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November 29th, 2007
03:24 pm - Introducing the Rubber Penis.
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the rubber penis. Bigger, better, and safer than the model on which it is based. The rubber penis will not get your young teenage daughter pregnant. It will not give your young teenage daughter an STD. It will never physically abuse, berate, or, on a smaller scale, ignore your daughter to play Halo 3 instead.
It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Any good, caring parent who believes in abstinence would find the time to give their teenager daughter a rubber penis for Christmas.
So, why then are so many Sugar House parents in such an uproar over the long – possibly vibrating – phallic?
In the words of JT Martin, city councilmen-elect of Sugar House, “I don’t care if you have one rubber penis or you have 15. If you have one, you are a sexually oriented business.”
Since Friday, protestors have taken time out of their sexually boring lives to picket outside the new location of the Blue Boutique – a business moving only 3 blocks away from its former location in downtown Sugar House. The lingerie store has been a staple of the community for 20 years.
Craig Mecham, owner, developer, and Ebenezer of downtown Sugar House will begin demolishing the previous historic home of the Blue Boutique as soon as he can. He has ripped the soul out of the neighborhood and will replace the businesses with soulless box stores, effectively piling local dollars into dump trucks headed for the state line.
No one seemed to care about Mecham. Caring about local businesses is one thing. Rubber penises are something completely different. As usual, the children must be saved. Sugar House Park and Highland High are in close proximity to the new location, and kids would walk past it every day!
Let’s forget for a moment that their young, teenage daughters are going to school with hundreds of living, breathing penises of greater concern to their safety. After all, you can’t picket the football team.
Instead, they are wasting their enlightened energy on a store that sells lingerie, shoes, jewelry, and, yes, a few things that make life a little more interesting.
Like those who criticized Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 without watching it, these protestors have no idea what the store is about. The Blue Boutique is not a sexually oriented business (SOB) – far from it. The majority of the store is clothing. There is a small room in the back for more adult fare, but it is closely monitored. Just like buying beer or cigarettes, an ID is required.
It’s a far cry from real SOBs. I’m not a prude, but after going into a real SOB in San Francisco, I felt the need to shower and call my doctor for a check-up. It’s the equivalent of calling Hannah Montana a porn star. It’s the difference between The Love Boat and Deep Throat.
Also, if these parents have raised their children in a clandestine manner, what are they worried about? Wouldn’t there kids steer clear regardless of where the business was “erected?”
Just because a serpent offers you an apple doesn’t mean you have to take it, right?
Protestors have threatened to film patrons going into the store and post the pictures on a website. Sounds like a fantastic photo-op to me. I plan to be at the grand opening with a suit, a smile, and a newly purchased rubber penis. There’s nothing like free publicity. I’m sure the pictures will do wonders for my sex life. Bored housewives are going to love me.
I hope the rest of you sexually satisfied readers will join me. We can’t allow the few to dictate the values of an entire community.
It’s up to us to prove who the real SOBs are.
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November 8th, 2007
08:52 am - Of Alcohol and Curtains
I thought I was safe. I live in a beautiful community in West Jordan. The houses fit together like puzzle pieces. When I enjoy a day of scrapbooking in a neighbor’s home, it’s nice to know the layout is no different than my own.
Diversity is the devil’s work.
I went out with my family to enjoy the finest cuisine Utah has to offer – our very own Cheesecake Factory. Although I had to wait more than four hours to seat a family of eight, I felt it would be worth it for a slice of indulgence.
I was wrong.
My eyes were burning. In plain view of my children were shelves lined with alcohol. My youngest pulled on my dress and asked me what all the putrid, brown liquid was. I was wiping away tears!
We got our cheesecake to go.
For this reason, I applaud Liquor control commissioner Bobbie Coray for pleading with her colleagues to establish a “Zion Curtain” covering the alcohol in local restaurants from innocent eyes.
When I go out with my family, I want them to enjoy their molten chocolate cake, white chocolate blondie, or crispy green bean fries in peace. I don’t want to have to explain why everyone around us is laughing and having a good time.
Dinner for eight is expensive enough, and that doesn’t even include the 10% tip!
I wish more of our elected officials would follow Bobbie Coray’s lead. All around us there are so many more devilish deeds that need to be covered up.
I’ve tried putting blindfolds on my children when I take them out, but they keep running into light poles.
This is why I think it’s in the best interest of our community to begin Operation Zion Curtain. We should not stop at covering up only tempting and seductive bottles of alcohol. The city is full of corruption.
We should start at our local schools. They need a complete overhaul. Girls walk around in short skirts, pants, and strapped shirts that show off their shoulders. No man should see their shoulders but their husbands on their wedding night – and only in the dark!
This is the reason I home-school my children.
Girls should walk around with Zion Curtains on. They should be pure white and cover up everything that should not be used or seen (though they can keep their mouths uncovered if they stay in line).
Of course, we should allow armholes for baking cakes, sewing, and general preparation for a happy marriage.
Let’s also not forget Barnes & Nobles. I can no longer purchase books there because of all the filth they sell. Dirty magazines and violent novels are everywhere. They even have cookbooks that promote using spices!
I propose we cover all of them with nice, dark blue covers.
I want to thank Bobbie Coray for getting the ball rolling on shielding our children. There have been far too many of them who stared at a bottle of alcohol and could not control the urge to imbibe.
As long as temptation is kept out of sight and out of mind, how could anything bad ever happen?
Sincerely,
The Blind Leading the Blind.
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October 27th, 2007
08:45 am - Happy Halloween
When I was young my mother was Betsy Ross. She carried around a needle and thread like a seamstress vigilante. No rip or tatter was safe.
This always helped at Halloween. If I asked to be a werewolf she could sew hairy legs on a pair of cutoffs in minutes. She had capes for vampires, puffy shirts for pirates. I even asked to be “Thing” from the Addam’s family, and a week later I was wearing a giant cotton-filled hand over my head.
At the age of 9, my mother got sick in early October and didn’t have the strength to sew costumes for three young boys.
My brothers found the easy way out. One dressed as a ninja with black sweats and a mask. He hid in the dark, jumped in the light, and poked me with aluminum foil Chinese stars. My oldest brother dressed as a bum, put a pillow over his belly and walked around with an empty bottle of Jack. It was a fitting costume as he remains a loafing vagrant to this day.
Mine wasn’t as easy. My foil robot ripped as if it were made by Kia. I tried being a pro wrestler, but my elementary school had a strict policy against walking around in tight underwear and boots.
I expected ridicule. I was going to be that kid, the one wearing a paper plate mask of shame. This brought tears to my eyes. Most things did at the age of 9. I was a whiner. I bawled every time a mushroom got the better hand on Mario.
My father hated whiners. In his usual, silent way, he shushed me and said he would take care of everything. He grabbed a pair of gloves and locked himself in the garage. I listened at the door. Was that a power saw? I think I heard welding. There was a good chance I would walk in the Halloween parade as the family car. I expected the worst.
He emerged with a grin and safety goggles. It was his masterpiece.
I was a haunted house.
My father, the carpenter, the roofer, did what he knew how to do. He took a box and made it into a house. There was a walkout porch with a miniature swing. He’d planted a graveyard in the back. The front was a large Amityville horror circular window so I could see. The sides had shutters for my arms to come out like two long ghosts.
I appreciated the roof. It was shingled. I had the most waterproof costume on earth.
I don’t think I’ve seen another kid dress as a haunted house to this day. I’m not sure anyone has. As the house walked from house to house, I was greeted with laughter and extra candy.
There isn’t a better holiday than Halloween. One day a year you get to be something you’re not – a wizard, a werewolf, or a walking bungalow.
In a world ruled by internet commerce, finding the perfect disguise has become too easy. Googling’s made us lazy. College girls can simply type in “slutty costume” and provide their credit card number.
They’re missing the best part. The best part of Halloween is last minute panic or long term planning. It’s putting a costume together with spare parts like MacGyver or turning off the TV and taking some time to craft one yourself.
My father proved anyone can make a costume. For every ten pre-bought pirates, I always appreciate a good “three-hole punch Jim.” Give it a try. You might find out there is more to you than a lazy consumer.
What a scary thought.
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October 17th, 2007
02:42 pm - Vote Against Referendum 1
Who doesn’t love Oreos? Oreos are the cookie sandwich of champions.
There are so many ways to eat them. A twist and a lick. Crumbled on ice cream. I dip them in milk until they become a mushy mess of high fructose heaven. Oreos warm my heart and clog it all at the same time.
A local commercial for Referendum 1 produced by Richard Eyre has found a new use for Oreos, and I offer my congratulations. In just 30 seconds, Mr. Eyre has turned the complex school voucher issue into a simple case of apples and oranges (or cookies… and less cookies) while treating all Utah voters as if their heads were full of cream filling.
It’s a good strategy. Proponents of school vouchers like to claim the little golden tickets will help low income families with educational choices – families that can relate to the cheap goodies. I look forward to their next commercial with a Ramen noodle tug-of-war or one outlying how choice in schools is similar to the McDonald’s dollar menu.
Their argument is fundamentally flawed. Under the voucher program, the highest amount a low income family will receive per child is $3,000. Although there are conflicting statistics, the average private cost is somewhere between $4,000 and $8,000. Even with a tuition as low as $4,000, this would be more than most families could bear. An average clan working to replenish the earth in Utah has over three children.
It’s not impossible – for one of the kids. Perhaps they could rock, paper, scissors for a better education and the losers could start paper routes to pay for it. They could live off all the extra Oreos they’d be getting from rich kids in distant private schools - separate but equal.
That is if the private school would even let in the one little high-climbing scum. They don’t have to. Like Augusta National Golf Course not allowing female members, private schools can discriminate any way they want.
Sure, your child can go to St. Vincent – as long as they don’t mind the Catholic doctrine. If Referendum 1 passes, state will be the cookie and church will be the white stuff in the middle – constitution be damned.
In reality, vouchers will only help those in affluent families. Taxpayers will save little or nothing as money funnels between public and private. And it avoids the most important issue, our already under funded public schools. Utah continually ranks last in education per student.
Let’s also not forget the most prolific donor to school vouchers – the Walton family, well known for low wages, poor working conditions, and inadequate health care at their Wal-Mart stores. They built an underground bunker to make sure they didn’t have to touch anyone worth less than a billion for the rest of their privileged lives.
As a general rule, I choose to oppose anything they support. Whatever it is, it caters to the rich. Other supporters of school vouchers are George W Bush, Jim Oberweis, John McCain, and most likely Satan himself.
On November 6th, voters around the state will get to choose. This is an issue of education, so take time to educate yourself on the issue.
Children are not cookies. Don’t allow them to drown in corporate milk. Vote against Referendum 1.
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April 23rd, 2007
11:40 pm - On Graduating
When it happened, I couldn't write a word. Months before, I had written about Trolley Square - about the agendas it would bring to a head, gun debates, and consequences. I was affected by the Virginia Tech shooting in a different way. I couldn't place it. So I decided to give it time. I decided to see where the story would take me.
As the Class of 2007 takes their final tests and gets ready to graduate - to move on to the next chapter in their stories, I now realize where the difference lies. Many of those who died were in the same moment of transition as any one of us. They climbed the same mountain, but will never get a chance to plant their flags. They were ready to throw their caps in the air, but are no longer around to catch them.
Life is absurd. Living along the Wasatch Fault, I may be devoured by an earthquake tomorrow, or I may live peacefully for another 80 years. There is no way to know for sure. The big problem with American culture is our need to concentrate on the first part and forget the second. It is a mistake to believe that running away from death is the same as living your life.
In the film "Dead Poet's Society," Robin Williams climbed upon a desk and yelled Carpe Diem - seize the day. It became the catchphrase whenever a tragedy occurs. Instead of accepting death as something we cannot control, most decide that they haven't done enough with their time - that they must immediately begin living their life to the "fullest." The philosophy has probably created a few stories, a lot of credit card debt, and more embarrassing carpe diem tattoos then anyone would like to admit.
When I heard the shooter sent a package to the networks, I immediately shut off my television. I would not give him the satisfaction. As I write this, I can't even place his name. It's not important to me. He was cognitive. Between two choices, instead of being forgotten, he preferred to be hatefully remembered. He wanted to be famous - to make a difference. He has. I refuse to give him anything else. He seized his day and he will never be forgotten, but he no longer has a tomorrow.
There is far more to life than fame and fortune. As many of you prepare to graduate, I offer you some advice. Slow down for a while. What you've accomplished is a great achievement. Some of you will get your dream job next week, but most of you won't. Your story is not over yet, and hopefully your climax is still years away. Don't worry about being hit by a bus tomorrow because you're too smart to be walking in front of buses anyway. You are alive, and chances are you will be alive tomorrow. Focus less on what you need to do and rejoice in what you've done.
Days are not meant to be seized. Sit on your porch and watch the sunrise for once. You may find the day will be yours without any aggression at all.
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April 16th, 2007
07:47 am - God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut
"Now at a memorial service for Isaac Asimov a few years ago on the West Coast I spoke and I said, 'Isaac is in heaven now,' to a crowd of humanists. It was quite awhile before order could be restored. Humanists were rolling in the aisles. Should I, God forbid, pass on some time, I hope that some of you will say that Kurt is up in heaven now."
- Kurt Vonnegut
Kurt is up in heaven now. It's one of my favorite jokes.
At some point in our lives, we decide to do something. Perhaps we fall into it unexpectedly - perhaps we always knew. I write. I write badly most of the time, but I write. I started writing after reading a few best sellers and thinking "I could do this." Any creative mind ponders it. A singer feels they can sing better than Britney or a guitarist shuns punk bands and their three chord sets.
I will never in my life write as well as Kurt Vonnegut. Ever. And so it goes.
He once wrote about his favorite teacher. She asked "What is it artists do?" He mumbled, "they do two things. First, they admit they can't straighten out the whole universe. And then second, they make at least one little part of it exactly as it should be. A blob of clay, a square of canvas, a piece of paper, or whatever."
Kurt Vonnegut made thousands of pages exactly as they should be.
He died last Wednesday from a fall. Funny, he spent the better part of his life trying to kill himself with Pall Mall cigarettes, and even attempted suicide back in the 80s. I think he'd had a glimpse of the future. He never felt comfortable in modern society, never had an E-mail address, possibly never even had a computer. If you ever wished to contact him, it would be through a letter only, stamped and delivered. He wanted you to actually physically get up and buy a stamp, to interact with at least one person. It was more human.
His last book was "A Man without a Country." It was small, a going away present for his fans. He talking about the state of the world, the Bush administration and oil. It was the same as always. It was as good as ever.
He saw things in a way they should be seen. If you want to read about capitalism, read God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. If you want to read about religion, read Cat's Cradle. If you want to read about art, read Bluebeard. And on and on.
There will be a million eulogies to Kurt Vonnegut. I never met Kurt Vonnegut, but by simply putting words on a page he changed my life. He changed so many. And he would have been the first to tell you it was what life is really all about. While you are here, make a connection. Be kind.
I will leave you with a poem from his novel "Slapstick." Like all his writing it is simple and brilliant.
"I was those seeds, I am this meat.
This meat hates pain, this meat must eat.
This meat must sleep, this meat must dream.
This meat must laugh, this meat must scream.
But when, as meat, it's had it's fill,
Please plant it as a daffodil."
Kurt Vonnegut is not in heaven. He is in the earth. He will grow in our hearts and minds forever.
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February 28th, 2007
10:54 pm - Governor Huntsman is a Coward
First, congratulations. Thousands stood up and tore down Divine Strake. If you've never heard of Divine Strake I'll sum it up for you. It's a toy for big boys to play with, like an M80 except roughly one million times bigger. Oh, and it also causes cancer. The government would like to tell you it was risk free, but they've been wrong before. Ask the downwinders who received radiation badges and lower life expectancies in the 50s. It's a good feeling knowing common men and women can still raise their voices and make a difference.
Second... you win some and you lose some. On February 27th, while students at the University of Utah enjoyed a day off, so did Governor Jon Huntsman. Given the option to either veto or sign Senate Bill 155, Huntsman chose to whistle, turn his head, and slide it down the line.
Senate Bill 155 restores an exemption for EnergySolutions, allowing it to avoid asking the governor or Legislature for permission to pile waste higher on sections of its mile-square landfill. Governor Huntsman called it a "technical clarification." I understand. It seems like a lot of busy work to ask those who represent us their opinion on the matter.
Protesters voiced their concerns. Picket lines formed at the new EnergySolutions Arena and more than a thousand calls were made. It wasn't enough. Our legislators formed a simple math equation. 1000 calls < 189,020.00 in political donations. That doesn't even include the Jazz tickets.
Governor Huntsman is a coward. He stated clearly when he was elected that he would never allow a bill to pass without a signature or veto. So much for conviction. By taking away the right to intercede, he has weakened his ability and the ability of governors down the line to do anything about EnergySolutions in the future. Since 1988, regulators have amended the company's license to take more and different kinds of waste 80 times. When will it end? As hotter waste is transported, it only increases the possibility of accidents occurring during transport.
Of greater immediate concern is Huntsman's apathy and lies. He has already begun a PR campaign, proclaiming "I take very seriously my responsibility to ensure that our state will not become the dumping ground of other states' nuclear waste. I remain committed to fighting increased volumes of waste." Perhaps a more important statement would have been vetoing the bill, but I wasn't elected governor. Nor given contributions for future campaigns.
I think we could all learn a valuable lesson from our governor. If you hate your job, instead of working hard or quitting, clock in and do nothing. If your baby begins crying in a movie theater, instead of taking the baby out or letting it continue, just move a few rows away and pretend it's not yours. If you don't agree with every aspect of your religion, instead of being completely faithful or agnostic, go to church on Sundays, Wendover on Fridays, and watch R rated movies with the naughty words edited out.
Governor Jon Huntsman had the opportunity to take a stand. He did nothing.
Thanks for nothing, Governor.
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January 30th, 2007
09:37 pm - HB236: My Editorial Endeavor
Chris Buttars is at it again.
The twice elected ninny famous for disavowing evolution because he's never seen a "dat" (for more info, google Buttars, Dat) has started another deja vu style attack on gay rights. HB236 has been thrown to the House, a bill that would ban high school clubs centered around human sexuality. It somehow will still allow cheerleading, a high school staple wholly centered around sex and skirts, but I digress. This is not my point.
And Chris Buttars is not my point either. I could put a big sock on his head and call him Mush Mouth, but Buttars will always be Buttars. The bill is not my point either. Numerous bills with the same homophobic feelings have passed, only to be shot down later by the Supreme Court. The judges have read something called the Constitution. If this bill passes, it will not last. They never do.
No, this article is about liberals. Anyone who reads the papers knows about HB236, and lately the opinion columns have become riddled with the usual cave dwelling conservatives and haloed liberal saints. I hate them both, but the liberals more. Yes, I'm liberal, but mostly for the beer and women.
The liberal saints want to give everyone a hug. They want to find stupid people and give them a teddy bear. They think gay people are dandy. Nothing could be more insulting.
So, if you feel like jumping out of your Subaru and sitting down at your Mac, please refrain from the following:
1. "Gay people are nice."
What is this? There is nothing worse than reading an opinion column and hearing a liberal saint praise the one gay person they know and extol on how nice, polite, and fashion conscious they are. Gay people are not nice. Some are, some aren't. Gay people are people. This does not help the cause.
2. "I have a lot of gay friends."
Thank you for letting us know that you have friends! And gay people, no less! You must be such a kind, open-minded person. Note: praising yourself is even worse than praising homosexuals.
3. "Although I'm not gay myself..."
Why have you taken the time to write an open-minded little paragraph on the value of free thinking only to ruin it with this line? I have seen it constantly. We do not need the disclaimer. All this shows is that you are worried that someone will read your words and assume you must be gay. You're open-minded, but heaven forbid they think that. You are quite happy in your loveless marraige.
4. "They were born that way."
This is the absolute worse, and has become every liberal saints favorite mantra. Now, don't get me wrong. Homosexuality may very well be genetic. But again, we are missing the point. By using this phrase, you are giving our slower Republicans brothers and sisters their out. They can simply stand by the belief that it is not genetic, that the big man wouldn't do such a thing. Sticking to the opinion that homosexuality is okay because they were born that way is adversely broadcasting the opinion that if they weren't born that way you would be against it.
The point is that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if a gay man or lesbian was born homosexual or not. What matters is that they seek love, are not hurting anyone else, and are finding a way to live their lives in the most truthful way they can. And in regards to this bill, that they can be amongst others who are going down the same long road. HB236 should be voted down not because homosexuals were born that way, but simply because they were born.
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January 21st, 2007
06:59 am - I resolve to.
I had an E-mail conversation. It culminated as such:
Her: Can I tell you something?
Me: Sure. Fire away.
Her: Your different. You almost seem more sensitive, your all grown up…..its a really good change.
Am I more sensitive? I thought no. Afterall, I noticed her grammatical errors and cringed. Throw in an apostrophe, just right of the semicolon if you could. I spent years wanted to be a book editor, but thought better of the idea. I pictured famous writers killing sentences, cutting them into fragments, hanging participles. I'd eventually end up in the fetal position stabbing at the air with a red pen.
Back to the matter at hand. Besides my OCD (Obsessive Correction Disorder), am I sensitive? Am I mature?
I've had many foolish nights. I learned early that drinking allowed my body to live while my mind took a needed rest. It was amusing at first. The body given new freedom started life as a jester. He acted silly, jumped around, fell on stuff. He got tired of the morning bruises and decided to change his motives to a lover. He gushed, spoke sweetly yet slurred. The mind would wake up with a warm body next to him and thank the body for his sonnets. The last few years, though, the body was weak. He was jealous. He would yell a lot and fall down stairs. I think he decided that he wanted to grow up, to be more than just a staggering fool. He was angry that, with all I had, I was sabotaging myself with the drink.
Last year, the body only came around four times, usually around holidays. He was as angry as ever, but it was because I knew better and he needed to remind me. This year, I don't see any reason he should live again. A person begins their inevitable decline and should not be sad when it is time to pass. His time has come.
I have matured. I spent the last ten years trying to be a five year old, and feel like spending the next ten years trying to be sixty-five. I want to play bocce in the park and wear funny hats. I want to wear silly shorts that show off my saggy legs. And after 10 years, 160 credit hours, and 5 rotating majors, I want to get a degree and move on.
I am more sensitive. I spent so long taking people for granted, and now I feel like a daisy. I just want to tell friends all the time how much I appreciate them, how much I'm in awe that they've kept me around after all the shit I've shoveled. I cry at sappy commercials and take cell phone pictures of sunsets. I want to hug everybody. It's really hindered my writing. Poetry lately has become a Hallmark card. I suppose there are sacrifices when you put yourself back together again.
I carry around a paper of New Year's Resolutions that reads like a grocery list. I won't bore you with a list of things I should and shouldn't eat or should and shouldn't do, but I'll leave you with the last line:
"Be happy. Be peaceful. Enjoy your life."
I can finally start doing just that. And maybe I'll stop worrying about things that just don't matter. Like fragments. And grammar. In life, your always exactly who you want to be.
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January 5th, 2007
10:47 am - Jeremy Time
I remember a night two summers ago. I was sitting on the porch outside Barbara's apartment with her, Jeremy, and Mark. Barbara was petting a stray cat and we were all drinking an exotic wine called "Franzia". Jeremy said something. Nobody laughed. Jeremy said something else. Nobody laughed again. We all looked at each other.
"You're off today," Barbara said.
It was true. Jeremy was off. We sat, got drunker. The conversation had openings and Jeremy took none of them.
I can't recall a day it's ever happened since.
Jeremy doesn't try. He is naturally hilarious. He doesn't think. If something pops into his mind, a joke about the JFK assassination, an obscure video game reference, something about having sex with a zombie, he says it. And he laughs. Jeremy laughs at his own jokes. I hate people who laugh at their own jokes, but I don't hate Jeremy. He has the right to laugh at his own jokes because they're just that funny.
There was another day. We were playing a game called Diplomacy at Corey's house. Diplomacy is similar to Risk, world domination without the dice. The rules are simple: make deals, make alliances, stab your friends in the back. It was the perfect game for the people playing. At the time, we were a motley group who laughed at each others shortcomings. There was no dream that couldn't be slapped awake, no thought bubble that couldn't be popped. We hated each other and needed each other to fuel it. And Jeremy didn't fit in. He didn't want to lie to his friends. He and Barbara sat in another room, laughed, and were happy. We clenched our teeth and sneered at our fake world.
Jeremy is exactly what you'd want in a friend. He is loyal. He is chivalrous. He would give you the shirt off his back (or not care too much if you borrowed one out of his closet). And he makes you feel funny. Let's be honest. You're not as funny as Jeremy, but if you hang out with him, you feel that funny. He's always laughing, always adding a joke on your joke until there is a staggering joke pile.
Have you ever been out to a club and seen a big group of people sitting at the same table and not talking? The club dead? They don't speak and have nothing worth saying. It's never like that around Jeremy. I've had moments where there was contagious laughter that lasted for an hour. If you put Jeremy and Kuba in a white-walled room with only two chairs, they would find a way to entertain themselves and anyone else in earshot. I've been in groups where I had to be the constant source. Groups that would sit there with dumb looks on their faces until I spoke. Around Jeremy and Kuba, I don't have to say a word. I'm a wallflower. I remember laughing a little when Kristen and her friends thought I was shy. I just had nothing more to say. I could sit back and watch.
He moved in with us and brought with him a thousand books, a thousand DVDs and every CD every made. He's a collector. And over the years, without realizing it, he's collected a lot of fans.
So, here's to Jeremy adding another birthday to his collection. Let him take a day off. He's only had one in 26 years.
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February 19th, 2006
10:50 am - Introducing...
Another update. I'm staying in Utah. Who knew? My name is Nick. I've also been called Rick in the past, but I'd rather not talk about it. Rick is dead, just like Jesus.
I decided to stay because of all the friends, acquaintances, and fans I have here. People often request that I come over and act like a monkey for their entertainment. They throw quarters at me sometimes. I remove my little fez hat and bow. Then I throw feces at them. Not really.
I own a Chrysler New Yorker that just got its grill smashed. It's what? It's grill. The problem with snow is that my tires are bald. The problem with stop signs is people don't roll through them like they're suppose to. The truck ahead of me was not damaged because it's a little known fact that Chrysler New Yorkers are actually made of metal-colored clay. I did draw a nice rendition of the duck pond for the accident report though.
Some people think I'm cocky and other people think I have low self-esteem, and they would both be right. I am an elitist who doesn't believe in myself. Women seem to like me and I don't know why. I'm not complaining. I'm like something shiny and noisy that you dangle in front of a baby. I'm really only exciting until you realize, "hey... he's just noisy and shiny." I mean, there has to be more to me than that right? Word of advice. There probably isn't.
There are two important things to know about me. One: everything always seems to work out for me in one fucked up way or another. It's the reason I'm an optimist. Two: Drama seems to follow me around. I lead an interesting life for someone who hasn't accomplished anything. I'm actually boring, it's just everything and everyone around me that are out of whack.
Nothing is ever my fault. Ever. I am faultless.
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December 2nd, 2005
10:04 pm - Oh, The Monster Outside is Frightful. . .
I live with three guys. There is Pete, the usual, unmarried missionary type. There is Miles, the pseudo hippie with a golden heart and large calves. There is Matt, the man who cleans the house dramatically when he's in a bad mood and spreads pre-yuppie paraphernalia around the apartment. And there is me. Define me how ever you like. Somehow, we found each other. At no point do we make any sense.
Last night, I had too much to drink and woke up in Matt's bed. Don't judge. He is out of town. The real problem with this is I am certain he'll find out somehow. I can see Matt on his knees smelling his bed like the giant at the top of the beanstalk. I look forward to vigorous dusting.
For dinner, I ate Vodka sauce spaghetti and doodled in the West Elm catalog with Miles. There is something fulfilling about these beautiful modern glamour houses, where the rich families would have perfect lives if it weren't for the horrific goat monster peering in their glass door.
Besides all this, I should be in Hawaii right now. My buddy pass didn't work. I'm leaving Sunday instead. Anyone looking for something to do tonight?
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November 15th, 2005
01:31 pm - Crumbs!
I left my happy face at home today.
It is right next to the toaster. And right next to that is a piece of carefully made toast. The butter is spread evenly to the sides, with a warm puddle somewhere in the middle. At some point this morning I got distracted while making breakfast and ran out the door before eating it. Now I'm sitting at work, feeling this perfectly good piece of toast turning stale with every passing second. I'm almost to the point of screaming, running out of here, and going home to save it from total loss and/or Miles.
I'm crazy. I admit it. Though, you feel the stale too, don't you?
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November 14th, 2005
02:00 pm - Limbo: How Low Can I Go?
A few weeks ago, my work sent out an E-mail. It told us all to leave with the highest level of abruptness and meet at the Residence Inn downtown. They had cookies. We lost our jobs.
I did not eat a cookie.
Well, I didn't exactly lose my job. In April, they are moving our headquarters to Orlando, Florida, home of a large glove-wearing rodent and rain. Sometimes hurricane style rain. Everyone seems to have a love affair with rainy days, but I've always hated them. As a robot, rain makes me feel...rusty.
Two weeks later, my resume and cover letter have been mailed off. I have decided to move to a peninsula that no doubt will eventually fall into the Pacific. My sarcasm probably won't fit in with their new "shoot first" law, but I hear kevlar is becoming more fashionable every day. Still, we're talking five months in hiatus. Five months of hollow.
After a night of heavy drinking and pinebox derby racing, I was given a statue proclaiming me "World's Greatest Lover." I am a sculptor without clay, a writer without a keyboard, a stalker without a car trunk. To make a long story short, I'm lonely. There's nothing I can do about it. My life will change in five months, and I can't risk running into a reason to stay.
I'm an apartment without a tenant. Would anyone be willing to take a five month lease?
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drinkinghemlock's journal