one week ago and I said I would write one, and there is one percolating, but I just need some more time. I started writing something else that has taken away some of my creative juices. I don't want to write a post that is all, I did this, then this happened, and then OMG this happened. I want to write something meaningful, which I know is high concept for this here internet.
Just to keep you up to speed, here is a quick recap of what you missed since I stopped blogging:
-I had an okay interview that is making me a little nervous in the lack of call-backery.
-I got more involved in some local music stuff.
-I still hate my job and and pretty much everyone associated with it.
-I lost my wedding ring.
-Oh and this happened:
In the meantime, here are some possible google tubes that I could've done, but had nothing substantial to attach them to:
You Shouldn't Shoot Fire At Babies
Son, In This Country, It Doesn't Pay To Be Nice
It's As Clear As The Penis on Angela
Rain Sucks
Nature Hates Us A Lot
That Red Wingged Bird Has Ill Intent
I promise within the next day or two, I will post something worthwhile. Until then, um, read this
This isn't a real post either. I know, it was one week ago and I said I would write one, and there is one percolating, but I just need some more time. I started writing something else that has taken away some of my creative juices. I don't want to write a post that is all, I did this, then this happened, and then OMG this happened. I want to write something meaningful, which I know is high concept for this here internet.
Just to keep you up to speed, here is a quick recap of what you missed since I stopped blogging:
-I had an okay interview that is making me a little nervous in the lack of call-backery.
-I got more involved in some local music stuff.
-I still hate my job and and pretty much everyone associated with it.
-I lost my wedding ring.
-Oh and this happened:
In the meantime, here are some possible google tubes that I could've done, but had nothing substantial to attach them to:
You Shouldn't Shoot Fire At Babies
Son, In This Country, It Doesn't Pay To Be Nice
It's As Clear As The Penis on Angela
Rain Sucks
Nature Hates Us A Lot
That Red Wingged Bird Has Ill Intent
I promise within the next day or two, I will post something worthwhile. Until then, um, read this
Monday, June 9, 2008
Vince Gets Rick Roll'd on Raw
I know I haven't made an actual post in a while, and tomorrow I plan on making a real one, but this is pretty awesome. As both a wrestling and Rick Astley fan, this may be the best thing ever.
Be prepared, in the next day or two, I plan on making a pretty decent post.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Sometimes You Just Need To Hear Island in the Sun
Is there a better thing in the world then the Spike Jonze version of the "Island in the Sun" video? I'm at a point in my life where I am just searching for something to make me happy. My wife does that. Hockey does that. Music does that. MMA does that. And this video does that. 3 minutes and twenty-two seconds of world forgetting beauty. Sometimes, that's all you need.
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Buffalo Are Winded and the Elk Are Jerks
http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/JOURNALS/LEWIS.html
(This journal is dedicated to brave explorers everywhere. Just because it has all already been discovered, doesn't mean you can't strap on your metal framed backpack and just hike down the road.)
I had a weekend day off for the first time in a long time that didn't involve me calling in sick or just plain scamming my way into it, which was nice, but I still woke up with the same feeling of doom I wake up with every morning, which always comes to the highest fruition when I am in the shower. I take some of the most depressing showers known to man at this point. I wake up and sit there while the water pelts me somewhat uncaringly and I think about what I am going to do with my life. Also, I am fat now so sitting there naked, vulnerable, and chubby really ruins my day.
Amanda has been great and is doing her best to cheer me up, so since we had a day off together, we went on a picnic to Jester Park. Jester Park, for those unaware, has an exhibit with Elk and Bison. The Elk were standoffish as they wanted nothing more than to bathe in their pond filled with Elk guano and clumps of hair (which is still probably cleaner than any of the man made lakes that humans are allowed to inhabit in this area) but the bison spent a lot of time right by the fence, which was neat, except for how hard they were panting. It made me feel uncomfortable, like they could die at any moment. It was like playing hockey with some of the old guys I play with now.
We set up our blanket under a tree in a semi secluded, yet somehow also wide open, campground and ate some tuna sandwiches and I tried to pretend that I wasn't constantly thinking about work. At one point, though, I just plopped backwards into the grass and stared at the clouds. And suddenly, I stopped thinking about my issues. I am not sure what it was, but staring at the clouds, trying to guess what the shapes were, watching as they would either disperse into thin puffs of Marlboro smoke (according to those Truth.com ads all the clouds are made of nicotine now, right?) or join forces into one super cloud, really put me at ease. It was like time slowed down for one moment, and I was here with my girl, and it was beautiful outside and there was nothing wrong with me. It was a weird calming moment, where I literally didn't have any worries other than if that cloud looked like a fish or a bunny. I want every moment to feel that way.
Of course, since I am me, I immediately started worrying that I was wasting a day off and then I started thinking about work and if anyone was ever going to call and offer me a real job and if Miguel Torres was going to beat Maeda and if the Wings were going to finish off the Pens lead by their bearded *snicker* superstar and if I was going to have enough money to survive the next two weeks when I get paid again and then if that was going to be enough to pay the electric bill. But for about three minutes I was completely at ease with the world and everything around me. I even took a couple of pictures of the clouds with my cell phone, hoping maybe if I had visual reminders of how awesome those few moments were, I would somehow get transported back there. So far, it hasn't worked.
(This journal is dedicated to brave explorers everywhere. Just because it has all already been discovered, doesn't mean you can't strap on your metal framed backpack and just hike down the road.)
I had a weekend day off for the first time in a long time that didn't involve me calling in sick or just plain scamming my way into it, which was nice, but I still woke up with the same feeling of doom I wake up with every morning, which always comes to the highest fruition when I am in the shower. I take some of the most depressing showers known to man at this point. I wake up and sit there while the water pelts me somewhat uncaringly and I think about what I am going to do with my life. Also, I am fat now so sitting there naked, vulnerable, and chubby really ruins my day.
Amanda has been great and is doing her best to cheer me up, so since we had a day off together, we went on a picnic to Jester Park. Jester Park, for those unaware, has an exhibit with Elk and Bison. The Elk were standoffish as they wanted nothing more than to bathe in their pond filled with Elk guano and clumps of hair (which is still probably cleaner than any of the man made lakes that humans are allowed to inhabit in this area) but the bison spent a lot of time right by the fence, which was neat, except for how hard they were panting. It made me feel uncomfortable, like they could die at any moment. It was like playing hockey with some of the old guys I play with now.
We set up our blanket under a tree in a semi secluded, yet somehow also wide open, campground and ate some tuna sandwiches and I tried to pretend that I wasn't constantly thinking about work. At one point, though, I just plopped backwards into the grass and stared at the clouds. And suddenly, I stopped thinking about my issues. I am not sure what it was, but staring at the clouds, trying to guess what the shapes were, watching as they would either disperse into thin puffs of Marlboro smoke (according to those Truth.com ads all the clouds are made of nicotine now, right?) or join forces into one super cloud, really put me at ease. It was like time slowed down for one moment, and I was here with my girl, and it was beautiful outside and there was nothing wrong with me. It was a weird calming moment, where I literally didn't have any worries other than if that cloud looked like a fish or a bunny. I want every moment to feel that way.
Of course, since I am me, I immediately started worrying that I was wasting a day off and then I started thinking about work and if anyone was ever going to call and offer me a real job and if Miguel Torres was going to beat Maeda and if the Wings were going to finish off the Pens lead by their bearded *snicker* superstar and if I was going to have enough money to survive the next two weeks when I get paid again and then if that was going to be enough to pay the electric bill. But for about three minutes I was completely at ease with the world and everything around me. I even took a couple of pictures of the clouds with my cell phone, hoping maybe if I had visual reminders of how awesome those few moments were, I would somehow get transported back there. So far, it hasn't worked.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
6 Picks, 6 Last Place Finishes
http://www.onlineathens.com/stories/030908/mensbb_2008030900275.shtml
I am not good at math, but I think my performance at the track last night might make even the greatest odds maker snap their TI-85 in half. I went to the horse track last night and I bet on six races. In those six races, I picked the last place horse every time. The only issue is that I picked those horses to win. In six picks, I picked the horse that would eventually finish last to win. They weren't even bad picks, a couple of times I picked longer odds, and a couple of times I picked one of the favorites, but every time that horse finished in last place. Even if I did a trifecta, the horse I picked to win would finish last (and once I even had second and third right). Six picks, six horses in dead last.
This is not the first time I have had weird gambling issues. Once, while playing three card poker, I lost four straight hands with a king, a jack, and a four. All four hands, two face cards, four decisive beatings.
I think being a Murphy makes me somehow immune to good luck. Sometimes I wonder if fate has put me in a position where, maybe, I just wasn't meant to have good fortune fall in my lap. Maybe I need to find a way to overcome this dreaded Irish curse and actually put some effort into things and not just rely on luck. I think my performance at the horse track is an excellent analogy for my life: Don't just expect things to happen in your favor, because they probably aren't going to.
I think it's somehow fitting that the story I linked to was about how bad the Georgia basketball team was this year. They were the same team that shocked everyone and won the SEC tournament, even winning two games in one day. Sometimes you need luck on your side, and sometimes you just have to actually outwork everyone, and sometimes, well, you need both. I guess maybe I need to start focusing on the outworking everyone and hope that luck finds its way to me.
I am not good at math, but I think my performance at the track last night might make even the greatest odds maker snap their TI-85 in half. I went to the horse track last night and I bet on six races. In those six races, I picked the last place horse every time. The only issue is that I picked those horses to win. In six picks, I picked the horse that would eventually finish last to win. They weren't even bad picks, a couple of times I picked longer odds, and a couple of times I picked one of the favorites, but every time that horse finished in last place. Even if I did a trifecta, the horse I picked to win would finish last (and once I even had second and third right). Six picks, six horses in dead last.
This is not the first time I have had weird gambling issues. Once, while playing three card poker, I lost four straight hands with a king, a jack, and a four. All four hands, two face cards, four decisive beatings.
I think being a Murphy makes me somehow immune to good luck. Sometimes I wonder if fate has put me in a position where, maybe, I just wasn't meant to have good fortune fall in my lap. Maybe I need to find a way to overcome this dreaded Irish curse and actually put some effort into things and not just rely on luck. I think my performance at the horse track is an excellent analogy for my life: Don't just expect things to happen in your favor, because they probably aren't going to.
I think it's somehow fitting that the story I linked to was about how bad the Georgia basketball team was this year. They were the same team that shocked everyone and won the SEC tournament, even winning two games in one day. Sometimes you need luck on your side, and sometimes you just have to actually outwork everyone, and sometimes, well, you need both. I guess maybe I need to start focusing on the outworking everyone and hope that luck finds its way to me.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Mentally Challenged Man Falls Down
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EIWOtbPoHI
There is a guy who walks the mall everyday. All day. He is pleasant enough, and sometimes I can hear him singing all the way down the hall. He is about six foot four and has a horseshoe haircut, or as my uncle's hat used to call it a "solar panel for brain energy." He wears the same grey sweatpants and purple shirt for Norwalk High School everyday and carries around two handfuls of cassettes that he listens to in his old school Walkman. He is also severely mentally handicapped.
I see him everyday, and every once in a while we have a conversation. Well, he yells words, and since I don't hear very well, I have a hard time telling what those words actually are, so I smile big and say things like, "Oh, wow," or "Okay" and try to be as polite as possible. I guess that's sort of a conversation. Anyway, I see him everyday and on most days, I duck behind the counter so I don't have to talk to him.
Today, as he was walking, he slipped and fell a few feet from my little booth. He wasn't hurt, but he was wailing and pounding on the ground. He was just really embarrassed that he fell more than anything, I think. He seemed like he was okay, but he just kept sitting on the ground. A customer that was here, an overly muscled guy with a Napoleon complex, a bad haircut and an awful Affliction knock off T-Shirt (on a side note, what is worse: an actual Affliction shirt, or the one that just rips off the style?), looked over at hm and said, "I'd help him up, but I don't want to touch him." Then he laughed and looked at me like I would think it was funny.
The sad part is, I wanted to help the guy if he was hurt, but I mostly just wanted him to go away. He wasn't hurt, and there wasn't anything I could do for him, but also I just didn't want to do anything for him. I am trying to figure out if that makes me as bad as the other guy making snide comments or if I was doing the right thing. Like not giving into a child throwing a tantrum. But, I feel like my general indifference meant that I am a bad person. Also, I feel like posting that link makes me a bad person, but I just do what the Googles tell me to.
On an unrelated note, I sold a phone today to a sixty-five year old Asian man who was covered in tattoos. They were all old fashioned designs, nothing intricate, but I could see them start on the top of his hands and go all the way up his arm. A large dragon snuck out of his mustard colored shirt at the sleeves and what I think was a portrait of someone was sort of visible peeking out of the neckline. I thought maybe he was yakuza, but instead of missing the tips of his pinkies, he had grown his pinkienails out so that it reached as high as any of his other fingers. I have nothing to add to this other than it was neat and "little old Asian man covered in tattoos" put into Google gives you this:
http://www.hanzismatter.com/2006/11/chucks-tattoos.html
That site makes me laugh.
There is a guy who walks the mall everyday. All day. He is pleasant enough, and sometimes I can hear him singing all the way down the hall. He is about six foot four and has a horseshoe haircut, or as my uncle's hat used to call it a "solar panel for brain energy." He wears the same grey sweatpants and purple shirt for Norwalk High School everyday and carries around two handfuls of cassettes that he listens to in his old school Walkman. He is also severely mentally handicapped.
I see him everyday, and every once in a while we have a conversation. Well, he yells words, and since I don't hear very well, I have a hard time telling what those words actually are, so I smile big and say things like, "Oh, wow," or "Okay" and try to be as polite as possible. I guess that's sort of a conversation. Anyway, I see him everyday and on most days, I duck behind the counter so I don't have to talk to him.
Today, as he was walking, he slipped and fell a few feet from my little booth. He wasn't hurt, but he was wailing and pounding on the ground. He was just really embarrassed that he fell more than anything, I think. He seemed like he was okay, but he just kept sitting on the ground. A customer that was here, an overly muscled guy with a Napoleon complex, a bad haircut and an awful Affliction knock off T-Shirt (on a side note, what is worse: an actual Affliction shirt, or the one that just rips off the style?), looked over at hm and said, "I'd help him up, but I don't want to touch him." Then he laughed and looked at me like I would think it was funny.
The sad part is, I wanted to help the guy if he was hurt, but I mostly just wanted him to go away. He wasn't hurt, and there wasn't anything I could do for him, but also I just didn't want to do anything for him. I am trying to figure out if that makes me as bad as the other guy making snide comments or if I was doing the right thing. Like not giving into a child throwing a tantrum. But, I feel like my general indifference meant that I am a bad person. Also, I feel like posting that link makes me a bad person, but I just do what the Googles tell me to.
On an unrelated note, I sold a phone today to a sixty-five year old Asian man who was covered in tattoos. They were all old fashioned designs, nothing intricate, but I could see them start on the top of his hands and go all the way up his arm. A large dragon snuck out of his mustard colored shirt at the sleeves and what I think was a portrait of someone was sort of visible peeking out of the neckline. I thought maybe he was yakuza, but instead of missing the tips of his pinkies, he had grown his pinkienails out so that it reached as high as any of his other fingers. I have nothing to add to this other than it was neat and "little old Asian man covered in tattoos" put into Google gives you this:
http://www.hanzismatter.com/2006/11/chucks-tattoos.html
That site makes me laugh.
Monday, May 19, 2008
How Can My Answer Be a Lie When I Don't Know What the Question Is?
http://thatsmyanswer.com/
I was accused today of lying to try and make a sale, even though the sale was already made by someone else, and my answer was the truth. Some hillbilly wife called me and because she doesn't understand the concept of a phone bill, someone must have harmed her personally. When I explained what I thought was the answer to her problems, she called me a liar. And not just a liar, a fucking liar who only wants to make money off of her, even though I didn't make any money off of her and never will. There is only two possible explanations for why I might be a liar to this woman: either she is an idiot who doesn't know that you have to pay for services and assumed she could just skate by or in her drunken and/or meth addled rage, she wasn't asking me the right question. I am going to assume it is the former, although I assume the meth addled part about the latter was likely a factor too.
I don't understand people and I never will. Customer service will either destroy me, mess up the customer or possibly both at this point. I am so unbelieveably frustrated with not only my own profession, but with the enitre city of Des Moines, the entire state of Iowa, the enitre country, this whole planet, and even that one plant they just discovered that is similar to Earth simply because if there is life there, they are probably fucking rediculous, too.
Because of the actions of one or two people, I now assume the worst about everyone. The big breasted blond to my left; probably an asshole. The lady that works in the clothes store across from me; probably an asshole. This guy in the plaid shirt walking by me; probably an asshole. The newborn in the pink stroller; most likely an asshole. I am starting to feel very Kaczynski-ish about our society as a whole and am starting to wonder if we couldn't just use a good 40 days and 40 nights and start over again.
I am so frustrated, that my boss's boss's boss came to the store today and I didn't even pretend that I wasn't looking at Principal.com for a new job. I just smiled politely, hit the little "x" in the top right and looked him in the eye, waiting for the blowback. He just ran his hand through his gray flat top fade hair of his, congratulated me on my excellent mystery shop (mystery shops are the greatest load of crap this world has ever seen), gave me some new pamphlets to hand out and then gave me some tips on how to improve sales. Either he didn't notice the website I was on, or he is just so used to everyone quitting, that it just doesn't faze him at this point. I hope he noticed. I am planning an exit that will hopefully be quick and handled with a handshake, but deep down, I sort of feel like going out with such a blaze of glory that this kiosk burns to the ground.
Oh, and so I don't completely blow off my gimmick, I will now answer today's questions from that website I just posted:
I was baptized as a baby.
I would never send a neighbor an anonymous letter. If I had an issue with them I would mumble about it under my breath and then wait until they moved out, which will be soon knowing the place next to ours.
Women carry lots of stuff in their purses because they have lots of stuff. Men don't need makeup or tampons, but I carry pretty much everything else that a woman would, only in my pockets.
This weekend I went to an independent wrestling show, was woken up by my drunk wife and my drunk neighbors (at different times), and almost fell asleep on the couch at 730 pm.
I currently don't have a song in my head, but I will instead just type the first song that pops in. "Aeroplane" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers (one day I should write about how overlooked One Hot Minute is as an album).
Also, on an unrelated note, today is my sister's birthday. Since I couldn't find that one scene in Three Amgios where Jefe goes "Today, he turns, 33 years old" I chose this one instead.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=mEIZ_FFmjnw
(How come I can't embed videos anymore from Youtube? Why even have a youtube if you can't embed videos.)
(Also a tiny Asian man in his 60's just walked by singing Blondie really loudly. That is awesome.)
I was accused today of lying to try and make a sale, even though the sale was already made by someone else, and my answer was the truth. Some hillbilly wife called me and because she doesn't understand the concept of a phone bill, someone must have harmed her personally. When I explained what I thought was the answer to her problems, she called me a liar. And not just a liar, a fucking liar who only wants to make money off of her, even though I didn't make any money off of her and never will. There is only two possible explanations for why I might be a liar to this woman: either she is an idiot who doesn't know that you have to pay for services and assumed she could just skate by or in her drunken and/or meth addled rage, she wasn't asking me the right question. I am going to assume it is the former, although I assume the meth addled part about the latter was likely a factor too.
I don't understand people and I never will. Customer service will either destroy me, mess up the customer or possibly both at this point. I am so unbelieveably frustrated with not only my own profession, but with the enitre city of Des Moines, the entire state of Iowa, the enitre country, this whole planet, and even that one plant they just discovered that is similar to Earth simply because if there is life there, they are probably fucking rediculous, too.
Because of the actions of one or two people, I now assume the worst about everyone. The big breasted blond to my left; probably an asshole. The lady that works in the clothes store across from me; probably an asshole. This guy in the plaid shirt walking by me; probably an asshole. The newborn in the pink stroller; most likely an asshole. I am starting to feel very Kaczynski-ish about our society as a whole and am starting to wonder if we couldn't just use a good 40 days and 40 nights and start over again.
I am so frustrated, that my boss's boss's boss came to the store today and I didn't even pretend that I wasn't looking at Principal.com for a new job. I just smiled politely, hit the little "x" in the top right and looked him in the eye, waiting for the blowback. He just ran his hand through his gray flat top fade hair of his, congratulated me on my excellent mystery shop (mystery shops are the greatest load of crap this world has ever seen), gave me some new pamphlets to hand out and then gave me some tips on how to improve sales. Either he didn't notice the website I was on, or he is just so used to everyone quitting, that it just doesn't faze him at this point. I hope he noticed. I am planning an exit that will hopefully be quick and handled with a handshake, but deep down, I sort of feel like going out with such a blaze of glory that this kiosk burns to the ground.
Oh, and so I don't completely blow off my gimmick, I will now answer today's questions from that website I just posted:
I was baptized as a baby.
I would never send a neighbor an anonymous letter. If I had an issue with them I would mumble about it under my breath and then wait until they moved out, which will be soon knowing the place next to ours.
Women carry lots of stuff in their purses because they have lots of stuff. Men don't need makeup or tampons, but I carry pretty much everything else that a woman would, only in my pockets.
This weekend I went to an independent wrestling show, was woken up by my drunk wife and my drunk neighbors (at different times), and almost fell asleep on the couch at 730 pm.
I currently don't have a song in my head, but I will instead just type the first song that pops in. "Aeroplane" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers (one day I should write about how overlooked One Hot Minute is as an album).
Also, on an unrelated note, today is my sister's birthday. Since I couldn't find that one scene in Three Amgios where Jefe goes "Today, he turns, 33 years old" I chose this one instead.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=mEIZ_FFmjnw
(How come I can't embed videos anymore from Youtube? Why even have a youtube if you can't embed videos.)
(Also a tiny Asian man in his 60's just walked by singing Blondie really loudly. That is awesome.)
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Kitchen Misadventures
http://www.realsimple.com/realsimple/content/0,21770,1105192,00.html
Yesterday was kitchen misdaventure day. I burned my hand on the toaster oven, overcooked the meat, burned the rolls, and scraped up my wife's nice skillet with a metal spatula before finally turning over the reigns to her. The bad news is I can't cook worth a damn and looked like a fool, but the good news is I was inept enough that I may not be asked to cook again for a while, which is nice.
I am typing this right now while pretending to do work. That is always what I do , but literally this time I am pretending to set up a cell phone account for some guy. Hopefully, he doesn't look around the corner, but I don't think he will. I know for a fact that he is attempting to open up a fraudulent cell phone account, so I have no desire to actually try and help him. He is an hispanic gangsta with some sort of weird herpes on his lip that I can't help looking at, and he can't help but prod with his tongue. Now, I am going to tell him that he has a large deposit so he will go away.
I haven't updated this in a week or so mostly because I have been sick and mostly because I can't think of anything to write about, but if I am ever going to be a writer, I just need to write as much as I can. So I am going to go straight up Christmas letter style and just type about some stuff that has happened to me.
Last weekend was the poetry circus which went amazingly well. I sold some cotton candy, watched some belly dancers, learned about a few new awesome local bands, drank some good beer and then drank Bud Light, sold cotton candy to Morpheus from the Matrix, watched in awesome delight as two sisters in corsets got into a fight and learned that I think I hate theatre.
My sister's boyfriend put on the poetry circus and he and I have discussed possibly doing a play together. He says I would be a natural actor, and I got very excited and agreed. However, I watched two middle-aged people perform "Taming of the Shrew" to an indifferent audience and all I could think of was people making fun of them (because lord knows I was) and how that would probably be me if I were to ever do a play. Maybe this acting thing is for me after all.
The next day I was flattened by the worst sinus infection I think I have ever encountered. I was out for a few days, which was nice because I didn't have to go to work, but sucked because I didn't get paid.
I just realized that this is the worst thing I have ever written and will now end it abruptly.
Yesterday was kitchen misdaventure day. I burned my hand on the toaster oven, overcooked the meat, burned the rolls, and scraped up my wife's nice skillet with a metal spatula before finally turning over the reigns to her. The bad news is I can't cook worth a damn and looked like a fool, but the good news is I was inept enough that I may not be asked to cook again for a while, which is nice.
I am typing this right now while pretending to do work. That is always what I do , but literally this time I am pretending to set up a cell phone account for some guy. Hopefully, he doesn't look around the corner, but I don't think he will. I know for a fact that he is attempting to open up a fraudulent cell phone account, so I have no desire to actually try and help him. He is an hispanic gangsta with some sort of weird herpes on his lip that I can't help looking at, and he can't help but prod with his tongue. Now, I am going to tell him that he has a large deposit so he will go away.
I haven't updated this in a week or so mostly because I have been sick and mostly because I can't think of anything to write about, but if I am ever going to be a writer, I just need to write as much as I can. So I am going to go straight up Christmas letter style and just type about some stuff that has happened to me.
Last weekend was the poetry circus which went amazingly well. I sold some cotton candy, watched some belly dancers, learned about a few new awesome local bands, drank some good beer and then drank Bud Light, sold cotton candy to Morpheus from the Matrix, watched in awesome delight as two sisters in corsets got into a fight and learned that I think I hate theatre.
My sister's boyfriend put on the poetry circus and he and I have discussed possibly doing a play together. He says I would be a natural actor, and I got very excited and agreed. However, I watched two middle-aged people perform "Taming of the Shrew" to an indifferent audience and all I could think of was people making fun of them (because lord knows I was) and how that would probably be me if I were to ever do a play. Maybe this acting thing is for me after all.
The next day I was flattened by the worst sinus infection I think I have ever encountered. I was out for a few days, which was nice because I didn't have to go to work, but sucked because I didn't get paid.
I just realized that this is the worst thing I have ever written and will now end it abruptly.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Pineapple Cake and SCUD Missiles
http://www.good-time-charleys.com/drinks%20menu%20web.pdf
I am working with the girl today. She is a perfectly nice girl. She means very well. She is twenty years old, but her ID says shes twenty-two. Her breasts are large and she smells pretty. Again, a perfectly nice girl, but she's just not my thing.
She has blond hair and makes out with other girls when she drinks too much. She wears shirts that would be illegal if they were cut one half inch lower. She has too many guys stop and talk to her, which puts me on edge for some reason. I could probably get her to make out with me if I asked nice enough, not because she likes me, but because she likes the attention.
She has bad taste in music, but most people do. She has bad taste in men, but most girls do. She smokes, I think, or she just spends a lot of time completely off the face of the Earth. She also draws a lot of attention to me, which makes me sort of uncomforable because the attention she draws is from flithy meth addicts and gang memebers (which is pretty much this mall's clientel). It seems apropos that todays website is a drink menu from some Universtiy of Michigan bar. She would fit it perfectly with some drunken Wolverines. I bet Tom Brady would've nailed her, at the very least Harbaugh would've.
As a quick aside, pineapple cake and SCUD missiles have nothing to do with her. I had a dream that Tina Fey made me a pineapple cake and I took it outside, at which point I ran into Saddam Hussein and gave him my condolences on his own death. He said at least he still has SCUD missiles as his legacy and we chatted a bit about the war and about raising kids and about the NHL playoffs. He seemed pretty charming.
I am working with the girl today. She is a perfectly nice girl. She means very well. She is twenty years old, but her ID says shes twenty-two. Her breasts are large and she smells pretty. Again, a perfectly nice girl, but she's just not my thing.
She has blond hair and makes out with other girls when she drinks too much. She wears shirts that would be illegal if they were cut one half inch lower. She has too many guys stop and talk to her, which puts me on edge for some reason. I could probably get her to make out with me if I asked nice enough, not because she likes me, but because she likes the attention.
She has bad taste in music, but most people do. She has bad taste in men, but most girls do. She smokes, I think, or she just spends a lot of time completely off the face of the Earth. She also draws a lot of attention to me, which makes me sort of uncomforable because the attention she draws is from flithy meth addicts and gang memebers (which is pretty much this mall's clientel). It seems apropos that todays website is a drink menu from some Universtiy of Michigan bar. She would fit it perfectly with some drunken Wolverines. I bet Tom Brady would've nailed her, at the very least Harbaugh would've.
As a quick aside, pineapple cake and SCUD missiles have nothing to do with her. I had a dream that Tina Fey made me a pineapple cake and I took it outside, at which point I ran into Saddam Hussein and gave him my condolences on his own death. He said at least he still has SCUD missiles as his legacy and we chatted a bit about the war and about raising kids and about the NHL playoffs. He seemed pretty charming.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Good to See You're Still Living
http://yourestillyoung.blogspot.com/
A 40 something Jewish/Canuck (or JewNuck) couple is looking to conceive. Hopefully, that didn't run you off from clicking on the link because this is a well written, well thought out (if sometimes period heavy--both in punctuation and in menstration--eek) well intentioned blog that I actually read a great deal of before being weirded out by her constant mentions of her cycle (I didn't actually need to hear that her period returned with a vengence, makes me think of some sort of a tidal wave senario). But what is a little more disturbing to me is it feels like she thinks she will be a failure of a life if she isn't a mother. As if conception was poor Shlomit's only reason to exist. It is almost heartbreaking to not only see the level of despair she reaches because of her lack of children, but also the fact that she clearly is resting her entire existence on acheiving the elusive baby bump. It is sad to know that her psyche is so prevelant on acheiving this one goal, that her whole life feels like a failure because she hasn't. I was also weirded out because I kept thinking of old Jewish people having sex. Like Jackie Mason drilling Barbara Streisand or Gene Simmons spinning his dreidel inside of, I dunno, George Costanza's mom (is she Jewish, she seems like she should be).
It's funny that people can be so focused and so set on acheiving one particular thing, that if they don't, their life is hopeless. I fall into that trap sometimes too, although, my goal is a little less noble than child bearing. I just want to get a different job so bad, that I feel like my life doesn't have any meaning because I sit at a computer all day and type on this blog and then occasionally sell a cell phone to people who generally have an attitude problem. I know, it's not as good as a Jewish couple trying desperatly to conceive, but I still have my own problems too, dammit.
The words I typed into Google today were words I actually just said to my cousin. He and my aunt stopped by the kiosk I work at, and while we were really close as children, we sort of fell out of touch by the time I reached high school. He became a straight edge punk and I became a guy who wished I was but couldn't stand to get into fights because someone was sipping on a white wine spritzer (also, I'm a man who loves his beer, mmmmm beer). Since we haven't been close for a while, I slipped into awkward conversation mode, which sucks because he and my aunt are family and awkward conversation mode should only be reserved for people I went to high school with and truly don't want to see.
Anyway, they stopped by and I started out okay, but I had a hard time thinking of things to say. and by started out okay I mean I had a sentence or two that came out without a stutter, then I started blinking rapidly and saying "uh" a lot. It is particularly awkward because he cleaned up his punk act (although the tats on his forearms say he still has a little of that in him) and has spent the last few years in the US Army. He was in Japan for a while, which made the family a little more comfortable, but the inevitable happaned and he was sent to Afghanistan.
He looked good when I saw him, although a little thin. I imgained he would be a little more buff, but I guess he has a little more of a desk position than an infantry position so it's understandable. He was on an eighteen day leave, with only a few days left, and then back to Afghanistan, so I really wanted to make him feel wlesomced and that it was nice to see him and that I wished for his safety. Instead after all of my stuttering a stammering, I told him he looked good and it was "Good to see you're still living." I don't know why I felt like I shoved my foot in my mouth, but it just felt that way. I guess it may be on the same lines as a pitcher throwing a no hitter; you don't tell a mother her son could die any at any second, and it likely won't happen.
I guess I'm not sure what I am really rambling about, but I guess it is just weird to see what people's goals are. I wonder if my cousin will feel like a failure if he is a bad soldier. I wonder if my aunt will feel like a failure if he somehow (God forbid) doesn't make it back from this tour. I wonder if Sariel and Shlomit will actually feel like failures if they don't make a tiny JewNuck. But most of all, I wonder why I still feel like I will be a failure if I don't get out of my dead end job and why real struggles of life and death haven't put things a little more in perspective.
A 40 something Jewish/Canuck (or JewNuck) couple is looking to conceive. Hopefully, that didn't run you off from clicking on the link because this is a well written, well thought out (if sometimes period heavy--both in punctuation and in menstration--eek) well intentioned blog that I actually read a great deal of before being weirded out by her constant mentions of her cycle (I didn't actually need to hear that her period returned with a vengence, makes me think of some sort of a tidal wave senario). But what is a little more disturbing to me is it feels like she thinks she will be a failure of a life if she isn't a mother. As if conception was poor Shlomit's only reason to exist. It is almost heartbreaking to not only see the level of despair she reaches because of her lack of children, but also the fact that she clearly is resting her entire existence on acheiving the elusive baby bump. It is sad to know that her psyche is so prevelant on acheiving this one goal, that her whole life feels like a failure because she hasn't. I was also weirded out because I kept thinking of old Jewish people having sex. Like Jackie Mason drilling Barbara Streisand or Gene Simmons spinning his dreidel inside of, I dunno, George Costanza's mom (is she Jewish, she seems like she should be).
It's funny that people can be so focused and so set on acheiving one particular thing, that if they don't, their life is hopeless. I fall into that trap sometimes too, although, my goal is a little less noble than child bearing. I just want to get a different job so bad, that I feel like my life doesn't have any meaning because I sit at a computer all day and type on this blog and then occasionally sell a cell phone to people who generally have an attitude problem. I know, it's not as good as a Jewish couple trying desperatly to conceive, but I still have my own problems too, dammit.
The words I typed into Google today were words I actually just said to my cousin. He and my aunt stopped by the kiosk I work at, and while we were really close as children, we sort of fell out of touch by the time I reached high school. He became a straight edge punk and I became a guy who wished I was but couldn't stand to get into fights because someone was sipping on a white wine spritzer (also, I'm a man who loves his beer, mmmmm beer). Since we haven't been close for a while, I slipped into awkward conversation mode, which sucks because he and my aunt are family and awkward conversation mode should only be reserved for people I went to high school with and truly don't want to see.
Anyway, they stopped by and I started out okay, but I had a hard time thinking of things to say. and by started out okay I mean I had a sentence or two that came out without a stutter, then I started blinking rapidly and saying "uh" a lot. It is particularly awkward because he cleaned up his punk act (although the tats on his forearms say he still has a little of that in him) and has spent the last few years in the US Army. He was in Japan for a while, which made the family a little more comfortable, but the inevitable happaned and he was sent to Afghanistan.
He looked good when I saw him, although a little thin. I imgained he would be a little more buff, but I guess he has a little more of a desk position than an infantry position so it's understandable. He was on an eighteen day leave, with only a few days left, and then back to Afghanistan, so I really wanted to make him feel wlesomced and that it was nice to see him and that I wished for his safety. Instead after all of my stuttering a stammering, I told him he looked good and it was "Good to see you're still living." I don't know why I felt like I shoved my foot in my mouth, but it just felt that way. I guess it may be on the same lines as a pitcher throwing a no hitter; you don't tell a mother her son could die any at any second, and it likely won't happen.
I guess I'm not sure what I am really rambling about, but I guess it is just weird to see what people's goals are. I wonder if my cousin will feel like a failure if he is a bad soldier. I wonder if my aunt will feel like a failure if he somehow (God forbid) doesn't make it back from this tour. I wonder if Sariel and Shlomit will actually feel like failures if they don't make a tiny JewNuck. But most of all, I wonder why I still feel like I will be a failure if I don't get out of my dead end job and why real struggles of life and death haven't put things a little more in perspective.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Quack, I'm Zeus
http://www.bebo.com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=2013349731
Ever wanted to pick up random chicks? Ever wanted to be some sort of barnyard fowl? Ever wanted to pick up chicks as some sort of barnyard fowl? Are you the God of Thunder? If you answered yes to all of those questions, then do I have the pick up line for you. All you do is turn into a swan, find some young bitty relaxing by the lake and say "Quack, I'm Zeus." And just like that, you have created a relationship that will no doubt lead to some sort of half man/half god creature that is unfortunately also not half duck.
As it turns out, "Quack, I'm Zeus" also sends you to a bebo.com profile. Bebo.com appears to be a sort of myspace for Kiwis who spend too much time bungee jumping and are all descended from criminals (I didn't do any other research to find out if it was just New Zealanders, but I like to think that it is). I know these are all stereotypes, but that's the downside of the new social networking craze. You get some jackass with a high speed modem making racist comments on his new blog. Poor Rich Kaio. Although great picture. As it turns out, "Quack, I'm Zeus" also works on large ladies, but I think you have to have dance skills if you can't turn into a swan.
Rich Kaio seems like a good dude, even though I have no idea what he's talking about for most of his page. Also, he doesn't like sports, which makes me think he doesn't like bungee jumping which shatters all my preconceived notions of New Zealanders (all of which I have gotten entirely from Flight of the Conchords). Also, I want to talk to him to ask him if he remembers when there used to be penguins. I would also like to point out that Moira McFarland and Amy Chestnutt are hot and in his friends list which leads me to believe that Rich Kaio has hot Internet friends, but then again, don't we all.
I chose Quack, I'm Zeus because I have been thinking about religion a little bit lately, and Zeus is King of the Gods after all. I have been perusing (literally, I kind of stopped reading it and just sort of started looking at it) AJ Jacobs's new book where he tries to live the bible as literally as possible. Also, I had a job interview at a Christian Rock radio station the other day, which sort of creeped me out.
The station was in the back of one of those mega churches that are all the rage right now. One of those places with big jumbotrons to show the charismatic, yet creepy preacher in high def and he wears one of those Backstreet Boys/Old Navy earpiece microphones and they put their hands in the air when they sing songs for some reason.
I interviewed with a guy who I described to my wife as swarthy. Swarthy seemed like one of those words that should mean "slick" or "used car salesman", because that was definitely what he was. He had earrings in both of his ears and a weird Van Dyke beard. He spoke loudly with a lot of confidence. I bet at one time he considered running for congress. He was a little slimy. Unfortunately, swarthy only sounds like a word that should mean slimy. It actually means dark skinned. I want to start one of those online petitions to get the meaning of that word changed because it made me look stupid in front of my wife.
After an awkward interview where I pretended to like some dude named Toby Mac (whoever that is), and flaunted my religious background (used to go to church as a kid, read the bible once, was once awoken by the Hour of Power at full blast) he shook my hand and led me out the door. I received a rejection letter so fast, I am pretty sure his secretary was typing the letter as I was leaving. I wasn't angry about the rejection, because it was kind of a shitty job anyway, but to be rejected in a church sort of made me feel like Jesus himself was rejecting me, which wouldn't be the first time.
My mother, who is Evangelical, is undoubtedly my most religious relative. She was the one who woke me up with the Hour of Power and she once tricked me into getting anointed with oil while some televangelist spoke in tongues to me. All the other kids next to me passed out, apparently overcome with the holy spirit. But I stayed perfectly vertical. I wondered if maybe I was missing something, if somehow Jesus didn't want to fill me with his love through the fingers of a highly paid TV star. I am sort of convinced they were all faking it, but I can't be so sure about it, maybe Jesus didn't love me as much as the cute girl in the pink low cut dress who stood next to me. Maybe he didn't allow the power of Him to flow through me because I was staring at some girl's chest. Although, maybe still it was something I did in the past or perhaps will do in the future. I am pretty sure the televangelist's fingers sizzled when she touched me, so maybe I am just a lot more evil then I like to think. I left the church thinking either all those kids were a bunch of fakers, or Jesus just doesn't love me.
So, if Jesus doesn't love you, then who do you have left? My hopes is that he loves me enough to find me a new job, but not enough to have that job be with any sort of religious group. Maybe as a way to show me that he loves me, but he doesn't want me to have anything to do with his religion, like Chris Farley and Tim Matheson in Black Sheep. Sort of a "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" position, which is nice. Jesus and I could probably be friends if we just sat down and shared a beer and watched the Red Wings game or something. I don't want him to write me off yet, unless he knows something I don't.
Ever wanted to pick up random chicks? Ever wanted to be some sort of barnyard fowl? Ever wanted to pick up chicks as some sort of barnyard fowl? Are you the God of Thunder? If you answered yes to all of those questions, then do I have the pick up line for you. All you do is turn into a swan, find some young bitty relaxing by the lake and say "Quack, I'm Zeus." And just like that, you have created a relationship that will no doubt lead to some sort of half man/half god creature that is unfortunately also not half duck.
As it turns out, "Quack, I'm Zeus" also sends you to a bebo.com profile. Bebo.com appears to be a sort of myspace for Kiwis who spend too much time bungee jumping and are all descended from criminals (I didn't do any other research to find out if it was just New Zealanders, but I like to think that it is). I know these are all stereotypes, but that's the downside of the new social networking craze. You get some jackass with a high speed modem making racist comments on his new blog. Poor Rich Kaio. Although great picture. As it turns out, "Quack, I'm Zeus" also works on large ladies, but I think you have to have dance skills if you can't turn into a swan.
Rich Kaio seems like a good dude, even though I have no idea what he's talking about for most of his page. Also, he doesn't like sports, which makes me think he doesn't like bungee jumping which shatters all my preconceived notions of New Zealanders (all of which I have gotten entirely from Flight of the Conchords). Also, I want to talk to him to ask him if he remembers when there used to be penguins. I would also like to point out that Moira McFarland and Amy Chestnutt are hot and in his friends list which leads me to believe that Rich Kaio has hot Internet friends, but then again, don't we all.
I chose Quack, I'm Zeus because I have been thinking about religion a little bit lately, and Zeus is King of the Gods after all. I have been perusing (literally, I kind of stopped reading it and just sort of started looking at it) AJ Jacobs's new book where he tries to live the bible as literally as possible. Also, I had a job interview at a Christian Rock radio station the other day, which sort of creeped me out.
The station was in the back of one of those mega churches that are all the rage right now. One of those places with big jumbotrons to show the charismatic, yet creepy preacher in high def and he wears one of those Backstreet Boys/Old Navy earpiece microphones and they put their hands in the air when they sing songs for some reason.
I interviewed with a guy who I described to my wife as swarthy. Swarthy seemed like one of those words that should mean "slick" or "used car salesman", because that was definitely what he was. He had earrings in both of his ears and a weird Van Dyke beard. He spoke loudly with a lot of confidence. I bet at one time he considered running for congress. He was a little slimy. Unfortunately, swarthy only sounds like a word that should mean slimy. It actually means dark skinned. I want to start one of those online petitions to get the meaning of that word changed because it made me look stupid in front of my wife.
After an awkward interview where I pretended to like some dude named Toby Mac (whoever that is), and flaunted my religious background (used to go to church as a kid, read the bible once, was once awoken by the Hour of Power at full blast) he shook my hand and led me out the door. I received a rejection letter so fast, I am pretty sure his secretary was typing the letter as I was leaving. I wasn't angry about the rejection, because it was kind of a shitty job anyway, but to be rejected in a church sort of made me feel like Jesus himself was rejecting me, which wouldn't be the first time.
My mother, who is Evangelical, is undoubtedly my most religious relative. She was the one who woke me up with the Hour of Power and she once tricked me into getting anointed with oil while some televangelist spoke in tongues to me. All the other kids next to me passed out, apparently overcome with the holy spirit. But I stayed perfectly vertical. I wondered if maybe I was missing something, if somehow Jesus didn't want to fill me with his love through the fingers of a highly paid TV star. I am sort of convinced they were all faking it, but I can't be so sure about it, maybe Jesus didn't love me as much as the cute girl in the pink low cut dress who stood next to me. Maybe he didn't allow the power of Him to flow through me because I was staring at some girl's chest. Although, maybe still it was something I did in the past or perhaps will do in the future. I am pretty sure the televangelist's fingers sizzled when she touched me, so maybe I am just a lot more evil then I like to think. I left the church thinking either all those kids were a bunch of fakers, or Jesus just doesn't love me.
So, if Jesus doesn't love you, then who do you have left? My hopes is that he loves me enough to find me a new job, but not enough to have that job be with any sort of religious group. Maybe as a way to show me that he loves me, but he doesn't want me to have anything to do with his religion, like Chris Farley and Tim Matheson in Black Sheep. Sort of a "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" position, which is nice. Jesus and I could probably be friends if we just sat down and shared a beer and watched the Red Wings game or something. I don't want him to write me off yet, unless he knows something I don't.
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