Many people consider Halloween just another commercial holiday that is all about showing some cleavage and putting razors in apples. Halloween is really about celebrating the myth of Jack Lantern. The autumn before the harsh winter that devastated George Washington's armies during the great revolution was abound with crops and the villagers rejoiced. The greatest landowner in all of northern Connecticut was Mr. Jack Lantern, who's parents migrated from south Wales two generations earlier to humble beginnings but through hard work Jack's grandparents and parents left his with a rather large estate. Since Mr. Lantern owned the most land, he also owned the most crops. The people of the surrounding villages waited eagerly for the end of harvest feast where they would come from miles around to share their bounty and be merry together. Mr. Lantern, however, was a greedy man and decided not to attend. His crops, as a result, were to be absent from the celebration as well. The villagers were very unhappy. For many centuries, since the beginning of time, these people had shared their harvests, long before the indians they had run off the land. The villagers decided that Mr. Lantern was to be persuaded to share his harvests, for it was likely that many would starve and possibly die if Jack Lantern let his harvests rot in the barns over the winter.
As it happens, Jack Lantern had predicted just such a reaction. A man with a weakness for the Devil's libation, Jack had spent the several hours before sunset preparing himself to fend off the villagers with copious amounts of corn mash whiskey and a rather large stockpile of muskets. When the villagers approached the house, Jack climbed to the highest point of his rather large estate and began to make a show of himself. As the angry villagers screamed and yelled, Jack cursed back at them, the whole time drinking his mash whiskey. Anyone familiar with mash whiskey knows that it is not lacking in alcoholic content, and so when Jack Lantern decided that he would have a smoke of his pipe before he began to drunkenly murder the townsfolk trespassing on his land, the villagers jointly grimaced. As Jack heartily puffed on the pipe, the match flared and Jack's belly full of corn mash ignited into flames. Jack was immolating from the inside, and as he stumbled around in agony with the villagers looking on in horror, he tripped and fell, neatly severing off his head on a nearby gargoyle. The head, burning from within, rolled across the yard and neatly stopped in front of the barn, the glow from Jack's eyeballs lighting the sundry crops that were contained within. The villagers rejoiced and marched old Jack's head around town, and it burned and burned all throughout the feast, and all were merry and glad. Ever since that day, we carve pumpkins and light them with a candle from within so that we always remember the day that Jack Lantern got drunk and climbed on his roof.
10/31/06
Greedy Bastards
Happy Halloween.
Walk up and down main street with your kids in costumes. Or not in costumes. It doesn't really matter. You'll get candy either way. If the kid is in a costume, they have this sense of entitlement. Like they're owed candy for their effort. Whereas if they don't have a costume on, you feel sorry for them 'cuz maybe they couldn't afford one or whatever, so some candy (or maybe a Monopoly gameboard) would probably brighten their day.
Trick-or-treating on main street is easy because all the local business are handing that shit out. Working the tasting room of a major winery is a trip though because just about every other parent is like "Uh, are these the trick-or-treats for me?" and points at the wine. Yeah, like I'm gonna give you a bottle of wine because you dressed up like a nine to five slap-dick.
Also, what's the deal with older kids trick-or-treating? At what age does Halloween go from being scary/candy to being an expression of sexuality? Whores and/or crack whores abound. And they're turning tricks for fucking candy. I have a liberal-arts urge here to go into something about how Americans don't want to own their sexuality, so they express it through costumes and put-ons, but I also have an urge to dress like a slutty pirate. Apparently this holiday has connections back to pagan stuff that the stuffy Christians were not okay with. And that makes sense.
Walk up and down main street with your kids in costumes. Or not in costumes. It doesn't really matter. You'll get candy either way. If the kid is in a costume, they have this sense of entitlement. Like they're owed candy for their effort. Whereas if they don't have a costume on, you feel sorry for them 'cuz maybe they couldn't afford one or whatever, so some candy (or maybe a Monopoly gameboard) would probably brighten their day.
Trick-or-treating on main street is easy because all the local business are handing that shit out. Working the tasting room of a major winery is a trip though because just about every other parent is like "Uh, are these the trick-or-treats for me?" and points at the wine. Yeah, like I'm gonna give you a bottle of wine because you dressed up like a nine to five slap-dick.
Also, what's the deal with older kids trick-or-treating? At what age does Halloween go from being scary/candy to being an expression of sexuality? Whores and/or crack whores abound. And they're turning tricks for fucking candy. I have a liberal-arts urge here to go into something about how Americans don't want to own their sexuality, so they express it through costumes and put-ons, but I also have an urge to dress like a slutty pirate. Apparently this holiday has connections back to pagan stuff that the stuffy Christians were not okay with. And that makes sense.
10/29/06
The wizard has used magiks to rise the sun an hour sooner!
I woke up this morning to my alarm because I have to work on a day of rest, and when I peeked at my cell phone I discovered the glory that is daylight savings time. At least, the Fall Back part of daylight savings time. Spring Ahead sucks. What shall you do with your extra hour? I sat in bed like a carp stranded on the pavement after a flood. I also ate a piece of cold pizza, the best breakfast ever discovered by mankind.
For those internet geeks out there, Firefox 2 came out a few days ago, and I updated to make myself feel cool, even though I have NO CLUE what is going on with Laguna Beach this season.
For those internet geeks out there, Firefox 2 came out a few days ago, and I updated to make myself feel cool, even though I have NO CLUE what is going on with Laguna Beach this season.
10/27/06
Tales from the other side of the hallway.
Perhaps some of you will be unable to relate to the simple musings of a working man such as myself, but if a man hates his job it is his god-given right to complain about it until the reaper comes for him. In this case the reaper would be in the form of a several thousand gallon tank of wine suddenly snapping its stainless steel supports and rolling across a concrete floor slick with stagnant hosewater like the giant stone ball boobytrap from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. My particular form of bitching about my labor-intensive wage job is to complain about my working hours. I never get enough sleep. Do I stay up too late? Sure, I'm a young man and I don't have any other time to catch up on browsing eBay for a $1.99 used copy of Beverly Hills Cop 3 and measuring my penis length with a neon yellow translucent ruler. The trick is to use metric. My point is more often than not my bitching has no culprit other than myself, so my white-hot Latin temper has no target other than myself, but my ice-cold Latin ego cools it right off, so I end up feeling very good about myself. However, last night was a different story. I am laying soundly in bed with the heaters churning out a toasty 80+ degree sleeping sauna when I am awoken by the small runt of a boy that lives across the hall with his sister and aunt (his actual relation to these women is unclear, but these are the titles I have given them so that their interactions at least make some sort of sense) yelling for his aunt to "give him his Monopoly game." It is 2:30am and this "family" has been fighting all night, sometimes shaking the house. A friend Chris commented after a particularly loud shudder: "that sounds like someone getting thrown against a wall." I thought it was someone getting hit with an oversized plastic baseball bat, but I have bad hearing. The runt is met with no luck; his aunt does not give him his precious Monopoly. Instead she threatens to call the cops. Waking up at the end of your neighbors' domestic abuse situation only to hear the conclusion:
"Give me my Monopoly game"
"No, go away or I'll call the cops."
Makes your groggy mind try to wrap itself around some form of reality, but it can't. there is no context I can imagine that would merit someone being so adamant about someone else NOT having Monopoly that they would threaten to involve the police department. What's more is that the other person took that as a legitimate threat and walked away. Monopoly is a popular game, but give me a break.
"Give me my Monopoly game"
"No, go away or I'll call the cops."
Makes your groggy mind try to wrap itself around some form of reality, but it can't. there is no context I can imagine that would merit someone being so adamant about someone else NOT having Monopoly that they would threaten to involve the police department. What's more is that the other person took that as a legitimate threat and walked away. Monopoly is a popular game, but give me a break.
10/26/06
Whatever happened to robotic avengers?
I remember back in the day when the television was literally overrun by walking robotic artilleries whooping ass on all kinds of evil monsters and space aliens. Do your remember Voltron? Transformers? Power Rangers? Mobile Suit Gundam? Big Guy and Rusty? Even if you don't remember the details, I'm sure your parents can relate to you at least one instance when you were barely tall enough to get into a chair but you were throwing kicks and punches in front of the television screen as Optimus Prime decided that the dumptruck Decepticon needed a one-way ticket to the scrapyard (robot graveyard.)
I was never truly fulfilled as a tv watching youngster until I discovered the robot shows. I was painfully dissatsfied with Sesame Street, my first television experience to my recollection. The show was filled with implausible creatures and fantastical events! The lowercase "b" cannot sing the blues!
I was never truly fulfilled as a tv watching youngster until I discovered the robot shows. I was painfully dissatsfied with Sesame Street, my first television experience to my recollection. The show was filled with implausible creatures and fantastical events! The lowercase "b" cannot sing the blues!
10/23/06
Sea Turtles Bring Peace to Middle East
There are some endangered sea turtles that call Lebanon their home, and somewhere in the midst of all our relgious and political squabbling we forgot to ask the turtles what they really wanted. Did we ask the turtles if we could drop phosphorous bombs all over the Hamas rebels? No. The sea turtles wouldn't want anything to do with bombs, because bombs look like the mortal enemy of the sea turtle, the bowling ball. I am sure that if Israel just realized that there were baby sea turtles, INNOCENT baby sea turtles dying every day so that some silly thousand-year long war could get settled that they would re-think a little bit; perhaps it would make them take pause, and contemplate on the sea turtle. What is a sea turtle? What are its traits? What are its markings and its territorial behaviors? Do sea turtles have the same faith as land turtles? If not, should the sea turtles preemptively strike at the land turtles just in case the land turtles decide they want the beach that the sea turtles use to lay eggs? These are the types of questions that leaders in the Middle East need to be thinking about. Thinking about the nature of these turtles. They are defensive creatures, they have shells and talk like Southern California beach-bums. These turtles wouldn't harm a fly except for the Lebanese fly, the main diet of the sea turtle. These turtles are thought to be blue, sometimes green, both colors that are important in old English heraldry. Blue stands for brave, and green stands for "of virile seed." So really, these are brave turtles, and virile turtles (they lay 1000 eggs) so perhaps we need to rethink war. Perhaps we need to focus on the important things in life. Perhaps we need to watch more boxing matches and football games, perhaps we need to play more Halo and practice shooting our firearms and just get our minds off of war for a while, because that is what the turtles would want. At least, that is what the turtles make you think the turtles want, due to their mind contol powers.
Drive-By Truckers
I've been exploring new music lately and come across a band of note. For those like me who mistakenly thought that modern rock music is a wasteland of indie noise-makers and nu-metal chowderheads, there is hope. The Drive-By Truckers are a hardrocking country outfit with as much significance as beer and pizza. Meaning that while it ain't gonna change your life, you love the hell out of it.
Sounding like Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers filtered through the alternative and punk rock of the last couple decades, they are everything you could want from a rock outfit. Three guitar playing vocalists, all of whom with chops to spare, and a kickass rhythm section offering up driving anthemic rockers.
I recommend one of their most recent records, The Dirty South, which is half hard-rock and half accoustic balladry, as a prime example of their sound. Their rock-geek credentials are confirmed by their epic Southern Rock Opera, a two disc album telling the story of Skynyrd in the only form appropriate.
I went to Hot Poop (a local record store) today to pick up another of their albums and the owner slipped me a bonus LP of material. The contained cover of Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone is played with the passion of musicians who understand that rock & roll has deep roots, but that the tree it's yielded has a lot of room left to grow.
Sounding like Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers filtered through the alternative and punk rock of the last couple decades, they are everything you could want from a rock outfit. Three guitar playing vocalists, all of whom with chops to spare, and a kickass rhythm section offering up driving anthemic rockers.
I recommend one of their most recent records, The Dirty South, which is half hard-rock and half accoustic balladry, as a prime example of their sound. Their rock-geek credentials are confirmed by their epic Southern Rock Opera, a two disc album telling the story of Skynyrd in the only form appropriate.
I went to Hot Poop (a local record store) today to pick up another of their albums and the owner slipped me a bonus LP of material. The contained cover of Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone is played with the passion of musicians who understand that rock & roll has deep roots, but that the tree it's yielded has a lot of room left to grow.
10/21/06
Wow.
This ranks as one of the most amazing video game experiences I have ever had. You can play it for five minutes or you can play it for an hour. This is truly remarkable.
Mental image.
Let's all play a game. It will be like the PBS show with the afro/sideburns guy telling you to paint "playful little trees" all over your picture. I'll tell you playful little images, and you pop them into your playful little head and let them swirl around until a nice, thick shake comes out.
I am sitting on the porch tonight, which is not an unusual occurence. If the weather is nice I like to plant myself in the self-proclaimed "observation tower" and watch the general populace of Walla Walla stroll by as I sit reclined in my plastic lawn chair like Lex Luthor sitting in his high-rise watching the ants of Metropolis scurry by, plotting how to kill his nemesis Superman. The only difference is that I don't want to kill anybody, I just want to watch them walk around and hopefully amuse myself along the way. A particularly playful game I like to play is ascribing context to the small snippet of each person's life that I see walking by. A man jogging at night with his dog? He must be blowing off steam after a fight with his girlfriend. She wanted to stay in, he wanted to go to the bar with some buddies or whatever.
Tonight I saw a peach of a passerby. A young man, probably no older than 25, walked hurriedly past the apartment with a determined look in his eye and a four-pack of some fruity alcoholic beverage, likely procured from the beer, hotdog and pornography store on the corner, the Apex. Now, what do YOU think a man of that age was doing sprinting away from a corner store with a four-pack of wine coolers? That's not enough for party...
I am sitting on the porch tonight, which is not an unusual occurence. If the weather is nice I like to plant myself in the self-proclaimed "observation tower" and watch the general populace of Walla Walla stroll by as I sit reclined in my plastic lawn chair like Lex Luthor sitting in his high-rise watching the ants of Metropolis scurry by, plotting how to kill his nemesis Superman. The only difference is that I don't want to kill anybody, I just want to watch them walk around and hopefully amuse myself along the way. A particularly playful game I like to play is ascribing context to the small snippet of each person's life that I see walking by. A man jogging at night with his dog? He must be blowing off steam after a fight with his girlfriend. She wanted to stay in, he wanted to go to the bar with some buddies or whatever.
Tonight I saw a peach of a passerby. A young man, probably no older than 25, walked hurriedly past the apartment with a determined look in his eye and a four-pack of some fruity alcoholic beverage, likely procured from the beer, hotdog and pornography store on the corner, the Apex. Now, what do YOU think a man of that age was doing sprinting away from a corner store with a four-pack of wine coolers? That's not enough for party...
10/19/06
Chapel of Joy.
I heard a radio advertisement today for a church. Not just any church either, it was for the glorious Chapel of Joy. When I picture a Chapel of Joy, I imagine something of a mix between the castle of King Kandy from Candyland and the horrific creations of the Japanese animators of movies like Spirited Away. I turns out that the Chapel of Joy is remarkably un-specatular, solely due to information provided in the radio commercial itself. When it comes time to finally tell the radio faithful where the Chapel of Joy is, the commercial says its "Right behind the beatiful temple of our Mormon friends." If you were giving someone directions, it isn't very helpful to say "my house is the black house behind the black house, you can't miss it." If your house is blue, then sweet. You can use the black house as a geographical "land-mark" to help your drug dealer easily locate your place of leisure and entertainment. So, using that "logic" that I just invented, it wouldn't be very helpful to the millionaire with money burning a hole in his pocket and a heart full of God that can only bet let loose at the Chapel of Heaven if the directions were "go to the beautiful temple behind the beautiful temple." What IS behind the Mormon temple in Pasco? A burned-out warehouse...612 Wharf Avenue to be exact.
The thing is, figuring out that the Chapel of Joy wasn't appealing to they eye wasn't even the best part of the commercial. The BESTEST part of the commercial was when the voice-over guy focused on how much FUN people had at the Chapel of Joy. One guy screams "we adobt villages in Africa...just for fun!!" Then they start proving it, goddamn it. They put up wells and libraries. Then they "let loose the fun" and sit back and simply "observe" this African village that they have made into a self-sustaining brainwashed zombie camp. I don't like the idea of relgious conservatives making a fucking ant farm out of a Zulu village...but I just can't get those cupcake-topped towers of the Chapel of Joy out of my head. I have to join.
The thing is, figuring out that the Chapel of Joy wasn't appealing to they eye wasn't even the best part of the commercial. The BESTEST part of the commercial was when the voice-over guy focused on how much FUN people had at the Chapel of Joy. One guy screams "we adobt villages in Africa...just for fun!!" Then they start proving it, goddamn it. They put up wells and libraries. Then they "let loose the fun" and sit back and simply "observe" this African village that they have made into a self-sustaining brainwashed zombie camp. I don't like the idea of relgious conservatives making a fucking ant farm out of a Zulu village...but I just can't get those cupcake-topped towers of the Chapel of Joy out of my head. I have to join.
10/18/06
Reverse Psychology.
Tonight I was going to blog about Marilyn Manson; specifically the post was going to prove that Marilyn Manson doesn't matter anymore despite his delusions that he "invented the thunder and the rain." Then I realized, what better way to thoroughly PROVE that Marilyn Manson does not matter than to actually exclude him from any mention? This blog doesn't have a huge following; 20,000 hits is common for most mid-sized websites in one day, and we have had that amount in 2 years. This just compounds the effectivness of my proof. If a small jerk-off blog in the back corner of the internet multiverse doesn't deem Manson important enough to mention even if only to demean him, then the man really must not matter. Aaron is referencing humans that are yet to fucking exist but Marilyn Manson would have to cut a man a check before he got even the briefest fucking mention on this blog of highest quality and esteem.
Matt is addicted to the internet.
I spotted Matt Jumago caught in the crippling grip of his internet addiction for the world to see in this BBC news article.
My Mud
They weren't kidding when they said adolescent boys are missing most of their frontal lobe. Any freshman's attention span is probably about 5 minutes--and this is not a joke. After 5 minutes, I'm talking for my own benefit.
Nevertheless, daily I go about my business shaping their minds and their study habits. It's a lot like sculpting with wet mud. Not clay, but the stuff you find in your lawn after a good soaking. Upperclassmen think they know it all, and you have to hit them repeatedly with a hammer to smooth out the dents in their personalities. Not freshmen...they're mud.
Mud which I shape today and every day, only to see it melted down into a pile of goop tomorrow. The weekends are even worse...you'd think they went on summer break. But I keep casting that mud in hopes that one day it will stick.
From the infernals of hell, this is Dan reporting. Back to you Drew.
Nevertheless, daily I go about my business shaping their minds and their study habits. It's a lot like sculpting with wet mud. Not clay, but the stuff you find in your lawn after a good soaking. Upperclassmen think they know it all, and you have to hit them repeatedly with a hammer to smooth out the dents in their personalities. Not freshmen...they're mud.
Mud which I shape today and every day, only to see it melted down into a pile of goop tomorrow. The weekends are even worse...you'd think they went on summer break. But I keep casting that mud in hopes that one day it will stick.
From the infernals of hell, this is Dan reporting. Back to you Drew.
10/17/06
The world is too ridiculous on this and most every day
Hi. It's October 16, 2006 and I am switching very temporary pre-traveling-to-Asia jobs so I am not doing shit today except laundry, dishes and plotting to go see "The Last King of Scotland" which is actually about Uganda. Anyways, I have been reading a lot of news and come to realize that tons of ridiculous shit is going down. First of all Mike Tyson wants to fight women which I guess, knowing him, isn't that weird at all. Secondly, how far Wesley Snipes has fallen, O fair hero of my youth in Passenger 57 there is just something really disconcerting for people that play action heroes getting an arrest warrant issued for not paying taxes but I guess real life knocks on all our doors so why not that of Blade himself. Thirdly, and by far my favorite of the day is the news that my progeny are going to be awesome and this article is truly hilarious if read fully, the description of certain men getting bigger penises and certain women getting more pert breasts (whatever the fuck that means I'm just tryin to stare at them grandma titties that you can mop a fuckin floor with) while the rest of poor humanity shrivel down and lose our chins. I mean seriously, are people paid to project 10,000 years into the future like this? I'll just go ahead and predict that we're all gonna kill ourselves or be killed by Kim Jong Il before any of these mutations matter. Why not live in the present more and work to figure out where I should eat dinner tonight.
10/16/06
Journal or Joke?
Is the blog a journal? Is the blog a joke? Sometimes I can't tell. Sometimes our contributors spill their hearts for all to see. Sometimes we make personal revelations and sometimes we make fun of old people with Alzheimers. We're like a fortune cookie of thought and holy revelation, at least in the sense that if you add a sexual subtext to any of our posts they either become funnier or more intellectually significant. Take your pick, we will be there to blow your mind with our tiny strips of paper. I pull them out of my mouth, Mandel pulls his out of where you can guess, Matt pulls his out of the Sorting Hat from Harry Potter, and Dan pulls his out of the depths of hell infernal.
Origin of Bro
I have a theory that the abbreviation 'bro' did not enter the general nomenclature until the 80s when Super Mario Bros. was released and popularized the term for the youth at the time. Nobody bothered to question the absence of Luigi. The term stuck.
10/15/06
Obsessive?
I just found out I can blog from my phone, so get ready bitches. We are going mobile, 24/7.
Whatever happened to blue whales?
I remember when I was a kid blue whales were a big deal. The endagered species list was smartly used as an educational tool for children, and as a result voting parents had their small children obsessing over animals that ended up being protected by governments the world over. Maybe Al Gore should learn a lesson from the endangered species people and instead of releasing a masturbatory movie in theaters to scare the shit out of people he should have been trying to educate kids on the topic. I can just imagine the inner turmoil of a parent going to the booth to vote against taking steps to eliminate global warming if their kid at home had "Save the Atmosphere" posters all over their walls and little miniature stuffed earths strewn about their bunkbeds. Parents are around their kids too much to not be influenced by the stuff they are obsessed with. My babysitter knew the names of all the Transformers, and she never sat down to watch the show. If kids are plopped in front of the PlanetKids tv show and the program is barking about saving the ozone layer nonstop, some of that is going to seep in through Dad's ear canal while he's having his morning coffee and before you know it he'll be defending global warming prevention policy around the water cooler at work.
I made an innacurate assumption upon researching my initial question "What happened to blue whales?" that because I hadn't heard about them they were doing okay. It turns out they are still endangered, but nobody is fucking with them so they are now happily going about the ocean being the largest creatures ever to live on the face of the earth. Probably ever in the universe. Think about that. Blue Whale = Largest creature EVER in the UNIVERSE. My new favorite animal is the blue whale. Listen to their calls.
I made an innacurate assumption upon researching my initial question "What happened to blue whales?" that because I hadn't heard about them they were doing okay. It turns out they are still endangered, but nobody is fucking with them so they are now happily going about the ocean being the largest creatures ever to live on the face of the earth. Probably ever in the universe. Think about that. Blue Whale = Largest creature EVER in the UNIVERSE. My new favorite animal is the blue whale. Listen to their calls.
10/13/06
20,000 and going strong
I logged on to the blog today and noticed that we are nearing 20,000 views of the page. Now granted probably at least half of those are from Drew, Dan, Jumago or I continuously looking to see if anyone commented on what we've posted, I still want to congratulate the web masses on wasting a lot of their cumulative time reading the drivel we produce. My next topic will be a deep, semi-academic look into the mind-blowing world of Borat Sugdiyev.
get tame
so i have had like 3 decent ideas bouncing around for blogging about and dan promises me he has something good coming too. Anyways in the meantime.
A thought:
you know what is fucked up?
when a dude is pissing and he loses track of the task at hand. Now I know what you are all thinking, dude (me, let's be honest) pees all over the place not called the toilet. WRONG. This story has a shocking anatomical twist. The dude drifts into thought mode and starts thinking about Jennifer Garner and gets an erection and sorta stops peeing but pees everywhere and can't do shit about it except re-trace his thoughts and try to reverse them to naked grandma's or something.
Damn, this did end up being about pissing everywhere.
A thought:
you know what is fucked up?
when a dude is pissing and he loses track of the task at hand. Now I know what you are all thinking, dude (me, let's be honest) pees all over the place not called the toilet. WRONG. This story has a shocking anatomical twist. The dude drifts into thought mode and starts thinking about Jennifer Garner and gets an erection and sorta stops peeing but pees everywhere and can't do shit about it except re-trace his thoughts and try to reverse them to naked grandma's or something.
Damn, this did end up being about pissing everywhere.
10/11/06
Webcomic for Dean
This is a webcomic I made for my friend Dean Phillips-Page. It reflects a lot on his life currently, plus one of the characters in the comic actually looks like Dean, which makes it all the more rediculous since I found the picture I used for the comic using Google Images. Click on the picture for a closer look.
Pick your favorite.
Halloween. The only holiday that allows children to threaten adults with trickery if sweets aren't delivered into pumpkin-shaped plastic bins or pillow cases. Every once in a while you'll see a couple of punk-asses walking around in streetclothes trying to get candy; a couple of teenagers who are too cool for costumes but not too cool for candy. Go smoke a cigarette behind the church or some shit you little bastards. Go get a handjob from your girlfriend, go cook me up a goddamn hamburger at McDonalds. Get out of my face with your candy request. If you even think about smashing my mailbox I will see you in church on Sunday and I will stab you a few times in the back with a syringe. Don't believe me? Well, lets just say that old Ms. Greenwood didn't "faint" in church last week, she decided that she was going to stiff me out of my banana bread at the neighborhood bake sale. Watch your ass you little shits, I am on the fucking prowl.
I've got some nerve damage in my left hand I think. It's numb all the time, like it's asleep. I was worried I was having a heart attack, but then heart attacks don't last for days on end I don't think. I was trying to construct an idea for a Halloween costume based on the truths about my current physical appearance, and "nerve damage in left arm" means I can dress up as Bob Dole. All I need is a cheap suit and a belly full of gin. Obviously my arm is not very useful in creating a costume. I have a buzzed head too, which means any costume involving a uniform is immediately out the door. Looking like a Hitler Youth at a Halloween party would hurt my neighborhood rep.
Any ideas? I need a costume, and I don't have any money. Don't tell me to dress like a hobo, because that's just lazy.
I've got some nerve damage in my left hand I think. It's numb all the time, like it's asleep. I was worried I was having a heart attack, but then heart attacks don't last for days on end I don't think. I was trying to construct an idea for a Halloween costume based on the truths about my current physical appearance, and "nerve damage in left arm" means I can dress up as Bob Dole. All I need is a cheap suit and a belly full of gin. Obviously my arm is not very useful in creating a costume. I have a buzzed head too, which means any costume involving a uniform is immediately out the door. Looking like a Hitler Youth at a Halloween party would hurt my neighborhood rep.
Any ideas? I need a costume, and I don't have any money. Don't tell me to dress like a hobo, because that's just lazy.
10/10/06
Excuse my fucking absence.
Dear Masses,
I sit here in my dirty bedroom, covered in dried-out wine drinking a sketchy tasting bottle of my winery's manufature that may or may not have gone bad, but the booze tastes sweet on the tongue, and that is all a man can ask. It seems kinda dark in here with one lightbulb perched above my oversized map of Southeast Asia, but it could also be the fact that I didn't get off work until after sunset, and I was awake to see Helios march his goddamn chariot over the eastern horizon this morning. While Bergevin Lane Vineyards may make a quality bottle of wine, my cross-eyed morning haze is always rudely stripped away by possibly the nasties coffee I have ever tasted, but I drink it all the same because boss makes it and boss likes his coffee. Don't diss boss coffee, drink boss coffee and smile.
I sit here in my dirty bedroom, covered in dried-out wine drinking a sketchy tasting bottle of my winery's manufature that may or may not have gone bad, but the booze tastes sweet on the tongue, and that is all a man can ask. It seems kinda dark in here with one lightbulb perched above my oversized map of Southeast Asia, but it could also be the fact that I didn't get off work until after sunset, and I was awake to see Helios march his goddamn chariot over the eastern horizon this morning. While Bergevin Lane Vineyards may make a quality bottle of wine, my cross-eyed morning haze is always rudely stripped away by possibly the nasties coffee I have ever tasted, but I drink it all the same because boss makes it and boss likes his coffee. Don't diss boss coffee, drink boss coffee and smile.
10/7/06
Profiles in Altzheimers: Molly
This is part of my continuing series of essays on residents of the memory care community at which I work. Names have been changed.
This morning during sing-along, I was startled to hear what I thought was a flourescent light tube burning out. I looked around and realized it was actually Molly, harmonizing a flat blah'th above me. None of the residents are particularly good singers, and neither am I for that matter, but when she joined in, I noticed. The reason that it was so unusual to hear Molly singing is because Molly doesn't normally partipate in any of our activities. She prefers to get people's attention.
"Marcy! Mark! Grandma!" she'll call across the room at you. Everyone is either Marcy, Mark, or Grandma to Molly. At least at first. After about a month at the facility, I've noticed Molly has added a few new names. Now she'll call people Grandpa, Greg, or Phillip. No one working there goes by any of those names.
Once you respond to Molly, usually with a friendly "Hi Molly, my name isn't Phillip, it's Matt", she'll ask you to hold her hand. This is endearingly sweet, even though it happens roughly thirty times a day. Then she'll say one of two things. "Oh, you've got a warm hand" or "Your hand's not very warm, is it?" I have yet to find any correlation between the actual temperature of my hands and Molly's judgement. I think it may be some kind of fortune telling thing. Maybe on days when my hand is warm more times than it isn't, I should approach old problems with new solutions or something. Or maybe on days when my hand is more often cold, I should watch out for death's icy grip.
The other thing Molly will do is ask other residents if she can go home. Now, understand that everyone at the facility has some form of dementia. She asked one fellow if she could go home and he said yeah, sure she can go home. She asked him which way home is, and he said "It's three blocks east and then straight to hell."
Another time, she asked a woman if she could go home. The woman replied "You don't want to go home, you're just scared of the saurus: don't lose your pods! You can go home. Me, I was just running around last night with my ski-helper, springing keys around with my five hands. Then silence." Molly usually dismisses whatever response people give to her questions. According to the facility's nurse, Molly just wants attention. If I were her, I would worry about the saurus.
Later this afternoon, after Molly sang for the first time, we were playing a group game and she called for my attention. I said "Molly, just a minute, I'm busy." She called to me again and another resident told her "He's busy, hold your horses." Then Molly called the resident an asshole.
This morning during sing-along, I was startled to hear what I thought was a flourescent light tube burning out. I looked around and realized it was actually Molly, harmonizing a flat blah'th above me. None of the residents are particularly good singers, and neither am I for that matter, but when she joined in, I noticed. The reason that it was so unusual to hear Molly singing is because Molly doesn't normally partipate in any of our activities. She prefers to get people's attention.
"Marcy! Mark! Grandma!" she'll call across the room at you. Everyone is either Marcy, Mark, or Grandma to Molly. At least at first. After about a month at the facility, I've noticed Molly has added a few new names. Now she'll call people Grandpa, Greg, or Phillip. No one working there goes by any of those names.
Once you respond to Molly, usually with a friendly "Hi Molly, my name isn't Phillip, it's Matt", she'll ask you to hold her hand. This is endearingly sweet, even though it happens roughly thirty times a day. Then she'll say one of two things. "Oh, you've got a warm hand" or "Your hand's not very warm, is it?" I have yet to find any correlation between the actual temperature of my hands and Molly's judgement. I think it may be some kind of fortune telling thing. Maybe on days when my hand is warm more times than it isn't, I should approach old problems with new solutions or something. Or maybe on days when my hand is more often cold, I should watch out for death's icy grip.
The other thing Molly will do is ask other residents if she can go home. Now, understand that everyone at the facility has some form of dementia. She asked one fellow if she could go home and he said yeah, sure she can go home. She asked him which way home is, and he said "It's three blocks east and then straight to hell."
Another time, she asked a woman if she could go home. The woman replied "You don't want to go home, you're just scared of the saurus: don't lose your pods! You can go home. Me, I was just running around last night with my ski-helper, springing keys around with my five hands. Then silence." Molly usually dismisses whatever response people give to her questions. According to the facility's nurse, Molly just wants attention. If I were her, I would worry about the saurus.
Later this afternoon, after Molly sang for the first time, we were playing a group game and she called for my attention. I said "Molly, just a minute, I'm busy." She called to me again and another resident told her "He's busy, hold your horses." Then Molly called the resident an asshole.
Since My Day...
The Catholic High School Mixer
Wielding only a flash light and a yellow shirt that read "Staff," I was the reluctant guardian of 1500 high school kids ages 15-17 at the Back to School Mixer.
I arrived onsite to a throng of segregated girls and boys. This was a night unlike others. My high school is an all-male Catholic high school, and its mixers, for whatever reason, draw more girls than all the frat houses (from our college days of yore) combined. The two opposite sexes entered the school gym in two opposite sides, the boys in the back, the girls by way of the front. There were easily more people in attendance outside than went to my college. I walked past several hundred girls keeping my eyes on the prize (the door) and ignoring the combination of their perfumes (only someone who's dead wears that much perfume). I had an orange piece of paper folded in my pocket--instructions on my responsibilities that night. Here's how they were actually broken down:
Phase 1
Make a presence in the gym as teenagers enter. I crossed my arms behind my back and assumed an army at-attention stance. Meanwhile, teachers were searching girls' belongings and seizing water bottles, containers of perfume, and hairspray. Apparently in mixers' past, girls had smuggled in alcohol by means of these innocuous bottles. About 25% of the girls would walk in, take off an outer layer to reveal spaghetti straps, and be immediately grabbed by the Dean and reminded clothing wasn't optional.
The next hour was pretty tame as the gym filled with kids. Not surprisingly, the sexes were still segregated--girls dancing with girls, boys pretending not to watch. The girls' clothing left little to the imagination and the boys were varying degrees of gangsta or I-Just-Got-Out-of-Bed. Despite their apparel, that girls would grind with one another (before being broken up by yours truly), or that the boys were doing their best impressions of hyphy, it was during this first blooming hour that I saw a true innocence.
Without a frontal lobe for impulse control, their poor little brains grappled with the event unfolding. MTV says, "loud music, poorly lit arena, bodies, sweat--let's get it on!" While the event organizers (good Catholic folk, and then me) were saying, "Leave room for Jesus!" I was entertained that these horny kids were so scared and oblivious as to how to deal with their opposites. The boys, dressed to kill, would find any excuse NOT to interact with the girls. This included strutting up to me or other teachers prefecting and chatting it up. We've all done this at a party--spot the one person you at least know and attach yourself to them. But in this case, their latching onto the authority figures they usually detest for assigning too much Spanish homework!
Things eventually picked up.
Phase Two
I supervised the volunteer kids who were pouring water for the sweaty party-goers. Nothing going, except that even when it's just water, kids will hold it like it's a beer, and slam the table like they're ordering bourbon.
Phase Three
Now I'm patrolling outside in what is essentially a dog-run that the kids can escape to from the heat of inside (the walls are sweating by now). As my colleagues make loops through the crowd trying to break up as much "freaking" as possible, I was outside in the cold. There are different ways to remind kids they're not living up to God's expectations, and I've alluded to one of them already (Leave room for Jesus), but the one we use is "Imagine I was her father." Can you see that working coming from me? I think that's why I was outside...
Mind you, it's asphalt and concrete out here, but the unlit area still encourages the kids to make out. Lying on the asphalt...leaning against a concrete wall...making out. My job was mostly to ruin the fun. It's incredibly awkward to break up a tongue party, but I just remembered what grandma said about rattlesnakes: "They're feeling more awkward than you are." I let my flashlight do most of the talking, and it worked. These kids are so terrified mommy and daddy might be called, they'll listen to gentle reminders of Christian living from a flashlight.
Phase Four
After the kids were all gone, we opened up a classroom and drank beer for a few hours. Nothing like getting shitty with some old mentors!
Wielding only a flash light and a yellow shirt that read "Staff," I was the reluctant guardian of 1500 high school kids ages 15-17 at the Back to School Mixer.
I arrived onsite to a throng of segregated girls and boys. This was a night unlike others. My high school is an all-male Catholic high school, and its mixers, for whatever reason, draw more girls than all the frat houses (from our college days of yore) combined. The two opposite sexes entered the school gym in two opposite sides, the boys in the back, the girls by way of the front. There were easily more people in attendance outside than went to my college. I walked past several hundred girls keeping my eyes on the prize (the door) and ignoring the combination of their perfumes (only someone who's dead wears that much perfume). I had an orange piece of paper folded in my pocket--instructions on my responsibilities that night. Here's how they were actually broken down:
Phase 1
Make a presence in the gym as teenagers enter. I crossed my arms behind my back and assumed an army at-attention stance. Meanwhile, teachers were searching girls' belongings and seizing water bottles, containers of perfume, and hairspray. Apparently in mixers' past, girls had smuggled in alcohol by means of these innocuous bottles. About 25% of the girls would walk in, take off an outer layer to reveal spaghetti straps, and be immediately grabbed by the Dean and reminded clothing wasn't optional.
The next hour was pretty tame as the gym filled with kids. Not surprisingly, the sexes were still segregated--girls dancing with girls, boys pretending not to watch. The girls' clothing left little to the imagination and the boys were varying degrees of gangsta or I-Just-Got-Out-of-Bed. Despite their apparel, that girls would grind with one another (before being broken up by yours truly), or that the boys were doing their best impressions of hyphy, it was during this first blooming hour that I saw a true innocence.
Without a frontal lobe for impulse control, their poor little brains grappled with the event unfolding. MTV says, "loud music, poorly lit arena, bodies, sweat--let's get it on!" While the event organizers (good Catholic folk, and then me) were saying, "Leave room for Jesus!" I was entertained that these horny kids were so scared and oblivious as to how to deal with their opposites. The boys, dressed to kill, would find any excuse NOT to interact with the girls. This included strutting up to me or other teachers prefecting and chatting it up. We've all done this at a party--spot the one person you at least know and attach yourself to them. But in this case, their latching onto the authority figures they usually detest for assigning too much Spanish homework!
Things eventually picked up.
Phase Two
I supervised the volunteer kids who were pouring water for the sweaty party-goers. Nothing going, except that even when it's just water, kids will hold it like it's a beer, and slam the table like they're ordering bourbon.
Phase Three
Now I'm patrolling outside in what is essentially a dog-run that the kids can escape to from the heat of inside (the walls are sweating by now). As my colleagues make loops through the crowd trying to break up as much "freaking" as possible, I was outside in the cold. There are different ways to remind kids they're not living up to God's expectations, and I've alluded to one of them already (Leave room for Jesus), but the one we use is "Imagine I was her father." Can you see that working coming from me? I think that's why I was outside...
Mind you, it's asphalt and concrete out here, but the unlit area still encourages the kids to make out. Lying on the asphalt...leaning against a concrete wall...making out. My job was mostly to ruin the fun. It's incredibly awkward to break up a tongue party, but I just remembered what grandma said about rattlesnakes: "They're feeling more awkward than you are." I let my flashlight do most of the talking, and it worked. These kids are so terrified mommy and daddy might be called, they'll listen to gentle reminders of Christian living from a flashlight.
Phase Four
After the kids were all gone, we opened up a classroom and drank beer for a few hours. Nothing like getting shitty with some old mentors!
10/4/06
Hey Ma, Look at Me Now!
This is a line Alanis Morsette removed before releasing her hit song, "Ironic." It proved too cumbersome for her song of faux disgruntled frustration.
Here's a joke known well by all aspiring English majors: What are you going to do with that, teach? And then there's a laugh at the expense of the English major. I was never upset that my degree had the stereotype of tracking its graduates into teaching positions--it was the idea that teaching was somehow...unworthy of respect.
Well, now I'm a teacher. And I recognize the same lack of respect from my students. We're a nation of do-it-yourself'ers who ought not to rely on the tutelage of an older sage--because it's not what you know, but who you know.
But irony is sweet. I just got back from Kaiser after a brand new operation (they gave me a second liver) which cost me $15 because of my health plan. On my way home, I saw a familiar face--a friend from college--a poli/sci major! He was waving a sign that had something to do with Mondo Burrito's Grand Re-Opening...I couldn't really see, he was waving it too erratically.
I waved to him, and as my car splashed muddy water in his face I could see it in his eyes...the recognition of what I knew all along: That age old lesson...only slightly more dangerous than giving a Mafia Don some lip (or the prison guard union a salary cut), is making fun of a teacher.
I was the magister, and he--unwittingly--was my pupil.
Here's a joke known well by all aspiring English majors: What are you going to do with that, teach? And then there's a laugh at the expense of the English major. I was never upset that my degree had the stereotype of tracking its graduates into teaching positions--it was the idea that teaching was somehow...unworthy of respect.
Well, now I'm a teacher. And I recognize the same lack of respect from my students. We're a nation of do-it-yourself'ers who ought not to rely on the tutelage of an older sage--because it's not what you know, but who you know.
But irony is sweet. I just got back from Kaiser after a brand new operation (they gave me a second liver) which cost me $15 because of my health plan. On my way home, I saw a familiar face--a friend from college--a poli/sci major! He was waving a sign that had something to do with Mondo Burrito's Grand Re-Opening...I couldn't really see, he was waving it too erratically.
I waved to him, and as my car splashed muddy water in his face I could see it in his eyes...the recognition of what I knew all along: That age old lesson...only slightly more dangerous than giving a Mafia Don some lip (or the prison guard union a salary cut), is making fun of a teacher.
I was the magister, and he--unwittingly--was my pupil.
Idiot Rock
Once upon a time a bunch of guys were in a basement and they had no girlfriends. These guys were also on a wrestling team and drove pickup trucks. They have about ten half-gallons of vodka to drink and they wanted to party, but there was no music to party to. This is the situation that spawned the genre I like to call idiot rock.
"Big Balls" - AC/DC (1981)
This is one of those gimmicky songs written for idiots. The lead singer of AC/DC, I don't know his name because he isn't important, sings about how big his balls are, and how big the balls are of the people around him. This is a good song for getting pumped up for lifting weights or going to the bar and not picking up chicks. One who likes to think they are smart about music might make the argument that "big balls" could refer to courage or bravery, since one of the lines in the song is "she's got big balls" and hopefully the dude isn't referring to a transvestite, though knowing the shenanigans of bands in the 80's he may very well be. Even if it does refer to courage, it isn't really a big step up. An idiot rock song like this one either 1) makes dudes chug beers because they like to imagine they have a huge sack of nuts or 2) makes dudes chug beers because the song makes them feel like someday they might be brave enough to ask out a girl in real life.
"Bawitdaba" - Kid Rock (1999)
Kid Rock tried to gain rock legitimacy by speaking gibberish and having a sickly looking midget run around on stage and piss his pants. Instead all Kid Rock did was make dating strippers seem like something that you could get away with and still manage to scrape respect out of your peers. I think in the music video Kid Rock had dirt bikes doing jumps over him while he sang the song. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a good neon green Fox Racing jersey as much as the next guy, but the Kid Rock is singing about trailer parks while fucking DIRT BIKES fly overhead. There is nothing inherently idiotic about dirt, bikes, trailers, parks, kids, or rocks, but when you put all those things together and try to write music you get a bunch of guys blasting that shit on their stereo and trying out WWF moves on each other in the back yard talking about how sweet it is going to be when they are old enough to enlist.
"Any Song Ever Written By" - Def Leppard (Oblivion)
Def Leppard is the epitome of idiot rock. A band that forms out of the desire to be sweet like other bands. A band formed up by obsessive roadies and alcoholics who like to punch holes in the wall when they get riled up because it "makes them feel like they are alive." Def Leppard seriously got their name from the lead singer thinking about how he could make a band name on par with, in his opinion, the "sickest" band name ever, Led Zeppelin. So what you have here is a bunch of morons writing songs that didn't hit record charts at all but instead went straight to the mixtape that plays on the only strip club in Omaha, Nebraska open on Christmas Eve.
These are my opinions, and I am unwilling to hear a serious opinion against my humorous opinions. I will not entertain a fan of any of these bands or songs trying to have a serious debate. If you want to make fun of AC/DC with me, that's cool, because the lead singer needs to quit already, he's like 65.
"Big Balls" - AC/DC (1981)
This is one of those gimmicky songs written for idiots. The lead singer of AC/DC, I don't know his name because he isn't important, sings about how big his balls are, and how big the balls are of the people around him. This is a good song for getting pumped up for lifting weights or going to the bar and not picking up chicks. One who likes to think they are smart about music might make the argument that "big balls" could refer to courage or bravery, since one of the lines in the song is "she's got big balls" and hopefully the dude isn't referring to a transvestite, though knowing the shenanigans of bands in the 80's he may very well be. Even if it does refer to courage, it isn't really a big step up. An idiot rock song like this one either 1) makes dudes chug beers because they like to imagine they have a huge sack of nuts or 2) makes dudes chug beers because the song makes them feel like someday they might be brave enough to ask out a girl in real life.
"Bawitdaba" - Kid Rock (1999)
Kid Rock tried to gain rock legitimacy by speaking gibberish and having a sickly looking midget run around on stage and piss his pants. Instead all Kid Rock did was make dating strippers seem like something that you could get away with and still manage to scrape respect out of your peers. I think in the music video Kid Rock had dirt bikes doing jumps over him while he sang the song. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a good neon green Fox Racing jersey as much as the next guy, but the Kid Rock is singing about trailer parks while fucking DIRT BIKES fly overhead. There is nothing inherently idiotic about dirt, bikes, trailers, parks, kids, or rocks, but when you put all those things together and try to write music you get a bunch of guys blasting that shit on their stereo and trying out WWF moves on each other in the back yard talking about how sweet it is going to be when they are old enough to enlist.
"Any Song Ever Written By" - Def Leppard (Oblivion)
Def Leppard is the epitome of idiot rock. A band that forms out of the desire to be sweet like other bands. A band formed up by obsessive roadies and alcoholics who like to punch holes in the wall when they get riled up because it "makes them feel like they are alive." Def Leppard seriously got their name from the lead singer thinking about how he could make a band name on par with, in his opinion, the "sickest" band name ever, Led Zeppelin. So what you have here is a bunch of morons writing songs that didn't hit record charts at all but instead went straight to the mixtape that plays on the only strip club in Omaha, Nebraska open on Christmas Eve.
These are my opinions, and I am unwilling to hear a serious opinion against my humorous opinions. I will not entertain a fan of any of these bands or songs trying to have a serious debate. If you want to make fun of AC/DC with me, that's cool, because the lead singer needs to quit already, he's like 65.
10/2/06
Bratwurst tacos anyone?
I never figured Walla Walla to be a cultural melting pot. I eagerly await the annual Walla Walla Sausage Festival every year and I eat my fill of bratwurst, wienersnitzel, and all the other bavarian meat amalgamations that have ever been squeezed into animal intestine. On that same token, I am a regular of the local taco trucks that serve up all kinds of authentic mexican food...sometimes too authentic. I have never ventured to try the burritos filled with cow tongue that many of the trucks offer, but I have seen several patrons of the taco trucks eagerly eat that shit up like the Sunday comics character Cathy gobbles up chocolate cake after a long day of trying on dresses.
While the quick ethnic food in Walla Walla is not very diverse, you can always get your hands on a tasty sweet onion-filled taco from one of the many taco trucks or you can swing by Walla Walla Onion World on the main drag downtown and get a sweet onion sausage. The Irish can cook a potato a million ways, and the people here in Walla Walla can make a sweet onion work in just about anything. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the community decided that tacos and sausages make a good combo, and the cultures that inspired these foods incidentally know how to party, so you might as well combine the two and throw a sick Oktoberfiesta.
While the quick ethnic food in Walla Walla is not very diverse, you can always get your hands on a tasty sweet onion-filled taco from one of the many taco trucks or you can swing by Walla Walla Onion World on the main drag downtown and get a sweet onion sausage. The Irish can cook a potato a million ways, and the people here in Walla Walla can make a sweet onion work in just about anything. I guess it was just a matter of time before someone in the community decided that tacos and sausages make a good combo, and the cultures that inspired these foods incidentally know how to party, so you might as well combine the two and throw a sick Oktoberfiesta.
10/1/06
Bombs Away!
Here is another addition to my "whatever the context, this photo suggests darkness" photography series. I found this in a local wine bar called Vintage Cellars. It is a picture of two guys taking some drinks in the cockpit of an aircraft. I would hope that these guys aren't about to fly an airplane, but one can only assume that if they had the liberty to bring alcoholic beverages into the cockpit of aircraft there probably isn't somebody from the TSA breathing down their neck. Let's just hope this isn't a maiden voyage.
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