I Have No Idea Where I’m Going With This

When I was a child, I was under the impression that clouds were solid objects.  This was before science class taught me that just because my eyes saw something as solid and tangible didn’t make it so.  In fact, science taught me that most of what we see is a simplified version of what actually is; that the human brain can not perceive the world in real time and must filter and process things together so everything makes sense and we all don’t go utterly insane and starting shrieking manically at the realization that we are no more than cosmic vapor clinging to what is essentially a pebble being hurtled through space around a small (really really small) insanely hot furnace.  It was my first understanding of the duality of human existence: Our brains are incredibly smart, able to devise ways to destroy anything larger than us and create marvels such as an Etch-A-Sketch and, I don’t know, the Parthenon or whatever, but they were also incredibly dumb when it came to things as truly imagining the size of the universe.  We can create words (like infinity) to describe a loose concept of the size, but the truth is simply too big for the human brain.

This understanding wasn’t so bad for me, as the wonder that my imagination created had been replaced by an even bigger wonder of all the crazy crap we live through everyday.  And yet there was some magic lost when I grasped that if one were to try to step on a cloud they would plummet to their deaths.  It’s the same magic that will make a kid run down the street with a garden hose in their hands, trying to chase and catch the rainbow that has suddenly appeared out of thin air (and a fine spray of water and a sun positioned behind you, as I later came to know).  I did not mourn for the actual idea of walking on clouds, but rather for the childlike sense of unending possibilities.

The first true instance of the separation of fantasy and the real-world is jarring because it’s not just drawing lines in the sands of our contemplation.  As a child, everything is sand, a desert where what is and what could be imagined have no distinction.

It’s like Schrödinger’s cat (sorry, I’m about to use and twist this famous intellectual experiment in an utterly incorrect way, but fuck it, it’s my blog), except the cat is the child’s reality and the box is the kid’s perception.  As a child, the reality and the fantasies are the same thing, existing both at the same time, which would explain imaginary friends.  It’s not that the children are unknowingly conducting their first thought experiment, they are thought experiments.  And when school/parents/the world comes in and starts to show them the difference between make believe and reality, it’s not simply saying, “This doesn’t exist,” or, “This doesn’t happen.”  To the kid, it’s the end of the experiment; it’s opening the box and finding out that, yes, the cat is dead.

It is a horribly unfair, and yet completely needed, alteration of how they perceive their world.  As they grow, they will have that done many more times, and hopefully they will start to do it on their own accord.  But that first time is the hardest, because with the understanding that the fantastic is different, separate, and only in our heads, comes the realization that we can never go back.  We can not trick ourselves into being in that dark box again, where both reality and fantasy collide and mesh.  We can visit it through movies and books and other such things, but we can never live there again.  It’s a hard lesson, no matter what age it happens, because if you were aware enough, you would actually be able to feel yourself grow.

I also thought that if you were on a street named Colorado Street in New Hampshire, it was the same Colorado Street you would find in Utah.  This wasn’t out of childlike wonder, I was just stupid kid.

6 Down, 6 To Go

To the day, it has been six months since I started this blog.  Give me a moment while I light a candle in celebration.

yaaaaaaaaaay.

Each day has been an interesting challenge.  Not only is it difficult to remember to post something every single day, but it has also been a challenge to find material to blog about.  In the beginning things were easy as I had a tremendous backlog of material to go through, so posting was more about finding the picture, song, video or Word document on my computer.  But I discovered that you can go through material quite quickly when you post every single day, and it was not long before I had to start creating material to keep you, my beautiful and most fabulous and highly intelligent reader (who says you can’t win friends with an abundance of compliments?), entertained.  And since my goal is to post every single day for at least one year, the next six months are going to call for me to create a lot more than in the first half of my blog life.  So as a sort of “State of the Union”, I’m going to go through each one of my categories and detail what I am planning for the next six months on this blog.

"And there will be more funny animal pictures! For the people! For your children! AND FOR THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!!"

Sunday Articles
This has ended up being the most difficult day for me, partly because the category is so open.  I am not as confident in my writing capabilities as I am with my other talents, so my original plan of posting a story every single week kind of petered out.  For the next six months, however, I hope to write more fiction than I have in the past, with a focus on creating a few serials.  One, The Judo Brothers, will be about the story of three estranged brothers coming together to save the world.  The second serial, The Many Deaths of Wallace Stone, will chronicle the unfortunate demises of a single man who might (or might not) happen to be some sort of amnesiac immortal.  I would also say I plan to do more “listy” sort of articles, but I haven’t been able to come up with any ideas for them so y’all might have to wait a while for those.

Monday Animal Thoughts
I am reaching the end of my cache of these pictures, but I have a few hundred more pictures of animals in a file just waiting to have human thoughts put to them, so I don’t worry too much about these.  But in general the format will remain pretty much the same, however I will be accepting “entries” for this category.  If you see a picture of an animal while roaming the internet that you would like to see me apply my talents to, send it along and I will do my best to post it in the following week.

Tuesday Food
I am going to continue with my current trend of posting weight-loss articles.  I am almost finished with the nutrition portion of weight-loss, after which I will move on to exercise and practice portions.  But I understand that a chunk of you started following me for the recipes and alcoholic concoctions I was posting, and I have been working on a few recipes so as not to alienate some of my audience.  These recipes include a Wasabe-Ginger-Sake cocktail, a drink I have entitled The Hanging Rose, and a noodle dish comprised mainly of breakfast foods.

Wednesday Audio
This day ended being the one I spent the most time on, and the one that has called for me to create more original material than all the other categories.  I have a few songs that I would like to record, but I hope to read more short stories in the next six months, along with some radio plays.

Thursday Video
I have already run out of material from college, so I am delving deeper into my past to bring you some things I made in high school.  One, which I have already started posting, is a forty-minute film I made entitled Air, which will take up the next month or so.  I also have a few performances that I will post, along with some bloopers and behind the scenes material from AirSWAT.  After that, I will start filming a new short every week.  Some of these will be simple exercises in filming; non-scripted shorts pertaining to one subject (the color red, or things that hang off of walls).  Others will short music videos set to some abstract/cliché 80’s music. But most of them will end up being short comedic skits.  The first will be “The Life and Times of Wilbur, The God of Weather”.  I have no idea what it will be about, but I came up with the title and figured I would just make it up as I go along.  Which is, you know, some how different than everything else I do on this blog.

Friday Cartoons
Much like the Animal Thoughts, these aren’t going to change anytime soon.  I might have to create a few more towards the end, but my backlog of cartoons is still pretty full.

Saturday Scripts
More and more of these will pertain to Phil & Rosco, and I might even begin to pen out a screenplay in front of your very eyes.

So that’s what you’re going to get in the next six months, or at least that’s the plan.  After a single year of posting every single day, I might go on a hiatus of sorts to allow myself some time to come up with new ideas.  I also will probably stop posting every single day, as it really is a pain in my ass sometimes.  Until then, I hope you have enjoyed the ride thus far and will stick with me for another six months.  I can’t promise everything will be good as even I feel I cop out sometimes just to be able to post something.  But when it isn’t good I will try to compensate you somehow.  Not with cash, but maybe with cupcakes.

And in my favorite flavor: Virtual. Nothing like a virtual cupcake.

A Side Chosen For Me

This man has done nothing to me.  In fact, for the price of a penny and the fare of a fifty,  this man is putting himself in mortal peril, putting himself at risk of dismemberment, disembowelment and decapitation, and all for my amusement.  While I gorged myself on roasted chicken, spare ribs, and half a baked potato eaten off of a pewter plate, this man battled next to horse and hawk to merely to entertain me.

And yet I hate him.  I hate him more than I can describe.  I hate him more than that one guy who took that last package of oreos that one time I wanted to buy oreos and there was only one package of them left and he took it (I guess he was going to give it to the cute four year old girl, whom I also hated), and I wished the worst death known to man to happen to him.  I hated this man in front of me now panting, sweat dripping from his face and the smell of horseshit permeating all of his clothes, more than that oreo-taking bastard.

And all because my server told me he was my enemy.  While pouring my iced tea into my pewter mug, she pointed across the arena to a section of the audience lit up by green lights and stated, “That color is your enemy.  You must boo whenever he appears in the arena.”  I not only booed.  All because a wench told me so, for two hours my bloodlust knew no boundaries and I dreamed of this honest, hard-working and decent man strung up by his hind-quarters and split in twain.

This is the real reason Medieval Times is awesome.  Not the horses, or the food, or the fighting, or the costumes.  Not even the crazy amounts of liquor they serve you.  It’s the facts that they give you leave to imagine a horrible horrible deaths for these brave knights, they make it easy by choosing for you, and then they make you feel okay about your violent thoughts.

May the Green Knight know no boundary to his pain in anguish!

DEATH KILL DESTROY MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA MORE MEAD WENCH, I CARE NOT THAT I AM SHOUTING TOO LOUD

The Things We Miss

I sat there, leaning over the bar, a half shot of Jack Daniels swirling in my hands, punching in the numbers of my cell phone into a small solar-powered calculator.  Sunlight and bars aren’t usual bedfellows, but the bars on Bourbon Street in New Orleans have huge doors and windows that are always kept wide open to allow as many drunken people to stumble in as possible.  It’s a different kind of system, one I admire for its openness and acceptability of drinkers, sots and alcoholics of all sorts.  In Los Angeles bars are kept behind dark windows and dim lighting, opting to hide the drinkers in the guise of sports, swank and greasy chicken fingers.  But not in here, not in this little NOLA blues bar across the street from the hotel that my mother and I are staying at.

What drew me to it was the live band that was playing there.  It was a simple band of aging rockers, one of whom played a mini-accordion, and another a back-up singer that seemed to do more dancing than singing. The music wasn’t great, or very good really, but fuck it was live.  A live blues band in a blues bar in New Orleans and like hell I wasn’t going to go and have a shot and drink it up along with the music, the atmosphere and that beautiful goddamn city.

The bar was mostly empty.  A few people sat near the stage, obviously friends of the performers, singing along with the band.  In another time or place this transparency would be sad and pitiful, but they were all having such a good time that no one seemed to care.  Behind the bar stood a young, attractive brunette with a large bust and her hair pulled back.  She was the kind of girl that I fantasized talking to, flirting with.  Not for any ulterior motives or in hope of getting some action (although it wouldn’t be unwelcome), but because she was beautiful; a pretty girl pouring whiskey in a small dive trying to block out the inane blues band wailing away in the corner.  I wondered what her laugh sounded like and imagined being the sort of man that would, that could, talk with her and make her smile.

I ordered my shot and paid with cash.  Instead of gulping down the shot in one go, I weighed the inherent loneliness of sitting in a bar without a drink against the awkwardness of sipping Jack from a shot glass for five minutes and decided to take my time.  It was my vacation after all; not so much a period of time when you never feel awkward, but simply a period of time when you stop caring if you do.  I drank my shot over eight minutes, listening to the longest rendition of “Proud Mary” I had ever heard.

“You want another one?”

I looked at the bartender who had placed her hand on the shot glass, waiting to move it until she heard my answer.  Her eyes were hazel.

“Sure, why not?  It’s only 2:30 on a Friday.”  She filled my glass, and I took out my wallet.  I gave her my credit card this time because I wanted to save some of my cash for the rest of the trip.  When she passed me the check and I gave my usual gratuity and my signature.  My actual signed name is quite normal: a lot of loops and swishes and squiggles that leave an undecipherable moniker.  But along with my signature I always draw a little stick figure, holding up a glass with a straw and a lemon wedge in it, with a huge open grin on his face saying, “Thank You!”  I do this in the hope that one day I will be known across the country as the “Stick Figure Drinker”, but also because I enjoy doodling and I figured that a little more gratitude never hurts.

I drank my Jack Daniels like a normal man this time, tipping my head back and letting the bourbon fly down my throat.  I shivered a little, placed the glass on the bar and slipped my copy of the bill into my wallet.  The band finished playing “Proud Mary” and I was about to get up and walk out before they started their next song, when the bartender laughed out loud.  I looked around to see her smiling widely, one hand on her chest and the other holding my bill.  She looked at me and held up the bill, still laughing.  “This is the best tip anyone has ever left me.”

I sat there dumbfounded for a moment.  I had never seen a reaction to my “Little Man” before.  I always imagined servers smirked at him, but I never thought they actually laughed.  Understanding that she had paid me a compliment and I was getting dangerously close to being silent for too long, I said thank you and turned back towards the bar.

She walked over to me and asked, “Do you do this on every bill?”

“No, not really,” I lied.

She raised one eyebrow.  “Just for me?”  Her tone had turned to one of playful sarcasm, and my heart melted.

“You’re just over there all by yourself.  The place is pretty empty.  Seems like a boring Friday afternoon, so I thought I’d try to brighten it up.”

She giggled.  “Well, this certainly brightened up my day.  I’m just sad that it has to get turned into accounting, so I can’t keep him.”

She looked straight into my eyes and I knew it was my turn to say something if we were to get past the pleasantries and onto the real flirting, and yet I was speechless.  The speech portion of my brain has been slightly damaged by drugs, liquor and spinning in my chair fast far too many times, so I brought out my wallet from my back pocket and took out the receipt.  I picked up the pen that still lay on the bar and drew the Little Man again, adding more words to say, “Here’s an extra doodle for your personal use, brought to you by Nic.  Thank You!”  I handed her the receipt.  She read it and smiled again.  She put her hand out and I put mine out and we shook.

“Hi Nic.  I’m Rebbeca.”

“Howdy.”

“So do you have any other day brighteners to share?”

“I can also make an origami piano out of a gum wrapper, and create large, unstable sculptures from the things on the bar.”

“Can’t that get a little dangerous?”

“Tell me about it.”  I pointed at a tiny scar on my wrist.  “Johnny Rockets, 2007.  The result from a valiant piece labeled, “Sharp Utensils on a Napkin.”

She laughed for the third time.  She had a good laugh.  She asked me what brought me to New Orleans.  I explained I was on a vacation with my mother.  We were going to go on a week cruise and the boat sailed out of the New Orleans port, but I had never been to New Orleans and so we decided to spend a few days taking in the city.  And because I know talking about your mother can kill the mood about as fast as if your mother actually walked in and forced herself into the conversation, I turned the questions around.

“What about you?  You work in a bar directly on the famed Bourbon Street.  I’m sure you have learned a few bar games.”

“You’d think so, but no.”

“No drunk magicians sharing a few tricks with the pretty bartender?”

“We just get a lot of wasted college kids.  No one so charming as you.”

So this is what flirting is like, I thought.  I was not only surprised about how it was exactly what I imagined it would be, but also that I was doing so well at it.

“I do know one thing.”  She reached behind the bar and brought out a calculator.  She placed it in front of me and turned it on.

“Is this one of those math jokes where you plug in some equations, press equal and turn it over to find a word spelled out?”

“Nothing so lame.  Here –“

And she proceeded to give me the following instructions:

– Take the first 3 numbers of a phone number
– Multiply by 80
– Add 1
– Multiply by 250
– Add the last 4 digit of phone number
– Add the last 4 digits of phone number again
– Subtract 250
– Divide in ½

I followed her instructions, using my cell phone number, and what I ended up with after I pressed enter was my full cell number laid out (so 123-4567 turns into 1,234,567).

“That’s crazy,” I laughed, “Where did you learn that?”

She said an older student had taught it to her in high school in a boring math class.  I asked her to write down the instructions for me, and then we started to talk about how you learn the most random things during high school classes: how to braid hair, how to cover your text book with shiny gum wrappers, how to make weird noises with your mouth, how to turn any pen into a projectile weapon.  After that we talked for another half hour but I can’t remember what about.

At some point, I looked at the piece of paper she wrote the instructions on and asked her, “Does this work with every phone number?”

“Yeah. Try it with mine.”

She told me her number and I followed the instructions, reaching the exact same conclusion.  I looked up at her.  “Yup.  There’s your full number.  All that’s missing is the area code.”

She didn’t say anything.  She looked straight into my eyes again and smiled.  This is the moment, I thought, this is where you ask.

Suddenly, a loud group of young men stumbled up to the bar and called for drinks.  Rebbeca looked at me, rolled her eyes, and then went to take their orders.  I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting close to the time I had said I would be back at the room.  I folded her instructions and slipped it into my wallet where the receipt had been.  I looked back up to Rebbeca, who was getting beers and pouring Hurricanes, and waited until I caught her eye.  I mouthed, ‘I have to get going”.  She nodded, I waved, and she smiled her sweet smile and waved back.  I walked out of the bar and back to the hotel room so my mother and I could figure out where we were going to go next.  Had there been sadness in that smile as well?  I like to think so.

I have wondered many times what would have happened if I had asked for her number.  It’s not like I had my own room, or my own car, or even a whole lot of time; my mother and I were having dinner in an hour or so, and then we were set to embark on our cruise the next day.  But it would have completed the realization of my fantasy – that I was a guy who could flirt with a girl who was far more attractive than I, ask for her number and then actually get it.  I would have become who I wanted to be.

About a year later, I was emptying out my wallet to purge cancelled cards and expired Starbucks coupons when I came on Rebbeca’s instructions, folded and tucked away into a corner.  I took it out and read through them.  I went through the instructions (by long hand since I didn’t have a calculator) because I had forgotten what the trick was.  As I did, I relived the forty or so minutes I spent in that bar, talking with the pretty brunette pouring whiskey.  By the time I got to end to see my cell phone number written on the paper, I remembered my regret for not having asked for Rebbeca’s number.

As I sat there staring at the instructions, it suddenly dawned on me that I had gotten her number; she had given it to me when I plugged her number in to see if the instructions worked on every phone number.  Without me even asking, she had given me her phone number.  I never wrote it down because so inexperienced was I at the game that I didn’t even know what was going on.  But I realized that on that day I hadn’t become the guy who could get numbers when he asked for them, hadn’t become who I wanted to be.  I had become some else, something more.  For that forty minutes (and those forty minutes alone as I have not been able to reproduce the result), I had become the guy who could get numbers without having to ask.

The instructions are still in my wallet to remind me to not get so caught up in who I’m trying to be that I miss who I am.  And to remember to take notice of everything that is around me.  And also as proof that doodling stick figures can get you women, if the figures are cute enough.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.  It’s not original, I know, but it’s cute and interesting, and I’m not sure if my actual post will be ready in time.  So fah-der-rah-der-ral-der-ray, Happy New Years everyone!

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 56,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 21 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

I’d Like To Thank All The Little, Little, Little People (Who Live In My Head And Tell Me To Do Things)

Come one, come . . .  a few more!  During this holiday season in which I am going to more holiday functions than I ever have before (there have been three or four Christmas parties in this past week alone), I have found myself receiving gifts that are beyond my expectations.  One was from an aunt of mine who gave me an entire turkey dinner in a box, with a whole frozen (but pre-cooked) turkey, mashed potatoes, mac n’ cheese, and that cranberry jelly stuff that I always spend  twenty minutes prodding with a spoon but never get around to eating.  If you have never gotten meat as gift from a family member, let me tell you something:  It’s fucking weird.  One aunt once came over just to give me three Cornish game hens.  My mother once sent me a care package that was full of sausages.  All these things were delicious, and they know I love to cook so it’s not that abstract, I have just never been able to tell some one, “Yeah, my mom sent me these sausages via the United States Postal Service,” without feeling like I should be in a Coen brothers movie.

"Vee have some sausage dat dein mother sent from Arizona, jah?"

The other gift (other than that wonderful cold hard cash of awesomeness that only grandmothers can give) was I have been nominated for The Versatile Blogger Award! 

The nomination comes from the Funny or Tragic, a blog filled with enough dark humor to make you feel okay about sitting in the dark alone, laughing like a maniac.  From a new take on cattle prods, to this wonderful post about boobs, Funny or Tragic is filled with hilarious musings and colorful cartoons.

And now I have to pass this award to five to fifteen people, as it’s one of the rules.  The other rules are that you have to inform your nominees of the nomination, while providing a link to the person who nominated you along with your thanks.  Then you have to tell seven random things about yourself and post up that little green picture.  This is going to be hard as I’m not sure I know more than eight people in my life all together (one of whom is me looking in the mirror).  But it’s also a good thing as I had no idea what I was going to post today and was too lazy to figure something out.

RANDOM THINGS

1. I shave my toes, except for the two biggest.
2. I don’t remember names. Not that I can’t, but I tend not to care about a person’s name. I find it is always easier just to look into a person’s eyes and say, “Hey. How is everything going?” This works, 100% of the time, and no one seems to mind.
3. My favorite nut is hazelnut because it tastes woody. My favorite wood is sandalwood, because it smells nutty.
4. I name inanimate objects like my stapler (Milton) or my three-hole punch (Norman), and I regard them as important friends/allies. I deduced I do this because I was lonely for my entire childhood.

FRIENDS!

5. I judge the space of my apartments by how well I can safely do I cartwheel in them. (i.e. – My apartment is two and half cartwheels big.)
6. I have a desperate need to own a three-toed sloth, which I would name Couscous.  I also want a manatee, but I don’t know what I’d name him.  Maybe Filbert.

Or Gerald Puffybottom.

7. I could never make up my mind which candy bar to buy when I was in the grocery store, and stopped buying candy altogether because the indecision was driving me nuts.

NOMINEES

This is the really hard part as I end up not reading many blogs.  After work and creating my post of the day once I get home, all I want to do is sit back, drink some whiskey and watch Monty Python.  Add to that the few I do read I’m sure have already been nominated, and I don’t want to look like the blogging-newbie I am.  Plus this whole exercise (while being part fad) also is about introducing new bloggers to more people, so I don’t want to end up repeating.  But here are five blogs I am always eager to read:

A Man Chasin’ His Hat

From intriguing articles about the new generations and how the changes in culture are sculpting their behavior, to crazy short stories involving metaphysics, psychology and robots, A Man Chasin’ His Hat is a place of brain candy.  Smart enough to almost be considered nerdy and abstract enough to almost be nonsense, it’s always a delight to read and ponder over.  Some of my favorite posts are It’s Like Some Kind of Torture and Reverse Doppler.  It’s hard to properly describe this blog; the closest I can get is saying it’s like Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land – It’s crazy and sometimes a little confusing, but 100% fun.

Die Umlat

Have you been fired recently?  Have you had any luck finding a new job?  Have you been burned by internet scams and horrid job recruiters?  Do you like some truly underground music?  Then head on over to Die Umlat, where you can read all the war stories from the wounded in the “Seeking Employment” front.  From her weekly posts of actual job scams used on craigslist, to her own experiences coping with unemployment, you get to feel a slice (or in a lot of peoples’ case, get to share it) of one of America’s hugest populations right now.  She also has posts reliving musical moments from her childhood, or introducing new and upcoming artists, reviews of some new restaurants and other articles concerning whatever pops into her head.

Nerdy Baker

I started following Nerdy Baker before I actually read one of the posts.  The big picture I saw of some homemade cheese-toast was enough to have me going back to the beginning and reading every post she had.  Also, the title of the blog is pitch perfect as I also like to cook and am probably more of a nerd than I feel comfortable with admitting.  Two of my favorite, most cheesy-bread-filled glorious posts from her are Here We Go, Sourdough! and Pull Apart Cheesy Herb Bread.  She also provides links that would sate the nerd in anyone, and her writing is down-to-earth, funny and delightful.

Sets and Lights

Having gone to an arts school and gotten my Bachelors in Theatre (an absolutely useless degree), a piece of my heart will always belong onstage.  Sets and Lights helps bring me back into that world with minimal effort, which is probably why I like it.  It discusses a lot of issues with the technical side of theatre, an industry and workforce that has always gone unnoticed and forgotten despite being the reliable backbone of us poofy actors onstage. If you ever wanted to hear what working a live theatrical show is like, tune into and read of few of his posts.  It’ll make you feel like you standing backstage, wearing all black and waiting for the actor to hit their cue so you can start the music, hit the programmed light sequence and start closing the curtain.

The Thirsty Wench

Another blog I just started following without really reading a post first.  Beer?  Yes, I’ll follow you, and with vigor!  A blog dedicated to all things having to do with that wonderdrink, The Thirsty Wench helps take you through an introduction to beer to reviews of some more crafty-beers.  It’s a blog devoted to getting you to drink, and she deserves a medal for even attempting such a mission from God.

So there you go; five blogs I love and that I think you should start reading too.  I just hope they haven’t been nominated yet, or I’m gonna feel like such a tool.  One of those tools that looks silly and is completely obsolete now.

Like this.

And I’m almost to my 150th post.  I’m actually astounded the blog has lasted this long, as posting every single day can really be a pain in the ass sometimes.  But I’m going to keep at it, at least for the first year, after which I’ll probably die down on the number of posts in lieu of creating longer, more complex and more engaging works.  That’s still around 200 posts away however, so things won’t be changing anytime soon.

Thanks once again to Funny or Tragic for the nomination, and congrats to all of those who were nominated.  TO FRIENDSHIP!!!

No, not those ones.

5 Things I Never Thought In My Right Mind I Would Actually Want

I like stuff.  No, I love stuff.  All these people who say that “Stuff doesn’t make you happy” either have never had stuff, or have it and found out they are boring with or without stuff.  Or they’re fucking liars who want to feel superior to you for wanting stuff.  But really, guys, stuff is great, and ever since I was a little kid, I have wanted lots of it.  From a new game involving cartoon puppies to action figures with plastic flamethrowers, I have always been on the lookout for things I would like to own.  As I have grown older, my wants and desires have matured (now I want a real puppy and a real flamethrower . . . and then I’m going to teach him how to use it), which isn’t surprising since I have evolved from a person whose favorite drink is Tang to a person whose favorite drink is anything with any liquor it, any drink, drink, liquor, booze alcohol, who said liquor?!  I WANT LIQUOR, GIVE ME SOME NOW!

But what is surprising is some of the things I want now are things I never would have expected to want when I was younger.  Of course, everyone always wants a nicer car or a bigger tv, or a jetpack or a hoverboard; but there are things that only an adult could want to buy that I am now discovering I want. And I want them badly.  Things like:

Vacuum Cleaner

Oh God, it's glorious . . .

Once you move into your own place and grow out of the college-frat-don’t-really-care-about-my-place phase (also called growing the fuck up), having your home clean, fresh and smelling good becomes not only an important part of your relaxation and comfort, but also a source of pride.  It’s also one of those things that women find attractive; something about being able to see the floor and never needing nose plugs drives them crazy, I don’t know why.

"You use windex? Come here, you stud . . ."

But if you live in an apartment, odds are you have carpet, and even greater odds is that it’s a shitty carpet that seems to grow new stains in parts of the carpet that you’ve never even come close to in the past five years.  This means vacuuming is going to be a part of your normal routine, but a good vacuum is expensive and so you’re either going to have to buy a cheap one that never works or just broom your ass off.  Either way, it goes on the list until my financial life improves and I can buy one (in which case this item will be replaced by a Carpet Shampooer) or until I can no longer live the life of luxury that can afford me dirty carpet, and I move into a modest-sized cardboard box on the side of the street.

Normal-Ass Pair of Black Dress Shoes

Ooooo, my mouth is watering . . .

The last pair of black dress shoes I had were at least ten years old, found near a dumpster, were three sizes too big, and had so many holes them I’m surprised they ever stayed on my feet.

The tape probably helped, though.

I threw that pair away when I left my last job, but I have yet to replace them because 1) I didn’t have money to do so, and 2) They cost a lot more than I realized.  I’m not looking for a fancy-ass, designer pair of black shoes, either.  I just want some normal-ass, nothing special, faux-leather, black shoes, and they still cost at least $60.  I don’t know why the world has to make the items that everyone needs so goddamned expensive.

Oh. Right.

Washer/Dryer

They're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen . . .

Look, I’ve been paying to wash my clothes for the past 15 years and I just want it to fucking stop.  I dream of the day when I don’t have to wait for 6-8 weeks to let the laundry pile up to the point where the doormat is cleaner than my clothes, when I don’t have to try to stuff three loads of laundry into one load to get more bang for my buck, and then not have to worry for the next couple of hours if someone is going to come in and steal my shit, and when I don’t have to pay at least $4-$5 for the privilege to do so.

Circular Saw/Jigsaw

I have no funny thing to say with this, I just want it.

I was a carpenter for four years, and once you get into the habit of realizing you want a table and then making said table and then using said table, it’s hard to go back to not being able to make your own furniture.  I still have all the knowledge of how to build, but I no longer have all the power tools that allowed me to build a whole bunch of stuff with efficiency and speed.  Of course there are ways around a lot of those power tools, and as long as you know what you’re doing, you can still create a whole slew of furniture-like items.  However, sawing is one that I would love not to do manually.  Have you ever tried to a saw a normal 2×4 with a shitty, hand-powered saw?  I did one a few months ago, and I stopped last night after reaching about 2/3’s of the way through.  It’s not impossible, it’s just really really really really difficult and I am really really really really  lazy.  Also, good luck trying to cut a straight-line by hand.

Unless it is a straight line to you, in which case, get some glasses before you get powertools.

Regular-Sized Bed

This isn't something I want, this is something I NEED.

Okay, this one isn’t so weird.  Like the car or TV, everyone wants a bigger bed.  The only difference with me is that I have been living on a twin-sized bed ALL OF MY LIFE.  I’m 26, about to be on the downhill side to 27, and I still live on a mattress that my feet dangle off of.  I’ve always gotten them because they are cheaper, and frankly, I’ve never had any need to accommodate anyone else.  But I have a romantic life now, and while I don’t necessarily mind the snuggling we have to do because of the size of my bed, when you are awoken by your partner sleepingly sneezing directly onto your eyeball, you suddenly understand how a little space can help.

Christ on a cracker, I need to cut down on the adverbs.

It’s also just fucking time, you know.  I will miss the space that the new bed will take up, but frankly I have too much stuff anyway.  Part of growing up is not just attaining of stuff you’ve always wanted (or stuff you never realized you would want) it’s also about throwing out all the stuff that you don’t need/want, and just keep around because of habit.

I still want that flamethrowing-dog though.

From legion5110