Burning Stickman

Companies that Care

2009-11-12T09:32:00.000-08:00

I’m so glad that big companies have looking out for the health of us American here lately. It gives me a warm, snuggly feeling inside (gnawing hunger) to know that being health conscious is easier when large food conglomerates are watching our backs when it comes to the choices we make when eating. I came to this conclusion today through personal experience with a soft drink company we will refer to as Peppy.

Peppy has recently taken control of two of the machines in our break room at work and has been very aware of the needs and desires of the State workers. See, as State workers in an office we (I) spend 86% of our time sitting, and the combination of not getting enough exercise during the day and eating food from a vending machine makes a lot of us (me) feel like they are behaving in an unhealthy way at work. Using keen intuition (brain scanners in our desk lights), Peppy has sensed these worries and has sprang into action to help us make healthy decisions while in the work place. I’ll give some examples…

1) Last week I was feeling kind of tired near the end of the day and wanted a small jolt of caffeine from a soft drink so I went to our break room to grab a soda. I noticed that the drink machine, which had previously had a generic “Soda” sign slapped across it and offered both Choke and Peppy products, now had a picture of an ice cold can (you could tell by the condensation on it) and the name “Peppy” in big letters across it. My tired, information laden, caffeine deprived brain took a minute to process what had changed and then I grumbled because I prefer Choke products over Peppy products. “Well,” I thought. “Maybe I’ll have a sugar filled pastry from the vending machine instead and siphon my will to get through the rest of the day from that. I stepped to the machine beside the drink machine and quickly noticed two things…the prices had gone up on everything and a small sign beside the coin slot declared that Peppy now owned the machine (I’m sure the two couldn’t be related). So, I decided to suck it up and get a Peppy drink, but after the machine accepted my dollar it wouldn’t “vend” my drink order. I pushed every button on the machine and finally hit the one that spat my dollar back out. I then noticed the blinking message, “Please Use Exact Change.” It seemed Peppy knew that I didn’t have exact change, there-by looking out for my health and not allowing me to get a soda. I poured a glass of water instead and fell asleep at my desk 15 minutes later.

2) A few days after the soda and vending machine switch I walked into the break room to notice that we had a new vending machine across the room. I looked it over and noted that it was not owned by Peppy (or at least didn’t have a sticker on it telling me they did) and the prices were waaaaaaay cheaper than the other machine. I bought a pack of crackers from it and went back to my desk. Later in the day I once again had that tired feeling and decided to go to break room (armed with some quarters) and grab a soda. After purchasing my yellow soft drink I decided that I also wanted a snack and looked to the vending machine in front of me. 12 varieties of chips, two pastries, some bags of peanuts, and a row of gum stared back at me. Nothing looked good. I took a tentative glance over my shoulder at the machine across the room and the soft lights that seductively highlighted the bevy of low priced choices. I turned to walked across the room (adjusting my suddenly tighter pants) and realized that Peppy had once again engineered a masterful ploy to get us office workers healthy because anyone who wanted a drink and snack would be a fool to choose the machine standing right beside drink machine over the cheaper, better stocked machine across the room. Peppy has intentionally made the choices dull and the prices high to encourage us to not choose from their vending machine. Thus, we walk an extra seven steps every time we go to the break room, bringing us ever closer to the healthy daily lifestyle we all crave.

3) Today I was faced with wanting a soda in the morning to combat the effects of having a mid-week day off (my body was fooled into thinking today was Monday) and went into the break room prepared with some quarters…but alas…Peppy had outsmarted me in their attempt to keep me healthy. Knowing I would use correct change, they just shut their machine off entirely. I checked the back and it was plugged up so the only explanation is that Peppy remotely disabled it so that I could not buy a soda and ruin my future health. Coupled with the calories I burned walking to the break room in the back of our building the inability to obtain a soda has shown me that Peppy is truly a company that cares.

I have come to believe that companies like Peppy are there to serve us….a slice of love and protection. I wasn’t because the company is inept and not customer orientated that I was unable to get my soft drinks…but because Peppy was just looking out for my best interest and wanted to do their part to keep me healthy. The next time you wait 20 minutes in the drive-thru at your local fast food restaurant and then drive away in a fit of frustration ask your self this…are the workers inside really a bunch of uneducated, careless morons, or are they a group of caring individuals who love you and would rather see you drive off in hatred than have you risk your health with their food?

Arby's and KFC must love us very much.

The Singing Dead

2009-04-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else know that Ronnie Milsap was alive? I seriously thought he had died, like, five years ago. But, there I was last night sitting on my couch enjoying a(n) (insert name of baked cheese-ish product here) and up pops a commercial for his new “gospel” CD with Ronnie smiling on the cover of the album like he had just received a reach around by Jesus himself. At that point I aspirated an entire handful of baked-in cheddar flavor and was only saved when Ari, seeing my bulging eyes and excited demeanor, thought we were suddenly playing and jumped up to plant both paws directly onto my junkbox… causing me to exhale forcefully and cover her and the coffee table in a fine orange mist.

This small episode of choking caused me to miss the flashing phone number where I might get some answers, and Brandy was laughing too hard at me to pay attention to Mr. Milsap discuss with the audience why he had decided to remain alive despite all natural laws. So my shocked brain was forced to collect itself, assimilate facts, and accept that Ronnie Milsap was indeed still alive and selling out to the Christians. I mean, he should only be in his sixties right? And just because no one has really heard from him since like 2000 doesn’t mean that he’s dead right?

But, the more I thought about it the more couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just not right. So I got on my D.A.B. (Digital Answer Box….the computer smart guy) and started searching for information about ol’ Ronnie Milsap. According to some experts (conspiracy theorists) Mr. Milsap, in fact, died in 1994 and has been kept alive through the use of black arts and secret incantations. Much of what I read on this may be construed by some people as actually talking about his music career, but I can read between the lines and I know that Ronnie Milsap is in fact……........a zombie.

Singing zombies are not all that surprising. Remember Thriller? Well that……..what? What do you mean you’ve never seen Thriller? It was one of the most influential music videos of this century. Do you even know who Ronnie Milsap is? You don’t?! Then why the hell have you been reading this? Are you that bored at work? I can’t even warn you about the singing dead because you don’t know who the singing dead is!

“Lost in the 50’s Tonight” anyone? No? Damn it all!

New Life and the Passing of a Great Man

2008-11-06T17:01:00.001-08:00

Some moments in life conflict with each other. Never have I had a better example than then last two days. Forgive me if I ramble.

On Tuesday I witness two of the proudest moments in my life. My sister gave birth to my new niece, Cheyne Annalise, was born bringing a new light into this world, and I watched as the first African American President was nominated. Both of these occurrences give me hope for the future.

That night my father went to sleep filled with joy at seeing his first grandchild and kissing her head. Yesterday I found out that he never woke up. He died peacefully in his bed. Anyone who knew Danny Thomas knows that he died exactly how he wanted to, happy at home with the feel of his new baby girl still on his lips. Needless to say no one expected him to die with no warning, but, once again, if you knew my father you know that he hardly ever did what anyone expected.

My father was one of the greatest men I have ever known. He often said exactly what was on his mind, whether it was the right thing to say or not, and he would have done anything to help someone out. Our loss is Heaven’s gain. God needed him for one of His angels.

For anyone interested in the service you can find details in his obituary. It will be in tomorrow’s (Friday Nov. 7^th) edition of the Paris Post Intelligencer.

I want to thank everyone for their prayers and condolences.

Robert Daniel "Danny" Thomas
Aug 24th, 1946 - Nov 5th, 2008

Stickman ’08…Breaking News!!!!

2008-10-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

Since October of 2005 this site has been covering a candidate for the upcoming 2008 Presidential election who was virtually unknown until yesterday…when he officially became completely unknown. This dark horse Independent candidate started his campaign 3 years early to help spread his message of change, but lack of funds and political experience (coupled with the fact that no one knew who the hell he was) caused him to remain in the proverbial shadows despite follow-up reports on him in December of 2005 and January of 2007.

This candidate’s name…is Burning Stickman.

After the final Presidential debate last night Burning Stickman announced that he would be dropping out of the running for President and switching his endorsement over to the Democratic nominee, Barack Obama. We caught up with Burning Stickman after the debate and he agreed to an in-depth interview with our political correspondent Haye Whatsizname. After the loss of several reporters and interns following the Burning Stickman (B.S.) campaign trail it took some persuasion (and threatening) to get Haye to finally agree to conduct the face-to-face interview with B.S. Here is the interview that Haye gave…from behind a 2 foot thick blast shield of Plexiglas.

Haye: “Good to see you Burning Stickman. You look well.”
Stickman: “AAAAAARRRGGG!!!”
Haye: “Thank you, it’s a new tie. And a new fire retardant suit. So…the question on everyone in America’s mind right now is ‘Who will be the best President?’ With your flawless strategy and clear answers to the troubling questions facing America today you were a sure winner when you started your campaign in 2005. What happened between then and now to make drop out of the race this close to Election Day?”
Stickman: “AAARRRGG!! AARRRRRGGGGGG!!! AAAAAAAAAAAARG!!! ARG!”
Haye: “Really? They didn’t send you an invitation to any of the debates?”
Stickman: “AAAARRRGGG!!! AAAAARRRGG!!”
Haye: “Yeah, my feelings would have been hurt too. But, it seems you are the perfect candidate and that you were running on a strong platform of change and economic reform. Why do you think that you were unable to gain a following?”
Stickman: “ARG, ARRGG, AAAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAARRGGG!!! AAAAARRRGGGG!!!”
Haye: “But it should have been obvious that they both stole your campaign slogan late in the race.”
Stickman: “AAAAAARRRRGGGGGG!!!!
Haye: “Exactly. So let’s talk about the other candidates’ races. What do you think of the race and gender cards that seems to be factors? Do you think, as a stickman on constant fire, that your minority status hurt your campaign?
Stickman: “AAAAARRGG!! AAAARRGG!!! AAAAARRRRRGGG!! ARG! ARRGG!”
Haye: “Ha, ha, ha. Very witty Mr. Stickman. I can see how that would have been an advantage for you. You can be either black or white depending on how hot you burn, and if the voters are swayed by a pretty woman Vice President then they should have loved you because you are much ‘hotter’ than her.”
Stickman: “AAAARRGG!! AAARRRRGGGGG!!! AAAAARRRGGGGGGGGGG!!!”
Haye: “And speaking of Vice Presidents, do you think that your choice of running mates hurt your campaign?”
Stickman: “AAARRRGGG!!!?”
Haye: “Well…your running mate was The Fonze.”
Stickman: “AAAAAAAARRRRGGG!! AARRGG!! AAAARRRGGG!!”
Haye: “Yes, I realize that he is ‘cool to the max,’ but he is also a fictional character.”
Stickman: “AAARRGG!!?”
Haye: “Yeah. Happy Days was a show, not a documentary.”
Stickman: “AARRGGGG!! AAAAARRRGG!!!”
Haye: “That makes sense. Henry Winkler hasn’t got anything better to do these days. Let’s switch topics. What do you think about the other two candidates spending outlandish amounts of money on their campaigns when your total campaign spending for the last three years totaled $64.37?”
Stickman: “AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGG!!!! AAARRRGG!! AAAAARRRRGGG!!!!! AAAAAARRRRRGGGGG!!”
Haye: “No, I’m not criticizing you. I understand that coffee is an important tool in maintaining any campaign.”
Stickman: “AAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAARRRRGGG!! AAAAAARRRRGGGGG!!”
Haye: “I agree. It does seem to send a wrong message in this time of our country’s financial troubles to spend millions of dollars on attack ads.”
Stickman: “AAAARRRGGG!!”
Haye: “So, to wrap this up…why did you choose to endorse Obama over McCain? His ideas and plans for our nation seem to more closely resemble yours…but what are the other reasons?”
Stickman: “AAAAAAARRRRRGGGG!!! AAAARRRRGGGG!! AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AARRGG!! AAAARRRRGGGG!! AAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AAARRGG!! AAAAAAARRRRGGGG!!! AARRGG!!! ARG! AAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!!!!!! AAAAAAAARRRGGG!! AAAAAARG!!! AAAAAARRRRRRGGGG!!! AARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!”
Haye: “Wow! You know, I was one the fence about who to vote for…but after that speech I realize that Obama it the clear choice to heal our country. That was the most eloquent and poignant explanation I have ever heard, and after America hears what you just said I am sure that Obama will win in a landslide. Do you plan to vote early or go on election day?”
Stickman: “AAARRGGG!! AAAARRGGGGG!!! AAARRGGG!!”
Haye: “What do you mean you’re not an American citizen?”
Stickman: “AARRGG!! AAAARRRGGG!! AAARRRGGG!!!”
Haye: “Yeah, I understand that you’re a stickman…but…you were running for President!”
Stickman: “AAARRRGGG!!?”
Haye: “You have to be an American citizen to…hell, you have to have been born here to run…you know what? Screw it! I’m out of here.”

At this point, ace reporter Haye Whatsizname turned off his microphone and stormed out of the bunker where the interview was being held. To date, he is the only reporter to survive an interview with Burning Stickman without being incinerated beyond recognition.

UPDATE…
Before this report aired we received word from our producers that reporter Haye Whatsizname is apparently dead after being involved in a tragic accident. It appears that he was taking his flame retardant jumpsuit off in his trailer when he tripped and fell, causing his new tie to somehow be caught in the ceiling fan. After cutting himself free he then apparently jumped around his trailer causing massive damage to his belongings, reached his hand into his Cuisinart food processor while it was on, and somehow broke his knees on a baseball bat that was lying around. While passed out on the floor it appears that a pillow from the couch fell on his face and smothered him.

To date, no foul play is suspected.

He will be missed by his accountant.

Holy Crap...and Other Religious Artifacts

2008-10-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

I have been contemplating the creation of my own religion. I believe that I would center it around irony (which, despite popular belief, is not the Medieval process of making iron) and would be comprised of all the necessary components like guilt, shame, and disillusionment. Now all I need is a catchy name…

The name of a religion is usually much more important than the actual doctrine. Gone are the days when a religion’s name actually indicated what the religion involved: Christianity followed the teachings of Jesus Christ, Buddhism followed the teachings of Siddhartha “Buddha” Gautama, and Confucianism followed the teachings of K'ung-fu-tzu (Confucius). Now the names of “Christian”churches are picked because of their appeal to the masses using length to signify their importance. Here are some of the names of churches that I have seen lately and what their name might signify if we were going by the old system.

Church of the Living God (we worship a zombie)

Church of the True Living God of Holiness (those other zombies are fakes)

Church of God of Prophecy (we know the future)

Open Doors Community Church (we take the people no one else wants)

Community Church of the Living God of Prophecy (our zombie tells the future)

Church of the God of Rocks and Plants and Birds and Junk and Stuff (just covering all the bases)

McLafferty’s Pub (Irish Catholic)

Starting a religion is not as hard as it used to be. Once upon a time someone had to have ideas that other people thought were good, thus creating a following. Now to start a religion you just take an idea that already exists (Christianity seems the most malleable) and change small things to suit your needs (see: Calvinism, Methodism, Baptism, Episcopalians, Lutherans, and Mormons). It seems like starting a religion is much like starting a band these days. Here are the steps that have to be followed for both:

1) You begin with one person who wants to be really important and popular (religious leader/band leader).

2) You take already popular idea (religion/music style) and change one small aspect (“We’re like Methodists, except we ‘speak in tongues’”/“We sound like every other emo band, except we wear these matching ties with no shirt”).

3) You get a name (Church of Risen Dead Guy/Sunday Night Drinking Party)

4) You get some kind of icon or relic to symbolize the religion/band (guy with a halo eating a brain/black eyeliner, black nail polish, no musical talent).

5) You gather a following by giving people what they think they want (“We know people are different and love and accept you even if you rape koalas”/“We sing about teen angst and how parents don’t understand how hard life is at the age of 14”).

One of the popular trends is Individualized Religions. These religions do not rely on a heavy amount of followers for validation (the congregation usually consists of one person), but still provides the comfort of “rightness” that having a religion brings. A good example of Individual Religion is my friend John. He started his own religion which helps him to deal with slings and arrows of daily life. The religion is called Johnsbonedism (John’s-boned-ism). Here’s how he explained it to me…

Instead of the normal chants like The Lord’s Prayer, Johnsbonedism chants all center around the fact that no matter what happens…John is boned. Another thing that sets his religion apart is the constant proof and disproof of God’s existence.

Example 1

John: I can prove that there is no God.

Me: How?

John: If God exists, then a beautiful woman will walk through the door any minute and marry me.

We both look in the direction of the door…

Five minutes pass…

John: There is no God.

Example 2

John: If there’s a God then this traffic light will change soon.

Traffic light changes

John: Sometimes you get lucky Yahweh.

It’s a give and take system.

The reason that I have searched the possibilities of a starting a religion is because yesterday I received a sign from a higher power. Yesterday was one of the worst days that I have had yet in my entire working experience. Nothing went right yesterday while I was at work. First, I woke up late and had to rush to work. Next, I had a guy yell at me and call me a stuck-up prick because I wouldn’t shake his hand due to the fact that I watched him emerge from the bathroom zipping up his fly and I knew that he had not washed his hands. The next has to be told delicately so that the full impact on my day can be appreciated.

A man weighing in at about four hundred pounds walks into my cubicle and plops down on the chair opposite me like a whale sitting down to afternoon tea. He is carrying a very large mug of, what I assume is, coffee and a folder with papers threatening to throw themselves in every direction. He is out of breath from the thirty-two steps it took to get to my office from the lobby and is now sitting across from me with a sound coming from his throat like someone is strangling a baby seal. I wait for him to either gather his senses or pass out. Finally he gives me his paper and I begin to type, keeping my eyes on the computer screen so that I won’t have to look at the milky whiteness of his belly that is hanging out of his Van Halen t-shirt. As I am pretending to type something important I hear a bubbling sound from his stomach like he swallowed a live duck with scuba gear on. I pretend not to notice as it continues because it happens to all of us now and then and I didn't want him to be embarrassed. Then I hear a tiny squeak from his direction that lasts for a couple of seconds, like he is trying to hold the air in a balloon by stretching it. This, I also pretend I didn’t hear so that he might be able to save some dignity. Then, I hear the scuba duck and the balloon in unison and the smell of a thousand dead raccoons hits me. I can’t ignore this fart, due in part to my now watering eyes and the look of anguish that is on my face, and I turn to him. He has a look of surprise and embarrassment on his face which I quickly realize is not from a mere fart. The only words that were exchanged since he had been in the office were now traded.

Bio-Toxic Waste Factory: I have to go.

Me: I understand.

He had shit his pants right there in my office.

The bad thing was that this coffee-fueled sludge had leaked just enough out of his massive plumber’s crack to stain the chair in my office. Even after he had gone the smell of dead animal carcasses and, for some odd reason, bananas remained behind in my office. I removed the chair to the loading dock behind our building and grabbed an identical chair and a can of Lysol from our store room and tried to eradicate his lingering presence from my cubicle.

What really got me thinking about starting my own religion was being accosted by Mormons in the parking lot on my way to the mailbox later that day. They followed me all the way from the front door to the street asking me about whether they could come over to my house and talk to me about Joseph Smith. I politely yelled at the them that I had read the Book of Mormon and asked them if they would enjoy me coming to their house to talk to them about Cthulhu. After this incident I went out to the loading dock to calm my nerves and smoke a cigarette.

Across the loading dock the Crap Chair stared at me through a haze of smoke. As I started walking across the dock toward it the sun came out of the clouds and shot through a hole in the tin roof to illuminate the chair in an ethereal light.

That’s when it hit me (the smell and an idea). What if Mr. Load in My Pants had really been the second incarnation of Jesus? That would mean that the black streak now eating away the fabric of the chair was really “holy crap.” The irony was astounding. This could be my icon…my religious symbol. Now all I have to do is come up with a name for my religion and I am a step closer to getting federal tax credits. I’m leaning toward Christ’s Community Church of the Living God of Prophecy, Rocks, Plants, and Stinky Chairs. Not long enough? I’ll work on it.

And, truth be told, what better symbol for a new religion than a load of crap?

Small Town American Idol

2008-09-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

Do you enjoy listening to the wail of three fire trucks for 30 minutes? Do you love following a rotund woman in a green and purple floral pattern moo-moo around a circle for over an hour in hopes of winning a chocolate pie with a lake of meringue on top of it? Have you ever wanted to ram a deliciously grilled hot dog up your nose and into your brainpan? Maybe you should attend more local festivals in the South.

To the outside observer it would seem that the people in Tennessee will make a festival around just about anything. Mostly we enjoy celebrating food like soybeans, strawberries, tomatoes, and ramps (little green onions) but sometimes we like to branch out by hosting actual events like the World’s Biggest Fish Fry or the World’s Largest Coon Hunt. Nearly every town in Tennessee has some sort of annual festival/jamboree/gathering whose proceeds go to their local firefighters/community center/corrupt politician.

Some of you readers might be thinking to yourself Why do I really give a crap about a Tiny Green Onion Festival or How large is the World’s Largest Coon or What has this got to do with my fetish for putting meat products up my nose.

I attended a festival on Saturday in my hometown of Henry,TN called Pioneer Days (even though there is no pioneer theme what-so-ever since they stopped holding the faux gun fights and it is only a one day event) to participate in the karaoke contest that my mother signed me up for. Having plenty of experience singing karaoke in seedy bars and underground Yakuza nightclubs I believed that I had a pretty good shot of winning the $300 pot. That was before I got to the event and discovered that one of the judges was the owner of a local bar where the karaoke DJ works and where most of my fellow contestants (who sing the same three songs every Friday night at said bar) are regulars. The other two judges were a woman country singer that I’ve never heard of and a ‘gayish’ male country singer that had to kill seven moose to get his hair to the correct degree of cool pointiness.

(The difference between ‘gayish’ and ‘metrosexual’ is that a metrosexual is someone who is straight but takes as much time in front of a mirror as a woman getting ready in the mornings and a gayish person is someone who may be straight but is trying really hard to act gay by saying things like “Oh, my gosh” seven times in ten minutes and commenting on how “fabulous” the women crowded around him are dressed.)

Now, I’m going to stop for a moment to point out two things that did not register with my brain at the time when I agreed to this venture. One…I am at a town festival in the South. Two…I am usually drinking when I sing karaoke. These have a bearing because as I sit down to wait for my name to drawn out of a box I realize that I am about to listen to a lot of bad singers butcher country songs and that I wouldn’t be able to drown out this experience with copious amounts of booze. Here’s the progression of the afternoon…

1:15- Find my sister (who my mother also signed up) and head to the registration tent.
1:17- Meet the judges and realize that I am wasting my mother’s $5 entry fee.
1:45- Notice that a lot of the contestants are regulars at the bar that the judge owns and realize that I am wasting my mother’s $5 entry fee.
2:00- Competition starts off with “Okie from Muskogee” and I think that maybe it won’t be so bad.
2:33- Four more country songs and I realize that beer was invented for these types of social gatherings.
2:55- Three more country songs have been “sung” and I am thinking about wandering into traffic.
3:07- My sister, April, is called to stage and she performs the first non-country song of the day, an excellent rendition of Melissa Etheridge’s “Come to My Window.”
3:15- It starts to sprinkle rain as the girl after my sister finishes the second Patsy Cline song of the day. The karaoke equipment is quickly covered and the competition comes to a halt.
3:18- The rain stops and the competition continues. The sky stays overcast so I occupy my mind by envisioning death by electrocution for every one who gets up and sings country.
3:27- It starts raining again right in the middle of an adolescent’s squeaky version of a Rascal Flatts song (which is pretty close to the original) and competition is put on hold again.
3:42- Some people decide to put a tent over the stage so that competition can commence. My dreams of watching a fellow contestant juiced with electricity withers.3:47- Competition begins again (with the squeaky kid getting a mulligan) as the rain slows.
3:51- Another country song…
3:56- Another country song…
4:01- Please God, bring the lightening.
4:06- Okay…I’ll take a stroke. Send me a stroke.
4:11- The rain stops and the sun comes out. Out of need for movement I get up and walk to the concession stand to get my dad a hot dog. On the way back I hear the fourth Judds song begin and start pondering the mechanics of the force and angle needed to get a cooked tube of meat all the way up my nostril passage and through my cerebral cortex.
4:12- I see the stage and realize that the woman singing (who is not doing too bad) has been lied to by someone. Apparently somebody told her that this was American Idol because she is wearing a tight rhinestone shirt, shorts that have a mailing address in her colon, and powder blue cowboy boots. Things are shaking that shouldn’t shake. People in the crowd are averting their eyes for fear of spontaneous oral and rectal leakage. I look to the sky to keep from becoming permanently flaccid. There is no God.
4:14- The most horrible thing I have ever witnessed steps off the stage and dad finishes his hot dog, oblivious to the fact that John Carpenter’s pièce de résistance just took a year off the lives of everyone in the crowd who, like a massive 87 car pile-up on the freeway, couldn’t look away.
4:22- The DJ calls my name.
4:23- The opening cords to “Roadhouse Blues” blasts the crowd out of the “country lull” that they have been. I pretend to manipulate the harmonica along to the song. People are smiling and the judges look like they are awake again.
4:27- The last guitar ditty of The Doors’ song dies away. I have used the gravel-wrapped-in-velvet singing style of Morrison to bring the crowd back to life.
4:28- Another country song…
4:32- I give up.
5:04- The last contestant is finished. I have somehow mentally checked out and missed the last of the contestants. All I remember is staring at a cloud that resembled Peter Boyle and singing “Puttin’ on the Ritz” in my head.
5:15- The five finalists are chosen and sent to the stage to sing one more song. I am not one of them. All five of the finalists are women. Who sang a country song. My faith in humanity is now nil when someone picks an okay version of Carrie Underwood over a good (I was sober so it wasn’t spectacular) version of The Doors.
5:19- I am in my truck heading for home.

Maybe I am biased about my performance. Four of the finalists did really good…for singing country songs (the last got in on cuteness alone). In my mind, country is the easiest of all the musical genres to sing. The melodies are never really complex, there is hardly ever any variation in the actual music, and the range really doesn’t matter as long as you put “twang” in your voice. There are some exceptions to prove the rule…but you never see those exceptions performed at karaoke. I wish my friend Rob had been there to channel Bon Scott or my other friend John to woo the crowd with a little Paul Simon. But alas, variety was not the order of the day.

I didn’t stay for the finals because it would have basically been five women trying to out-Wynona each other.

And the concession stand had run out of hot dogs.

Burning Stickman's Day Off

2008-09-02T15:15:00.000-07:00

Man…I just checked out today.

So many people have sat across from me today with blank looks that, in order to save my own sanity, I just drained my mind of questions and worries. This transaction has given me the ability to just smile and nod my head and punch numbers on the keyboard.

I’m serious. I let my cognitive senses juts bleed out through my ears until the only thing I had in my brain for about six hours was a dancing money and calliope music. It was bliss.

The end result was that my mind, now free from the shackles of giving a crap, was able to wander the ether in search of truth and enlightenment. I found out that Wint-o-Green Lifesavers are really, really addictive and that it you eat about thirty-five of the individually wrapped ones in about five minutes that they induce an inebriated-like state much akin to being “hopped up on goof balls,” and that people spent less time in my cubicle due to the overwhelming mint smell and the glassy-eyed behemoth crunching happily on candy and humming “Iko Iko” to himself.

I also stared in my own movie in my mind, complete with a chorus line and a big dance number at the end, while transients came and went from my cubicle complaining about their inability to find a job with no high school degree and a felony on their record. I now know how Farris Bueller felt as he pretended to be Abe Froman and escaped for a little while from the trials of life.

And in keeping with the spirit of the day…no great epiphany and no witty ending to this blog. Just imagine a dancing monkey with a little hat. It worked for me.

Civilized Man

2008-08-28T21:06:00.000-07:00

“What is best in life?”
“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women!”
“That is good.”

I just finished building a bookcase and I have come to the conclusion…I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!!! Okay, so maybe that is a little dramatic, but it is how I feel. The process of taking wood, cleaved from the majestic poplar tree, and transforming it into a bookcase through the physical efforts of sawing, staining, sanding, sealing, sanding, sanding, sanding, drilling and nailing has given me sense of accomplishment akin to besting an opponent in mortal combat. It makes me feel…well…like a man.

It was once thought (by women) that the average male brain was a mish-mash of Playboy pictorials, useless sports trivia, and incorrect driving directions held together loosely by malted hops and Twinkie filling, but it has recently been discovered by scientists (who study such things as Playboy pictorials and sports) that the male brain is actually a ham sandwich wrapped around a compressed fruit cake from the Christmas of 1963. Those scientists were all ceremoniously sacked when it was discovered that they wasted research grant money on Pabst Blue Ribbon and Cubs tickets.

The simple fact is that men have certain needs (no, not sex) that reach all the way back into history to connect modern, civilized men with our caveman ancestors, and these needs must be met in order for the average man to function properly. These needs may seem very simple upon first glance, but the true evolutionary genius is the way that man has adapted to the changing world and still meets these needs.

*Caution* Some secrets are about to be revealed that men might not want their significant other to know. Guys, now is the time to nonchalantly lay a wad of cash on the coffee table and wonder aloud if you remember seeing a sale on shoes earlier in the week.

Need to Build
The “need to build” actually encompasses three odd male behaviors. The Need to…
Fix Things: It is an insult to men at a deep ancestral level to have to call someone to fix “simple” things around the house. There is a code in the Y chromosome that tells men that they should be able to reshingle a roof and fix the pipes under the kitchen sink regardless of that trip to the hospital the last time he tried to power-sand the front deck.

Buy Tools: Ever wonder why men have tons of tools that they never use? When was the last time you saw your neighbor Bill actually use that engine hoist in his garage besides that time he hung a cooler on it at the Memorial Day BBQ? Has he ever actually lifted an engine out of a car with it? Does it matter? No…because he bought it with the knowledge that one day he might have to pull an engine out of a car. Ever need to ratchet something at a 45 degree angle? Bill’s got the tool for that. Ever need a portable hydraulic jack the size of a shoe with the capability of lifting a Sherman tank…and doubles as an AM/FM radio? Bill’s got two of those. This is the “got it if I need it” clause in men’s brains. This clause also applies to large, fully automatic guns and that collection of “battle ready” Medieval sword replicas (just in case the zombies come).

Build Stuff: There comes a time in every man’s life when an ache grows deep down inside of him to take everyday materials, such as wood or stone and either combine them or shape them to form some sort of “usable” object. This ache is centuries old and has produced such life changing inventions as the wheel, fire (unintentional), the Pear of Anguish (ouch), and the Ronco food dehydrator. Some believe that the Wall of China was built to keep Mongols out…but, in fact, it was really some guy named Geoff (which is Chinese for Jeff) who felt the need to build something. The need to build is the reason for the exorbitant amount of birdhouses across the globe.

The Need to Hunt and Gather
This need is the most primitive in existence, and often the most overlooked. The reason that it is overlooked is because it has evolved into some pretty odd behaviors. The obvious evolution still involves hunting. Despite the abundance of pre-packaged meats women often wonder why men (and some women) get up before the sun rises to sit in an uncomfortable chair high above the ground to shoot Bambi’s dad. The answer…the need to hunt. The need to stalk a deer through the forest, using tracking skills passed down from father to son, and slay it with your bare hands so that your family could eat that week has been replaced by the need to sit quietly, with your iPod on low volume, on a pre-fabricated metal tree stand and shoot your prey from 75 yards with hollow-tipped bullets and a powerful scope. Even though meat is readily available at Wal-Mart we still have the urge to kill wild animals with our metaphorical bare hands.

Branching off from this need to hunt is the need for fire. There is something very primitive and very satisfying about dropping a steak on an open flame, even if it is in your driveway while wearing a “Wanna Taste My Meat?” grilling apron. Some women have wondered why it is that a man would go outside in three inches of snow to cook hamburgers on a charcoal grill. Why take all that time to prepare, season, and slow cook delicious animals when you can pay people at a restaurant to do it for you? The answer is…because we have to. There is a sense of accomplishment that comes from serving up food that was prepared by your hands over Prometheus’ stolen treasure that links us to the time when our ancestors stood on an open plain with the smell of buffalo or elk drifting off to the empty horizon.

Give me a moment……..

I’m weeping……

And salivating……..

The last need stemming from hunting and gathering is the need for freedom. Every wonder why people ride motorcycles when cars are available? The answer is freedom. Think about it, we spend most of our lives in boxes. Houses are boxes, the buildings where we work are boxes, and even cars are boxes (convertibles are opened boxes). But on motorcycles we can feel the wind rushing all around us and be transported back to the open range where men rode horses across the expansive landscape (and look cool doing it). Men need this sense of freedom from their everyday lives of working in cubicles and dealing with the pressures of a failing economy and the looming war with Russia.

This need for freedom is also the reason that men find such satisfaction in peeing outside. Men, given the choice between using a toilet or urinal and walking into their back yard to relieve themselves, will always choose to drain the snake under the stars (this usually happens at night to avoid the neighbors leering stares). The reason? No aiming. It’s as simple as that. You can just release and lean your head back to watch for possible UFOs. No worrying about hitting the toilet or putting the seat back down. This is the favorite mode of relieving oneself after a college party when your motor skills have been drastically reduced by Jagermeister and Corona. This no aiming policy is also the reason why all men have pissed in the shower at least a dozen times in their life. It’s true. If a man tells you that he has never peed in the shower then he is lying to you. Stop looking at me like that. It goes right down the drain. We all do it.

So, I hope this helped to clear up the reasons why the simple act of building a bookcase has reaffirmed, in my mind, the feeling of being a real man. It may not be the Pyramids or the Eiffel Tower, but I put a lot of work into my humble bookcase and it stands strong and proud as a testament to my manhood for a long time to come. And when people come over and see my sturdy, well-built masterpiece of wood and stain they will…..well, shit.

I have to go now. My bookcase has just collapsed into a heap of wood and stain.

And for some reason has spontaneously burst into flames.

One Good Shot

2008-08-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

Golf.

What can I say about his wonderful sport? Well, some believe that it was invented by the Scottish to forever take revenge on Englishmen (and the rest of the world by association) for all the terrible things that the English did while Scotland was under its control. Some even say that William Wallace himself was working on a rudimentary version of the game when he was captured and tortured. These believers in “wallf ” (Wallace’s name for the sport) also believe that his famous last word was not “freedom” as portrayed in history and on film. Instead, they believe that Wallace suddenly had an epiphany during torture about what would confound the English for hundreds of years to come and screamed out “three par.” It only sounded like “freedom” because he was gargling his own blood at the time. These people also believe that Picard was better than Kirk…so some might say that their coconut has rolled right off the table.

Anyone who has read my work knows that I have an ongoing love/hate relationship with this majestic/sadistic sport of gentlemen (and guys like me). It seems that at certain times of the year my brain blocks out all of the past frustrations of this demon game and find myself with the desire to step out onto the golf course to face the space/time continuum holes and raging, mutated squirrels. My friend John was in town a couple of weeks ago and we had made plans to play a round of golf while he was here. The last time I played golf with John, earlier in the year, I only lost two balls and hit most of my shots relatively straight (none of them went more than 50 yards into the wilderness) so golf’s past indiscretions against me seemed a distant memory. I’m such a fool.

There are really two types of golfers…Pros and Schmos. The Pros category consists mainly of people who make money playing golf (professional golfers on tours, club professionals, people who win money in tournaments) with the exception of that guy (and everyone knows one of these guys) that constantly makes bets on friendly outings. If you are one of these “betting golfers” then I urge you to stop now, this is not a road you want to go down. At first it is friendly and everyone is having fun betting on ridiculous shots through the trees and who can sink the longest put. But soon you start trying harder to get better so that you can beat your friends. You think it is a matter of pride, but it is really the beginning of a downhill spiral. After a while you find yourself hanging around outside the clubhouses, waiting for someone who needs a fourth player so that you play crappy until the third hole (the par five with the dog-leg right and the sand trap) and then start betting on distance drives and gimmick chips. The next phase is put-put courses, where you wander around like a mendicant betting on shots past dragons and through windmills. From there comes the public phase, where you stop random people in the street and ask them if they want to see you ricochet a golf ball off a statue and hit that bike messenger in the head for five bucks. Finally you find yourself at home, alone, masturbating to the Golf Channel (using your own tears as lubrication) and making bets with yourself on whether you can sink the put under your coffee table and into the water glass. So, for your own sake (and the sake of that bike messenger) please stop making bets on the links. Making money while gambling on the golf course does not qualify you as a professional.

The Schmos are broken down into two categories (Amateurs and Weekend Warriors) which in turn are broken down into sub-categories.

Amateurs
Private Amateurs: These are the guys who join private clubs and have enough money to play three times a week during the season. Many Private Amateurs play in local and regional tournaments just are just not good enough to win prize money or excel to the next level. These are the guys who buy the special “swing enhancing” double hinged driver in order to straighten their drives and have the club pro on speed dial in their cell phones in case they accidentally chip a shot into the taller herbage. These guys will often be seen walking instead of driving a cart.

Public Amateurs: These are the guys who frequent public courses more than twice in a week. Most of the time these guys are older gentlemen who play in the mornings, but in the early afternoon the guys who don’t work (yet somehow have money for golf) wake-up and come stumbling in. Most of the time you will find these Public Amateurs traveling in foursomes: one guy who keeps score, one guy who can hits long tee shots but sucks on the short game, one guy who hits good chip shots, and the last guy is the sporadic guy who has brief moments of genius coupled with moments of complete ineptitude. Public Amateurs can be assholes a lot of times because they actually think that they are “mini-Pros” because they play a lot. They often make up the majority of the roster at local company tournaments and charity scrambles. This sub-category is where most of the “betting golfers” come from.

Weekend Warriors*
Kull the Conquerors: Do you know the guys that you see throwing up behind a tree on the 15^th fairway? Or maybe you’ve witnessed the guys that crest a hill at the cart’s top speed of 7 and spill empty beer cans from the back? These are the guys that give weekend golfers a bad name because most people think of these guys when they think about golfers who can only manage to get out on the course three or four times a year. You can spot these guys off the course by searching for certain clues like golf ball shaped dents in their foreheads that resulted from teeing off and turning around to find their equally drunk buddy also teeing off without waiting or warning. Other Kulls can be weeded out during conversation because their praise of the game of golf often starts like this… “I love golf. There’s nothing like grabbing a case of beer and heading out for a game with buddies.” Did you catch that? When the first thing they think about when thinking about golf is that it gives them an excuse to drink with friends then they are defiantly a Kull.

Conan the Barbarians: These are the guys who just enjoy the game of golf in general and like getting out as much as they can...which is usually only two or three times a year. They don’t worry if the clubs they use are a few years old or if the balls they are hitting with are not the best. Conans are often critical of their performance on the course (and may even write a blog or two about them) but often have fun even when their game sucks goat balls. Most Conans play a round of golf just for the enjoyment of the game without the pressures of being really good. More often than not Conans don’t care if they beat the others they are playing with because they realize that the game was invented to test oneself. Conans realize that the only person you are playing against is yourself. As my friend John explained it… “Guys like us play for that one shot.” That one shot that you hit and think to yourself ‘Damn, that’s one of the best shots I have ever hit.’ I fall into this last category.

So, when John and I went out to play a couple of weeks ago I was only playing for that one good shot. The morning was already getting thick with humidity as John and I parked our cart beside the 10^th tee box (we were starting on the back 9). John had the honors of the first tee and, uncharacteristically, did not hit it to the right. Instead it looped to the left and almost hit some groundskeepers. It was a good tone for improvement. Then it was my turn. I set my feet, took a puff off of the cigarette clenched in my teeth, checked my direction, and just let loose with a nice easy swing to open the day. Yet, during that nice easy swing I felt the black holes in the distant galaxy of Poog 6 align and create a vortex that caused my body to follow the correct motion for a golf swing resulting in a distinctive ping that signaled my club striking the ball in the perfect spot. I lifted my head on the follow through and saw my ball racing away, straight and true. A tear rolled from the corner of my eye as I watched the ball land on the fairway at around the 215 yard mark, not because I had just witnessed the best drive of my life…but because I realized that I had just blown my wad.

Yes…I had in fact hit “that one shot” and thus, having wasted it on my first shot, I was ruined for the rest of the day. Every drive after that was an effort to regain the majesty of my opening swing, and eventually I watched helplessly as ball after ball was condemned to the Magical Land of Oz Country Club (which is just a slice to the right and over the trees away). John, on the other hand, progressively got better and had several excellent shots that he could be proud of. Everything seemed bleak until the last hole where I realized that in the past my game had been hindered by such things as “magic tees.” So I broke the tee that I had been using all day and made a pact with (threatened the existence of) my equipment.

Me: (talking to my new tee) See that? See what happens? Why do you make me do that? Why do you make me hurt you? How about you help me out with this drive so that you don’t spontaneously break like that last tee.
Tee:..............

Apparently this worked because my drive was straight (only the second of the day). Upon reaching my ball and preparing for my chip I decided that my current strategy was working. Thus, my conversation with my four iron went like this…

Me: Now it’s up to you. I’ll make the same deal with you as I did the tee. Don’t shank it to the right and you can continue not being wrapped around that tree.
Four Iron: How about you do it yourself. I’m just an inanimate object that you are talking to in the middle of a golf course.
(It had me there, so I responded maturely to lessen my current image of a loon)
Me: Shut up stupid club!

John was laughing by this point so, with no other choice, I chipped a nice shot to land on the edge of the green. We won’t go into the conversation that I had with my putter, but let’s just say that putters know a lot about logic, metaphysics, and atomic equations.

I finished the day with a bogey.

*Note: The names for the Weekend Warriors, Kull the Conqueror and Conan the Barbarian, were used because they are essentially the same guy (they were both characters by Robert E. Howard), but Kull was a dim, poorly executed version of Conan.

Me Against the World....Skullduggery Ensues

2008-07-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

So…apparently I used to torture small bunnies in one of my former lives. Or desecrate graves, or raped nuns. My wife and I have discussed it, and something in our distant past is causing our misfortunes now. We must have once been baby seal smugglers who peed on sacred monuments for fun.

It was a shit weekend…if you couldn’t tell. I was supposed to attend my 10 year high school reunion this weekend, but never made it. I was originally going to go to the free picnic (because I cringe at paying fifty bucks for my wife and I to mingle among people who I didn’t even know I was around in high school) but events transpired that kept me from a painfully awkward Saturday. Out of the two people that I really wanted to see; one disappeared a while back (Chas) and all my failed attempts to contact him has pretty much cemented the fact that he doesn’t want anything to do with people from his past, and the other is my friend Rob who has better things to do (like plan a wedding and live 6,800 miles from here in South Korea) than to go to a picnic. So, I went about my daily Saturday chores and when I realized that I surpassed the time to be at the picnic I wasn’t at all worried. At first I thought that missing the picnic was somewhat of a blessing. Instead of a crowd of people I didn’t hang out with in high school (most of them I either see at Wal-Mart or at my office for unemployment anyway) I was going to spend a relaxing day swimming. It was after swimming that the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan…a couple of times.

When I woke up Saturday morning my right eye was red and irritated from sleeping in my contacts (yeah, I know…slap my hand), and after swimming for a couple of hours (and getting chlorine in it) it was virtually on fire. This redness and burning has persisted all the way up through today, which leads me to believe that I either have a weird alien fungus on my eye or my eye is actually plotting its escape by make itself so irritating that I literally pop it out of its socket, leaving it free to roll and play until I ceremoniously step on it while blindly stumbling around. But it didn’t end there.

After I had taken out my contacts and put on my glasses, my wife and I got a late lunch in town and headed home. When we arrived at the house I turned my truck off and heard a very peculiar sound…like nickels falling on asphalt. I had not parked in my usual spot, so when I noticed three large stains where my truck usually sits I got worried. Sure enough, when I looked under my truck I could see my preciously expensive gas dripping slowly from a crack in the tank cover. So I asked myself…

Me: How could this have happened?
Self: Maybe you ran over something and it scraped the tank.
Me: How the blue fuck am I going to run over something big enough to scrape the tank of a truck?
Self: It’s not a very big truck.
Me: It’s tall enough for me to know that I could safely pass over a skunk or opossum and not scrape the tank.
Self: Maybe you hit a sasquatch.
Me: I believe that I would have felt it if I had hit a sasquatch!
Self: Not if you were asleep.
Me: What the fu…
Self: You might want to get a bucket.

So I got a bucket to catch the life juices of my vehicle. I had about $1.75 in it when I went home for lunch today.

So to top the rest of the weekend off, Sunday was a day for pain. First, I woke up with my back hurting (which it hasn’t done since a month after my surgery) and my back tooth hurting (the one opposite the back tooth that I just had a root canal on). So by early afternoon I come to the conclusion that Fate has decided to slap it to me…but it wasn’t done yet. Not content to just attack me, Fate also steered its sites toward my wife. Brandy woke up with a sharp pain in her lower back on one side, and by late afternoon the pain was enough for us to check WebMD and discover that she probably has a kidney stone. Super! Fate has decided that both of us need a good rogering, so I have come to the conclusion that if the world is gonna be against me then I’m gonna be against the world.

Thus…I have decided to become a super-villain. Being good hasn’t been going in my favor so I have decided to wreak havoc among the rich, swear vendettas against the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies, plan large “heists” of unjust corporations, and other manner of evil plots. BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!! I’ll call my evil organization Skullduggery Inc and begin world domination from the place that people suspect the least….Paris, Tennessee!

I’ll have to start reading up on gene splicing and mutations, because my first evil plot will be to unleash…war kittens!!!! That’s right, war kittens. Cute, loveable kittens with razor sharp claws that are sharp as razors, the viciousness of a mongoose, and the sanity of Charles Manson.

But, first things first…I need minions and theme music. I wonder if there is an online site where evil villains can get the things they need. Like Villain’s Paradise.com or something. If anyone is interested in a minion position with a growing company in the world domination market then you can contact me through this site. You must be strong, lithe, expendable, and able to wear spandex (only I get the Kevlar). I am also looking for musicians to play in my theme music band. For this job you will follow me everywhere, playing pre-arranged pieces that change depending on my mood and the situation, and also act as a first line shield in case of spontaneous gunfire. Must be strong, lithe, expendable, and be able to play an instrument. All minion applicants that can play music will be considered for this position as well.

I can feel the world shaking at the coming of (pre-recorded fanfare plays)….Skullduggery Inc!!!

Bring on the WAR KITTENS!!!!!!!!!!

Better, Stronger, Faster

2008-07-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that there is always that one guy in every small town/suburban neighborhood/community that is constantly working on a car? The car is usually a “classic” muscle car (Chevelle, Cuda, Road Runner, Mustang) that has great paint job but never runs. When asked why it has taken seven years to rebuild the motor the guy will often use phrases like “I’m using all original parts” or “I can only work on it on Saturdays” or “Where are your pants” or “Oh my God, you’re on fire”…but we all know that original parts don’t mean squat to about 90% of most guys, working on the car every other weekend would at least produce a functioning engine over the course of a few years, and never mind where my pants are.

The truth is that the guy working on the car has no idea what he is doing. Seriously. He’s probably just staring at the engine and occasionally pulling dip-sticks to observe unchanged fluid levels, hoping that the engine will somehow heal itself and come alive if he gives it enough time and checks the windshield wiper reservoir enough. Some people might say that he is too proud to ask for help, but I have found that usually the guys with buddies who know about engines are the guys that are driving cool muscle cars and not just waxing the hood in the driveway (Most guys are willing to ask for help if it accomplishes what they want in a timely fashion). The problem is that he suffers from Average Guy Syndrome and so must learn thing by gleaning correct methods from hundreds (sometimes thousands) of failed attempts.

Studies conducted by some Above Average Guys have shown that over 117% of all men will eventually suffer from Average Guy Syndrome in one or more “typical guy areas” such as auto mechanics, sports knowledge, beer drinking, computers, and picking up women. These statistics were gathered and analyzed in a 1970 Hemi Cuda while listening to a re-airing of Super Bowl XIII and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Some have questioned the validity of their findings.

The reason that I broach this subject is because I am, myself, dealing with Average Guy Syndrome in the area of computers due to the fact that my desktop computer is dying and I am trying to Frankenstein it back to life through a series of unimportant checks and virus scans. I have decided to wipe the computer clean to get rid of all the cyber STDs and clear the memory so that I can install my music program on it and record my own album (this in itself is a comedy of errors that I have debated filming for its pure comedic value). Yet one thing stands in my way…..me. I am not computer inclined. I know a lot about running programs (Microsoft Office, Quicken, Spider Solitaire) but when it comes to the actual internal dynamics of my computer I quickly recuse myself from the situation and curl into the fetal position under the table.

My desktop sits in the corner of my office/library making sounds like an asthmatic troll, is slower than the coming of Cthulhu, and refuses to shut down when I tell it to. The internet card in the back was fried last year during a lightening strike so I have no way to update my virus software and I have discovered that running the same scan dozens of times will produce the same tiny laughter from the modem (the sound of lots of viruses mocking my inability to destroy them).

At first I believed that my inability to repair a computer was not really a big deal and that most people don’t know how to fix glitches and such (this is why computer guys run successful repair shops), but then when mentioning my problems to my brother-in-law he looked at me like I had just asked him if he knew how to wipe his ass. I knew that he was very knowledgeable about computers (this is why I asked him) but I did not know that I would insult his intelligence by asking him if he could erase my computer for me while at the same time saving my music files. Apparently I had failed as a man by not spending copious amounts of time in front of a computer to the point of being able to erase and reprogram a modem with ease. I was further shamed when my wife fixed a glitch on my laptop that I had been fidgeting with for a week. I guess I should start wearing pink polo shirts and drinking foamy coffee-like beverages.

So I have come to terms with my Average Guy Syndrome in certain areas such as computers, sports history, and auto-body repair because I feel I make up for it by being an Above Average Guy in certain areas like movie knowledge, general plumbing, and mixing alcoholic beverages. I felt a little better when my friend John (who I know for a fact can write some pretty complicated programs from scratch) told me just to take it in and get it done by someone who does things like that all the time (Computer Guys). If they can rebuild Steve Austin then I know that these guys have the knowledge required to resurrect my desktop into a functioning machine and probably make it an advanced form of itself in the process.

Burning Stickman: This is my computer, a machine barely alive.
Computer Guy: Sir, I can rebuild it. I have the technology.
Burning Stickman: Will it be better than it was before?
Computer Guy: Better, stronger, faster.
Burning Stickman: Will it make the cool bionic sound when it does something cool and amazing like working when I tell it to?
Computer Guy: Where are your pants?

Guns Ablazin'

2008-07-03T09:14:00.000-07:00

I’m gonna make it a landmark year for Burning Stickman by weighing in on not one…but two hot issues in America. I know that you are used to me discussing such important topics as mutant squirrels on the golf course, energy drinks, and tattoos, but for some reason I have felt an urge to tackle more important topics (it’s either my friend Rob’s comment about how he believes that I could write better stuff or all the B vitamins that I am currently taking). With the Supreme Court making a very influential ruling in D.C. this year and a controversial law passing in Georgia this week I have decided to discuss the issue of guns and gun control.

Gun policy is a very tough issue to discuss rationally in the United States. With zealots on both sides we sometimes find it hard to plow that middle ground to look for the answers. Far to one side you have the Gun Zealots: people who not only want to own guns but want no restrictions whatsoever on what they can do. Most of these people belong to the NRA. Far on the other side you have the No-Gun Zealots: People who don’t even want police to have guns, let alone pedestrians. These are the people who don’t believe in war and wear shirts with slogans like “Uzis Are For Floozies.” Then there are people like myself who believe in both the right to own and carry guns and also in gun control and the laws that help to police what we do with guns. I’ve had plenty of conversations with my friend Dave (who is a closet Republican and very right wing) on this subject when we were working together and have realized that I am considered by both sides of zealots to be the worst kind of person…the free-thinker who aligns himself with neither side and has problems with both. So, to make it an even race, I am going to play devil’s advocate and explore often heard arguments from both sides of the issue.

Gun Zealots: “We have the right to protect ourselves!”
I agree. Everyone has a right to protect themselves and their loved one. What does this have to do with carrying concealed weapons? Do you really believe that having a gun strapped to your side or in your purse at a crowded restaurant is going to solve anything should an emergency happen? Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like a bank/store robbery or being held hostage) that the person who freaks and pulls out their concealed gun usually ends up the dead one. Protecting yourself in your home is one thing…trying to be a police officer will only get you deeper into shit. You’ll see what I mean when someone gets sued for shooting a bystander or a kid with a toy gun.

Anti-Gun Zealots: “Guns kill innocent bystanders!”
I’m gonna fall back on a cliché here…guns don’t kill people, people kill do. Guns are just a tool, like a hammer or a shovel, and it is the people who wield those tools who are the killers. Hammers and shovels have also been used to kill people in the past…do we start digging with our hands and pounding nails with our foreheads? Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like rescuing a hostage from drug lords or a zombie uprising) that the person who stays calm and uses their gun effectively can save lives. As long as there are laws in place to keep ordinary Joes with guns from bringing them to possibly stressful situations (like a bar where a drunken fight over a girl can erupt or a mass transit system like a bus or subway where people are just generally pissed all the time) then owning a gun and carrying a gun is marginally safe.

Gun Zealot: “2nd Amendment says I can have guns!”
No it doesn’t. It says you have the right to keep and bear arms, it says nothing about guns.( “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”) I don’t have time to get into the argument here about what Madison meant when he wrote the Amendment, I just know that it says nothing about guns…although that was surely the implied intent. It also says nothing to insure the right to carry concealed weapons in public. The main thing that I get tired of is gun advocates continually spouting the 2nd Amendment like a mantra and never actually producing new ideas or arguments to support their claim to have guns. Just because you can say the words “second amendment” does not make a point for you. Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that when a situation arises (like a two hour car ride with your slightly balding, shit-for-brains co-worker who dips) where a subject like gun control is discussed, the guy who keeps spouting “2nd Amendment” as their defense usually loses the argument (or gets tossed from a moving vehicle down a back road in Palmersville).

Anti-Gun Zealot: “Guns are dangerous and can go off anytime and hurt an innocent person!”
I love this one. The old notion that guns have a will and a consciousness of their own. Once again I must bring out the cliché…guns don’t kill people, Robert Blake does. A gun is an inanimate object, a tool, that does nothing unless it is…wait for it…here it comes…used. A gun doesn’t go off by itself just sitting in a closet, there has to be some outside force acting on it (like someone picking it up and firing it). Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that most accidental shootings are actually on purpose (“I didn’t mean to shoot my bitch of a wife, the gun went off while I was cleaning it”), and that even if it is an accident there is still usually human involvement (i.e. cleaning a gun, looking at a gun, playing with a gun).

If movies and television have taught us anything it’s that guns are great for being trapped in the Nakatomi Plaza or for a mass zombie attack, but not so great to take to a bar or on subway. If you want the privilege of taking a gun everywhere you go then become a law enforcement person. Don’t think that a two day class and a test puts you on the same level as a police officer who has gone through months of training (mentally and physically) just because you get a piece of paper at the end of the weekend saying “concealed weapon permit.” If you want to be able to protect yourself and others in public settings then take a martial arts course. If you do carry a gun into public then please use tact and intelligence as your guides. Don’t be the guy who pulls his piece to show off in a crowded bank. And please, please, please stop quoting the 2nd Amendment around me unless you are ready to engage yourself in an intelligent discussion complete with full ideas and examples. And remember, guns are just lifeless objects (unless a voodoo priestess imbues one with an evil spirit). It takes a person to pick up a gun and use it against someone else in either malice or self defense, and it takes human interaction to cause gun related accidents as well. Don’t bitch about guns, bitch about the people who don’t know how to use guns responsibly. Gun laws are not there to limit the freedoms of responsible people, they are put into place to limit the interaction of stupid people with guns and the public. Numerous television and movie scenarios have taught us that there is always at least one set of drunks arguing in a bar, so next time you are complaining about not being able to bring your gun into a restaurant or bar look over at those guys across the room and be thankful that they weren’t able to bring one as well.

It's a Celebration Bitches!

2008-06-30T15:41:00.000-07:00

After looking around my office I have come to the realization that with rising gas prices, higher unemployment, and an overall flailing economy that there is a lack of morale among the workforce that should be addressed. Even the lucky ones of us that have jobs right now seem to be disheartened in the workplace. I did a little research and (using my amazing ability to draw vague parallels between two unrelated objects) discovered that the root of our depression in the workplace stems from the lack of national holidays that are celebrated on a large scale. We need holidays for people to rally around like Independence Day. Who really gives a crap about Columbus Day except that it inconveniences you due to the banks being closed? So what we need is some new holidays that can be enjoyed even if you don’t get off from work because of them…nay, I go further and say that we should invent holidays that you can enjoy especially at work.

I am making a push all over the nation to have to have Congress declare today Point Out an Annoying Co-Worker and Expound Upon Their Horrible Faults Day. I believe this will be big in government offices, like the one I work in, due to the “flattery” (ass-kissing) that goes on daily. In government offices (or most corporate offices) you can’t just come right out and tell a co-worker that they have the IQ of a raisin, or has no sense of humor, or has a funny smell (old whiskey and despair) emanating from them. Most of the time you have to just bear the brunt and wait until after work so that you can spill all of your grievances out to a spouse/best friend/total stranger, or you can write a blog about it. This is why we need to have one day where we can discuss, candidly, with co-workers all the reasons that they suck without fear of retribution.

Okay…so take a hyena and breed it with a chimpanzee, then give it a cold, then boil it in hot bacon fat while beating it about the head and shoulders with a tube sock full of chocolate covered peanuts. The sound it would make it coming from the office across the hall. At first I thought Maybe a large water mammal is dying, and then I thought Maybe I’m dead and this is my personal hell, and then I realized that the sound hovering above all of our cubicles was actually a form of laughter.

Yes, laughter. Not the tinkling laughter of children playing in summer creeks, or the full bellowing laugh from a great joke that starts in your lower abdomen and continues to roll in waves through your body. Think of nails against chalkboard, Wicked Witch of the West laughter. The kind of laughter that floats through the air and gently alights on your ear, only to then perform a flying roundhouse jump kick, in the style of Steven Segal, to the back of your eyeballs from inside your skull. So I popped my head around the edge of my cubicle and fully expected to see an arm sticking out of a cauldron and a green-faced harpy reading Dave Barry. Instead I see my boss on the phone looking very pleased with herself.

Like the careful observer of humankind and its traits that I am I studied my new subject with rapt interest. How could a woman in her 60’s (or maybe 70’s…or myabe80’s…hell, I don’t know) get the lung capacity to bring this out-of-tune bagpipes of a laugh to bear and send it to hover in space somewhere around the equator? Was she previously the lead singer in a Death Metal band? What the hell is so funny and why can’t be in on the joke? What is that on my shoe? How much hardwood do I need to redo my living room? I wonder what’s for dinner?

Sorry, I got sidetracked. So, as I observed (and tried to staunch the flow of blood from my ears) I realized that she was laughing at her own jokes. Possibly it could be that no one on the other end of the line was laughing (they were probably dead due to their cerebral cortex suddenly revolting and escaping through the ear to beat them senseless with a cricket bat) so she decided, in the interest of keeping the one-sided conversation going, that she should laugh at what she was saying to show everyone in our office (and most of the Northern Hemisphere) that she was funny and effervescent and people liked her. The problem is that no one could hear her after approximately 37 seconds because our eardrums had burst in attempt to save our sanity.

So a holiday in which I could discuss with her why my bleeding innards (caused by the crushing sound waves of her laughter) would be a concern to me and the steps to place her head firmly up the rear orifice of a yak to stop her siren screeching would be a welcome addition to our national repertoire in my book. I believe that Point Out an Annoying Co-Worker and Expound Upon Their Horrible Faults Day (or POACEUTHF Day) will be a smashing success in telling co-workers and bosses like this exactly what it is that peeves you off about them and how they can “take a trunkie in the tradesman’s entrance” for all you care (I find it best to use British slang when belittling people you work with). We should all push our local Representatives in Washington DC that this new holiday would benefit everyone, pointing out the possible uses that they themselves could enjoy putting down their higher-ups in a certain house that is painted the opposite of black.

Even if Congress fails to make POACEUTHF Day a national holiday we can still enjoy the fruits this implied holiday by participating in it anyway. Go ahead, tell that co-worker that his mustache looks like a walrus is humping his face! Tell the person in the next cubicle that constantly asking you pointless questions and then answering them themselves while you are trying to finish the expenditure report makes you want to throttle them with wet noodles. Let your co-worker know that his inability to perform even the most menial of work-related tasks makes you wish daily for his lower intestine to explode. It could be fun…at the least it would be enlightening to those who have gained your ire. Good luck everyone!

Becoming the Enemy

2008-06-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

During the gay marriage debates I have had many discussions among friends and family about the subject. Some were for it and some were against it. We said our peace about it and continued to complain about gas prices. Yet, on a national stage these problems seem to mount. I have publicly kept quiet about such issues but after hearing this segment about gay marriage on NPR I feel it is my time to sound off.

First let me get this out of the way…I, in no way, have any problems with the gay community or their lifestyle choices. One of the reasons that America is such a great country is that we have the freedom to choose how we should live. I have known and know homosexual people and to me they are just that…people. I don’t classify them as gay. I don’t say, “That’s my gay friend Bill,” I just say “That’s my friend Bill.” People should not be classified by their ethnicity or their sexual preference.

With that out in the open I can now begin my rant…

First off, gay marriage advocates, shut the fuck up. You are slowly getting what you want. Stop pushing or else you are going to make people hate you…not for your sexual preference but for the fact that you are now becoming the ones who are shoving your ideals down other people’s throats. You are becoming just like the religious groups that you have fought against. Being proud that you are gay does not mean that you have to take up the sword in every small battle. I’m proud that I am from the South and of my heritage, but that does not mean that I side with racists and Confederates in their fights.

I want to use two of the examples from the NPR program as sounding boards to drive this rant. If you didn't hear the program or haven’t read the article then please do so now. I’ll give you a moment.

Done? Okay here goes.

First, the pavilion issue. My thoughts are that the lesbian couple was in the wrong. Flat wrong. This was the equivalent of throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get what you want. The fact is that the Methodist organization that owned the pavilion had the right to choose who could use it and who could not. Everyone has the right to marry the person that they love, not everyone has the right to marry where they want. The lesbians argued that the pavilion was a public place to be used even though it was built by the church, owned by the church, maintained by the church, and on church land. The fact that they let other people use it somehow made it public property. This is the equivalent on me letting neighborhood people whom I know and like use my basketball goal and then getting sued by someone whom I didn’t see eye to eye with for not letting them use it.

They use the word discrimination, but is it really? Would it be discrimination if the church had refused to let Satanists use the pavilion? Is it discrimination if a Muslim refuses to let a Catholic use their mosque for a wedding? Do Jews discriminate against pigs because they don’t eat pork at their family dinners? The point is that the gay couple who wanted to get married should have respected the church’s wishes instead of pushing their view and lifestyle onto those whose religious beliefs conflict with their own. Everyone has the right to choose who they are (Methodist, homosexual, Republican) but that does not mean that everyone else has to like or accept your choice. That is the definition of freedom.

The next issue that I want to touch on is the couple who sued the photographer. First off, let me say that no where in the Constitution or its Amendments does it provide for protection against discrimination due to sexual orientation. The reason that this Amendment will never pass is because it would make it okay for people to fuck sheep. The Constitution only provides protection against discrimination when it comes to religion, race (ethnicity), and sex (male or female not homosexual or heterosexual). So discrimination against a homosexual person is still constitutionally legal. I am not saying that it is right, I am just saying that it is legal. Individual state constitutions are responsible for providing those rights.

Secondly, the court’s decision was a major faux pas in my book because it effectively persecuted someone for their religious beliefs. The couple used the argument that since the photographers provided a public, commercial service that they had to extend this service to everyone. Does this mean that I can walk into McDonald’s with no shirt and no shoes and sue when they refuse me service? Does this mean that the photographers now have to take pictures at a three person Mormon wedding even though their religion believes that you can only have one spouse? Or take pictures of a sheep fucker and his “lady” even though most religions condemn this practice? The simple fact is that gay marriage versus religion is a hot topic right now and the court chose to “fight” against discrimination while at the same time upholding it. Man, I love irony.

Once again, I do not endorse the discrimination of homosexuals because we are all people, but I also do not endorse someone telling you that you have to accept their choices and way of life. This is why the couple was in the wrong in this case. Besides…why would you want someone who doesn’t share your views taking pictures on a special day like your wedding? You are going to get shitty pictures. This was the photographers’ defense as well. I would think that in the homosexual community, where openness in such a valued issue, that they would have accepted the fact that the photographers did not share their views and move on to someone who did so that they would get quality work. Instead they chose to “make an example” and defend their views and why they believe that homosexuality is acceptable. But didn’t religious groups do the same thing when they publicly tried to write homosexuality off and were ridiculed by gay rights groups for being close-minded?

Listen…I don’t care where your sexual orientation lies except for pedophiles and rapists. Taking people against their will (both children and adults) is never acceptable. I’m not bitching about these people because they are gay…I’m bitching about them because they are acting like pricks. They are endorsing a double standard (“You have to accept our ideals but we don’t have to accept yours”). This is what rubbed me wrong when I heard this broadcast. You can’t shout for equality and then bitch about someone else having the right to an opinion. By doing that you become the enemy that you fight against, intolerance

(And for those who think that as a white male I have never had to face discrimination then think again. Explain to me why I graduated high school with a 3.95 cumulative average, was four points away from a perfect score on my ACT test, and still had to pay for my college tuition and work 50 hours a week the entire time I was in school. I looked in Matthew Lesko’s book of scholarships and realized that none of them applied to a healthy, Caucasian, male with good intelligence.)

I guess what gay advocates are trying to teach everyone in the public, commercial sector is to lie. Instead of telling someone that you do not share their views and thank them for the consideration that they gave you, you have to tell them that you are busy and can not accommodate their function. You are previously tied up with the wedding of a sheep fucker and his bride.

Rubber Balloons and Fond Farewells

2008-06-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

Picture it…

A balmy ocean breeze floating over the still summer day. A white sand beach that evaporates into turquoise blue water which stretches to meet the azure sky on the horizon. Mexican air filling your lungs with the sweet smells of roasted corn, and cumin, and flowers that you can’t name. Does this all sound inviting to you? Are you unemployed and looking for work. Are you willing to do “anything?” Then we have the job for you!

So…how does it sound? It’s my new pitch for a job that I have found for the Anything People. Lately I have become severely aggravated at the people that come in looking for a job and telling me that they will do anything (previous blog). I have spent weeks fuming and complaining to fellow co-workers, my wife, my friend John, my dog, and the surprised looking people in the men’s room at the local Taco Bell. Then I realized that I shouldn’t be mad at those people, I should pity those people and go out of my way to help them. Thus, I have done some brainstorming and come up with some possible careers for these persecuted job seekers.

The following are my pitches for the careers beginning at the point where they tell me that they can do anything…

Pitch #1

Me: So, what kind of work are you looking for?
Guy with Droopy Eyes: Oh, just about anything.
Me: Really? (My eye ticks as I restrain myself from assaulting him with a stapler) Well…we have some labor positions at a factory.
Lazy Bastard: Yeah, probably not.
Me: Okay. How about retail?
Boil on the Ass of Humanity: (waggles his hand in either the universal symbol for “so-so” or telling me he likes pornography involving baboons) Maybe…
Me: Right…I have to perfect opportunity for you. Do you like excitement in your job? New experiences every day? Really good pay for little or no work?
Guy with Mind Already on Sixth Beer: Sure.
Me: Good. Hold on one second…(I connect to the internet and begin typing)…..(still typing)….(still typing)….(shut up, I’m slow)….(I finish and look up at him) Alright. I just got you a job.
Impressed: What am I doing?
Me: Pharmaceutical testing.
Soon to Have a Third Nipple: What? What do you mean?
Me: You know when medicines list side effects like soar throat, asthma, and anal explosions?
And a Third Ball: Yeah?
Me: Well, you’ll be the one finding out what the side effects are. I signed a contract for you for a year.
And a No Hair: What? How could you?
Me: You said you would do anything. Don’t worry…everyone wants a second pair of arms. Right?

Pitch #2

Me: What can I do for you today?
Ten Pounds of Monkey Crap in a Five Pound Bag: I need a job.
Me: Really? How odd. You’re the first person today to come in looking for one.
Oblivious Guy: (unaware that he has sarcasm all over his shirt) Cool.
Me: What can you do?
Jack of All Trades: A little bit of anything.
Me: Alright, let me think a moment. (here I begin slamming my head against the desk)… (I stop) I’ve got it. Go to the bar on East Washington St and ask for Sugar Balls. Tell him you want a job in the male escort service.
Soon to Be Molested: Who’s Sugar Balls?
Me: Don’t worry about it. You willing to do anything?
MENSA Candidate: I guess…
Me: (shuffling him out of the office) Okay. Good luck. Hope you like Turtle Wax.

Pitch #3

Me: Anything? You are willing to do anything?
Four Minutes Before Lunch Guy: Yup.
Me: Want to make ten bucks right now?
Thinking About a Whopper: Sure
Me: Okay. (I fish out a ten dollar bill and give it to him) Now just sit there.
About to Have Amnesia: That’s all I d…..
(here I commence beating him with a flat screen computer monitor)

Pitch #4

Me: What kind of work are you looking for?
Him and Me: (in unison) Anything.
Me: Thought so. Do you like traveling?
Marco Polo: Sure.
Me: What about tropical locations?
Panama Bob: I guess…
Me: What do you think about rubber balloons?
Ex-Birthday Clown: I’m not sure what you…
Me: Do you get nervous around Custom’s agents?
Slowly Getting the Hint: I’ve never met one but…
Me: Could you walk normally with something in your ass?
Feigning Disgust: What!? What would be in my ass?
Me: About 30 grams.
Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius: Of what?
Me: You would have to ask Javier about that.
Soon to Invest in Laxatives: What kind of job is this?
Me: You would be a “liaison” to Mexico.
Human Luggage: Are you talking about smuggling?
Me: Listen…I’ve looked at your resume. I believe this is your only option.
Hugh Testicular Fortitude: Could you sign this?

The Adventures of Naked Dog!!

2008-06-05T13:36:00.001-07:00

These are the adventures of Naked Dog, a super hero gifted with the ability of superb aim which she uses to hurdle, feet first, into her father’s junk-box before bounding away merrily and wondering why daddy is coughing up blood. With the speed of a monorail, the agility of an obese yak, and the grace of a 900 pound sack of wet diapers she sets into motion the moment she hears dad’s tires touch the drive-way and jumps just in time to catch him mid-“Hello” in the doorway. Yet, as all good super heroes, she has a weakness. Her superb aim extends only to the area of crotch soccer and not into other, more mundane things such as catching food from mid-air and finding the stick (which is right in front of her) during the game of fetch. Disguised, with her blue collar, as a mild mannered house dog named Ari in suburban West Tennessee, our heroine spends most of her day looking for things in dire need of chewing and causing mommy great distress. Yet, when she is needed…actually she is never really needed.

In this episode…

We find Naked Dog trapped in the Dungeon of the Bath by the dreaded Parents. These evil imposters look like mommy and dad, but show up often to do battle with our super hero. First, there is dad’s imposter…Tasty Hands, who will wrestle with our heroine instead of letting her chew on his fingers and who yells at her when she is trying to destroy an evil piece of paper she found lurking in the plastic container in the kitchen. Second, is mommy’s imposter…The Jailer, who will take our super hero on a seemingly innocent ride in the big metal machine to the Lair of the White Coated Shot Givers and who locks her up in the “crate” when she is trying to vanquish the dreaded Cat Brothers by chewing on their heads.

Thus, the Parents have discovered Naked Dog’s secret identity by removing her disguise/collar and are now torturing her in the Bath, either for pure maniacal enjoyment or for information about where she has hidden the sacred vial of Eye Drops. She struggles helplessly as Tasty Hands pours water on her and The Jailer scrubs some horrible, vanilla smelling gel all over her. She had just started smelling like mud, a favorite scent only superceded by dead bird, and now here they were making her smell like…like…them! “Oh, this evil plot, she thinks. I’ll never talk! Never!

But wait…what is this? It seems the door to the dungeon is slowly opening. Fu Manchu of the Cat Brothers pokes his head through the opening to see what is going on. I knew it! Naked Dog thinks to herself. My arch enemies, the Cat Brothers, are behind this whole scheme to make me smell like a human. The Parents have not yet seen the breach in security and Naked Dog sees this as her chance. She suddenly goes into massive convulsions and shakes sending water and vanilla suds everywhere. Tasty Hands lets go of her to shield his eyes and she makes her break for it.

In a speeding ball of white fluff and water Naked Dog shoots from the tub and out the door, leaving only shouts and wafting vanilla behind her. Free of the constraints of a collar, in only her birthday suit, she runs pell-mell through the house in all her naked glory. Bounding off walls and doorways she runs with abandon and searches out the Cat Brothers so that she can take her revenge for their plot against her. She stops at the sound of her secret identity and turns around. It’s dad! she thinks. He loves it when I jump between his legs to show my excitement and love. She makes a long turn to build speed, bullets toward her father, and makes the leap.

With a groan and some curse words, that even Naked Dog knows are bad, dad goes down to his knees so that our heroine can lick his face in affection. Moments later The Jailer grabs her and she sees that it was really the imposter Tasty Hands that led her into a trap by pretending to be dad. Very tricky of him to sacrifice his private bits to recapture her.

Back in the Dungeon of the Bath our super hero allows the imposters to finish taking her hard-earned mud smell away, but, showing great resilience, she never tells them a thing about her secret stash of pens, stuffed animal parts, and other chewables. When the torture is finally over and she is set free, she shakes and rolls as hard as she can, but the human smell remains. Her secret identity/collar is put back on and she once again become Ari, the household pet.

Yet, our hero knows that there will be a time when mom or dad will take her into the back yard again. When they do, she has but to wait for the right time. When they turn their heads and stop paying attention then she will find the mud hole beside the big metal air box (air conditioner) and then she will ultimately be shed of her secret identity and be transformed once again into…..

NAKED DOG!!!!!!

The Daily Grind

2008-05-29T18:47:00.000-07:00

As I have stated in a previous blog, the workplace is an ideal atmosphere to observe the human condition. After changing jobs a couple of months ago I have found that my new job is no different. Let me give you a little bit of background on my job. I work for the state government, which automatically earns points on the Evil Servitude meter, as a Career Specialist. This is a glorified title for someone who spends most of his day trying to find work for people. There are four types of people who come in to see me:

1) Constantly Returning People
These are the people who have become real victims of a shitty economy and massive layoffs. Most people who come to see me are actually looking for gainful employment in this craphole of a job market and go off to be hired by a decent company. Yet, there are others who believe that if they come in day after day that we will eventually hand them a job. Like I might say to them one day: “Listen, Gunther. I see how hard you work looking for a job, coming in day after day and asking about jobs, and us giving you the information on them. It doesn’t matter that we checked and found out that you are not actually following up on any of the leads that we give you or put your applications in at any of the places that we know are hiring. We know that you think it is enough for you make this one stop every day and that it is unfair that employers don’t magically contact you for a super easy, high paying job. So, here’s my job. You’ve earned it with your persistence. I’m not worried. You’ll probably quit tomorrow because the job is too demanding and taking away from your X-Box (that you somehow afforded) and I will be back at work. Have an awesomely great day.”

2) Paper People
These are the people who come in with some type of paper from another party (parole office, unemployment office, child support office, etc) that they want you to sign to prove that they are not employed but are looking for work. How they look for work is that they come in and inquire about several jobs that they are not remotely qualified for. I’ll give an example: A man sits down across from me wearing jogging pants, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, Velcro shoes, and a tweed dress jacket (no shit). He gives me five jobs that he wants information about (which is the maximum number we allow so as to cut down the time spent on situations like this). Here is the conversation that ensues…

Doofus in Tweed Jacket: I would like to look at these jobs please.
Me: Sure. The first one requires sales experience and a Bachelor’s Degree. Do you have a degree?
Uneducated Goober: No.
Me: Okay…well sometimes experience can substitute for education. Have you had sales experience?
Fast Food Veteran: I’ve mainly worked in fast food. Does that count?
Me: Right. Okay, this next one is at a pawn shop….
Robber McStealy: I can’t work there. I have a felony and can’t be around guns.
Me: Well, two of these other jobs require degrees and the third is for a brain surgeon.
Asshole Wasting My Time: Could you sign this?

3) Pompous People
These are the people who believe that they should be getting paid a lot more than they are worth. Normally the people in the higher paying job brackets deserve their pay (surgeons, cancer researchers, engineers, Morgan Freeman), but then you also get the people that believe that they should be making more than they are worth (human resource managers, district attorneys in rural West Tennessee, sitcom writers, Dr. Phil). These are the people that really piss me off. They come in and look offended when you suggest that they should take another job for less money. What they don’t understand is that being a film critic for $45,000 a year is a good job in New York but not a realistic prospect here in the heartland. Here’s an example:

Me: How can we help you today?
Dude: I was in the Army and I drove trucks. (I am guessing at most of his conversation due to the 63 rings in his lips and nose. Most of what I heard was a mumbled wheeze) I’m looking for a job.
Me: We have this job… (I explain job to him and qualifications)
Dude: I don’t have the two years over the road experience required.
Me: Any long haul experience.
Dude: No. I drove locally around the base.
Me: Have you looked at short haul driving jobs and local routes?
Dude: They don’t pay enough. I have to be making at least $15 an hour.
Me: To drive a truck? (He nods and jingles) There’s no way.
Dude: (looking offended) You serious? No one is going to pay that much?
Me: Not unless you have a HAZMAT endorsement and are hauling volatile chemicals or explosives. You are looking at nine bucks an hour at most to start out as a short hauler. You’re dreaming if you think you can make $15 and hour with no long haul experience, Army or no Army.

At this he gave me the meanest look he could conjure (being that his ears comically touched his shoulders because some asshole had gone and stuck small European cars through his lobes), stood up and jangled his way out of my cubicle.

4) Anything People
These are the people who think that if they answer “anything” to the questions “What kind of work are you looking for?” and “What can you do?” that they will instantly get a job and the questions will stop (much like some people believe that if you put “fast learner” and “hard worker” in the special skills section of an application that all their other flaws, like shoddy work history and lack of legibility, will be overlooked). Here is how the scenario plays out in their head: I ask them one of these questions and they answer “anything.” I am so impressed that they can or are willing to do anything that I immediately give them a wad of cash and tell them that they are clever and handsome. Anyone who knows me will know that this scenario would play out differently.

Me: What can you do?
Bob: Oh, pretty much anything?
Me: Really? When was the last time you gave a lecture on Nanotechnology at Cornell?
Bob: What?
Me: Never mind. What kind of work are you looking for?
Bob: I’ll do anything.
Me: Really? I have a guy who needs people to work on his tobacco farm…
Bob: Naw. I worked tobacco when I was young and it’s hard work.
Me: I thought you said you would do anything.
Bob: Well, almost anything.
Me: I think I have a sawmill job somewhere here….
Bob: Can you sign this

It's Alive!!!!!

2008-05-23T10:48:00.000-07:00

I want to discuss a serious subject with you today. Not too long ago I was given a sort of intervention. Like most people who warrant an intervention I did not know that I had a problem, and so I was shocked when I was confronted by two beautiful, smart women (my wife Brandy and her best friend Angela) and told that it was time for me to get my hair cut. They informed me that I posses the phenomenon known as “80’s Hair.”

First, let me clarify what “80’s Hair” is exactly. “80’s Hair” can best be described as a being a “puffy mullet” (examples follow). It usually starts with the puffy factor. By puffy I mean hair that doesn’t need mousse or hairspray (both wildly popular in the 80’s) to achieve the desired height, body, and bounce of a large, house-concealing shrub.

Of course I was in denial about having this horrible affliction and brushed it off as being the imagination of my wife and her friend. I mean, how could I have let myself fall into this gruesome fashion trap? I was a child of the 80’s to be sure, but as I got older and more mature I shed the skin of parachute pants (which I did own I’m sorry to say) and pop music (which I periodically flog myself for listening to) when I discovered the music of the early 90’s. I had left that life of synchronized dance moves and Wayfarer sunglasses behind.

But lately I have seen signs that have started to bother me. Little things that alone prove nothing, but taken together seem to indicate something sinister. First, there was the fact that last week I caught myself bobbing to background music by Styx and Wham. Second, I noticed raised levels of testosterone resulting in the desire to watch movies such as Roadhouse, First Blood, Predator, or any movie in the “Mad Max” trilogy. My wife is not happy about this phase since I can usually catch one of these movies on television and my insistence on her stopping on that channel interferes with her path toward Food Network or TRU TV. Third, I started looking at my pants and wondering whatever happened to elastic bottoms.

The last two indicators came a couple days ago and this morning, and they both actually involved my hair. The first hair related incident occurred thusly. After work I completed some badly needed yard projects and ended up taking a shower at about 11:00 at night when dinner was finished and Top Chef had gone off television. I wanted my hair to be dry before I went to bed so I blow dried it. I found myself enjoying the warm air on my scalp and the way my hair got increasingly larger and more voluptuous. I didn’t think anything about it until I caught my wife staring at my hair a few minutes after I had sat down next to her. By the look on her face she was waiting for it to crack open and spill out the band members of Warrant. “You have the worst case of 80’s hair that I have ever seen,” she said to me. “You have to get a hair cut.” This made me a little self conscious. I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror later, as I sat in bed and smoked the last cigarette of the day, and had to admit to myself that my wife (who is smarter than me, by the way) might in fact be correct.

The last conformation came this morning. I roused myself at the usual time, trudged through the house, put on my sandals, and took my dog, Ari, out for her morning bathroom duties. When I stepped through the door I noticed that all the birds stopped singing at once, like they were afraid to alert something horrible to their presence. While in the front yard my next door neighbor came out of her house, took a look at me, opened her mouth in a silent scream, and fainted. Something was going on here.

Back inside the house I stood staring in the mirror in my bathroom. My hair seemed to have doubled in size over-night, taking on the size and shape of a St. Bernard. And its bounce seemed to be a little too rhythmic, like the slow steady breathing of a sleeping beast. I was studying this new occurrence when two things happened consecutively. First, I poked the being that was my hair…and it yawned! It fucking yawned at me! Then realization hit me. My hair had taken on a life of its own.

And that’s when I shit myself.

Somehow I managed to not faint and quickly beat the, now growling, entity that was on top of my head into submission with the handle of the plunger and dove into the shower. With the hot water streaming over my scalp I felt my hair whimper and slowly die away. When I was done I let my hair naturally dry as I cleaned up my bathroom floor. By the time I was finished and ready to get dressed for work I dared to look in the mirror once more and found my hair had taken on the natural waviness that had earned me comparisons to Elvis. (Hey…quit laughing. I have been compared to Elvis)

I light of these events I have decided to get my hair cut very soon. Although…as I sit at my desk and sing Journey in my head I realize that having 80’s hair wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean think about all of the celebrities that have made it big that had 80’s hair at one time.

Patrick Swayze

John Stamos

Mel Gibson

George Clooney

Corey Haim

MacGyver

Help Me!!!!!!!!

*Author's Note: Jouney is a great band that you are allowed to listen to without fear of 80's Hair.

My Third Second Wind

2008-05-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

Burning Stickman lives!

Let the rants begin once more.

So, some of you (okay, three of you) may have noticed that I have taken a long hiatus. This has been for several reasons, some good and some bad. One…I got married (great). Two…my wife got sick (bad). Three…I injured my back and had to have surgery (bad). Four…I got a new puppy (good…sometimes). Five…I got a new job for the State of Tennessee (indifferent). Six…I am sometimes lazy (good). Yet, lately I have had these itching, burning sensations (that were later cleared up with topical cream) and I realized that I had to get back to writing my blogs.

This proved to be more difficult than I expected. There is a difference between creative writing (poetry and fiction) and a personal format such as blogs and editorials because there are no barriers to hide behind. With creative writing you can use plots and characters to get your point across, but with article writing you have to use wit and intelligence to get your point across (and me having either is a widely debated subject).

So I slacked off. Yes, I am indeed a phenomenal slacker when it comes to writing (even though I chose this as my profession). Okay, maybe slacker is not the best word. Maybe…uber-procrastinator. That sounds more intelligent and witty.

SOOOOOO…I’ll see you in the next blog (I promise it will not take me over a year, John). Right now I am procrastinating at work. Ha, take that State Government!

A Slipping Down Life

2007-02-08T12:39:00.000-08:00

Okay...for anybody familiar with indy films you will recognize that I stole my title from a Guy Pearce movie. I will probably be sued, so if Burning Stickman sends out a request for money I hope that all you good readers will see fit to send a dollar. That will give me about three dollars to use toward the lawsuit. I used this title for several reason. One: I love that movie. Two: I love that soundtrack. Three: Guy Pearce is the shit. Four: It seemed appropriate for the theme of today's blog.

I realized today that I had neglected to post for the last two weeks. There are reasons behind this that make my absence plausible. Since around the middle of December Brandy was down with feminine problems. After several visits to the OB-GYN, we found out exactly nothing that she didn't already know or suspect to begin with. We suspected a possible tubal pregnancy, which can have very bad consequences if not taken care of, but the 80 year old doctor (I use this word with a large helping of Sarcasm Squishee) just kept prescribing pills and suggested that we wait until it all worked itself out naturally. In my mind this was not a very good plan at all, since the end result of waiting could have spelled a ruptured fallopian tube for my fiancee.

The next big result was that my dad had to be put into immediate surgery to unblock a clot in his left leg. There was a chance that he would lose his leg from the knee down. Thanks to great surgeons, he came through alright, but another event transpired while we were in the waiting room. Brandy, who had been in deep pain for the better part of a month, suddenly felt something give way. Luckily it was not a burst fallopian tube. Unluckily it had been a tubal pregnancy and had miscarried itself.

Needless to say, it was a very tough time for Brandy and myself. We both retreated into ourselves to escape from discussing the obvious. We finally pulled ourselves out of the deep funk that we had elapsed into, only to have Brandy get the flu this week. There are times in our lives when we feel like we are giving so much of ourselves; whether to a job, or to a relationship, or to other people that we feel like we are slipping away. Whenever I felt this way I would always get a text from Brandy telling me she loved me, or a call from John to make me laugh. These little things helped me to have the strength to give more of myself to help others recover. Now Brandy is recovering, dad is recovering, and my friend Chuck (who I forgot to talk about but was in a wreck) is recovering.

And now I look back and see how much time I actually lost while I was taking care of, and comforting my family. I have spent the better part of this new year going from one family crisis to the next and bolstering my loved ones in their time of need. Time can slip by very fast if you are not looking and concentrating on important things. But I realized that it's not the slipping down of life that we should turn our attention to, but the pulling back up that is important. Everyone slips. Into depression. Into debt. Into ill health. It's our ability to help pull the people that we love out of these slips that make our lives more meaningful and rich. It has made me aware that the next time that I feel like I am living a slipping down life, and that I don't have the strength or resources to make it through, that there will always be someone to lend a shoulder or hand to help me. And as long as I can I will do the same for others.

Note: Sorry this wasn't a humorous blog. I'll be back in the swing soon.

Wake Up Little Snoozy

2007-01-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

As I walk through the door, Justin looks at me like he is watching the Anti-Christ coming into the room to announce the ending of days. I know how I look. My shirt is untucked. My eyes are bloodshot with little crusts still in the corners. My hair is trying very urgently to emphatically point in every direction at once, making me look like a cross between Sideshow Bob and Einstein. And, with my lower back currently in pain from a chronic problem, I am walking like Qausimodo trying to do the Electric Slide.

The smell of coffee brewing. The feel of the Eastern sunrise filtering through the window to warm you cheek. The sound of birds singing sweetly in the trees. These are all wonderful ways to shed the bonds of slumber and bring yourself gently awake in the morning. I, on the other hand, rolled over to look at my clock and realize that work had started twenty minutes ago. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will bring you out of a dead sleep faster than realizing that you are late. There could be an axe wielding murder in your house breaking furniture and screaming for blood and you would wake up groggy and asking yourself “What is that noise in the other room?” But if you partially open your eyes and see that you are late, then groggy goes right out the window and panic makes your legs work even before you can feel your toes.

Waking up in this fashion is always a bad sign for the forthcoming day. So I was not surprised as I emerged from the office bathroom, hair freshly slicked back with copious amounts of water, to hear Justin say, “Man you have got hear this crazy message that a crazy lady left on the machine last night.” Let me relate this message to you.

“This is Mrs. ________ . I have one of your rental cars. I got in it tonight and there is an oil smell. I want you to bring me a car in the morning. I know you open at 7:30, and I need to be at an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00."

This is not a typo. She really repeated the statement four times. Now, since I woke up at 7:50 and walked into the office at 7:59, a feat that I accomplished by forgoing any type of morning preparation such as showering or brushing my teeth and breaking untold speed laws, I knew that there was no way that we were going to get her a car by 8:00. But, in the spirit of trying to give good customer service, we made a valiant effort and showed up at her house at 8:06 with a new car. Our car was still sitting in the driveway, and she was no where to be found. We checked the car for oil leaks and found nothing. We checked the house and found nothing. So either she got a ride with a friend or neighbor or we will find her in the midst of rigor mortis tomorrow when we go to get the car. This is just what I need on my mind to make the rest of the day slide by smoothly. (sarcasm dripping on the keyboard)

I did come to the conclusion that we, as humans, do posses the ability to accomplish things that in normal circumstances would be deemed impossible or improbable. It usually takes me about fifteen minutes to prepare myself in the morning and my car ride to work usually takes seven minutes. I’ll let you do the math. This seems like untapped potential that, if cultivated, could allow us to complete an entire 24 hour day in like…87 minutes. If we could bypass social norms like hygiene, stop trying our best to look good for the benefit or others, and disregard all speed limits without fear of repercussions then I believe that we could get anywhere in a third of the time that it normally takes. This is very exciting news for pizza delivery drivers. (Though I’m pretty sure that most disregard the first two anyway)

Another thing that I realized was that I wasn’t tired or wore down all day. I didn’t need any caffeine to keep me at my peak level of half-assedness. This revelation, however, is very detrimental news to both Juan Valdez and to the makers of the llama-piss-tasting energy drinks that package pluck in cans with names like Catapult, Volt, Crimson Male Bovine, and Donkey Punch Lemonade. This is why I am even now getting a knock on the door from some man in a business suit who is accompanied by another guy wearing shorts who keeps yelling “Extreme!!!!” at the top of his lungs and continuously downing can after can of a liquid called Crunk.

I have to go and hide now.

Low Expectations and Ancient Chinese Wisdom

2007-01-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

So, I believe that I have discovered what my future occupation as a writer might turn out to be. As much as I would like to write novels, or poetry, or screenplays, or songs I have come to realize that the world is filled with artists who are of the same mind as myself and are trying to make it in one of these fields as well. So I started looking down the untraveled road of my chosen profession at some of the overlooked, yet necessary, jobs for creative writers.

My epiphany came to me over dinner the other night. Brandy and I were sitting down to enjoy Orange Chicken, Mongolian Beef, Vegetable Lo Mien and some of Hollywood’s latest DVD releases. After the Black Dahlia I cracked open my fortune cookie to receive some ancient, Chinese wisdom. This is what I got. You are a fun and interesting person. What the fuck?!

Now I have been through many phases of fortune cookies, each one involving games that were played that centered around the fortunes locked away in the stale, orange flavored crescent. One game that I used to play when you had a group of four or more was a question game. Here’s how it went. You each take a cookie and then pick someone in the group and ask them a question. Supposedly the answer to your question was in that person’s fortune.
Example: John asks me whether the Lions will be in the Super Bowl this year. I open my fortune and it says The answer you get is not always the one you want. This is a good fortune and, in theory, tells John that he can expect the Lions to do just as good as the Raiders next year.

This game became ineffective when the fortunes started getting shitty. You can’t answer questions about life or the Lions with fortunes that say You are an inspiration to those you meet. Thus my old roommates Joe and Dave adopted the “in bed” method of fortune cookie reading. The basic principle is that after every fortune you add the words “in bed” to the end of it. The result being…You are the master of your skills…in bed. Granted, this concept also works for non-crappy fortune cookies as well. You will get a great surprise soon…in bed. A great college tradition, but one that props up the failings of modern fortune cookies instead of demanding more out of, what is supposed to be, your ancient Chinese wisdom.

Fortunes these days have all the wisdom of a Pet Rock, except at least a Pet Rock can sit on command. I’m tired of all these large fortune cookie manufacturers trying to be politically correct and making the reader feel good. That is not what fortune cookies are about. When I was young fortunes were exciting and real. A great surprise will come your way soon. Sure it’s generic and vague, but at least it gave you something to speculate about and look forward to. Some would say, “Well then if anything came along, say your Pet Rock running away, then it could be considered a ‘great surprise.’” That’s exactly my point. But instead we now have to read fortunes that tell us how nice we are, or tell us something that we already know.

This is why I am pondering devoting myself to becoming the best fortune cookie writer ever. I envision a line of fortune cookies that you would almost be afraid to open, because they might hold some great and personal fortune that you might not want to know. These are the fortunes for which I have pined. No more Your friends think you are a good person crap. I want people to open a fortune and shudder at the implied possibilities. Tomorrow will be the day of your undoing!

My fortunes would have great wisdoms also. Sayings from greats such as Sun Tzu, or Miyamoto Musashi, or Alf. Things that make you stop and think. I would still strive to deliver uplifting or inspirational sayings, but out of every hundred or so fortunes I would have to throw in a really depressing one like You will screw up your life very soon, or It will be your fault that he loses his leg, or She will leave you in the near future. You know, give some random person a reason to get up out of bed in the morning and be afraid. Because what is life if you can’t have expectations. Even if they are of the worst.

Return of the Burn

2007-01-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

Yes it is official…Burning Stickman is back burning again.

Many people have been asking such questions as; “Where has Burning Stickman been?” “What happened to Burning Stickman?” “Who is this Burning Stickman fellow?” “What is the depth of the Caspian Sea?” “Was there mayo on that sandwich?” and “What the hell is that stuck to my shoe?”

To answer some of these questions we sent a very nervous reporter into the field to discover the whereabouts of Burning Stickman and the reason for his disappearance. This was the report that was found next to our incinerated intern.

It has become apparent that Burning Stickman has been “burning up” the campaign trail in attempts to let his bid for President in 2008 be known. August was a busy month for Stickman with stops in Southern California and Idaho. September saw Stickman once again in Southern California spreading his influence, and in late October Stickman was campaigning in the desert regions of California around Palm Springs.

The months of November and December were idle months for this 2008 presidential hopeful as he enjoyed the holidays with his family and rested for his big push back into the public eye in 2007.

We caught up with Burning Stickman near his home in Western Tennessee to ask him what he had planned for the new year.

Reporter: "Mr. Stickman, where have you been?"
Stickman: "AAAAARRRRRRGGG!"
Reporter: "I see. So what happened to you?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGG!"
Reporter: "What are your plans for the upcoming year?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAARRRRGG! AARRGGG! AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGG!"
Reporter: "So you are definitely back on the web and planning to post a blog every week? That’s very ambitious of you given your track record of missing weeks in the past and leaving your readers wondering where you are and leaving them wanting for more."
Stickman: "AAARRRGG!"
Reporter: "I see. Your pledge to do better is noble. What the hell is stuck to my shoe?"
Stickman: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGG!!!!!"
*STATIC*

We will miss you Kenny.

Where's Burning Stickman?

2006-12-26T10:21:00.000-08:00

Bane of the Bard

2006-08-07T12:25:00.000-07:00

Let me paint a scene for you. I am in the back storeroom of a pizza restaurant, which we will call Pepe Juan’s*, singing a song beside a guy named Boner who is playing my guitar (go ahead, pervs, and get the nasty thoughts out of your heads now). It is the first song that I have written that I have sung out loud to the rhythms of an actual guitar. It is about a woman who sinks deeper and deeper into a bad rut, and then almost gives up before she realizes that she can make things right again. When we are done I walk back to the office and find the female manager crying at the desk. Unbeknownst to us she had been listening around the corner. She looked up to me and said, “That woman in the song is me.”

During the time that I have been writing music I have come to understand a universal truth that permeates, and sometimes sullies, the songwriter’s fruits of labor. Songs can be a double-edged sword that cuts both ways. What I mean by this is simple, yet complicated at the same time, so I will attempt to explain. Usually when I write a song I am taking an emotion that I want to present and feeding on it so that the listener can also feel that emotion vicariously through the words. The good thing is that when I am successful I get the reaction that I want, and the bad thing is that when I am successful I get the reaction that I want.

It’s a conundrum, I know. When I write my music I think of faceless people listening to it over a stereo, nodding their heads and saying, “Yeah man, I know how you feel.” But it’s hard when you let people you know listen to the songs and get that reaction, because then you have to actually see the pain on their faces.

I started thinking about this on Thursday night. We had been over to see Brandy’s grandmother with her brother and his family, and at the end of the night Brandy retrieved a picture of her late father. While driving home I could tell that she was thinking about her father and I started thinking about a song I had written years ago when I thought that I was going to loose my dad. Well, the more I thought about it the more I had an itch to get home and uncover the lyrics from my back log of tapes and play it. So when we got back to my house I sat down and played the song. It came off all right for the first time playing it in over two years (it has one of my favorite guitar parts that I have written so I remembered that right away), and I went on to play a couple more songs while Brandy listened. But something inside wanted to play the sad song again, so I got on my electric (on which it was originally written) and played it again. When I was done I looked around to see Brandy broke down in tears.

Needless to say…I felt like a piece of shit for making her cry, even if she said it wasn’t my fault. I had caused the memories of her father to surface and, in turn, caused her a moment of pain, which made me feel like an asshole. The double-edged sword had come back around to cut me. I had written the song in hopes that it would strike a chord of loss in listeners and in succeeding I had momentarily hurt someone that I care about.

So, the question is…how should I feel about the episode? On one hand, I had achieved my desired goal and brought forth a powerful emotion, and on the other hand I had made my girl cry (which is something that I never want to do). The bane of a songwriter is that his/her strength comes from personal experience and that he/she must lay bare their lives (to a certain degree) in order to produce a viable art. This leaves open wounds a lot of the time and often runs into conflict with the present when exploring the past.

*The name of the restaurant was changed to protect Papa John.

Mescaline and Fried Chicken

2006-08-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

Your first dog. The first time you have sex. Watching a national landmark on television as it gets hit by a commercial airliner. Going to a Hayes Family Reunion.

Memories. Some are sweet and enjoyable to return to in your mind, and some are bitter and painful to recount. Some leave you with the feeling of warmth and the remembrance of better days, and some leave you with the insatiable need to consume flaming mixed drinks and burn out the images with a soldering iron through the ear. The Hayes Family Reunion is one such occasion that every year leaves me pondering whether it is possible to insert an electric wisk through my nasal passages and hitting the power button.

Sunday was the Hayes Family Reunion, and since Brandy was coming with me I spent a week mentally preparing her for what was to occur. Over the years I have come to understand the phenomenon that is the H.F.R. and have discovered a set of rules and standards that need to apply in order to make it through with enough sanity to return to normal, functioning life in as little as two months.

Rule # 1- Arrive early.
Most people would see this as foolish and choose, instead, to arrive late in hopes that the line for the food would already be moving and that they could pull the “eat and leave” maneuver. This might work at some reunions, but the Hayes clan doesn’t let this slide. As soon as they see you enter the door they already have eight questions a piece to ask you and none of them are shy about stopping by your seat and asking while you are trying to eat. Thus, it takes you a very long time to finish the meal in front of you because every time you raise that fork of potato salad to your mouth you find that you are using it to answer a question instead of chewing.

By arriving early you guarantee that there will be very few people there and you can answer questions and “catch up” with people as they enter instead of walking into a room of people and getting bombarded with questions and comments. Plus, arriving early means that you stay for a while before it is time to eat so that no one looks at you crossly when you beat a hasty retreat after you have shoveled the last of Aunt Somebody’s cobbler into your mouth. Arriving early allows you to dictate your pace by observing Rule # 2.

Rule # 2- Establish a bubble.
The way this works is, once you arrive early (that’s Rule # 1 if you skipped ahead) and greet the relatives (recognizable strangers) that are already there you go to the table farthest away from the door and set up a base with like-minded people of roughly the same age. This way, you can see the relatives that come through the door and prepare in advance for questions and comments that are sure to ensue. This also serves a dual purpose in that it allows you to see anyone advancing on you, and lets anyone that sees you know that you are sitting down and have no interest in helping carry in food.

Tragedy strikes when you leave the protective bubble, this much I can assure you of. The bubble on Sunday was my sister April, her boyfriend Josh, my sweetheart Brandy, and Me (batteries not included). April decided that she was going to walk across the room to say hello to someone that had not ventured over to the bubble yet, and was quickly snatched by my aunt Beverly and recruited to be in charge of incoming food placement along the table. When she was done she came back to the bubble and never got back up. I have learned from years of experience when it is safe to get up from the bubble and venture forth, and I used this ingrained knowledge to judge the proper moment to make my way to the bathroom. I took my leak, and made it back to the table without being accosted. (This knowledge is top secret, and cannot be reveled lest the Iranians gain wind of it and we loose our edge in the war against terror)

Standard # 1- Chronology
It is a given that certain things will happen at the Hayes Family Reunion. Someone’s feelings will get hurt by either a comment or by an out-right insult. Someone will ask either April or me when we are gonna start popping out kids to keep the family line branching. My dad will choose to invade my bubble and point out every person that comes through the door, complete with a chronological history of where they come from and how they are related to us. After this goes on for a only a few minutes I usually find myself staring at thin air hoping to produce a mescaline pill with just the atoms in the air and my mind. The pill wouldn’t stop dad from talking…but it would provide the nice, creamy feeling that would allow it to be bearable.

Standard # 2- Food
You can be assured when going to a Hayes Family Reunion that there will be copious amounts of four particular foods. You can always bet the bank on there being BBQ, potato salad, deviled eggs, and (of course) fried chicken. Everyone seems to bring these particular foods because they are afraid that no one else will, and so the tables are often loaded with these types of foods in varying degrees of preparation. One year I took jambalaya and hardly anyone touched it. So I stopped bringing food to the reunions and contented myself with having three types of potato salad, four types of deviled eggs, BBQ of some fashion or the other, and six types of fried chicken.

In retrospect, it was one of the better reunions in that I didn’t feel the constant need to rid myself of all my hair via removing it forcefully one large clump at a time with my hands. I believe that Brandy helped me to stay sane by helping me to stay vigilant due to feeling a constant need to protect her from certain cousins that only come to family reunions for one thing. And it’s not the seven types of chicken. You know who you are Biscuits.

Death of a Dream, and a One Man Show

2006-07-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

So, I was interviewed for a VH1 Behind the Music special yesterday. VH1 Behind the Music: The Chocolate Pudding Blues Band. Apparently, while I was asleep (or drunk) we rose to triumphant glory and then hit rock bottom again without ever actually playing a gig. We’re like, the only band to ever do that…so it’s kind of an honor.

I haven’t seen one of my guitarists in over a month, and every time I ask the other guy if he wants to jam he looks at me like I have leprosy and my nose is in the process of escaping down my chin. Well, not really that bad…but it just feels that way when you have this drive to do something and everyone else just seems to be on a holding pattern. Very frustrating.

After starting, and being featured in, a number of bands in my late high school and college years (and having them either break up very soon or falter before ever reaching the gate) I have come to expect that, more often than not, bands just don’t survive past the inception phase. Usually it’s some guys getting together and playing guitar over a couple of beers and discussing favorite bands (of which I am guilty, I can admit). So I was beginning to think that the Rock Star Mythos was a lie, and that the average Joe couldn’t start a successful band (successful being defined by the terms of playing just one show). Luckily, I have had something else to occupy my time.

For the last several weeks I have been able to get over the lack of musical endeavors through the graces of only one thing. Her name is Brandy (begin singing the Looking Glass song in your heads…now). Being with Brandy for the last several weeks has done three things for me.
1) I have a renewed faith in the opposite sex (women).
2) I have started writing original songs again.
3) I have been illuminated to the fact that no one believes in Suction-Cup Ninjas, no matter how adamantly you gesture and point. They are like Sasquatch. No one believes in them until they walk right up to your tent and pull your arm off. Then where does that leave you? Hum? Armless and bleeding and thinking, “Gee, I guess there really are Sasquatch. Boy was I wrong to doubt Burning Stickman. Wow, everything’s going dark…” So, see where doubting gets you?

I played a couple of songs for Brandy the other night, and when I glanced up to see the look in her eye after I finished I knew the reason that I had begun to write music in the first place. It’s amazing how just a look on someone’s face can make the grand notions of super-stardom fizzle in the face of having someone really hear your song and enjoy it. Thus, I am putting the band back together. I will not let the dream of playing music die. The Chocolate Pudding Blues Band (or whatever name we finally decide on) will rise from the ashes of our demise, spread our wings, go out into the night, and promptly wake up the next day in a New Orleans ally with the smell of piss and whiskey permeating our clothes and a seven hundred dollar bar tab clenched in our fist.

Unless I can find a drummer and a bassist soon I have resigned myself to the fact that I might have to be a one-man show (The Chocolate Pudding Blues Guy) with a tambourine duct taped to my knee, a maraca headband, and a snare drum in front of me with a drumstick taped to my…well, you get the picture. I’ll be touring in a city not even remotely near you soon.

Attack of the Suction-Cup Ninjas

2006-07-13T14:57:00.000-07:00

In the deeps of night they creep. Their bright eyes pierce the glooms of midnight, and their keen senses detect the slightest sounds. With cat-like reflexes and furtive movements they make their way through both the bustling cities and the quiet suburbia, searching endlessly for young couples in the throes of passion to prey upon. They are the Suction-Cup Ninjas…and I had a run-in with them over the weekend.

Let me paint the picture for you. It’s Saturday night, and the evening is a balmy 85 degrees with an 80% humidity. The moon is on its way to waxing full, there is a beautiful woman by my side (shut up…I’m serious), and the night is right for sitting back and watching a couple of movies. There is talk and laughter and we make it through the first movie (The Matador) without incident, but I feel a disturbance in the air. As if some force is about to descend on us with cat-like reflexes and furtive movements.

The second movie (The Libertine) begins. She moves closer to me on the couch. Was that a twig snapping outside? I put my arm around her shoulder and she lays her head on my chest. Was that the window in the back room sliding open? I smell her hair and she turns to look at me with a willingness in her eyes. That creaking floor sounded awfully close. I move in to kiss her, she moves in to kiss me and…the ninjas attack.

Now, they are not called the Suction-Cup Ninjas because it a snazzy name. No these brutes come armed not with swords and throwing stars, but with small suction cups roughly the diameter of the human mouth and they usually aim for the throat and collar region of the human body. Some might think “What kind of fucking ninja fights with suction-cups? Suction-cups don’t even hurt.” Let me tell you my friend…it doesn’t hurt. But the S.C.N.’s aren’t about immediate pain. No sir, they attack in their unique manner for one purpose. So that everyone for the next two days will look at you and say “Hey, what happened to your neck?”

I fought those ninjas off for three hours or more, but in the end both my date and I were left with their marks. The Libertine was over and the title menu kept repeating, the ninjas lay dead and dying at our feet, and my date and I were left breathless with all the fighting-off that we did.

The odd thing was…no one believed me. Let me take you through a typical conversation that I had many times in the following days.

Someone: “Hey, what happened to your neck?”
Me: “I got attacked by ninjas.”
Someone: “Yeah, right. What’s her name?”
Me: “The ninja?”
Someone: “No, the person who did that to you.”
Me: “They were ninjas, they don’t were nametags that say ‘Hi, my name is Bob’ on them.”
Someone: “You’re a weird guy.”
Me: “Serious…there were ninjas.”

So you might see my problem. After roughly a dozen conversations like this I began to just tell people that it was date that had done it to me. It seemed easier than explaining about ninjas. Not even my own mother believed my story. The ninjas seemed to have everyone fooled into thinking that they are not real.

How does the saying go? “The greatest trick the Suction-Cup Ninjas ever pulled, was convincing the world that they don’t exist.” Or…was that…crap, I can’t remember. I drink too much.

But the point is......now where did I put that? I know I left it somewhere around...ah, here it is. The point is if you should ever get attacked by these ruthless brutes, and can't wipe the silly smile off your face for several days,then you have to come up with a better story than me.

Dare to Slack!

2006-07-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

Today my co-worker, Justin, and I took part in one of America’s favorite pastimes in commemoration of the upcoming Independence Day. With the wind in our hair, rawhide and spring-steel in our resolve, and the future stretching ahead of us with limitless possibilities we set out to accomplish something great. Something glorious. Something that every American dreams about. The great thing we did was….nothing.

That’s right, we indulged in the beautiful and majestic creature that is laziness…and it was everything that we hoped it would be. We used the natural abilities of doing as little as possible that God bestows on every man and woman, and we faced every situation that arose today with a languid and lethargic attitude that only the great slackers of our generation posses and wields. I am reminded of a wise saying that I once read on a Demotivator poster. “Mediocrity: It takes a lot less time and most people won’t notice the difference until it’s too late.”

One of the first tasks that confronted us was a major mistake in the paperwork. We were faced with the possibility of having to rewrite the entire daily numbers sheet for last week, 308 cells of information that we would have to painstakingly pen by hand. We ain’t got that kind of energy, brother. So we did what any professional slacker worth his/her salt would do, we used our keen intuition and superb know-how to discover a way to alter the sheet by means of cutting and pasting portions of two different sheets. Sure it took a little longer to do the cutting and pasting and copying than it would have to rewrite the sheet, but it took half the energy. Expanding the time taken by a third versus cutting the effort in half is a fair trade in any slacker handbook (Page 75, article 385-B…not like you read it you slacker).

We were also running low (as in out) of our particular commodity (rental cars) so we spent the rest of the day just refusing people’s requests for a vehicle instead of taking the time to offer them an alternate commodity, like say…a candy bar. Now candy bars are very plentiful where I am, and it would have been no sweat to actually offer the customers a Snickers, or Kit-Kat, or (if they were adventurous) even an Almond Joy…but then we would have had to spend the time and mental energy of explaining to them why a car rental business is suddenly offering Milky Ways instead of Monte Carlo’s. Trust me, it’s just easier to tell them that we are out of cars than to offer them the goodness of chocolate, caramel, crunchy wafers…..Shit! Now I have a craving for Twix!

With the troublesome paperwork and pesky customers out of the way we were free to spend an afternoon of playing online pool and writing blogs. So, something good came out of it in the end. With the Fourth of July looming on tomorrow’s horizon, promising a needed day off, how could any self-respecting hedonist bring themselves to actually work when alternate means present themselves like a yummy, peanut coated, caramel centered Payday?

Shit! Now I have to go to the store for a candy bar.

With Friends Like These...

2006-06-26T19:54:00.000-07:00

In the last two months I have had an influx of friends who have come to visit me, and I am feeling very grateful to have such an assortment of wacky characters to further deepen my psychosis and provide me with enough witty banter to rekindle my desire to capture comedy in print form.

My two previous blogs outlined the shenanigans (who uses the word shenanigans…really?) that John and I shared on Memorial weekend and the weekend among the hippies with my friend Rob. Having both of them come and visit has kept me on my toes, and proven to me that the troubles of women, work, and dealing daily with stupid people are not just confined to me, but shared equally among the Beta Males. (Note: to understand this reference and to gain the concept of the Beta Male then you need to pick up a copy of Christopher Moore’s new book A Dirty Job. If you have not purchased it already then do so. Go ahead...I’ll wait.

Okay, now that you have purchased the copy go ahead and read it. It’s okay, I got time.
Here’s some pictures for those of you who have read it already to pass the time.

Here's Rob's first tattoo that he got while back in the States. Someday maybe he'll have as many as me.

Done with the book? Okay now on with the narrative) Gaining perspective is a valuable commodity, and with my friends visiting I feel not so alone when it comes to dealing with the bullshit of daily life.

I was also visited by my good buddy Al, who is always good for conversations (and a two or three loads of laundry). My dog got to come visit me this month, and since my wife got him in the separation I have had very limited opportunities to share insightful conversations with him like I used to (see A Talk with Al). One such conversation that we had while he was visiting and we were on a late night walk went something like this.

Me: “Al, what is it about this country that causes us to be blind to the fact that a two party system is old and outdated, and just leads to the same type of politicians getting elected whether they claim to be on the Right or the Left?”
Al: “What’s that? It smells like…trash. Sniff, sniff…it is trash! Dad, look at this! Trash, right here on the street where anyone can smell it.!”
Me: “Trying to choose a politician that you like and can believe in is like trying to find a woman who doesn’t have more baggage than JFK airport.”
Al: “Man, I got to use the bathroom…but there’s so much to sniff. What’s this…another dog smell! And what’s this…grass! It’s grass, dad!”
Me: “Yup, without thumbs you can’t really vote, and that visit to the doctor’s office when you were a puppy took care of the whole woman thing for you. You got it made when it comes to the tough decisions.”
Al: “Yeah, you wish. Have you ever tried finding a place to take a dump in front of God and everyone?”
Me: “Come on buddy. Do your business so we can go inside. Jon Stewart is on in a little while.”
Al: (mumbling) “Have me fixed when I was young…I’ll show you. We’re sniffing this entire neighborhood before we go in. See how you like that, dad.”

Yes, Al is a master at listening to me spew out my troubles and is kind enough to give me slobbery kisses despite my shortcomings and ramblings. What a good friend.

This month has also seen the arrival of a new friend, Gary. Gary doesn’t talk much, but he is great listener. He is always fashionable, and is on the forefront of what’s hot when it comes to clothes. (Gary’s a mannequin, but don’t say anything around him. He is very sensitive on the subject and prefers the term Plastic American) Gary has a cushy job right now where he stands in front of a motorcycle clothing store in a neighboring town. Every time I roll through I stop and say hi. Here’s an example of a conversation that we had recently.

Me: “Hey Gary, what’s happening?”
Gary: “..........”
Me: “Yeah, you’re right.”
Gary: “..........”
Me: “I can see your point, but despite the apparent job growth in the country we are still headed down the road to a service economy where jobs pay less. This, in turn, lowers the per-capita spending so that even though it looks like the economy is growing with the creation of new jobs the average American can’t afford to spend large amounts of money on tourism and luxury items. These are two of the areas where America has flourished in the past, and with the diminishment of such wonton spending, and the average Joe being more frugal so that they can afford to buy gasoline, in juxtaposition with the boundless spending of tax dollars by the government to fund wars and fences…well I see an economic reckoning coming on the horizon.”
Gary: ".........."
Me: “Well, if you want to smoke I can always drill a hole in your hand so you can hold a cigarette.”
Gary: “....................”
Me: “No! I did not call you that. I would never use the ‘m’ word.”
Gary: “......”
Me: “Yeah, I’m gonna go now. You’re acting all weird.”

(Gary refused to be photographed for this blog)

Welcome to Planet Hippie!

2006-06-19T19:02:00.000-07:00

Question: What’s red, and yellow, and looks good on hippies?
Answer: Fire

My old roommate Dave used to tell that joke a lot, and until this weekend I didn’t get the full force of how accurate and poignant it is. This weekend was Bonnaroo (or Tennessee Woodstock if you will) and I had the privilege of attending it with my good friend Rob (who graciously sprung for tickets knowing that my broke-ass couldn’t).

Being a veteran of such hard rock concerts as Metallica, Tool, and Air Supply (shut-up…I was dragged there by my sister for our birthday. I was young and didn’t have musical taste back then) I was sure that attending a “festival” with a bunch of hippies was going to be a piece of (insert baked good of choice here…I’m going with Magic Brownie). I was so wrong.

The trip started out like any other olde fashioned road trip. We listened to some tunes, talked about music and movies, and I was attacked by my truck after calling it a piece of shit for getting such horrible gas mileage. After pulling to the side of the road, flashing apologetic waves to the people on the other side of the yellow lines that we narrowly avoided side-swiping, and changing my shorts we decided that for the duration of the trip we would change the moniker of my truck from "piece of shit" to Larry and that we would treat Larry with the respect and admiration that he deserves. Thus, we made it all the way to Manchester without further duress.

Once we made it to the festival grounds, it was time to find a place to camp. The problem was that several thousand people that had arrived the day before had also come to this same conclusion, and it took us thirty minutes to find a suitable place to place our tent ("suitable" meaning a place that wasn't already inhabited by an R.V. or a mass of twelve hippies that all came in one small Hybrid Volvo). After finding a spot the next step was to stake our claim by putting up our tent. This proved a noble notion, but one that was wrought with inconveniences of its own.

It seems that the camping industry has come up with a new type of language, or at least a variation on the English language as we know it. You see...when I see the phrase "graphite poles and anchors included" I foolishly assume that it means what it says. If I had been better versed in camping logic then I would have immediately realized that what this phrase really means is "we just stuffed a twelve foot by ten foot sleeping quarter into a bag the size of your pancreas, so no room was left for even a Tic Tac, let alone graphite poles and anchors. Good luck getting this thing to stay up." So here I am with our neighbors, Andy and Mark, rigging up a support structure with PVC poles that Mark had in the back of his truck. Thankfully we got redneck neighbors who were willing to help and offer us a beer afterwards, instead of hippie neighbors who probably would have watched as we became very frustrated at our situation before telling us to "chill out, man."

With the tent up and anchored against the wind (using an ingenious combination of bubble gum, curses, and prayers) we now felt confident that we could begin the mile walk from our camp site to the actual festival grounds.

The walk from the camping area to the festival was both an exercise in patience, and a crash course in the field of merchandising. This monument to...hell I don't know (we called it the Hippie Tree) was the marker to let us know that we could now purchase "hand made" glass bongs, tie-dyed shirts, crappy hemp jewelry, and other hippie paraphernalia along the way to the stage. And there were actually people buying this shit! We learn something every day. It's all about the sales pitch. If I ever go back I'm gonna make me some money somehow. Here, let me try my advertising.

"Get your tie-dyed lint here. This lint was hand plucked from the pockets of eighty monks who spent seven years meditating on the peaks of Kilimanjaro. This lint was colored using only dyes that were not tested on animals, and lovingly wadded up just this morning to maintain freshness. A mear seventy dollars for this Holy lint that is reputed to have healing powers if mixed with humus and placed forcefully into the anus with a large glass bong."

Okay, how about this...

"Punch a hippie in the face for twenty dollars!"

This will certainly surprise the hippie that I grab at random and hold for the paying customer.

Yet I can't dispute the fact that the two bands that we had made the trip to see were very good. This is the view that we had of Beck while he was performing. If you look past the sea of hippies you can almost make out the stage. Thank God for Jumbo-tron monitors, huh. After moving about a quarter of a mile to our left we were directly in front of the stage, and only two football fields away instead of three, and could enjoy the monitors as they parodied the actual band with puppets. It was hilarious to Rob and me, but I saw some hippies (who were clearly stoned) with worried looks on their faces. I'm sure they were wondering whether everyone else was destined turned into puppets or whether they had been sold a bad batch of mushrooms.

We went back later that night to catch the Radiohead concert, and about halfway through we met Bob (or least I'm calling him Bob because his actions warrant it). Bob was kind enough to almost trip over me while I was sitting in the grass, but not kind enough to actually trip and fall when I was standing and waiting for him to topple. Bob, who was evidently tripping some good balls, was encouraged by his friends who shouted such inspirational phrases as "There's no gravity on the moon!" and "Slava lesh mora plupa!" (I believe that this last was a stoned slur, but it seemed to get Bob's attention because he then closed his eyes and began nodding like it was the most profound thing that anyone had ever said.)

The next day we woke at nine o'clock and had the tough decision of whether to wait the seven hours to catch the only other show we wanted to see (Lewis Black) or to hit the road before the rain began and turned the dirty hippies into muddy hippies. Rob and I made the wise choice of getting an early start since the prospect of spending another seven hours on Planet Hippie just to catch a thirty minute comedy show made me suddenly want to set fire to something. More than likely...a hippie. Now that would have been entertainment.

Memorial Weekend

2006-06-05T09:47:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the hiatus, it’s been a busy couple of weeks. I would like to interrupt the New York series for a look at the Memorial Weekend, and how I went from having a car shot up with a shotgun to playing my best game of golf in seven years.

Thursday started off at the regular pace, slow and languid throughout the workday. That night I was going to Nashville airport to pick up John who was coming into town from Detroit to check on his house and play a little golf. Of course, John’s plane was delayed and instead of landing at 9:30 it came in at about midnight-ish. On the way back to Paris we hit a huge spot of rain and eventually rolled back into town at 3 in the morning. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t have to get up in three hours to drive to Clarksville for work.

Friday morning started off with a flourish and a shudder as I woke up early (heah…shut up. Stranger things have happened) and left for Clarksville with my boss driving at approximately 6:30. When we arrived at the Clarksville location the first call I get is from Justin back at the Paris office. Apparently, sometime in the night one of our rental cars had been savagely attacked while the renter was away and now it lay broken and demoralized in the guy’s driveway.

To better explain the circumstances surrounding the nighttime attack, let me paint a portrait so that you can see the kind of people we deal with on a daily basis. When we get the assignment for this guy the first thing I notice is that it is going to Big Sandy. That is usually not a big deal, but then I notice the actual address and realize that we about to see God’s country. Big Sandy is a small town that borders on the Tennessee River, and if you leave the confines of the actual town and head toward the outlying residences near the water you can bet on one of two things. Either the house will be a nice summer cottage on the lake, or it will be redneckiest shack you have ever seen with eight cars up on blocks, roughly eighty-five coon dogs baying in the back, and a genuine hand-made noose hanging from one of the trees. Unfortunately we were about to visit the later.

When I pulled up the guy’s address on MapQuest to get directions the screen actually started laughing and showed me an image of Ned Beatty in Deliverance before clicking over to the map. The town of Big Sandy is only thirty minutes from Paris, but it took us another twenty minutes of back-roads to get to the guy’s house. As soon as I turned onto his “road” (a dirt track with just enough room to fall off the embankment should another vehicle decided to come from the other direction) I swear I heard banjos, a white man squealing like a pig, and a black man screaming. I turned off the radio, and cut short Michael Jackson’s revised version of Thriller, and listened to the quiet of the country. Even the crickets were too scared to sing out here. The guy’s trailer was lavishly decorated with a variety of broken washers and dryers, and seemed to follow the early style of Fuck (as represented by the harsh tilt to port, the miss-matched siding, and the roof that was more rust than aluminum). We rented to him on Thursday morning.

On Friday morning…the car had been shot with a shotgun while sitting in his driveway/patio/swimming pool deck. Apparently he had either fucked the wrong wife or the wrong pig because someone was mad enough at him to stand at the driver side windows and pump a shotgun blast into the car, peppering the opposite side buck-shot and blowing out those windows as well. This meant that I had to do a lot of paperwork in-between all the traveling I had to do, and the rest of the day was a blur of forms, white-out, yellow lines, and gas stations. The oblivion of sleep came early at the brisk hour of midnight.

Saturday was a pretty good day. Woke up late at 9:00, and spent most of the day driving John around so that he could take care of money and house business while he was here. The rest of the day was spent just relaxing and discussing what had been happening since New York. I had the line on two dates for us that night, but got stiffed late in the day by the women. So I caught word of a local band, The John Sutton Band, that was playing at the Elk Lodge and we headed over for some beers. The band was excellent, the eight beers and six shots of Jägermeister were excellent, and the women were out in abundance. John and I closed the bar down at 3:oo am playing shuffleboard with Whitey and Charlie, and all in all it was a good night.

The next morning I was singing a different tune as we drug our asses out of bed at eight o’clock. I was still slightly drunk when John and I met Justin at the links, and the first drive was an exercise in patience and concentration. Basically I planted the tee, stepped back, and took my swing all in one motion. No practice, no sissy lining up. Unfortunately I whiffed and, after suffering the laughter of John and Justin, I actually lined up and took my shot. It was the best drive I have hit in the last seven outings, and by that I mean it entered the trees only 75 yards from the green instead of 75 yards from the tee box. Pure magic.

I ended the day with a 60…on nine holes. Hey, get off my back. I mean it…stop laughing at my score. That’s the best game I’ve played in, like, seven years. I suppose the secret is being drunk when you play. Millions of amateur golfers can’t be wrong, right? After golf, my parents’ had a BBQ at their house, where I had to do all of the grilling, and the rest of the day was spent in steak heaven.

Monday was a driving day. On the way to take John back to the airport we stopped at Cuba Landing on the Tennessee River to see our friend Chuck and his wife, Eva. We stayed there too long and when I finally got John to the airport he was just barely in time to be told that his plane was delayed. That was a close call. After getting back to Paris I had to go into the office to (gasp in mock amazement) do paperwork. Tuesday…it was back to the craziness.

New York, New York: Pictures

2006-05-21T16:26:00.000-07:00

This is Smith's Bar. I spent a lot of time here since it was right across the street from my hotel.

This is my friend John who was also in New York the same time I was. He helped me close down some of the bars at 4:00 am.

This is me and my new friend Audrey. She worked at Smith's Bar and I had some pretty good laughs with her. It rained the last two days I was there and here I am dripping all over her (literaly and figuratively). She was one of the cool people that made my trip to New York worth it.

Here's a couple of me on the day I left. Did I mention that it was raining?

Her's me at LaGuardia airport at the National Geographic store. The bear was trained...and no one was hurt while posing for this picture.

This is me the day after I got back. I had to go into work to fix some stuff, even though I had the day off.

New York, New York: Language

2006-05-10T12:06:00.000-07:00

Is there such a thing as a linguistic chameleon?

I ponder this because I am trying to find a description of this amazing ability that I have to adapt to the specific language inflections and slang of different regions. It all started back in 4th grade when I was sent to a speech therapist to fix a lisp I had. I wasn’t aware that I had a problem with my S’s until the “kind lady” basically told me that if I didn’t work hard and fix my speech impediment then I would be ridiculed and mocked by others for the rest of my life. With this on my shoulders I worked hard to rid myself of the lisp…and just ended up with a nice Southern drawl.

Later, at the age of 12, while on a truck driving trip with my father I realized that not everyone else spoke like me. We were stopped in Boston on the way up to Canada and Peaches (a trucker friend of my dad’s) affectionately called a fellow a “stupid, fucking Yankee.” Thus, I soon realized that Southern people make fun of the way Northerners talk, and vise versa. I also came to the discovery that if people knew that I had a drawl, then they would immediately think of me as an inbred, cousin lover who didn’t own any shoes (things are more dramatic as a kid). So, through the medium of television and movies I worked on other accents so that my Southern drawl would not give me away at the wrong moment.

(What this really accomplished was to give me an immense amount of television and movie knowledge so that I can now insert random movie quotes in certain instances to substitute for meaningful conversation)

This became a habit over the years and I have often found myself adopting accents and slang from whatever I was currently watching and reading. While watching BBC sitcoms a lot in college I found myself speaking British slang without realizing it.

Me: (after missing a ball while playing pool) “Bollocks! All ya gotta do is put the pissin’ ball in the bloody fucking pocket ya stupid swamp donkey!”
Everyone Else: ......

So what does this have to do with my trip to New York, you ask? Well, I’m happy to say that my linguistic chameleon instincts came alive while I was there. I can’t express enough the importance of language when you are visiting somewhere, and most novice travelers overlook this when they do research on the area of intended vacation. Being able to blend in and speak to the New Yorkers in their native tongue helps a traveler to avoid embarrassing cultural faux pas, and to also speed most transactions along.

Waitress: “So what can I get you to drink tonight?”
Inexperienced Traveler: (with Southern drawl) “I’ll have a beer please.”
Waitress: “What was that?”
Traveler: “A beer, please.”
Waitress: “You’re not from around here are you? Where are you from?”

Thus, you have to go into a ten-minute conversation about where you are from and play the “I’ve never heard of there before” game before you can even get a taste of your beer…let alone start dinner. This happens everywhere: buying a tee-shirt, ordering coffee, getting directions, picking up a hooker. Everything takes longer than it should. Yet, my situation was different. I found that after only two days in New York I had perfected the inflections and subtle nuances of the New Yorker language and was speaking like I had lived there all my life. This opened whole new doors and sped things along considerably. Observe.....

Waitress: “What will you have to drink tonight?”
Me: “Fuck.”
Waitress: “Sam Adams coming right up sir.”

Waitress: “Will that be all tonight?”
Me: “Fuck!”
Waitress: “Another beer coming right up, sir.”

Waitress: “Here’s your check sir.”
Me: “FUCK!!!!”
Waitress: “You’re right sir. I’ll check with the manager.” (a few minutes go by) “Sir, I checked with the manager and your meal will be complimentary tonight. In fact, he said to give you this wad of cash in exchange for your company tonight at our restaurant.”
Me: “Fuuuuuck.”
Waitress: “Well, yeah I get off work in a few minutes. Sure I’d like to come have a drink with you.”
Me: “Fuck.”
Waitress: “Do you mind if my model roommate joins us?”
Me: “Fuck?”
Waitress: “Well, if we get drunk enough….”

New York, New York: Travel

2006-05-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

I have a question, and even though it is redundant and everyone has heard it I am gonna ask it anyway. Why even make reservations anymore?

I bring this up because of the waiting I had to do for both my plane ride to New York and back to Nashville. I have heard and was well aware of the fact that planes are often delayed and do not get to their destination on time, but it doesn’t change the fact that it griped by ass. Why do they tell you to get to the airport an hour before your flight when it is undoubtedly going to take off at least 30 minutes after it is scheduled to? The same goes for doctors. Why even make an appointment for 2:00 when both you and the doctor know that you don’t have a chance of actually seeing him/her until around 3:15? I say that we adopt a new timetable for situations like this. It’s called “The Ish System.” Instead of an appointment at 2:00, we can say that you have an appointment around 2:00ish. Instead of saying your plane is departing at 8:00 am, we can say that the plane will depart at around 8:00 am…ish. Then if they leave without you it would be legal for you to sue them. This would really chafe their ass.

I understand that plane delays are often caused by weather and other elements out of the control of the airlines, but what if you (the customer) have such a similar incident? You are held up by a mudslide and will make it to your plane an hour late. Will they wait for you? Probably not. This is the two-sided system that we face.

Okay, so with that off my chest I can get back to the actual New York trip. The primary mode of transportation that I used while in NYC was the good old-fashioned ability of self-mobilization (or walking if you want to take the romance out of it). I walked many blocks in the four days that I was there, and as an outcome have ruined two good pairs of tight jeans by flexing my, now bulging, calves and ripping them at the seams. It was not only the cheapest way to get around, but also the most convenient when it came to the sight seeing thing. I did take the subway down to Greenwich Village and a cab back to the airport, thus taking advantage of the three main modes of transportation available in NYC.

The difference between traveling in NYC and traveling in Tennessee is the ratio of distance to shit to do. What I mean by this is that walking a mile in NYC is not as bad as it is in Tennessee because there is so much shit going on that you don’t really notice that you have walked a mile. Whereas, in TN you know when you have walked a mile because you are pretty much focused on your destination, since your destination is more than likely vastly more interesting that whatever else is going on around you. Also, most places in TN are in a kind of limbo stasis of relevance. What this implies is when I say that I live in Paris I usually have to follow that up with a relative distance from a major city like Jackson or Clarksville. The people that live in these limbo towns often have to travel to these cities to find viable, worthwhile entertainment and sustenance such as malls, clubs, and restaurants that don’t have either a drive-up window or buffet.

I found that the subway wasn’t as bad as everyone makes it out to be, but I also didn’t have to share a car with Crazy Bill from the planet Zorq and his 17 invisible squirrels at 3:00 in the morning. This probably would have painted my view of the subway in a different color. The only problem that I had was finding exactly where to go to catch my train to my destination. The trains were clearly labeled either alphabetically or numerically, and the color-coded chart that was displayed at the terminal was plainly laid out so that anyone with an advanced degree in Hyper Calculetic Cryptology could have figured it out. Alas, I could only achieve a degree in Sub-Hyper Calculetic Cryptology so I was stuck asking people “Does this train take me to Greenwich Village?” After only having to ask this question five times I was on my way.

The cab ride had to have been the worst travel experience I had while in New York. It was accurate to the movies and television shows that portray it. Now, I’m normally what you call a “close driver” anyway, which means that after driving on the interstates in Tennessee (which is a necessity to get anywhere with suitable food and entertainment) I have gotten to the point where the appropriate distance between my front bumper and the back bumper of the car in front of me is approximately the size of a cantaloupe. This leaves me just enough room to maneuver if the fool in front of me should slow down or, God forbid, try to stop. I often scare the shit out of people (figuratively speaking) when I drive because when brake lights flare I often don’t slow down, yet when I saw the way that people drive on New York streets I myself had trepidations about getting into a car and attempting to pull into traffic.

The cab ride went along the lines of this.
- The driver honks and pulls into traffic in front of three other cars.
- I grip the handle with a viselike death grip and clench my anus.
- Driver runs two yellow lights and almost sideswipes a van.
- I am sweating copiously and my teeth are grinding.
- Driver honks one time in warning and pulls off the road to access the bridge ramp, missing another car by a frog hair.
-I shit myself (figuratively…and a little literally).

The people at the airport were very sympathetic to my situation and showed me the way to the bathroom with minimal snickering.

New York, New York: The Overview

2006-04-30T22:32:00.000-07:00

So, hibernation over…time to get to work.

When I started on the New York trip I wanted to do three things. One: I wanted to see a Broadway play. Two: I wanted to ride the subway and see if it is really as bad as they say it is. Three: I wanted to meet some cool people and hear at least one real New Yorker go on one of their famous cursing rants. I accomplished all three.

In these posts I want to explore the differences between New York (where I would like to live) and Paris, Tennessee (where I currently live). Now most people would say “Ghee, it’s kind of obvious what the differences are. New York is a big city, and Paris is a small city.” To them I would reply “Duh!” It’s the social differences that I want to explore. That is where the humor of life lies. In the little things that often go unnoticed.

To begin, let me give you an overview of the trip so that when I get down and start talking about actual events and scenarios you good readers will have some sort of reference.

Thursday
Morning: I arrived at the airport at 6:30 am, two hours early (such as suggested by both the airline website and by frequent fliers that I talked to), and was in the air promptly at around 10:00 (an hour and a half late).
Afternoon: I arrived in New York and took a shuttle van to the Grand Central Station where another van was supposed to arrive minutes later to take me to the hotel. Thus I knew that I would be waiting at least an hour (which proved to be an accurate estimate). The only thing that made this bearable was the copious amount of very attractive females that walked by me.
Evening: After checking into my hotel (another 45 minute process) and resting for a while I hit the streets. I discovered that New York is one of the only places that I have been that you can walk around aimlessly for over two hours without feeling bored and with the feeling that you are still missing something. I then found a restaurant and had dinner.
Night: At around 8:00 I left the restaurant and headed for the bars. I discovered that the bars in New York did not close until 4:00 am, and this is when my liver and kidneys both groaned and began a synchronized cursing at me. At 5:00 am I stumbled into my hotel and slept.

Friday
Morning: Woke up bright and early at 10:00 and had breakfast across the street. I then met up with my friend John (who was also visiting New York) and together we searched out a cigar store that I had heard about, Nat Sherman’s. Both of us being smokers, we were delighted to discover that they offered a smoking room where you could sit in comfortable leather chairs, watch sports on a large flat-screen television, and smoke a cigar in relative peace.
Afternoon: Ate lunch and walked around some more. Once again, I was amazed that I could spend a whole afternoon walking and still feel like there was much more to see.
Evening: Caught a bite to eat at a sushi restaurant and met a really cool family from France. At least….I think they were from France. They spoke French. I then attended the musical Wicked at the Gershwin Theatre, which was an excellent show that I would recommend to anyone.
Night: Bars! Got to see a pretty good local live band, and met a cool group of people and had a great conversation while we stood outside smoking. We went from discussing John Grisham to discussing theological philosophies. It was a weird transition that was made natural by the fact that we were all pretty shit-faced. Good times. 5:00 am…crashed into bed.

Saturday
Morning: Woke up again promptly around 10:00 and had breakfast. Met John again and spent some time around the Times Square area (in the rain) and met a cool guy named Joe who worked for Comedy Central and sold us some tickets to a comedy show at The Improv.
Afternoon: Took the subway down to Greenwich Village to check out where I would have been staying if I had been accepted to The New School. It was a cool place. Had lunch there at a horror movie themed restaurant
Evening: Took the subway back to 42nd street and chilled out in the hotel room for a while.
Night: Went to the comedy show at The Improv, which was a little of a disappointment. Two of the comics were funny and the other three were just alright. These are the risks you take when buying tickets off the street from people named Joe. Hit the bars afterwards. I had to catch a plane the next day so I went to bed early at about 2:30.

Sunday
Morning: Had breakfast at 9:00 (yeah it surprised me too) at a pompous French place. It was still raining so walking was done in the fashion of trying to dodge other people’s umbrellas (which were mostly conveniently located at eye level so that I ran a constant risk of losing an orb to the pointy metal extensions). Checked out of the hotel at around 11:30.
Afternoon: Got smart and took a cab to the airport. Pissed my pants on the way (it was raining so no one noticed). My plane didn’t leave until 5:30, but I didn’t want to walk around New York in the rain dragging my, circa 1976, suitcase behind me. So I spent the afternoon at LaGuardia Airport.
Evening: Got on my plane promptly at 7:00 (an hour and a half late) and headed back to Nashville.

Most people so far have asked me much of the same questions. “Did you go to Ground Zero?” “Did you go to the Statue of Liberty?” “Did you go to the Empire State Building?” Basically most people want to know if I did the typical tourist thing and visit the typical tourist places. The answer is “No.” I didn’t want to do those things. They didn’t interest me as much as just the ambiance of the city and its different areas. The only places that I wanted to visit that I didn’t were Chinatown, Chelsea, Tribeca, and the west side harbor district. Each of those places deserve their own day, there just wasn’t enough time.

But overall I had fun, and I came back with a better appreciation of the city and an overwhelming need to go back. Possibly for good. After visiting I can see myself living there more than ever, and I believe that a job hunt is in order. But…one step at a time. For now I am content to admire from a distance and plan the eventuality of habitation in The Big Apple.

New York, New York:The Prologue

2006-04-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

I now have huge calves and my kidneys are very mad at me.

I just got back from my New York trip, and I have a wealth of stuff to post here on the blog. So I’m gonna do this in stages. An ongoing series if you will. But right now I must sleep. The bars are open till 4 am there, and I find that right now my system is running on fumes and will power.

I had a lot of fun in the Big Apple, and I will share it all soon. I have to get my pictures developed and put on a CD because I forgot my digital, so soon you will see the face of Burning Stickman. Dumm, dumm, duuuuuuum!

Channeling the Sloth

2006-04-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

The heat is sweltering. The overcast sky has produced just enough rain to dampen the ground and make the air so humid that if you jump at the right time you might find yourself suspended above the earth and unable to move. Your legs stick together if you even think of touching them to one another, and you are sweating from places that, by all accounts, should never leak liquid (like our fingernails and teeth). It’s the perfect day for a tennis match.

Saturday was the big tennis match against our arch rivals Mayfield. We had been preparing for this match for over a month and testing new strategies to best our opponents. (Note: Calling them daisy-pants and telling them to lick your yardballs does not…I repeat…does not assure victory) We tested methods of confidence building, like trying to pick out theme music to play at deafening volumes as we arrived at the courts, and unity building, like drinking at the bar after a practice/game/conversation/coherent thought. But what we found to work the best was the naming of power animals to channel.

The naming of power animals has two schools of thought when it comes to the proper way of choosing the specific animal that you will channel. One method is contributed to the Native Americans, and involves the imbibing of copious amounts of peyote, or mushrooms if you were hard up, and sitting in a tent sweating for hours or even days until you had a vision in which you were helped by an animal spirit guide to come to a personal truth. Some Native Americans had to go through this ordeal several times before they discovered their power animal, but I’m sure that it had nothing to due with the smoking of copious amounts of peyote. This method had mixed results, where you might have one young brave with the name of Standing Bear and one young brave with the name of Pooping Rabbit. Thus the shift to the second method, which is surprisingly similar in many ways to the first.

The second method of naming a power animal comes from drunkus coedicus...commonly known as the college student. The rules to naming a power animal in college is simple.
1) Someone else has to give you your power animal.
2) You both have to be drunk.

That’s it, it’s that simple. This method, though has had serious consequences in the past and should not be taken lightly. (Historians are looking into the notion that the assassination of Abraham Lincoln was not caused by a protest against Emancipation, but rather the fact that while at the theatre Mr. Lincoln had had a few drinks and jokingly referred to John Booth as Pooping Rabbit and the name kind of stuck. Mr. Booth was probably not happy)

The guys on the tennis team all decided that we needed power animals that we could channel in moments of great need and distress on the courts. (We were drinking when we came up with this plan) The idea was that when we were tired and down we could look deep inside ourselves and find the courage, strength, and determination of an individual power animal to help give us that extra bit of needed motivation to hit the next winning shot. With his quick reflexes, Lankford was dubbed The Mongoose. With his dexterity and speed, Woods was named The Emus. With his boundless energy and ability to leap great heights, Chris was named The Kangaroo. With his keen eye and ability to track down a wayward ball, Atchison was dubbed The Falcon. So what power animal did I get? Surely a cobra, or lion, or some other cool animal that would inspire me to pull off great feats when I was down. No…you've probably already guessed it by now. Yup, I’m The Sloth.

Now, before you call my teammates cruel and heartless bastards you should get to know them first…then call them cruel and heartless bastards. You see I am a pretty big guy, and a smoker, and I have developed a way to play tennis that uses as little movement as possible so as to conserve as much energy and air as possible. Thus I have harnessed the ability to “move without moving.” Let me explain. When a ball is hit toward you most good tennis players would take the necessary steps towards hitting it back, like taking a step forward or back in order to position oneself for the maximum degree of a successful return. Not me. Through meditation and self discipline I have harnessed the ability to stand in the same spot and hit the ball back with all the power and accuracy that one might expect from hitting a wad of dough with a wiffle ball bat. Okay, I’m exaggerating…it’s more like hitting a bowling ball with a salami.

Actually the naming of my power animal was none of my teammates’ doing. I am a pretty decent player, but I do use the art of “moving without moving” which frustrates many of the opponents that I face. The name “The Sloth” actually comes from my college days. (everyone can gasp in surprise now) It was an indication of the speed at which I drank my beer. I drank much slower than many of the people that I partied with. This enabled me to do two things. One: I paid for less rounds since I was never finished with my beer when everyone else was. Two: I could drink much longer than most people. Where my roommate Dave would drink eight beers in an hour and a half and be wasted, I could drink twelve beers in two and a half hours and have a pleasant buzz. But the name stuck, and I now have a list on my fridge of people that will someday be very sorry when they are high ranking individuals and pictures of them in college when they were passed out and naked with an outline of a penis shaved in their chest hair surface and bribe money handed out. Revenge can be sweet.

So now the name has evolved to indicate my method of playing tennis. Imagine if I make it into the big time. I'm at Wimbledon, in the last set tie-breaker. The deafening boom of the crowd is overwhelming as they chant one name over and over like a mantra. “Sloth! Sloth! Sloth!” My power animal emerges as I channel the sloth…and hit the ball into the net because I am too slow to move my feet for the 120 mile-per-hour serve coming to my backhand. Oh, well. At least it all makes sense when I’m drunk.

Remembering The Good Old Days...

2006-04-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

I’ve been feeling nostalgic today. Thinking back on the good old days when Ug was just starting to make headway on the “wheel,” and my biggest worry was making it the whole day without stepping in diplodocus poo. Crap! I went too far back in the Wayback Machine. Fast forward.

I was reminiscing with Justin today about gas prices and how we used to remember the good old days when we could actually afford to fill up the tank without taking out a loan and promising our first born children to Exxon.

Me: I remember when gas was only a buck.
Justin: Shit, I remember when it was like ninety-six cents.
Me: Yeah. When I was delivering pizzas I could fill-up, buy a pack of smokes and a drink and still be under twenty bucks.
Justin: I remember when I could fill up my gas can for my lawn mower for under $5.
Me: I remember when we didn’t even need gas. We just walked to school. Uphill. Both ways.
(Symbolic pause to gather our thoughts)
Me: We’re getting old aren’t we.
Justin: Speak for yourself gramps, I’m younger than you.

So it went. I found myself yearning for the days when Transformers where cool and I could use my money for comic books instead of paying Visa my left nut and giving my right nut to my school loans (thus leaving me sterile and weeping every month). With the recent rise in gas prices my list of reasons for purchasing a motorcycle is getting bigger every day.

1)Cheaper on gas.
2)80% of people who ride motorcycles regularly are less likely to get therapy later in life. (This is important due to the fact that I’m one talk with my Area Manager away from losing grip on reality and retreating into Stickmanland)
3)They are cool.
4)I need to find some way to combat the feeling that I am getting old. One of these days I’m gonna find myself complaining about gas prices and “remembering the good old days”...aw, crap.

Shedding Skin

2006-04-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

So I think we’ve decided on a name for the band. “The The” Get it? It's got "the" twice. It's a varitable goldmine. It can't fail. I...what? What do you mean? That’s absurd! No one else is crazy enough to...Just a moment. Be right back.

(Ten minutes pass)

I have been informed by the copy write people, who apparently have been watching my house and are now standing over my shoulder with brass knuckles and names such as Guido, that that particular band name has been taken. I have been asked not to make a scene. It seems we are back to square one.

The weekend was somewhere in between good and “what the fuck?” Last night my bandmate, Justin, and I went out to drink (surprise) and try and pick-up women. The first part we succeeded at, the second…all I can say is that I’m out of practice. Approaching women is hard to do when you are over six feet tall and have to walk sideways through most doorframes. I guess I am intimidating to the fairer sex, which usually leaves me no opportunity to talk to them and show them how funny, witty, and intelligent I can be. Of course the desperate gleam in my eye, from not being intimate with a woman since October, probably didn’t help my chances.

I did get to talk to a few women though, and I could feel the old charm trying to break its way back to the surface. Like a sloth crawling from a tar-pit, my cool and savvy flirtatious self emerged as the night progressed. By the end of the night I felt like I had at least made headway in my attempt at getting back into the game. Or maybe it was just the Rolling Rock. I wasn’t sure at that point.

Today I got some good news. I got a line on someone who might want to hear my songs. Apparently the woman has helped some people get noticed in Nashville, so maybe it will work out to where I can finally live the dream. I hear groupies are standard in music contracts now. This, though, could just be wishful thinking.

Melting Faces

2006-04-07T07:48:00.000-07:00

Think about all the truly great bands that have come out over the years. It seems that most of them start with the article “the.” The Beatles, The Who, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin. (I didn’t say all of them) I’m trying to start a band and the first thing we have decided on is that we need a name that begins with “the.” Here are some suggestions.

The Guys
The Master Baiters
The Senate Minority
The Chocolate Pudding Blues Band
The Last Time I Saw These Guys They Were Sober

Ya know, something that really rolls off the tongue. So far it’s me and two other guys and we all play guitar, so we’re exploring the idea of making that the key instrument instead of, say…the tuba. The tuba idea was kicked around also, but we were all pretty wasted on Red Stripes and Jägermeister and we decided that the tuba just didn't melt enough faces when put through a speaker. So the first step (ruling out the tuba and deciding to go with guitars) has been taken and all we need is a name to begin our rise to triumphant glory. (this is what they’ll say on the VH1 special. “It was the beginning of their rise to triumphant glory.”)

Most of our practices have consisted of us getting together, listening to music, drinking beer, and talking about what we would like to play. No actual playing as of yet (except for the time Atchison came over and we played the beginnings to about eight songs but never actually made it all the way through) but we believe strongly in the naming of the band so we have made that the first priority.

A question occurred to me yesterday, as we were drinking and talking about music of the early 90’s, and I find myself wondering about it today. When do you become too old to rock? I’m only 26, but it’s different than when I was in bands in college. In college, when we got together to jam we drank and talked about stuff like our crappy jobs and hot girls. Now that I work for a living we get together, drink and talk about serious stuff like government and the current economic situation. We also talk about our crappy jobs and hot women, so I guess nothing much has changed.

Look for us to be on the radio soon. With a name like The Parisian Democrats (or some other variation on a “the” name) we are a sure thing to be on the top of the billboards soon.

Ghosts from the Past

2006-04-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

So today would have been my third wedding anniversary. I find myself pondering about what-if’s and could-have-been’s. I also find it ironic that just yesterday I got my letter from the New School in New York that said I didn’t make it into their Creative Writing graduate program. I didn’t really think that I would be one of the twenty-six people that they picked out of the thousand or so applicants, but it still is a let down. So my day has consisted of thinking about where my life is headed now.

I was going through a bunch of old songs that I had written while still in college, and one seemed to jump at me. The song was written during a totally different time in my life, but it applies to my current situation as well. It’s odd how songs can do that. Reflect one period of time when written, but still be prevalent at other times and in different situations. Here’s the first verse and chorus.

So Tired
I’m so tired
Of waking up every day
Wondering what I’m waking up for
I’m so tired
Of looking for the right girl
One who wants a little more
I’m so tired
Of trying to get by
And fucking up along the way
I’m so tired
Of waiting for a change
And watching it all slip away

Chorus: I’ve got to
Spread my wings and rise above this wasted life
I’ve been here way too long
I’ve got to get out of this same routine
It’s not where I belong
Soft sorrow and complacency
Are gonna be the death of me
I’ve got to get out from under this stone
And fly away

So, I’ve got some motivation from my past self, now I just have to put it into action.

Sunday, Burning Sunday

2006-04-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

So, I spent all day today reading. Some of you might be saying, “Well, what a nice way to spend a Sunday.” I agree, spending a Sunday reading is a very pleasant idea…when you do it by choice. No, my Sunday spent reading was against my will. “Were you held hostage by a terrorist organization?” In a way, yes. Not an organization, per say, but reading was not the way I had originally planned to spend today. I had planned on mowing my lawn, washing my truck, and playing a little tennis, but my bowels had other ideas about how I should spend my time.

It all started about six o’ clock this morning with a gurgle and a pain deep down in my stomach like someone was trying to pull it through my navel. I immediately woke up to tell this person to get bent and explain the laws of human physiology that made this feat impossible when I realized that I was alone and my stomach was actually trying to crawl out of my navel. This was a different situation all together. I sat on my bed in the dawn light and pondered my options when another gurgle and a jolt of pain made my options very clear. I headed toward the bathroom and commenced my day.

Sautéed onions were the cause of this fun filled day of leisure reading, and occasional weeping. You see when a full-blown cause of “the terrible D word” hits there is not much you can really do about it. What happens is that every fifteen minutes or so you get this cramp and your stomach goes into a spasmic convulsion warning you that you have approximately two minutes before it evacuates itself via your backdoor like a robber escaping the scene of a crime. The bad thing is that your stomach doesn’t discriminate when it comes to your current location; whether it be the office, a traffic jam, or on a Farris wheel.

The way most people counter this unscrupulous behavior of the stomach is to remain within five strides a bathroom and pray a lot. The way I dealt with my situation is that I just headed my stomach off at the pass, so to speak, and spent all day seated on the throne (with occasional respites to walk around and wake up my right leg that seems to go to sleep after and hour) so that when my stomach gurgles and says time to get to a toilet I can say “Ha Stomach! Beat ya to the punch! I’m already here, so do your worst!” Then my stomach would yell loudly, swish around, and evacuate quickly just in case I was joking and on the off chance that I was wearing any undergarment that it could ruin.

This worked most of the day, but then I ran into a situation about mid-day. Fate (being my arch enemy when it comes to humility and self-actualization) decided to pull a three pronged attack on me and cause me to risk mortal embarrassment and a good pair of shorts. At about one o’ clock the stars aligned correctly and I ran out of toilet paper, smoked my last cigarette, and I finished the current book I was reading. Two of the problems (TP and a book) could be solved in the comfort on my own home and within a quick sprint to the bathroom, but cigarettes I would have to go out for. This created a dent in the comfort zone I had built up. I had to decide either to remain in the house without smoking or risk a foray into the outside world for supplies with the danger of surprising countless strangers in the middle of a convenience store with a loud rumble in my lions and a sudden stench. If you are yourself a smoker then you know what my decision ended up being.

So I risked a trip. Everything went smoothly at the store. I bought my cigarettes, a bottle of Tums, and a ginger ale without ruining someone else’s day. It was on the ride home that my stomach decided to strike against me and teach me a lesson about mocking it. About half-way to my house the (now familiar) gurgle rose in my bowels and the pain shot across my abdomen signaling my two-minute warning when I was five minutes from the house. Thus I broke several speed laws and defied the forces of gravity and inertia around several corners to make it to my house. My neighbors (who were all outside doing yard work and other home improvement activities) must have been awfully surprised when I peeled down the street, pulled into my drive-way sideways, and rushed from my truck to my door sweating and holding a paper bag closely to my stomach like a heroin addict rushing inside to open a vein. I’ll now have to send out a memo to everyone on my street with a letter explaining my actions and a copy of a drug test report to prove that they are not living next to a junky.

About seven o’ clock I emerged from the bathroom feeling empty to my bones and with a burning in my lower regions that hints at possible hemorrhoidial problem later in the future. I have made it long enough to type this narrative down in case no one hears from again and they enter my house to find the dried up husk of my former self sitting on the toilet with twenty empty cigarette packs, eighteen well read books, and twenty-four cardboard toilet paper rolls scattered around me. I hope everyone’s Sunday was better than mine.

*Note: This blog was an exaggeration of actual events. The author only had four rolls of toilet paper, not twenty-four.

Got a Little Stickman in Ya?

2006-03-28T11:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I get the urge to drink on the job. Maybe it’s the sense of defiance that comes from knowing that you are going against all social norms. Maybe it’s the sense of freedom that might come from knowing that no one can tell you what to do. Maybe it’s the unabashed feeling that you get from driving a rental car into a lake and laughing as it sinks to the murky depths. Maybe it’s the wantonness that comes from going up to a random lady and asking her if she’s got a little Captain in her, and then asking if she would like some.

Alas, all these are outweighed by the sense of confusion that might come from not remembering how you ended up on a side street in St. Louis with no clothes, a wad of cash, a half empty tube of Astro Glide, and a throbbing in your poo chute.

Yea…that’s never good. I’ll just wait till I get home.

Is Craphole One Word? I'll Take Craphole.

2006-03-28T08:18:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have those mornings when you wake up and just know that the day is gonna suck donkey balls? That was me this morning.

First, I only got about three hours of sleep even though I went to bed an hour early (eleven instead of midnight). It was the dreams that kept waking me up. I’m not sure exactly what prompted the barrage of images through my head, but I ran the gambit last night when it came to dreams. I dreamed I was in the movie Back to the Future, I dreamed I was hunting zombies, I dreamed that I was going on vacation, and I dreamed about my ex-wife. Those were the ones I remember. Each one woke me up after roughly forty-five minutes of sleep and kept me awake for thirty minutes trying to sort through what they meant. Last night was a dream analyzer’s wet dream (pun intended).

So then I wake up fifteen minutes late and have to forgo a shower to get to work on time. This did not make me happy. My morning showers are what allow me to drag into work at 7:30 in the morning without swerving into oncoming traffic. Without them I not only feel like I am still asleep, but I also get those mid-afternoon urges to pick someone out at random and ask them questions about their faith and whether they are prepared to meet their maker if a sleep and shower deprived guy with bloodshot eyes were to suddenly start strangling them. This doesn’t help make friends, especially if the random person is a customer or your landlord.

So I speed into work on two tires, lay rubber on the parking lot getting into my space, and open the office only one minute late. I feel good about my accomplishment, even if the old lady with the, oddly flat, poodle that I scared half to death doesn’t share my sense of swelling pride. (Doesn’t she know that vehicles have the right of way on the sidewalk?) So I boot up the computer and….the Internet is down. Great! Grand! Wonderful! Everyone get on the bus!

Most would say, “But it’s just the internet, you don’t need to play checkers while you’re at work anyway.” What they would fail to understand is that my office is on a network that links me with the other offices via the Internet. Thus I am unable to clock in, check my reservations for the day, and generally get my junk together for the day. This is the cherry on the fruit salad.

We’ll see how the rest of the day goes. The Internet is finally back up so I can post this, but that doesn’t give me my shower back or that old lady’s poodle its life back. Right now I feel like Moe, and would use the word craphole to describe my day. On the upside, maybe my dreams were really premonitions and one of them will eventually come true during the course of the day. I’m betting on the zombies.

Quasi-Futuristic Jumpsuit Anyone?

2006-03-22T13:44:00.000-08:00

Has anyone ever seen Logan’s Run? Or Clockwork Orange? Or Gattaca? Or that episode of the Simpson’s where Homer stumbles into a world run by Flanders? Or any other science fiction movie that involves the government controlling the population? Well, it seems like these movies are cutting closer to home every day.

I heard on National Public Radio yesterday that there is a school in Massachusetts who is taking control of a very serious problem plaguing the student body and threatening to crumble society as we know it. The problem? Students wearing too much cologne. I shit you not.

The school wants to make the student body “fragrance free” in an attempt to lower the chances of asthma attacks that may be caused by heavy smells. Obviously, kids in Cape Cod high schools don’t sweat like they do in Tennessee high schools because I knew some guys that put on enough cologne to kill a yak and still smelled like four-day-old armpit. So, the question is when do the needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many? I’ll re-direct that question. When is it all right to restrict one group of people to better the lives of others? This question is kind of close to the surface for me because I smoke. I have had debates with many people over the subject of the government restricting the rights of smokers, and for some reason the anti-smokers see us as a health risk.

We’ve tried this before, if anyone remembers. We tried segregation because some simple-minded people decided that African Americans were different and so shouldn’t be integrated with white people. Segregation failed because it was wrong to separate people because of their color. Prohibition came along because some people thought that drinking was bad, so instead of letting people decide for themselves what they did with their own bodies they decided to cut off drinking entirely. The notion was that if you got rid of the cause (booze) then you could cure the people (Fred). But Prohibition fell on its face too. So now we think that we can cure second-hand smoke and discourage smokers by banning it in public places. Where’s my quasi-futuristic jumpsuit? I might as well start wearing it now.

The thing is, the government is starting to take the small things away from us because they bother other people. It has been argued to me that if my line of thinking was followed that next I would say it was okay to stab a guy in the street or diddle my biscuit (play with myself) in public. No, I am saying that after they take away the little things that bother other people (smoking, religion) then what is next. Those shirts with the clever sayings like “Professional Muff Diver” bother some people, so the next logical step is to ban shirts with words on them. But then the colors might be offensive to some, so a ban on colors comes into effect (see where I’m going yet?). Soon, (just like there was in school) there will be a dress code and everyone will be wearing non-offensive, conforming garments. So I’m gonna get ahead of the game and open my jumpsuit store now. Burning Stickman’s Quasi-Futuristic Jumpsuit Emporium! It just rolls off the tongue.

The kicker is...I’m gonna let the customers smoke while they shop.

Where's the Sasquatch Aisle at PetSmart?

2006-03-20T20:08:00.000-08:00

So I’m thinking of getting another pet.

Since my wife left I have felt this hollow feeling inside. It’s not really that she is gone, I have come to terms with that, but that she took my dog Al with her. Al and I used to have long conversations about life and God and whether chicken flavored rawhides are better than the beef ones. Okay, I had long talks and Al just sat there patiently until I gave him a bone to chew on. But you know...

So the question is, what kind of pet could I get to ease this burden? I can’t get another dog, Al is still my dog and I would feel like I was betraying him if I replaced him with another canine. I’ve always wanted a sloth, but I’m not sure how practical that is. Sure they are cool, and their fur grows this special bacteria, but playing fetch could get to be kind of boring. I throw the ball. He moves four inches and falls asleep. Wakes up, moves four inches and falls asleep. Wakes up, moves four inches and we both fall asleep. I take a two hour nap and he’s made the whopping headway of one foot. I wake up the next morning, he’s finally got the ball…you get the idea. And talk about taking him outside for a walk.

So a sloth is out. Do zombies count as pets? I mean, technically they aren’t people anymore but they can still do people things like walk and moan a lot. I could keep him in a cage and call him Rusty (cause of all the dried blood on him. Get it?). I could get him all riled up and we would play tag in the back yard, him moaning his flesh-wanting moan, and me giggling like a kid as he chases me. I would save a ton on pet food. All he would eat would be human flesh, and I couldn’t just go to the corner market and pick up a pound. But hell, what’s he gonna do if I don’t feed him? Die? The draw backs are pretty severe though. I mean if a dog bites you, you curse and put a band-aid on it. If Rusty bites you…well let’s just say it would be awkward sitting in my life insurance guy’s office trying to explain how it is that I am coming in person to collect. Could you collect your own life insurance if you were a zombie? I’ll have to look in on that.

What about something cute, furry, and exotic like an ocelot or a sasquatch? But then the food thing comes in again. I'm sure they eat a lot. (sasquatches not ocelots) I’m pretty stretched as it is for money, and I might not be able to afford the up-keep for a sasquatch. Plus, I would have reporters and scientists always hounding me for pictures and autopsies and I aint got that kind of time.

I would just talk to the voices in my head for company but one is British, one is from New York, and the other speaks Latin so when they start arguing with each other I can’t understand what they are saying.

Oh, well. Talis est vita.

Thwarting Death

2006-03-16T11:24:00.000-08:00

An attempt on my life was made yesterday. Someone, mistaking me for a reincarnation of Julius Caesar, tried to kill me on the Ides of March. Their weapon of choice...jelly beans.

That’s right, in twenty years I will have high blood sugar and the assassin’s plan will have come round to fruition. Luckily, the poor bastard in the picture ate most of the beans and left me with a note. I guess I should have helped him instead of stopping for this picture, but when life gives you lemons...

What Evil Plot is This That Unfurls Before Me?

2006-03-15T10:23:00.001-08:00

I believe that I have uncovered an evil genius’s plot for world domination. It is the only explanation that I can come up with for the events that have transpired so far today. I went outside to wash a car earlier, and the connector to the hose was cut off. The nozzle was laying on the ground…but the metal connector that screws the nozzle onto the hose was missing. I am baffled. Why not take the $12 nozzle? Why not take the $37 hose? Why just take a metal connector that you can buy a replacement for at Lowe’s for $1.67?

That particular connector must be the last component in an ice ray gun that will be used to subserviate the human race and make us unwilling thralls to this evil genius. Is it the metal composition of that particular connector? Was it cut off and stolen at 12:01 this morning to observe the Ides of March? Or am I an unwitting pawn in some master game that I do not comprehend? Maybe I just have too much time on my hands? I have been told that I need to post more blogs.......wait! No, wait for it! Wait for it! Wait for it.....

Are you pondering what I'm pondering. Probably not, most of you don't have access to a camel, eight feet of plastic ductwork, a gallon of yogurt, and an electric hedge trimmer. And if you do...well chances are you are the kind of person who would build an ice ray gun.

Is this all a ploy by my readers to get me to start writing more blogs? Which one of you took the connector? There’s only like four or five of you out there who read this thing, so I can narrow it down if I have to start visiting houses looking for ice ray guns! Fine you win. I’ll try to start posting more. Sheesh...strong arming so and so’s.

Squirrels Beware

2006-03-10T10:08:00.000-08:00

It is getting closer and closer to tee time!

This Saturday will be my first USTA tennis match of the season, but every time I get out and hit some yellow, fuzzy balls around a court I can’t help but think about when I will get to hit some small, white balls into the trees. I would say fairway…but that’s not how I tend to golf.

I broke out the clubs the other day and decided to take a couple of practice strokes with my irons. I took a couple of swings on my patio, but it didn’t feel right. The swings were coming off too straight. Something was wrong. So I went outside and took a couple of groundstrokes at pecans. The first two came off straight, and I was worried, but then the rest sliced right and into the trees. That’s more like it.

Tennis is good for exercise, but there is nothing like hitting a ball 150 yards into a stand of poplar and watching 45 obese squirrels scatter for cover. But the tennis exercise helps when you accidentally drive your ball into the group of mutated squirrels and have to haul ass back to the golf cart.

Squirrels beware…soon I’ll be hitting the links and invading your territory with my high slices and hooks. Nowhere is safe from my misguided missiles.

Stickman Paints the Town

2006-03-07T10:37:00.000-08:00

Apparently Burning Stickman is joining a power trio, and launching his music career on the tiled floor of a Clarksville bar. It was an interesting weekend to say the least.

I look back and see that I imbibed alcohol on all three days of the weekend, which is an unusual feat for me since I only drink rarely. But, John was back in town for the weekend and I finally had someone to hit the bars with. And we started off on the right foot.

Friday
After picking up John at the airport we headed back toward Clarksville to find a bar that we could sit back, relax, and have a couple of beers in. Finding a bar meant getting lost, apparently, and after fifteen minutes in the “downtown” district of the metropolis called Clarksville we finally spotted a neon sign that told us we had struck gold. The place was packed…upstairs. We remained downstairs because paying ten bucks to get into a hip-hop club was not on my list of things to do. We met Nicole, a nice bartender who eventually felt me up. Okay…so she just caressed me. Okay…fine! She touched my arm and asked if she was cold. Shit! Can’t even let a man have his fantasies!

But at least I was out and attempting to meet some people. I’m sure it would have gone swimmingly if there had been more than four people in the bar besides John and me. Gotta keep the hope alive somehow. We did make the acquaintance of Fred. (It might have been Fred. I’m not sure if that was his name. He was to drunk to tell us, and we were not desperate enough to ask. But he sounded like a Fred) Here’s the conversation with Fred.

Fred: “Ya see that checkerboard over there?”
Me: “The 8X6 square of tile floor by the door?”
Fred: “That’s where dreams come true.”
John and I look at each other.
John: “So the winning Powerball numbers are written on it somewhere?”
Fred: “All we need is trio.”
Me: ”Like celery, carrots, and onions?”
Fred: “No man. Like…you got a deep voice right?” (points at John)
John: “I can.”
Fred: “And you’re a soprano, right?” (points at me)
Me: “Alto, actually.” (This was getting weird. Had Fred been staking us out?)
Fred: “And I’m mid-range. (points at himself and nearly takes out an eye) See what I mean?”
John: “No.”
Me: “No.”
Fred: “Listen, listen, listen. (John and I listen) Ya hear that? That’s opportunity.”
John: “Opportunity sounds a lot like that guy puking in the corner.”
Fred: “You’re not hearing me. We can play instruments. Like tambourine.”
Me: “Or the triangle?”
John: “I can play the trapezoid. That’s the bass triangle.”
Fred: “You guys aren’t listening to me. (Stops to gather thoughts. There is a rubber-burning smell) It’s just a piece of plastic. Get rich off the plastic. That’s all I’m saying.”
John: “Actually the trapezoid is metal…like the triangle.”
Fred: You know how much money we could make in here with a trio?”
John (surveying the other three patrons of the bar): “Fifteen bucks, maybe.”
Fred: “What?”
John: “But that’s if we pay to hear ourselves.”
Fred (looking dejected): “Could one of you buy me a drink?”

The conversation lasted a little longer, due to the fact that neither John nor I would buy Fred a drink, and involved the fact that Fred played pool from Hell. He also had eyes from Hell and could see clearly.(whatever the fuck that means) He wanted John to back him in a game. (Who he was going to play is still a mystery)

Fred: “I’ve played so many games of pool, it’s pathetic.”
John: “I’ve played just enough games of pool to know that I’m pathetic.”

After Fred left we had a couple more beers and headed out the door. Nicole saw us out the door and gave us directions to the nearest main road. I gave her my card. She probably tossed it with the trash. (People on fire never have luck with the ladies) We made it back to Paris alive and I was asleep when my head hit the pillow. Actually I was asleep about three miles from my house, but I didn't tell John that.

Saturday
I had a funeral to attend in the afternoon, and then John and I went to look at motorcycles. Twenty minutes later and my hands were sweating and my heart was pounding. (stupid minor heart attacks) Just sitting on one made a lot of my mental quandaries disappear. Looking at motorcycles is very therapeutic, and riding one is like a snake shedding skin. No matter what you feel like, no matter how much shit is piled up around you, a ride on a cycle seems to strip it all away and leave you clean at the end. If I didn’t owe Uncle Sam tax money and wasn’t looking at shelling out money for a divorce in the future then I would have picked one up this weekend. (money sucks when you owe it to someone else)

After we got our therapeutic thrill for the day we ate lunch and sat at the house smoking cigars and discussing what’s been happening over the last few months. When night fell, we decided to hit R.J.’s and shoot some pool. John thoroughly kicked my ass, and I reminded him that he had fibbed to poor Fred about being pathetic. After pool we sat at one of the tables and discussed politics, mythology, and (after twelve or so beers) women. Catching up (and venting frustrations) is always more enjoyable when you have some alcohol in you.

Sunday
This was the uneventful day. I took John to the airport, and waved goodbye. When I got back to Paris I hit the courts for a little tennis. We played until it began to rain (for only ten minutes but enough to ruin the game), and then I stood at the park with Gerald and Danny drinking wine and talking about boats. Pretty relaxing.

All in all I had a good weekend. I painted the town and relaxed both, mixing each in the right measures to ensure a fun and easy-going visit with John. The only thing that keeps bothering me is Fred. I wonder if he ever recruited another two guys to start that band. If I see Fred’s Triangle Trio racing up the charts one day I’m gonna kick my own ass, that’s for sure.

Flirting with Death...or Vise Virsa

2006-03-02T15:01:00.000-08:00

So…I spent twenty minutes today waiting for Death. Let me tell you why.

I am in the car rental biz. We do a service of picking up and dropping off customers at body shops. Today I had to pick up a woman at one of the body shops and take her back to our office to sign the paperwork. Little did I know that I was about to stare Death in the face.

When I arrived I was surprised to find that the lady was not in the waiting area of the body shop, but sitting in her car with her friend. I also noticed that she was old. She had seen 81 years pass her by, and now she was the typical grandmother type. She was short, walked slow, talked slow, and could not hear anything I asked her. None of this really phased me. I like older people, and don’t mind any of the qualities that I just mentioned. But…she had the one quality that I despise in the older folks. She was an “old driver.”

Normally, I would not even have to witness her driving habits because I am supposed to drive the customers back to the office to sign paperwork. When I told her this I could see a vision of me whipping around corners at 90 miles per hour pass across her eyes. She was having none of that. I tried to explain about liability and insurance not covering her until she signed paperwork, but she refused to let me drive. So I resigned and let her slide gingerly behind the wheel. Did I mention that I’m an idiot?

After only ten minutes of me explaining (from the back seat) that the gearshift was not on the steering column (and that the lever she was pulling was why the windshield wipers kept spraying) and showing her (with help from her equally old friend) how to work the automatic gearshift in the middle consol, we were on our way. Soon we were pulling into traffic, and I was realizing that it was possible for both my stomach to drop and for my testicles to crawl up at the same time so that they met in the middle of my abdomen to console each other.

Staring Death in the eye on normal occasions it not as scary as it may sound. This is because you typically only stare at Death for a brief moment before it either passes you by or you start playing the harp with the angels. Try sharing a back seat with Death for a twenty-minute ride. It took me only seven minutes to get from the office to the body shop, but at an average speed of a brisk 30 mph (15 under the speed limit) and the many occasions when she would slow down to 20 for those pesky curves it took us a little longer to get back. It also did not help that every time she drifted over into the oncoming lane (often) I felt Death put its hand on my leg. Cheeky bastard.

At least now I can say that I know what it feels like to have every muscle in my body tighten at the same instant. This occurred when she turned off the main road into our parking lot…..right in front of an oncoming semi. I believe that if my penis had not been trying to escape out of my asshole then I would have pissed myself.

Needless to say, I made it. I gave Death the finger as I climbed out of the back seat of the car and breathed the sweet air of (what’s that word for not dying? Oh, yeah!) life. It’s good to know that there are faithful old people out there willing to keep the stereotypes alive by driving like she did. God bless her for giving us someone to ridicule and fear at the same time.

Philosophy

2006-03-02T10:44:00.000-08:00

The great and venerable sage Homer Simpson once said..."If there's one thing I've learned, it's that life is one crushing defeat after another until you just wish Flanders was dead."

My friend Rob York once said..."Life is just one kick to the balls after another."

Directions....and so Much More.

2006-03-01T14:09:00.000-08:00

I hear a rumble approaching from the East. It sounds like the Furies coming to signal the beginning of Gotterdammerung! This vibration will surely release the wolf Fenrir upon the world to devour humans and plunge us all into darkness. Is it the beginning of the end?

Then there is a backfire and the rumbling levels off to a quieter, less intrusive, background noise. “That’s ol’ Earnest,” my dad informs me. “He’s been meanin’ to get that tailpipe fixed for a month of Sundays now.”

Over the course of my sojourn here in the Southern part of the United States, I have come to understand certain infallible eccentricities that exist in Southern culture that I find lacking in other parts of the nation. One of these oddities is the way most people in small Southern communities associate and identify each other. The most common way that I have found that people around here in Paris, TN identify each is by drawing a parallel from the person to the type of vehicle that they drive. This might astound, or even confuse some of the readers, so allow me to paint a scenario for you so that you might better understand.

I am sitting with my father in the middle of Henry Tennessee (a community outside of Paris) and we are discussing general subjects like what he is going to plant in his garden this year and guesstimating how much black tar it will take to patch his roof. He begins to explain the plights of one of the town members. Here is the conversation.

Dad: “Bobby Farmer is gonna have to go into the hospital soon for some tests. Sounds like it might be his liver.”
Me: “That’s never good.”
Dad: “You remember Bobby Farmer?”
Me: “The name rings a bell, but….” (this is one of my courtesy responses when he asks me about people I don’t know)
Dad: “Yeah, you know him. He drives that Dodge. The white one.”
Me: “Oh, okay. Yeah.” (I, in fact, have no idea who he is talking about, but I have been through this routine before and know my way around these conversational quagmires)
Dad (reassuringly): “Yeah, you know him. His dad’s Mr. Farmer. He always drove around that old green ’46 Ford pickup.”
Me: “Mr. Farmer or Bobby Farmer?”
Dad: “Mr. Farmer.”
Me: “Yeah, faded green with the dented fender?”
Dad: “That was him. His son’s having tests for his liver.”
Me: “Okay.”

I winged the bit about the dented fender. I have found that if you name enough ailments (like a dented fender, or a busted bumper, or a missing mirror), along with a vague color of paint, that you can usually cut a potentially long description down considerably. This is important to remember, because most Southerners in small communities can describe a neighbor’s vehicle down to the smallest cosmetic details. I once spent twenty minutes trying to convince my father that I didn’t know someone based on the fact that they had a red Chevy pickup truck with bumper stickers all over it and no tailgate. My dad just could not accept the fact that I did not have the eye that it took to pick out a person based on what vehicle they currently were traveling in. (I did know the person, but dad failed to mention the guy’s name and the fact that he graduated high school a year ahead of me. This would have helped since I had not seen the guy in five years or so)

My friend John, originally being from the North, was one of the first people to bring this phenomenon to my attention. My father, being the fountain of local knowledge that he is, was trying to get John a job. He proceeded to tell John who to talk to, Mr. Winsett, about getting a job. When John (who had just moved to the thriving metropolis that is Paris, TN) reminded my father that he didn’t know anyone in town, dad went on to explain the make, model, and color of Mr. Winsett’s truck as if this description would suddenly allow John to instantly recognized, and know the life history of, a person he had never met before. This is just the way of Southern folks.

After going to college and associating people that were brought up in a conversation with what their majors were or where they worked, it was an odd transition returning to the type of community that recognizes people by what they drive. But…patterns are easy to follow, and I found myself just the other day describing a person by what kind car they were driving. When in Rome…

So if you are out of town and visiting in the South, make sure you are prepared when asking directions for a history lesson of every landmark, and a general description of a least five to seven vehicles. It’s just the way it is done down here.

The Haze

2006-02-21T10:47:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had the experience of momentarily finding yourself lost in a surreal world that seems to float by? Where you’re eyes go kind of fuzzy around the edges and time skips ahead with disregard for what you might have had planned, leaving you wondering why you didn’t get all of your stuff done. The majority of the people who are subjected to this phenomenon only experience it for a matter of minutes. Some people call it daydreaming. Jimi Hendrix got closer with “Purple Haze.” I see it as more azure than purple.

Like I said most people spend mere minutes in this state, leading to the misconception of daydreaming, and others might spend as much as a couple of hours suspended in this haze. I spent all weekend this way.

Now, don’t be mistaken. This is not a drug or alcohol induced frame of mind. This Azure Haze is natural and unexplainable. But I will try, for the sake of my faithful readers (John and Dave) who are all wondering “Can Burning Stickman save us from this dilemma?”

I’m not making any promises.

After spending two days in this Haze I came to somewhat understand how the brain induces this state, and what keeps our minds from snapping back to reality. First: you need an odd, surreal moment in order to initially induce the Haze. For me it came Saturday morning. I did not have to work so I was sleeping in. At around ten o’ clock my phone rang. It was my wife with whom I am currently going through a divorce. Here is the conversation.

Wife: “How much did you get?”
Me: (sleepily) “Get what?”
Wife: “I’m sorry for waking you. I didn’t know you had the day off.”
Me: “Well, I need to get up and get a haircut anyway.”
Wife: Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
Me: “What?”
Wife: “Bye.”

This was the surreal conversation that woke me up on Saturday morning. My bearings were completely shot, I had no idea what was going on. I got up to make sure that nothing important was happening, like zombies walking the streets or the French invading....and what I got when I opened the curtains was a covering of snow over everything. This was another weird occurrence because two days before I had played tennis in sixty degree weather. Nothing went right from there on.

The hot shower failed to dissipate the fog that had gathered in my head like spider webs, and even a breakfast of a Western Omelet at Huddle House did nothing to unscramble my senses. I soon learned that both of the barber shops that I frequent were closed and the only choices that were left to me were beauty salons. I took the option of waiting until later to get my hair cut. So I decided to get the oil changed in my truck, which was a task I had been putting off for close to six months (I know…shame, shame). I went to Wal-Mart (insert joke of choice here) and was relieved that I was the only one in line for an oil change. I would be in and out quickly. Wrong. I walked around Wal-Mart for over an hour (which is a slow torture in itself), saw thirty-seven people I knew (on the one day when I thought everyone would stay indoors), and didn’t buy a damn thing (the one saving grace of the trip). Finally I left, and saw two wrecks on my two-mile trip home. What the hell was going on with the world? Was it just me that the Haze had chosen to cling to, or was everyone feeling a little of it too?

The rest of the day I spent sitting in my house, doing odd nothings and watching television.

Sunday: I must have completely zoned out, because I don’t remember a damn thing about it. The only thing that I remember is that I came to the conclusion that gas station cheeseburgers are the best “fast food” burgers you can get. Maybe it’s the maturing period that they go through that makes them so damn tasty. Like a fine wine. They sit under the heat lamps…one, two, maybe three hours until the bread, cheese and meat seem to meld into one being and the goodness is evenly distributed throughout the entire burger. And the wrapper. Getting to pick the melted cheese off the inside of the aluminum foil is like a whole other treat in itself.

Okay, back on track. The point is…. on Monday I realized when the alarm woke me up and I was at once clear headed and refreshed, that the Haze is a natural cleansing process. Just like we need sleep to function, every human needs to experience the Haze now and then to sort of wash out their mind. Being in the Haze is like being on autopilot. Some only need a couple of minutes of “daydreaming” to help realign their arrows in the right direction. I guess I needed a whole weekend. Makes sense when I look back at it. Things have been building up around me for a while now, and my brain just needed to take a smoke break and shove off for a while.

So if you find yourself in the Haze, don’t panic. Relax and try not to hurt yourself while your mind is taking a breather. Watch “Dude, Where’s My Car” or some other movie that doesn’t require you to think, and enjoy the hiatus.

A Plea for Sanity

2006-02-20T08:01:00.000-08:00

It’s a fucking cartoon!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Let me just say this….if every religion reacted with this sort of violence when one of their deities was satirized in a cartoon, then the world would have gone to shit a long time ago.

Now, I am NOT saying anything bad about the Islamic faith because I would not begrudge anyone the right or privilege to worship how he or she wants. But that doesn’t mean that I approve of the methods taken by certain people of that faith to harm other individuals.

If you are not sure what I am talking about, then let me enlighten you. I am angered over the bombings and violet riots that have been ensuing lately over a cartoon that was published last year. A cartoon appeared in a Dutch paper in September that showed Muhammad, the Prophet of Allah in the Islamic faith, in an unflattering light. Thus many Muslims are upset and, apparently, showing their discontent with the killing of others. I guess this just seems natural. Get mad at one guy and kill a bunch of innocent people. Sure, that’s the right move.

Once again, I don’t have a problem with Islamic faith in general, or even Muslims in general…what I have a problem with is those certain few who decide that the right thing to do to get their point across is to resort to violence. That’s just cowardice in my book. You don’t believe in my faith so shoot you. That’s just wrong.

And it’s not just Muslims. Christians are guilty of this too. Does anyone remember reading about the Crusades in school? That was Christians using force to try and push their religion on others.

The point is…it’s a fucking cartoon!!!!!!!

Please, get a grip. Tell the artist he is a bastard, throw a pile of shit at his door to show your disdain, and get the fuck on with your life. A riot is not the answer. The guy has just as much right to say what he wants about Muhammad as he does to say what he wants about Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, and Shiva. It’s his purgative as a self-thinking human being to believe what he wants just like you do.

Please do not condone the violence that had been ensuing or condone more in the future. The world needs a little more understanding rather than blind hatred. I must admit that I haven’t fully read up on the faith of Islam, but I did read that in the Islam religion, much like Christianity, it is a sin to take another’s life or your own. Thus is it wrong to generalize and say that the suicide bombers, or violent protestors of this cartoon, are the majority of Muslims. I don’t believe that. Misconceptions like these are what keeps the people of different religions separated from each other.

Let’s stop and think a moment before we act. This would save a lot of lost lives along the way.

Cupid's a Douche: Burning Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T09:33:00.000-08:00

So Valentine’s Day is once again upon us, and there are millions of single people crying into their pillows or drinking in hopes that the mule sitting next to them will turn into someone attractive. There is even a secret club of single people throughout the nation who are banning together to get Valentine’s Day’s name changed to Annual Cupid is a Douche Bag Day. But…as a testament to the greatness of our nation, we have even found a way to include single people in on Valentine’s Day by exploiting them for profit just like they do the couples. Yes, corporate American doesn’t play favorites when it comes to taking people’s money. There has sprung up a whole market for the Valentine haters including shirts, candies, cards, and gift baskets. To hark on one of my favorite sites, you can get some Bittersweets from Despair.com, which will have you laughing and the other person weeping.

Yet, out of all of the single people on Valentine’s Day there are a few of us that see its significance, and appreciate its role in our society. It’s all about perspective. All about how you look at things. So I’m gonna give you a man’s perspective of Valentine’s Day, and what you can do to survive.

For single men, Valentine’s Day is not for you sit around and mope about how you don’t have someone to share it with…it’s about going out and finding someone of the opposite sex that is moping and use your chance to play the romantic card. Look at it this way, there has to be lots of single women out there who are just pissed and dateless on Valentine’s Day, and there has to be someone there to fill that void. Why not you? It’s the day when women expect romance, so why not give it to them and sweep someone off their feet?

You see, it’s not about what you don’t have (i.e. a significant other) but about what she doesn’t have that you can give to her. So be a proactive single and make someone’s day by making your own day. (If I haven’t beat around the bush enough for you to get the point, I’m saying go find a lonely woman and hook up with her so that neither of you is lonely anymore)

And for you men who are in relationships, don’t think of today as the ‘day when you have to go out and get something for her so she won’t be mad at you for two weeks.’ Think of today as a ‘get out of jail free’ card for the rest of the year. You see, once again it’s all about perspective.

You can be the typical guy and rush out to get flowers at the last minute, or you can be the guy who gets out of jail free for the rest of the year. Here’s how it goes. If you do something extra special and super romantic on Valentine’s Day, then any other time during the year that she looks at you and says “You never do anything nice for me” you can say “Hey, remember Valentine’s Day?” This is a lockdown on the argument if you have played your cards right. She either remembers and can’t say anything in return, or she can’t remember and you play like your feelings are hurt. Either way you come out of the argument a winner.

By some loophole in the romantic system this works all year. Since Valentine’s Day is the most special and romantic day of the year, if it is done correctly then the effects last longer and have more meaning. But…I’m not saying to overplay the card. If you try and use the card in every situation then you test its bounds and eventually the act doesn’t mean as much. Thus you are left without an excuse for why you got her a dust-mop for her birthday. You schmuck.

There are some guidelines to creating this day though. You can’t just expect to pull off some grand gesture without planning, did you? There needs to be at least a week of planning. Stop groaning you pussies. But this was supposed to be easy you might say. I never said that. Plus, isn’t a week planning one day worth the ability to buy gifts the rest of the year that you don’t have to put effort into? Back to planning…a week is what you’ll need at minimum. This gives you time to prod and spy for what she really wants. But you can’t just give her a gift. You have to wrap it in an event. Maybe you make dinner. Maybe a carriage ride for your princess. Maybe two roses delivered to her office every hour until she has a dozen. You decide, but the gesture has to be part of the effect so that the gift takes on more meaning. But…and this is very important…don’t do anything that you can’t possibly match or surpass the next year. Don’t buy her a car if you can’t afford to go to Paris France the next year. Get me?

So guys, if you play this right you have the ability to be insensitive the rest of the year because society has built up Valentine’s Day to be the one day when you are supposed to be the most sensitive. If you accomplish your mission today, then congratulations. If you failed today…then you might as well hand her your testicles now so she can keep them safe the rest of the year. You won’t be needing them.

So have a great Valentine’s Day (one way or the other you single men), and watch out for burning arrows today. I’ll be out and about with my bow.

Movies v.s. Real Life

2006-02-13T08:35:00.000-08:00

There are a good many things that seem like good ideas when you see them in movies that are not so hot when you try them in real life. We watch the movies and pulling the hand brake when going around a tight corner looks like it is fun and exciting on the screen, but only results in buying new tires to replace the one that now have flat spots on them. In the movies surfing on top of a van (whether you are a werewolf or not) looks like it is fun, but in real life explaining to the police why you are hanging from the telephone line, that close lined you, over the middle of the street is not high on the to-do list.

This weekend we finally got some snow here in West Tennessee, although any Northerner would likely tell you that all we got was a dusting. If it’s not six inches, it’s not snow to them. Thus, lacking someone to talk to, on Saturday I took up my post in front of the idiot-box (television) and settled down with a six-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. This had some curious effects on me. At about six o’ clock I found myself getting a little antsy for some kind of activity, and around that particular time two things happened. One, I ran out of beer. Two, I saw something on television that looked like it might be fun to try.

As I went around the house gathering what I needed (wallet, keys, a pair of pants that weren’t flannel and didn’t have polar bears on them) I thought to myself “Why haven’t I done this before?” I then answered myself Because it’s a stupid idea. “Then why am I trying it now?” Don’t ask me, I’m not the one who is bored. “If I’m bored then you are bored!” Nope. I got all kinds of places I can go in here that don’t involve freezing. “Asshole!” Idiot!

I let him win that one, but decided that later I would show him who was boss by pickling him with Jack Daniels. Show him what’s what. Anyway, I grabbed the last thing I needed and headed out the door. I tossed my bag in the back of the truck and pointed it in the direction of Future’s Golf Club. I had decided to play a couple of holes.

Now….it is February…and snowing. Thus the golf club is not currently open for business. This should have been the first indicator that what I was doing was not high on the list of intelligent things to be doing in the snow. But the four guys in the movie that I watched looked like they were having a good time, so how bad could it really be? I parked my truck and took the scenic route through the woods to the course, being that the owner lives in a house at the entrance of the club and would have seen me if I had brazenly gone the easy way. This should have been the second indicator. After fighting my way through a herd of mutated squirrels, who probably thought that I was trying to steal either their walnuts or Titleists, I emerged on the back nine.

I’m not going to go into detail, but after teeing off and realizing that there was no way I was going to find my ball I decided just to hit towards landmarks. After three more lost balls I realized two things. One, my hands were turning blue, which accounted for accidentally letting go of my club on the last swing. And two, there was a golf cart racing toward me three fairways over. I’d been made…time to beat a hasty retreat.

Another trek through the woods brought me out a little ways from my truck, and since there were not cops surrounding it I figured it was safe to get the hell out of there. I made it back home without incident and decided to take a nap instead of turning on the t.v. again. It had given me enough ideas for one day.

Later, I apologized to myself and admitted that I was, in fact, an idiot. My self accepted and I promised not pickle him in Jack Daniels. He insisted that that was okay, so I went to the bar and commenced the job in the company of a bunch of strangers. I was asked to play darts with real metal tips, and since I had seen plenty of drunk people playing darts in the movies (usually resulting in a dart getting thrown into someone’s ass for laughs) I decided to join. How bad could it be? They looked like they were having fun in the movie…

A dart in the ass later and I realized that not everything that we see in the movies is as fun and exciting when we perform them in real life. Someone giving an emergency tracheotomy in the movies always looks cool and heroic when they are done, but that doesn’t mean I want run around and look for someone choking so I can stick a pen in their throat. Jumping into a cab and saying “Follow that car!” usually just results in a big fare (especially if you just pick a car at random and they happen to live on Staten Island). So learn to make a distinction between the movies and real life. Things are never the same in both of them, and when you find out the hard way it usually just results in frozen fingers and a hole in the ass.

The Steak Shakes

2006-01-31T13:31:00.000-08:00

“You boys like steak?”
This was the question that came out of the mouth of a true Southern fellow that I had the pleasure of meeting yesterday. Out of context it seems like an odd question…hell, even in context it is an odd question. Let me paint some back-story for you.

I’m standing in the office that I work at, catching a breather from a busier morning than expected. The other guy that I work with is sitting at the computer entering some data, and all seems to be right with the world at the moment. Just then, the door to the hallway that connects our office to one next-door opens. A gentleman with a Tennessee Vols t-shirt, dark blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a hat proclaiming how he is Southern by the grace of God enters. He looks a little lost. Is he looking for the computer guys next door? Is he here to see us? He notices our open door and enters. I turn to him in an expectable way so that he knows I am ready to help him. Instead he looks at me and my co-worker, smiles in a big knowing way, and asks us “You boys like steak?”

This is a question that I did not expect. “Do you guys rent cars?” is a question that I suppose I should expect at a rental car place. “Where’s the computer guys?” would have been acceptable. “Which one of you kilt my pa?” is even in the realm of possibility. But asking us if we, two red-blooded American carnivores, like steak is unfathomable. My mind reeled. I felt like reaching out and slapping him. “Uh……….yeah.” I replied. Here’s the conversation that ensued.

Steak Man: “Ya’ll wanna buy some steak?”
Me: “No, thank you. I’m good.”
Steak Man: “Ya sure? It’s black angus.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m all set. Thanks.

Now normally I wouldn’t turn down steak. But, this guy is selling them door-to-door out of the back of a pick-up truck. This is not meat that I trust. I don’t want to purchase a $2.50 steak from a guy I’ll never see again and find out the hard way that it’s laced with crack or arsenic. So the guy leaves a little dejected…and sits in his truck in the parking lot.

Now I’m not against steak. I love steak. There is no other animal that I would rather eat than cow. When I pass a cow I don’t see a friendly bovine…I see an animal that wants to die. They look at you with those big eyes, and those eyes say, “Kill me, please. I don’t wanna live. I’m tired of chewing this grass. You know I’m gonna be tasty.” And this is the problem. Fifteen minutes pass by and I find myself wishing I had a steak. Steak is all I can think about. The guy is still in the parking lot, sending out his steaky vibes, and I am in the office sweating like Robert Downy Jr. in rehab thinking about a juicy Porterhouse cooked medium. My stomach is begging me to run out into the parking lot and buy every piece of cow the guy’s got and cook it with my Zippo.

I got it bad. The steak shakes. The overwhelming need to consume some beef that has been cooked over an open flame. The only thing that saves me is the guy gets tired of waiting for me to come out and pulls out of the parking lot. I am opening the door and walking after him before I know what I am doing. He doesn’t stop, and in hindsight I am glad. I realize that I have a problem. I need help.

So after work I am sitting in front of a NY Strip (cooked medium) and everything again seems right with the word. It’s amazing what kind of healing properties that a hot…juicy…flavorful……..

Gotta go. Hungry now.

Patent Pending

2006-01-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

What do a backscratcher, a sock, a rubber glove, and some scotch tape have in common? No, you sick bastard! That stunt hasn’t been tried since the late ‘70s, and it was a complete failure then. Two men, a woman, and a goat were hospitalized and a priest was called to sanctify the place after. What are you thinking? What I am talking about is my new invention. The phrase “Necessity is the mother of all invention” is one of the truest out there. Right up there with Murphy’s Law and anything Homer Simpson says. I found myself in a pickle recently, and I had to think fast and act accordingly.

When I got my new tattoo on the middle of my back (where I can’t reach without some latent mutant ability suddenly springing to light) I didn’t take into account the fact that I am going through a divorce and that there is no one in the house with me. So who’s gonna assist me in putting the tattoo lotion on my new artwork? This is where the gears started working and a new invention was born.

On the non-scratching end of the backscratcher I placed a sock (for comfort), over which I stretched a rubber glove (for sanitary purposes), and taped it all down at the end for waterproofing and stability. Thus I have the new Hard to Reach Back Area Lotion Application Wand (patent pending). Now with just the help of two mirrors, my skills gained as a contortionist (from the one time I saw that one guy on that one movie), and my new HRBALAW I am able to quickly (HA!) and easily (HA! HA!) apply the lotion to the necessary area of my tattoo.

“Why not ask one of your friends to do it?” you might ask. One: Guys have a reflex that renders us unable to ask another guy to apply anything to our bodies that involves touching. Unless the other guy is a doctor, brother, or very close friend that you have survived a life threatening encounter with we just can’t bring ourselves to ask. Two: Okay number one is really the only reason. “What about a friend who’s a woman?” you might then ask. I’m a man who was recently married. We don’t have friends that are women. We have general acquaintances with women at work or with our friend’s wives and girlfriends, and you just can’t ask a friend’s significant other to rub lotion on you. That’s a whole set of other problems just waiting to surface. And I am definitely opposed to asking complete strangers to rub me up with some lotion. Try asking a woman that you’ve just met to rub lotion on you. She will either walk/run away with a disgusted look on her face, promptly find the nearest law enforcement official and point you out as a pervert, or she will say yes. The ones who say yes are the ones that you have to watch out for.

So all in all, my new invention is a necessity that is unavoidable. Which is fine. We all live with out choices. I have the mirrors set up at the proper angles and the lines drawn on the floor, wall, and counter top of my bathroom where my hands and feet need to go. I’m all set. Good luck to all you future inventors out there, and never try what I am about to attempt without the supervision of an expert (Crazy Larry the Homeless Guy).

Epiphanies and Ink

2006-01-24T20:45:00.000-08:00

Tonight I had an epiphany. No, not that pink cocktail drink down at the bar, a moment of inspirational evaluation and self growth. While I sat in a chair with a woman poking me with a needle repeatedly and injecting ink into my skin I had some time to do some thinking. Really there is nothing else to do while enduring the pain of a lasting mark except think about life and what exactly brought you to the point that you are at. I realized that getting a tattoo can be equated to what is endured as we go through life.

Both getting a tattoo and living life involve the process of enduring long periods of uncomfortable time followed by brief respites that seem way too short before the annoyances once again begin. Both leave you feeling raw…yet changed and somehow different. Tattoos leave the changes on the outside, where as life experiences change you from the inside. Many people think that you get used to it (both life and the hyper fast needle pounding ink into flesh) and soon get numb after a while, but that is untrue. Getting used to it takes away from the experience, and anything that is lasting (like a new tattoo or an emotion) involves enduring the bad to get to the good.

Sometimes you think you’ve had enough and you feel like you just want to give up, but then you clench your teeth, dip into your reserves of strength and make it through the next wave. And somewhere in the middle, of either that new phoenix tattoo or getting a divorce, you realize what your character is made of and that in the end something good will come from it.

Mistakes are also made in both endeavors. Getting “I Love the Cocks” tattooed on your butt just because you like the University of South Carolina is a bad mistake. Getting drunk and thrown in jail is a bad mistake in itself…but then you realize the tattoo mistake in all its glory when you have to take a shower with Big Ted. Yet, those mistakes help you learn. You learn not to get the Detroit Institute of Cutlery and Knives call letters (D.I.C.K.) tattooed on you. It’s not a smart investment in the long run.

There are a lot of people who scoff at tattoos and say that getting one is a stupid move in itself, but I have to disagree. Tattoos can be like scars. They can tell a story or serve as reminders of life lessons if they are chosen wisely and for sound reasons. They can also be garish and over the top if they are gotten for the wrong reasons (like that drunken night in Cabo). Such is Life as well. Life can be painful and seem pointless at times, but if something is learned then the pain seems worthwhile in the end.

So what did I learn tonight, besides seeing how white my knuckles will turn if I squeeze hard enough? I came to understand that in life we don’t always see what is coming, or like where it leads. Life has a nasty curveball when you are expecting a nice breaking ball to come your way. But to better yourself from those strikeouts is the only way to get through the game without throwing in the towel. (How did I get on baseball?) Tattoos are much the same way (No…don’t get a tattoo of a baseball). Getting a tattoo, for all the pain that is endured and blood that is shed, is worth it in the end if you choose wisely and have good reasons behind it.

I See Dead People...Person...Guy

2006-01-19T20:43:00.000-08:00

Okay, I just visited a site that I hope becomes a big deal. Dead Body Guy is a true inspiration in the world of people that think too much about celebrities and model themselves according to others. This guy is a silent genius. I think he should be given a shot.

I’ve seen a lot of movies (and when I say a lot, I’m not just fucking with ya), and all the corpses are so bland. No personality. Just because a guy is supposed to be dead on screen doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to have charisma. This guy…he has charisma.

I urge everyone to visit his site and check out the pics. They are hilarious.

Thanks Dead Body Guy, for giving us a little bit of sanity, in a spooky, somewhat twisted way. You made my day.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

2006-01-16T11:26:00.000-08:00

I’ve noticed an ever growing trend over the past few years. Despite all of our technological and medical advances that make the human race look as if we are getting smarter, we as a people are actually growing more and more dull witted everyday. I say this with the knowledge that I myself am not the smartest person in the world, and that I can’t cure a disease or invent a new laundry soap, but I do have common sense which is more than I can say for a lot of people.

Working for a number of thankless, uncongratulatory jobs where I deal with the public on a day to day basis have shown me that people like to remain blissfully unaware of their surroundings so that they can get the percentage of brain activity down from 10% to somewhere in the 3-4% range. Just enough to breath, sweat, and walk without physically hurting themselves (which some still can’t accomplish). I break these people down into two classes and examples will be provided.

Class #1: Stupid Question People
Bill Engvall must be a good observer of human nature, because his “Here’s Your Sign” routine is essentially what I am talking about here. Except, I have seen this stupidity taken to whole other levels entirely. Mr. Engvall’s comedy bases itself around people asking stupid questions without thinking about it. A ‘in the heat of the moment’ kind of thing. Yet, the people that I have had to deal with don’t have the luxury of making this claim.

Example: I used to work at a pizza joint*. I am now convinced that restaurants and fast food chains are the nexus of stupid questions around which all other stupid questions seem to revolve and branch out. I could fill several pages with the incidents that occurred while I was working for the pizza store, but one stands out above the rest which exemplifies my point of how people just don’t use their brain.

A man comes into the store, walks up to the counter and uses the time that it takes me to get to the side opposite him to look around the store. “May I help you sir?” I ask. The response I got was, “Do you have pizza here?” He looks at me, when he asks this, with a deadly serious face. Time freezes as I carefully consider my responses to this question. A simple ‘yes’ would been giving in and making me a part of the cycle of stupidity that had just begun to circulate, and I couldn’t live with myself if I humored him and let him continue to be stupid. So my response was, “No sir, we have this new Italian dish that is made with dough, tomato sauce, and cheese. We shape the dough into circles and put the sauce and cheese on top. Sometimes we get crazy and put pork products and vegetables on it.”

So maybe I didn’t have to be that condescending about it. Maybe he was just asking a question, you might say. Well, let’s consider the facts of the moment shall we. One: he had to see our road sign to know where we were, thus he was aware of where he was going and not just aimlessly wandering the streets in search of food. Two: he stood at the counter and asked me the question. Behind me is a large menu with pictures of pizza on it, prices of pizza on it, toppings of pizza on it, and the word pizza displayed several times in several different locations on it. My hat and polo shirt both had the word pizza emblazoned on it. There were people behind me making pizzas and people pulling fully cooked pizzas out of the oven. At some point the spark of thought should have ignited in his head that this was a pizza place and we, in fact, sold pizzas. If he had asked about hot wings, or breadsticks, or even crack-cocaine I would have been apt to forgive him and answer his question because the huge sign in front of our store did not say ‘Crack-Cocaine Delivery’ on it. That could be an honest mistake. But his question was born of a lazy society where we want people to give us the answers instead of rationalizing for ourselves. Stupid bastard.

Class #2: People Oblivious to Everything Around Them
These are the fucks who cut you off in rush hour traffic because they suddenly got a craving for McDonalds and had to make the turn across three lanes of traffic right then and there…without a blinker. These are the people who you see everyday looking like they are shitting out a pelican-sized turd because they are concentrating so hard on something vastly difficult like a 15% gratuity at Applebee’s. These are the people who were surprised when President Bush revealed that he had been conducting unauthorized wiretaps. Simple concepts do not register with these people because they live their life in a haze of stupidity where they expect to be told what to do and when to do it by some higher power like (gasp)…a boss.

This creates a problem for the people who have reasoning skills, because then higher powers (bosses, presidents) automatically assume that all people are that oblivious and that they have to talk to use like third graders. These oblivious people also create a hazard to society at large because, just like Body Snatchers, they look just like everyday people. You never know if you are in the presence of an oblivious person until they utter some phrase like “Social Security is never going to run out,” or do something stupid and frustrating like coming to a almost a complete stop on the highway before they make their turn (without a blinker) causing a four car pile-up behind them because no one knows what the hell they are doing.

Example: I now work at a car rental place. A woman came in and wanted a car. She asked the prices of our vehicles and made her selection. I asked her about her insurance. This was the conversation that followed.
Woman: “You have to have insurance to rent a car?”
Me: “Yes.”
Woman: “Why?”
Me: “You have to have insurance to drive in this state. So you have to have insurance to rent one of our cars.”
Woman: “I never heard of that.”
Me: “Having insurance on a car?”
Woman: “Yeah.”
Me: “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

Then when the total came up she was surprised that the amount was higher than what I quoted her. Thus, I had to go into the spiel about how the tax system of the United States is set up, complete with diagrams and textbook references. When you look at purchasing any item in this country, you should know that the item is never what it says on the price tag. There is tax on it. But for some reason I guess she thought that we had discovered a way to circumvent the system and not worry about what the Federal Government says.

My advice to anyone who might be in jeopardy of falling into either one of these two categories, either by proxy or choice, is to think before you speak or act. Thinking is the process that your brain goes through when neurons fire and thoughts come to the surface. Let’s use all 10% of those minds, and not be lulled into a numbing stasis by the things that go on around us. Be aware of your surroundings. If you are walking and a hole is in front of you, don’t wait for someone to tell you it’s there or look for directions on what to do in that situation. Step around it. Go on, step around it. You can do it. There you go. Now you can resume your walk without breaking an ankle.

*The name of the pizza place has been left out to protect Papa John's

Presidential Update from Burning Stickman

2005-12-10T14:46:00.000-08:00

After a short hiatus from the blogsphere, Burning Stickman has resurfaced in Paris, TN. As you may know, Burning Stickman announced in early October that he would be throwing his hat into the political arena and running for President in 2008. We sent a reporter out into the field to find Stickman and have him bring us up to speed on his current activities and political aspirations. With a head full of questions, and a flame retardant suit, our reporter finally caught up with Mr. Stickman.

Reporter: "Mr. Stickman, how is your campaign progressing so far in your bid for the 2008 presidency."
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRRRRRRGG!"
Reporter: "So, you’ve picked a running mate have you? May I ask who it is?"
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRRRRRRGG!"
Reporter: "Hunter S. Thompson? Didn’t he die in February?"
Burning Stickman: "……"
Reporter: "Okay, next topic. Why have you taken so long to start your campaign? Is it a strategy that you are working on?"
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRRRRRRGG!"
Reporter: "Yes, campaigns are very expensive. How do you propose to financially support your campaign?"
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRRRRRRGG!"
Reporter: "The Lottery, huh? How are you going to know if you won?"
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRG! AARRRRRGGG! AAAAAAAAAARG!"
Reporter: "No, it’s really a question of buying you ticket. How are you going to hold it without it bursting into flame?"
Burning Stickman: "………"
Reporter: "Well, it’s good to see you back in the saddle. We hope to hear from you again soon."
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRG! AARG!"
Reporter: "No, I’m sorry I have to go."
Burning Stickman: "AAARRRRRRRRGG!"
Reporter: "I don’t have anymore questions."
Burning Stickman: "AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGG!"

This tape was found in the charred remains of one of our star reporters. We will mourn his loss.

Modern Zombies

2005-11-20T15:07:00.000-08:00

I have been sitting at the table for ten minutes, and no waitress has come. I have been passed by another waitress three times and not once has she recognized that I am even in the realm of existence. Two cigarette butts have been stamped out in the ashtray that, thankfully, was already on the table when I sat down. I can now see that these people suffer from SEP. “Someone Else’s Problem.”

I learned about SEP from the great and venerable sage Douglas Adams. The way that SEP works is that most people have a trigger in their brains that tell them to block out any other activity that does not directly pertain to them. This trigger activates in situations that would normally cause someone to notice and/or act upon a strange event or object. SEP has become so rampant in our society though that it has evolved to encompass even mundane tasks that don’t directly influence or affect us. Such as asking an angry looking gentleman, that is not her customer and smoking his fifth cigarette, whether another waitress has helped him yet and if he would like a drink.

This evolved state of SEP is commonly called “Wal-Mart Syndrome.” Growing up in the South I have come to the realization that Wal-Mart is like the hillbilly Disneyland. Picture this….it’s Saturday night and there is nothing to do. The time is approaching midnight. If you live in a large metropolitan area you might be thinking that a nightclub or bar is an option to explore. If you live in one of the small cities, Wal-Mart is usually the first destination that springs to mind.

If you have ever been in Wal-Mart, and are a keen observer of human behavior, then you will almost instantly recognize the “Wal-Mart Syndrome” apparent all around you. The people pushing their buggies around with disregard for those around them, causing the fall of several objects from their displays when evasive action makes them swerve into the nearest shelf. The fact that no one is looking anyone else in the eyes for fear of seeing their own zombie-like visages staring back at them. Generally, the lack of emotion and regard for anyone else around them so as not to create a confrontation, whether good or bad. This is the “Wal-Mart Syndrome”…the fact that everyone is wrapped up in their own little world, and to stray from that world in order to notice or act toward or on behalf of someone else is a frightening thing that triggers this closing off of the mind.

Yet, the syndrome is not just central to or contained within the walls of a Wal-Mart. We have taken this to encompass everyday life around us. People don’t use their blinkers anymore, and if someone runs off the road trying to avoid an accident then it’s someone else’s problem. A confrontation in a parking lot that will surely lead to the harm of an individual doesn’t concern us, because if we did something then it might become our problem instead of someone else’s. Stopping to ask someone, that is not our customer, if they would like a drink and a menu would result in the lost time of two minutes that might be better utilized standing around.

We have become modern zombies that go through our daily lives and don’t notice the world around us until the world around us walks up to us and smears shit in our face. Then it becomes our problem and we wonder, “Where did this come from?” “How come I didn’t see this coming?” But being resolute to change our habits would result in us having to care about others around us, and that could be detrimental in the long run because then we would have to worry about others all the time. And that takes time away from worrying about ourselves. Because if we don’t worry about ourselves, there might be a chance that someone else will not worry about us either. Then the whole system goes up in flames.

Like a stickman.

A Talk With Al

2005-11-17T20:35:00.000-08:00

So I had a conversation with my dog tonight. It went something like this.

Me: “Hey buddy.”
Al: “Where’s my food?”
Me: “It’s not time to eat.”
Al: “What about now?”
Me: “Al, have you ever pondered life and this wheel that we seem to go around?”
Al: “I could ponder better if I had some food.”
Me: “Al, do you think we humans make life too complicated? Why can’t things be simple and work the way we see in movies?”
Al: “If I lick you will you give me food?”
Me: “Thanks for the kisses buddy. Do you think there are any simple answers to life out there, or do we have to constantly complicate things with more questions until we can’t see the answers because of all the shit piled in front of it?”
Al: “The simple answer would be yes, I’ll give you some food.”
Me: “I wish I could be like you and not have to tax my mind with questions and just enjoy life.”
Al: “I wish I had thumbs so I could get myself some food.”
Me: “Thanks for talking with me buddy. Here’s a bone.”
Al: Munch. Crunch. Munch. “You talk too much dad.”

When the Pluck Gets Going

2005-11-08T19:41:00.000-08:00

Imagine, if you will, a scene. I drive up to the pumps at the local gas station and, after releasing a sigh of relief at the lowered gas price, I pump my desired amount into my thirsty tank. As I am walking toward the building to pay I realize that I am also parched and am in need of refreshment. What shall it be, I wonder. An orange soda perhaps, or a yellow citrus drink. But I’m really thirsty and am in need of some perking up. Yes, a sports drink with electrodes and junk to rehydrate my body. That’s the ticket. Yet, as I open the glass door to grab a red beverage with the suffix ‘aid’ on the end of it, I notice a display case next to it. And I know what I must do.

I’ve started to notice a trend in the super markets and convenience stores. Whole display cases are now used to house the frosty coolness of a certain type of beverage that is growing in strength and popularity. Energy drinks have come to save us from the boring, exhausted world of our daily lives. We no longer have to worry about sleep deprivation or tired minds, because we can now wake up and alert ourselves with the consumption of one simple drink. Except we have forty-seven types to choose from.

From cold coffee with flavor, to ginseng infused sodas, to green tea and lavender, to hard core “extreme” drinks that will have you crawling the ceiling like a spider who’s lost his Ritalin. Red Bull, Mountain Dew, Sobe, Starbucks and others are all cashing in on the fact that America has lost the will and time to take care of themselves enough to face the day to day tasks that lie before them. Stayed up late working on that deposition? Run down from not getting your vitamins and minerals out of sliced potatoes and hamburger patties? Just feel like a walking pile of shit? Try some pick-me-up in a can/bottle.

Yes, we have become so lazy that in order to stave off the feeling of being lazy we try to ‘boost’ ourselves with enough caffeine to croak a full grown water buffalo. But they taste good…right? Well, I have tried some of these energy drinks in the last few days to see how they stand up to the taste tests. One such drink, made by the same people who bring you ‘large landmass condensation,’ tastes like someone wrung out a pair of Shaq’s underwear after a big game and added a touch of citrus. It’s competitor, made by the people who bring you ‘calm color that mixes with blue to make green,’ is not much better. Along with ‘maroon male bovine’ these energy sodas do have the effect of making you perk up, just for the fact that the taste shocks you awake when you realize that you are drinking such horrid spew. But they have ginseng, and that’s got to be a plus.

Next I move on to the cold coffee section. Instead of getting a nice warm cup of regular java, these brands promote a cool bottle of espresso to kick your but into high gear. These, I don’t mind so much. The taste is actually pleasant, but the crash at the end of the caffeine high is feels like someone putting a spout on your back and draining all your life force. They are great if you have the money enough to last you all day at three bucks a dose.

And what happened to Surge? Or Jolt? Has anyone seen these colas lately?

So next time you are walking into the store to buy a couple packs of smokes, some lotto scratchers, and some gas you might notice that your reserves of pluck are running low. This is when you can walk to the back of the store and pick up a bottle or can of liquid pep to help you get through the next few hours without falling asleep or stabbing a fellow co-worker with an unsharpened pencil. Just make your selection from the two cases of frosty energy and let the worries of getting three hours sleep the night before dissolve into the fevered haze of caffeine induced bliss.

Burning Books Presents...

2005-11-05T21:23:00.000-08:00

If firefighters fight fires and crime fighters fight crime, what do freedom fighters fight?

Your belt holds up your pants, but your belt loops hold up the belt. Who’s the real hero?

Do blind people see in their dreams, or to they dream about seeing?

These are some of the things that I have been pondering lately during my ten minute ponder period of the day. I have also pondered the changing of the phrase “ponder period” to something along the lines of “introspective episode” or “brooding practice.” I’ll have to meditate on that.

These little questions on life seem to take up tiny motes of time that soon become a long phase where we forget what the original question was and what relation it had to the beginning of the day when it was brought up. The domino effect often takes us far from where our original train of thought and leaves us in Boise, or somewhere else remotely uninteresting. Where was I….

Yes, pondering. One of the things that I have been pondering lately is the relationships between men and women. Now, after such successful books as Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus it seems easy to go and pick up a best seller that could help solve all the problems for couples. I find often that this is not the case. I have never read the Mars/Venus book, but just by the title I can tell you what I think about it. The concept of men coming from the Roman god of war and women coming from the Roman goddess of love seems self-explanatory to me. Men are brutes and women are care givers.

Yet, I have found that this is often not quite accurate. So I am investing in the new book, Women are from Venus, Men are from Chocolate Pudding. If you try to look that up it will not be there…because I have not written it yet. I have put it ahead of my other self-help books I am working on though. I’m Okay, You’re Chocolate Pudding and Chocolate Pudding for the Soul will just have to be pushed back to make way for this one. Expect them to be delivered from Burning Books Publishing to your bookshelves shortly.

One of the coolest, and scariest, things about relationships is that they never turn out like you think they are going to. The relationships that you see in movies and television are never how real relationships turn out. Up-hill, down-hill, cross country…these are real relationships. It’s scary sometimes to think that one of the biggest emotional investments in your life is a roller coaster, but it is also the most rewarding feeling you can have when you think about it long enough. Unpredictability lets you grow with each other and weather out things that you probably couldn’t on your own. This is why men don’t understand women, women vise versa. If we understood the opposite sex…there would be no bad times and the good times would be less appreciated.

So if men are from Mars and women Venus, then so be it. It lets us find a space in the middle to inhabit with each other. And chocolate pudding helps. Trust me.

Hey…Look at That Nifty Soapbox There!

2005-10-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

I turned on the television the other night and happened to catch Law and Order. I quickly turned the channel and found myself watching a different episode of Law and Order. But, using my mongoose-like reflexes, I once again averted disaster by hitting the small down arrow on the remote and flipped the channel to an excellent show that…

Wait a minute….it’s Law and Order again. What the fuck?

After hitting the up arrow twice, the down arrow once, the up arrow once, and the down arrow twice I convinced myself that I wasn’t finally getting the last sandwich to finish off the picnic (one sandwich short of a….you get it). I wasn’t going shithouse, Law and Order was really on three different channels at once. So instead of shows competing with other shows to grab viewers’ attentions, Law and Order was competing with itself? Maybe the executives at the networks had all taken long lunches and forgot to tell the programmers what to show. Thus they just found the show that they had the most of and put it on. If this is true then every station is letting their executives take long lunches. Maybe they’re all having lunch together. In Bermuda. With the money they are all saving by playing Law and Order reruns instead of inventing new shows.

If Comedy Central starts playing Law and Order then I’m just permanently checking out.

“So where’s the dilemma?” some might say. “Law and Order’s a good show,” others might inform. “Repedly waching one show don’t numb the brian. We can thank just fine with no added stam…stim…stimu…stimulu….(breathing heavy with exertion). You could always watch Seinfeld.”

This is the part where newly uprooted clumps of my hair fall from my fingertips and I run away screaming. We’ve gotten used to comfort. I don’t knock watching old favorites and enjoying them, but when I catch the same two shows on six different networks I know that America had become too lazy to get interested in something new. It takes too much energy and brainpower to try and catch the plots of new programs, when we could just watch the same stuff and not have to exert the effort of getting interested. This is where reality T.V. comes in.

Reality T.V. is like the McDonalds of television. These are shows where we just turn on anywhere in the program and feel like we haven’t missed a thing. Not like having to keep up with plots or anything. That’s just too hard. Give us the hardships of celebrities, at least then we can feel good that Jessica Simpson actually takes shits like a human. (I always thought that she was an android. Who knew?)

So after these, and other, insights I used my super powers of button pushing to push the power button. Then I picked up my book. That I’ve read four times. So, I’m a hypocrite. Sue me.

The Cosmic Rules of Golf

2005-10-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

It was brought to my attention by John, my golfing buddy, that some people that read my last blog might not know what I was talking about when I used golf terminology. So, if any of you four people out there who read my blog didn’t understand the phrases…I plan to clean up some of the mysteries.

First, about the magic tee. I realize that I didn’t mention it much in the last post….it’s a sensitive subject. You see, I painstakingly spent countless hours carving that wooden tee myself out of a slightly bigger tee that I found beside the lightening-struck trunk of a tree on the twelfth day of the twelfth month after the second full moon of the winter solstice that followed the day that John Lennon was shot. I was two years old. I named it Wonder Bo. I had no room for the Y.

That tee lasted twenty-six drives (not counting the mulligan) before it succumbed to the pressure and broke. It was my good luck charm. I hit many drives off that tee that were…well they weren’t great drives. I fact, I think I only hit three straight drive with that tee! The rest were forest-bound. When I come to think of it…that tee sucked. I didn’t hit a decent shot with that tee. It was an albatross around my neck that I am now free of. I should be happy it broke. Fuck that tee! Stupid no good…..

Okay. Now to the cosmic rules that seem to apply to most amateur golfers and weekend warriors.

1) No matter how bad you think you are and how slow you think you are going, if you let another group pass you then they will inevitably be the worst players to walk onto a fairway wearing sleeveless shirts, Jesus sandals, and toting a six pack of Milwaukee’s Best. You will spend the rest of the game cursing them for their slowness and waiting for one to pull out a deer rifle and take pot shots at the wildlife reserve next door.

2) You will get a slow cart. No matter how fast it seems when you are zipping around the parking lot, it will immediately lose all thrust and will to live when it is time to crest even the most modest of hills. Brakes can also never be trusted. Either you are pushing it all the way down until parking brake catches just in time to leave you four feet past your mark, or they will be so touchy that just by thinking of possibly braking will lock up its wheels and cause your partner to eat the safety plastic windshield. *Note: If you do get a good cart that has sufficient power to help you get up a hill without resorting to Fred Flintstone-like pushing with your feet and has a sane brake pedal that allows you to gently come to rest at your destination, then be prepared to walk across the entire course when your tire goes flat at the second green.

3) Any right slice will go into the trees. Even if there are no trees present on the right of you. Just start looking in the nearest crop of birch for your ball if it hangs a right off the tee. If it goes left then just pull out another ball. Yours has just been donated to the Mordor Country Club. It’s gone. Even when you hit a ball that you know (deep down in the knowing place where you keep your knowings) that it hit the edge of the fairway, you will get to the spot where you saw it drop and find three balls that are not yours and inadvertently prove the existence of worm holes in the space-time continuum when you notice that one of them is a Callaway 3000 XPG Plasma Core.

4) Never attempt to reclaim your ball from a squirrel. They have been genetically altered after generations of eating nuts that have been plucked from the well manicured (and densely chemicaled) lawn to be vicious and territorial. I once saw a human skeleton floating in one of the ponds that had over a thousand peculiar gnaw marks in it. But its hand was still clutching a Titleist ball. I took it.

5) Never walk into a clubhouse and ask the thirty half-drunk redneck golfers that are in there if anyone has a wood you can borrow. You’ll see thirty-two teeth flash in your direction, the banjos will come out, and your day will be cut short by you having to leave and drive very fast away from the golf course.

By knowing these Cosmic Rules you will have a less stressful day on the links because you will learn to not worry about lost balls, to look the other way when the drunk guy in front of you relieves himself on the nearest tree, and to engage the parking brake of your cart eight to ten feet from the point where you actually want to stop.

Good luck.

Magic tee my ass…

The Magic Tee

2005-10-11T22:45:00.000-07:00

The air was brisk with the decent of Fall, the clouds that had threatened rain the previous day had dispersed to leave the sky clear, and the sun had woken early for one of the last days before winter causes it to rise later in the morning. The dew that still hung like spider webs on the fairways glistened as we loaded up our cart. Last Sunday was the perfect day for a round of golf. Yet, this day would produce events that eventually would change this author’s life forever. Or at least for about fifteen minutes.

The day started off like any other morning of golf. Pulling three different balls that had been found on the previous trip, and would certainly be lost by the fourth hole, out of my bag. Pulling out three tees, only one of which would get used since I had used the same tee for the last three outings. And the discussion of who would take the honors of being the first to step into the tee box and lose their ball.

The first hole went according to plan. John took the first drive and sliced it high and right into the trees. I took the following drive and topped the ball so that it bounced faithfully into the shallow creek that the clever people who laid out the golf course placed only fifty feet from the tee area. Beautiful. Pure magic. Thanks to my keen eye, John was able to find his ball among the leaves that had already decided that Fall was close enough and detached themselves from the branches. I, on the other hand, was already on my second ball of the game after only one shot. Five additional shots from John and six from myself found us on to the next hole with the mood for the day set.

The second hole didn’t go according to plan at all. John’s drive, though still veering right, landed on the edge of the fairway. Didn’t see that coming. My shot was actually straight, and though it went over a hill I could tell that it was also on the fairway. Weird. Yet, the day got back on track when after searching for ten minutes among the leaves, that had found their way from the rough to the fairway, and the seven million walnut shells that littered the ground I finally came to two conclusions. Not only was I certain that I could feel the beady eyes of hundreds of obese squirrels watching me, but I was on my third ball in only two holes. I dropped my ball and, with the help of two good fairway shots, bogied the second hole.

The next few holes went normally. On the par three I hit a nice drive off the tee to land on the edge of the green, but talked myself out of a par my putting three times.
Self: “See how that green is tilting slightly to the right?”
Me: “I’ve played this hole before and it’s never tilted to the right.”
Self: “Yeah, but with the acceleration of the Earth’s rotation and that earthquake in Antarctica last year it’s caused the green to tilt since two weeks ago.”
Me: “Okay. I can see that. Should I hit it with a little speed?”
Self: “No. Remember, you have a two mile an hour breeze coming from behind you. That should give it some extra push.”
Me: “Your right. I’ll play it safe.”

With another bogie in tow we moved on. Yet with each drive I could feel a disturbance growing in the air around me, like a bending of natural laws almost to the breaking point. The shots were coming off normal. High and to the right on the par five. Low, left, and in the woods on hole number five causing another lost ball. Everything seemed to be going right. I worried, however, about the health risks toward the local squirrel population. With each hole we finished I couldn’t help but notice the copious amounts of walnut shells that littered the course. Someone should notify PETA and get those guys on some weight loss plan or something.

It was on hole number eight that the tension that had held heavy over us all day finally came crashing down on me. As I swung my club I could feel the ripping of the space time continuum around me, and as I struck the ball I felt a feeling in my gut that only a few deep feelers in the world can feel with all their feeling. I faithfully watched the small, white ball lift itself into the air with grace and poise, and promptly enter the foliage of the surrounding trees, but as I held my follow-through I shed a tear. I could tell without even looking that my loyal, wonderful, magical tee….had broken. The tee that had survived with me through three consecutive outings. The tee that I managed to find after every drive, even if I couldn’t say the same for my ball. I finally looked down, after John poked me a couple of times with his driver, and saw the tiny broken shards of my tee. (At least I assume it was my tee. There were thirty other broken tees lying around.) With the destruction of my faithful companion, I felt a little of my soul disintegrate and float away on the two mile an hour breeze of the ether.

I did find some peace that day. On the last hole I brought out one of the tees that had lain dormant and unused from my bag, and hit a 250 yard drive straight down the fairway. It was the most beautiful drive I had ever hit in my life. And I knew that it was my old tee giving the last of itself to its brother so that I might finish the game with my head high.

Then I woke from my daydream and found the 75 yard ball that I had tanked into the woods and used a four iron to place it twelve yards from the green, and finished the game with a 67 on nine holes.

Extra, Extra...Vote Stickman in 2008

2005-10-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

So, Burning Stickman has decided to throw his hat in the ring for the 2008 presidential election. This was a controversial move in many people’s eyes, both in the political circles and in the nation at large. “A stickman for president?” many asked. “Is that even legal?” Well…maybe not, but he is running none the less. An early start is what Stickman is hoping for, gaining momentum as the time of election comes closer.

We caught up with an important political figure on Capitol Hill and asked him what he thought of Burning Stickman’s decision to run for president. What follows is an account of that interview.

Important Political Figure: “What the hell are you talking about?”
Reporter: “Burning Stickman…you know that guy from the website.”
Important Political Figure: “No, I have no idea of what you’re talking about.”
Reporter: “Okay, you can be coy if you wish, but are you sure that you’re not just feigning ignorance as a defensive measure because you are scared of the influence and popularity of Burning Stickman?”
Important Political Figure: “No, I’m not feigning ignorance, nor am I afraid of a stickman.”
Reporter: “Even one that’s in a constant state of incineration?”
Important Political Figure: “Not even one that’s on fire.”
Reporter: “So the ignorance is not an act?”
Important Political Figure: “Of course not. It’s…..what!? Hey! Stop running away and give me that tape you little punk.”
*Feet pounding the pavement in pursuit.
*Muffled struggle.
*Cursing.

This concluded the interview. After a brief sojourn in the local medical facilities the reporter was back on the road and hard at work. After searching out many leads, and walking through a few cornfields, the reporter finally located the whereabouts of Burning Stickman in Tennessee and used his powers of persuasion to gain an interview.

Reporter: “I was wondering if I could get an interview with Burning Stickman?”
Writer of this Blog: “Sure.”

After donning an asbestos suit and signing many waivers the reporter was allowed to talk to the newest presidential candidate.

Reporter: “So Mr. Stickman, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your political views and what you stand for?”
Burning Stickman: “AAARRRRRRRRGG!”
Reporter: “Okay, let’s begin. Are you a d Democrat or a Republican?”
Burning Stickman: “AAARRRRRRRRGG!”
Reporter: “Independent, huh? That’s a bold stance in this day in age when it seems that current politics only supports a two party system. So, what are your views on the abortion issue?”
Burning Stickman: “AAARRRRRRRRGG!”
Reporter: “Interesting. So what about the economic issues? What would you do to bolster local economy and help the nation out of the fiscal hole that the current administration seems to be digging for the nation on a daily basis?”
Burning Stickman: “AARRG! AAARRRRRRRRGG!”
Reporter: “That plan seems just crazy enough to work, but there a lot of large companies who aren’t going to like what you have planned. It seems that you are for the people. If elected what would you do about the supposed war on terror and how would you address the troops currently scattered around the globe?”
Burning Stickman: “AAARRRRG! ARRRRG! AAAAAAAAAAAARRG! AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGG! AARG! ARG! AAAARRRRGG! AAAA! AAARRRG!”
Reporter: “Wow. I’m Speechless. That was the most coherent, and plausible answer I have ever heard come out of the mouth of a potential candidate for the presidency. Your stances on these current issues are so powerful and well thought out that I can’t see any other way to vote that for you. You may just be the savior of our country. I wish you luck.
Burning Stickman: “AAARRRRRRRRGG!”
Reporter: “No, the pleasure was all mine. It feels good to stand ten feet away from such a patriotic American as yourself. Thank you, sir.”

So there you have it. The choice in 2008 is clear. With his views on such current hot topics as the war in Iraq and the abortion issue explained so plainly it would seem that Burning Stickman is a shoe-in for the next presidential spot.