Life Through Craigslist

Being jobless, I have to look for new, cheap venues for my entertainment. And lately, I have been really entertained by Craigslist. It’s my new crack, almost as good as TV. If you haven’t trolled there, you’re missing a lot.

First off, I go there for job leads. And truth be told, I have gotten some good leads and interviews from there. I have yet to be kidnapped or molested. But there’s more to CL than finding jobs.

I highly recommend you check out the personals section. Simply type in your current town of residence (or prison, wherever you might be, dear reader) and select personal from the drop down menu. You might be surprised by what you see. For example, when I type in my town, I discovered something rather shocking.

I am surrounded by gays and perverts.

Yes, it seems the prevailing amount of personal posts are dudes looking for dudes. I mean an overwhelming amount are guys for guys. Some of the titles of the posts are a scream. And I will admit, I have clicked on a few, STRICTLY for investigative purposes. Some even have the pictures as well. I feel a bit weird doing this type of stuff. I fear one day my internet records will be released, and everyone will see me clicking on the gay stuff and get the wrong idea. I said this is STRICTLY for entertainment and investigative purposes. So I make sure I spend double the amount of time looking at porn, just to cancel the gay stuff out. I also fear that my wife will somehow discover this and totally get the wrong idea. But it makes it OK that I write about it, since, like most of my friends, she doesn’t read my blog.

Of course, there is a certain lingo you have to get into to decipher some of these ads. I’ve found if you just look at enough ads, you can pick things up. Still, there are letters and combinations of letters I have no fucking idea what they stand for, and I am probably better off not knowing.

You can also check out rants and raves, where people anonymously post whatever they want. People can pretty much say whatever they want, regardless of whether or not it’s true. Gimme that. network news. It can be inane stuff like the employee at the local Dairy Queen, to jerkoffs down at the local bar.

Missed connections is another compelling read. Now, I will hazard a guess that most of you would totally be thrilled to one day read an old ex openly pining for you. Or an old date that still thinks about you. Or an impression you made on someone that you never knew about. Some of these posts are seriously about one meeting 3 years ago in some bar. It’s both flattering and scary what people hold onto as they move about in their life. And it’s always kind of fun to type in a place you were recently at, and see if anyone was checking you out. If you’re single of course. I admit I did that after we went to the Nickelback show to see if anyone said anything about “the asshole Chad Kroeger wanna be at the show”.

I would like to think one day, in a Warhol like 15 minutes of fame kind of thing, you find something about yourself on there. And not in a negative way. Thank God they didn’t have this sort of thing in my formative years. Instead, I just had to suffer the slander they ran in my yearbook.

Of course, you can be less ‘hardcore’ and choose the casual encounters option. After further research (as all good writers should do), there appears to be minimal difference between casual encounters, and any other option. The pervs are there just the same. Maybe they try to class up their ad a bit, but let’s face it, there’s only so many ways you can class up that you are a ‘power bottom’. It seems ta me the casual encounter stuff is sort of a psychological buffer. I imagine that the people posting here are just as hardcore, but they just haven’t accepted it yet. So this is the easy and ‘polite’ way to deal with one’s perversions. I guess it’s an easier psychological burden to bear if you list your affinity for benoit balls in ‘casual encounters’ than in ‘men seeking men’ (AKA m4m).

Regardless of where one places their ad for whatever deviation they are in to, it always cracks me up because most of them put in some terminology like “no weirdos” or “no perverts”. Huh? Isn’t that kinda what you’re looking for? “I want a guy to put an anal plug in me, but he has to be successful on Wall Street.” When did weirdos have to have credentials?

Of course, you can always list your ad under ‘platonic’. To be honest, I’ve never even checked these ones out. I’m sure it’s for boring shit like nerds looking to play Magic together or some such. Actually, judging by the few titles I’ve seen, it still looks like a playground for the twisted. I guess there’s just more of a fear of commitment here.

So I stumbled onto all of this because I troll CL for jobs. And coming from a sales/marketing background in the entertainment industry, I guess I kind of have a niche. In searching for such jobs, I still manage to come across jobs that reek of shadiness. I come across a lot of ads looking for ‘models’. Now I skim some of the ads, and it barely appears it is anything more than taking nude pics in a basement or garage. Hmm, I have a garage….

Apparently, ‘intern’ is now a job, as just about every seemingly legit post is looking for interns. In other words, you don’t get paid shit. Yea, next. If you are going here for job leads, I also highly suggest a site called RipOffReport.com. I have run many potential companies through this, only to find they are scams. I recommend you use that site for any company you might be looking at. So what was my point?

Yea, free entertainment. If you get the chance when you’re not reading my awesome Klogs, go fiddle around on Craigslist.

Proposed New Kevolution Theory Taglines

Ok, so this here blog has been around for a while now. And I've been using that same "It's not Revolution..." tagline at the top of the page. Since I am not computer proficient, we all have to suffer with just my extreme gift of writing knowledge. As such, and in the interest of keeping this bloggy dealie thingy all fresh like, i thought it was time to try some new stuff here.

And seeing how I am a computer knudnick, the easiest way for me to do so is try a few new taglines. So, with that in mind, here is what I've come up with.

The funniest combinations of 26 letters

The lighter side of undiagnosed clinical depression

The ramblings of a miscreant

What will one day be referred to as “The Lost Years”

If Christina Applegate just read this, she would madly, uncontrollably fall in love with me

Charm personified

Reality with a side of sarcasm. Or maybe the other way around. Whatever

Fourth grade humor written on a second grade level

Based on a true story

Where Coke is for color, and beer ain’t for sippin’

Soon to be a major motion picture

Where truth doesn’t count as much as humor

Bonus Features

DVD Commentary

OK, so this is one of those 'easy'posts. It's all essentially punchlines. It's one of those throw everything at the wall and see what sticks kinda things. Now if I knew how to post some sort of poll on here.....

Ideas you can steal for your college thesis

The Price May Be Right, But The Prizes Are Shitty

OK, so there I am-again-at the repair shop-again-getting my car fixed-again-for something to do with the coolant-again. In a very Rainman like fashion, I solve the 3 water-game puzzles they have. I don’t feel like reading any magazines-who dafuck reads these days, anyway? So I decide to watch the TV. And the Price Is Right is one. I haven’t seen this show in years. And it looks like they haven’t changed a thing. It still looks like the set of a bad 70’s space porno. As opposed to all the good 70s space porno.

Drew Carey is now the host, and I’ve always been a fan of his. I thought his show was really fucking funny and innovative, and still watch it to this day when I can find it. Drew’s always had that vibe of someone you can share a few beers with and laugh all night. Which is the same exact way you all feel about me, I’m sure. But of course, you’d be buying. Anywhoo, Drew is good on the show. He still uses that long narrow microphone that Bob Barker used for his 80+ year run on the show. Other than that, seemingly nothing has changed on the show. Regardless, if this was all I had to say, this would be a boring and unfunny Klog. I hope you would expect more, and I hope the following Klog brilliance suits the ‘more’ part.

Apparently, PIR still attracts a cult like following. I saw all kinds of motards with all kinds of gaudy homemade PIR/Drew shirt. Like there was a sale at the art store on cheap ass t-shirt graphics. There were groups of people dressed alike; almost like some sort of team. I guess this is how nerds play sports. When people are called, you’d think is was God personally granting their eternal salvation. It is now, with a much more wizened eye, I realized something about the show
.
Gdamn, the prizes sure are shitty.

You all know how to play. 4 people are plucked from the crowd to bid on a prize. This round has what I would indeed call shitty prizes. For example, today I saw one of the prizes for this round was a drum set. A drum set? WTF? What the hell kind of prize is that for 2009? What, the hifi set wasn’t available? I think I am a pretty good judge of people, and I am willing to guess those 4 contestants were thinking “What the hell am I supposed to do with a drum set? I don’t even play.” And where the hell would you out the damn thing anyway?

Before we go any further, I should point out that there are a few character types when it comes to the contestants making the guesses for this round. There is one type that tries to play strategy. You can tell these types because they constantly ask questions like “What was the last bid?” and “What is the highest/lowest bid?” These people must not be fun to party with. The second type is the type to guess with bizarre numbers. Whereas most bids end in round numbers (1500, 2450, 799, etc), this clod will guess something like 1258, 423 and 2056. This type must surely drive their coworkers and families insane with their rampant OCD. The last type that I saw was the ones who always guess $1. Doesn’t matter what the prize is, that’s all they guess. Every damn time. I think they do this because they are lazy, stupid, or just don’t want the lame fucking prize.

Now we proceed to the second round. Here, the contestant has another game to play. The contestant is shown the prize, and the resulting game always has something to do with guessing the price. You would be astounded at how many of the same variations they have on the same fucking game. The prizes on this round are hit and miss. Sometimes I think it’s just the producers busting on the contestants. All I’m saying is maybe some forethought is in order. For example, a mid age woman most likely has little need for 2 fucking dirtbikes. (Sure, there are some cases where they can give them to kids, etc, but on the whole I’m talking about.)The woman today who had the opportunity to claim these fantastic prizes couldn’t have been that thrilled. If I’m in her shoes 1) I’m feeling my boobs and 2) I’m thinking what a pain in the ass it’s gonna be to sell these things. It’s bad enough I will have to pay taxes on it. (You do know that if you ever win anything on TV, you have to pay taxes on it, right?) It would be a serious dilemma if I even wanted to win the damn things or not.

This round of the show also encourages audience participation. There is always a part when the contestant cluelessly looks to the crowd for help and guidance. All you see is a mass of faces and fingers; all saying different things. I mean, these are people who have nothing better to do in the middle of the day than to sit in a game show audience. What can be more pathetic? Writing about people who sit ….uh…never mind. Next paragraph please.

Another prize was a washer and dryer, a buffet server and a water-ski set. All in all, necessary prizes, but stuff most people generally have, or have little need for. What good is a water-ski set if you don’t have access to a damn boat? Again, pessimist I am, I would be thinking “Fuck, I just got a washer and dryer not too long ago, what the hell am I gonna do now? Where am I gonna store this shit? Where will I move my drum set to make space? Does anyone need my old ones?” In fact, if it was me, and I had just won the washer & dryer, I would immediately give out my email address and say, “If anyone wants to buy my old washer and dryer, shoot me an email.” The game for this prize was to guess which object was mispriced. I incorrectly guessed the buffet server. Turns out the ‘legit’ price of the buffet server (a small metal holder that warms food) was really $750. $750 for a fucking buffet server? Shit, you know how many good buffets you can eat for that kind of scratch?

Not all the prizes here are bad. I did see a big screen TV and cabinet, a wine bar (because wine drinkers watch the Price Is Right) and the requisite “……A NEW CAR!” Not once did I see my favorite game-Plinko. I can watch that for hours.

The models aren’t all that hot, either. (Yes, I know, like I am one to judge) They look OK and all, but they give off the air that they are vapid and high maintenance. Give me real, human looking girls that look like a blast to drink with and might give up 5th base, and I will watch. Also, make ‘em wear stripper boots. Man, Hollywood, you listening? Free advice here.

I remember back in the day on Wheel of Fortune, you had to spend the money you won. After you solved the puzzle, the ‘showroom’ would emerge. The showroom was a revolving stage of overpriced shit. What a buzzkill that you win a nice amount of money, now you HAVE to spend it at the Wheel of Fortune Store. And everything was fugly and overpriced. O, the look of pain on the contestants face as they has to shell out $800 for a hideous ceramic dog. I can still hear contestants saying things like “Well, OK, Pat, for $3000 I will take the tin ashtray.” I believe once you got you money down to a certain amount, you got the rest in cash. But I am sure it was like $200 or less.

That’s all I got to say. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.

New Wallet

I had to do something this week that I don’t often do. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I did it. And, NO, it’s not getting a fucking job. I had to buy a new wallet.

Which is odd, since I don’t have any money.

But it was time. Time to retire the Playboy logo emblazoned Velcro wallet that held my life the last 23 years. OK, that’s a joke. But I did have a Velcro Playboy wallet in high school. Because, Lord knows, the young 10th grade girls get really turned on when a potential suitor pulls out the ol’ Playboy wallet to pay to get in to the dance. Really, how did the girls stay away from me? Seriously, what girl is gonna get impressed by that. Anywhoo, back to current day. It was clearly time to retire my wallet. I don’t know how long I had it, but it perfectly molded to the shape of my right butt cheek. I am not looking forward to breaking a new one in. But at least I sit on my ass all day, so I got that going for me.

The little slots that hold credit cards, etc were ripping. It’s a sign you need a new wallet when your ATM card somehow escapes your wallet and you find it on the driveway. The part that held my few scant dollar bills had a hole in the bottom, so I really wasn’t spending all my money on cheap hooch at the liquor store.

My wallet had been bursting from me being a pack rat. Cripes, I have tons of cards and whatnot in here. So let’s perform an ‘xperiment. Let’s just see how much shit I have crammed in here. We’ve established there’s no cash. But in the cash section is one of those key chain size card things for CVS. Boy, these things fucking piss me off. Why do we need shopper cards? Why do I have to have a card to save 30 cents on a bottle of shampoo? Why can’t they just give it to me? Why do I have to join their little club? And it almost never fails, when I do have to go to CVS to buy something, and I don’t have one of their special cards, they always have one to scan right there at the register. So, again, I ask the faceless cyber world, what’s the point? And it turns out I have more such cards.

Turns out I have one to Acme. As much as I slam fucking CVS, they don’t bust nuts when it comes to having their card. Acme does. I usually go to Acme when I go to the liquor store, which is right in the same shopping center. And there have been times I’ve picked up bottles of Coke (and magazines with Christina on the cover) and they refuse to let me use the store card to save 4 cents off both bottles. Bastards! Well, I’ll show them now. I also have one to a local indy pet store. I wrote about them in a previous post, but I haven’t been able to return. I think it says something that I don’t have the regular card size card; no, these are the things that go on your keychain. I just don’t know what it says. Let’s keep going.

Look, a frequent buyer card to the Subway right up the street. I know it’s cool to slam Subway now, but I like them. It’s great tailgate food. Plus, they don’t have that gay oven that Quizzno’s has. Hmm, a Staples card that I haven’t used in like 2 years. In front of that is a PetSmart card. My Blockbuster card, are they still around? Library card. Ha, NERD! My card to Sam’s Club. Yea, I know, evil empire and all, but I am poor and like to eat 5 pounds of ground turkey. AAA card that I hope I never have to use. Insurance card, OK, I guess that can stay. My ATM card and Discover card round out the cards that make the migration to the new wallet. So let’s see what doesn’t make the cut.

AMEX card and MasterCard. Shit, how many of these do I need? I have accumulated a bunch of business cards. One to Primo Hoagies. Really, WTF do I need this for? I know where they are located. Trash. A card from a manager of my favorite band; yea, I’ll hold onto that one for now. A card from a landscaper that I might use when I actually get a job and save some money. A made up biz card from one of the douches in my fantasy league. Humorous, but 86ed nonetheless. Lowe’s card; yea, don’t need to be carrying that around. Biz card to my mechanic, maybe it’s bad luck that I carry it around, so into the trash it goes. Ticket stub to a show 2 years ago. Biz card from a music exec that never lead me to a job. Two guest passes to my gym when it went by another name. My old WEA card, along with a WEA card that breaks down tips to 18%. I will keep this, because I suck at math, and I never know how much to tip at Baja Fresh. OK, I have thinned out the riff raff. That was actually the easy part. The hard part is finding a wallet I like.

I don’t consider myself a particular kind of guy. I am not too picky. But I do get hung up on small things. Take sunglasses, for instance. I like mirrors. I feel it gives me some sort of edge. I like that I can see people’s eyes, but they can’t see mine. They think I am paying rapt attention to them, when I am really rolling my eyes in disgust and utter boredom. Plus, I like that I can look at anyone, and they won’t know it. Mirror shades are required for any and all trips to the beach. And I also like for the glasses to be one piece and wrap all the way around my eyes. This is to prevent eye cancer. And also to check out all the chicks. But mostly the uh…what did I say…yea, the cancer thing. So, yea, this is kind of 80s I guess, but I like it, and it’s one of the few things I can still pull off. Plus, such shades look really boss with my Dokken ’88 shirt. You can see, it takes me some time to find a pair I like that meets all the requirements.

Wallets are kind of the same thing. I don’t like tri-fold; bi-fold is the way to go. You can ask me why. (G’head, ask me, I’ll wait.) It’s just the way I like it. I am not one of those guys that has to chain it to their pants, either. Just a simple wallet, how hard can it be? Actually, easier than I thought. One trip to Target, and I actually find one I like.

Now comes the breaking in process. For a while, my ass will look odd; well, odder than it usually does. This new wallet even has one of those little plastic things that holds photos. Does any guy even use these picture things anymore? I don’t; no pics of the wife, dog, nuttin’. It will only take up the valuable space that otherwise goes to frequent shopper cards I scarcely use.

So if I have done one thing right this week (and that may very well have been all I’ve done right this week), let it be this. I feel more organized. I feel more ready to meet the challenge of the world. I feel….feel….poor. But with a newer wallet.

How Not to Disappear

Stupid people never fail to fucking amaze me.

In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s the link to a story that’s major news here and apparently everywhere else. http://www.clickorlando.com/news/19577281/detail.html Yes, it’s the story of the mom creating a kidnapping hoax and going to Disney. Everyone loves a good old seemingly- sane person -goes –and- does -something-incredibly-stupid story. My o my, there is just so much going on here. She clearly put less than zero thought into her brilliant scheme. Let’s take a look at everything she did wrong.

Right off the top, creating a bogus kidnapping story. Seriously, when do these things ever work out? On Three’s Company? She clearly doomed herself from the start. First, she claims to have been abducted in Southampton, yet her cell phone calls were traced to a tower in Philly. That’s inconsistent. The area she claims for this to have happened it is pretty highly trafficked, and no one else called in seeing any sort of accident or abduction. She claims she was rear ended by 2 black males, and when she got out, her and her 9 year old daughter were thrown in the trunk of a Cadillac. Now, one would think if you were going to take somebody and toss them in a trunk, you would fleece them for cell phones. But, no, these 2 black males never did that, so Sweeten (the mom in case you were too lazy to click the article, that’s OK, I understand) was able to allegedly make a calm call to 911. (The calls haven’t been released yet, but I am sure when they are, it will be so bloody obvious). I’m sure if she had a Twitter, she would have posted there, too.

Mistake number 2; leaving your fucking car in Philly. Huh? How are you supposed to keep up the allusion of a kidnapping? The car should have been abandoned in Southampton, not Philly. And most definitely right near the tower that tracked the cell phone call. D’oh #3, leaving your undamaged car to get ticketed. Really? Did this broad come up with this cunning masterplan as it went along? The ticket shows an early afternoon time, which clearly indicates there is something fishy going on here.

While this hullabaloo is going on, Sweeten and her 9 year old daughter are at the airport, boarding a plane to sunny FLA. For fuck’s sake, please don’t tell me you are this stupid. Barney Fife would have been cracking this case by now. There’s only like 20 cameras every 100 feet in an airport, it’s not like you are going to sneak by. Unless of course you are Jack Bauer, in which case he would have made a smooth getaway while all along saving the country.
Mom and daughter board the plane and head to a prepaid hotel room near Disney and spend the day at the park. “Hey, I just faked my own kidnapping! We’re going to Disney World!” By yesterday, it was clear this was a hoax, and I guessed they would have her nabbed by nightfall. Sure enough, they did. Fortunately, the kid is OK, and the mom is awaiting a flight back to face the music.

This is just the type of fantastic story that will be headline fodder for days on the national level, and weeks on the local level. We haven’t had a good story like this since our version of Bonnie and Clyde a while back. And that chick was way hotter, so I see why it was the top story for weeks.

But there’s more to the story. I am sure there are many more revelations to come, but let’s just focus on what we know so far. We know this Sweeten character is a total retard when it comes to inconspicuously faking your own abduction. Turns out over the last week, she has withdrawn $12,000 from multiple bank accounts. Like that’s not gonna set off any flags? Hello? Wow, it’s really ironic that a woman who has just taken out 12K all of a sudden goes missing. Did she really think that would just slip by? She also got her coworker’s drivers’ license. At the time Sweeten claimed she needed it for something to do with her pension. Huh? As dumb as she is, just how did she pull this one off? If you had a co-worker and they come up to you and go, “Hey, can I borrow your drivers’ license? What do I need it for? Umm…..uh….I need it….for…..our pension plan! Yea, that’s it, our pension plan.” WTF kind of pension plan requires you to use another’s drivers’ license? And what motard actually gives the license up? They should be jailed for the crime of being ‘too stupid to live’. Which, BTW, I was recently acquitted of, so I got that going for me. Anyway, wouldn’t that send another red flag up as this hoax grows? I mean, wouldn’t is just be a little too convenient that a woman who asks you for your DL, suddenly is abducted?

And here’s something that’s really burning me up about this story that I haven’t seen addressed anywhere yet. How the FUCK did she get past airport security? In this day and age of ‘being safe’ and the TSA and all, just how did she get by? I don’t fly like I used to, but when I did, Goddamn if 2 out of 3 times I got flagged and had to go to security for extra patdowns, looking at my carryon, etc. And this broad just sails right through? If I recall correctly, you have to present ID at least twice. Once when you check in and once right before you board. (Check me on this, I might be wrong, but you have to present ID at least once.) I want to see this ID she had. Did she even bother to manipulate it to have her picture? Did the stats (height, eyes) match or not. I want to see somebody at TSA explain this one to me.

Sweeten should be responsible for paying the entire expense of the man hours and resources that went to finding her alleged kidnappers. They had real issues to deal with, not some ditz. She should have to pay for being this stupid. I mean, look at all those loopholes. Would any rational person think, “Yea, this plan is bulletproof! Hello sweet Florida sunshine!” There was clearly no effort or forethought put in this. “Yea, while all those cops and FBI are looking for us, we’ll be at EPCOT having the time of our lives. My daughter will love me so much. I is a genius.”

I wonder what the end result was supposed to be. Surely, all this hoopla wasn’t for one day at Disney, right? Was she going to keep them on the run? Did she have an escape plan past Friday? Everyone wants to know why. What’s the rational, the logic behind all of this? Why a not so elaborate abduction scheme? Why not just take the 12K, and just fly to FL under your own name? That would have been far smoother, and saved a lot of good men and women their time and efforts.

I wonder just what the family is going to be like now. I really wonder if her 15 year old daughter is jealous she didn’t get to go to Disney Land? I really think that is a legit question. Logic would say this is kind of a spur of the moment decision, I wonder how long she had this planned out. What was the end result supposed to be? And did she really think she was going to get away with it? Why take the one kid, and not the other 2? I think it’s clear who crazy mommy’s favorite is.

If it was me, would I have done it differently? Her biggest mistake was just inventing this whole story. The way to go would be to still withdraw the cash, then just take your daughter and drive somewhere. I would think it would be treated as a missing person case first, you would be able to make it further before the Amber Alert came out. From there, I would use the cash to buy a used car. But then again, who really wants to be stuck driving to FL with a fucking 9 year old in the car?

This story is still developing, and I am sure it will get the BREAKING NEWS treatment and urgent music on our local stations for weeks to come. I kinda get the vibe that everyone want to see this get like the astronaut story; you know the one where the female astronaut drove like 20 hours in diapers with a gun to confront another woman. I am interested to see if we will ever get the whole story. I already envision Disney mom (or whatever smarmy name someone comes up with) in tears as she’s hauled into court. Wailing cries of “I’m sorry” hanging in the spring air.
Ah, crazy people. They make the world go round.

Sideways Hat Guy

FUCK! I haven’t written here for almost a month? Goddamn, I apologize, y’all. I have been writing-kinda a lot actually, just not here. You know where to find it, if not hit me up, and if you are cool enough, I might point you in the proper direction. Anyway, I wish it could have been a better topic. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

There’s been a pressing issue I need to discuss with all of you. You know I’m loathe to get all serious on yer collective ass, but something has been bothering me. Iran announced a new missile test today…..

Just kidding. But I am really irked by a behavior I’ve seen going on. I’ve seen it in malls, in the gym, at shows, in schools. And it’s really pissing me off, and it’s time we need to address it head on. There are people; people who do a stupid thing. And it’s time to call them out. You know who you are, you’ve seen them. Its guys who wear their caps sideways. Knock it the fuck off. You look motarded. Now, far be it from me to judge fashion. Those of you that have seen me know my fashion sense is sketchy at best. My closet if full of mostly black clothes. And I still can be found most summer days wearing flip flops and board shorts. But, hey, it’s my damn blog, so I can say whatever I want. You look motarded. In fact, when I see these douchebags walking around, I imagine what statement they are trying to make.

“I am stupid.”
“Yo, yo, yo, I am a playa.”
“OK, really, I’m just a fucking loser poser.”
“My name is Austin, and I own this here mall. Until 9:30 because that’s when my mom’s boyfriend picks me up. You know, right by the JC Penney?”
“I have to wear it this way to hide the lobotomy scar.”
“By wearing my hat sideways, I am showing my individual rebellion in society. Never mind that there’s 50 other retards hear wearing it the same way. Mine is a personal expression.”
“The new Master P record is dope, yo.”

What’s the look here? Are you trying to be edgy or scary or intimidating? ‘Cause it ain’t working. I have never been afraid of any doofus in a sideways hat. Unless they were taller than me. And bigger. And possibly a MMA fighter. In which case, wear your cap any way you please. I won’t make fun of you. To your face.

Face it boys, no one’s ever looked good rocking the hat sideways. I never got the appeal of wearing a hat off kilter. Wow, that’s really original. I don’t care if you are a ball player, X gamer, rocker, etc; it’s just not a masculine look. You can be deadlifting 2000 pounds in the gym, but with a sideways hat, you will draw snickers. Every time I see one of these tools, I wanna shake them so bad, but I’m afraid their baggy pants might fall off. I’ve often thought of marketing a hat that says ‘Only Motards Wear Their Hat Sideways’. But I know those dolts would still wear it sideways to be “ironic”. Hmm, wait a minute, they would still buy the hat? Shit, that’s my fucking idea, and by posting it, I’ve made it my personal and intellectual property, so no ripping me off.

Certainly, I am not the first to make fun of such hatfully attired. There are plenty of websites-Hotchickswithdouchebags.com being my favorite-that make fun of such chodes. And yet they don’t get a clue. It’s not a racist thing. Anyone looks like a fool wearing their hat in such a manner. Sure, you can argue Travis Barker (drummer Blink 182) got a former Miss America. While that it true, Trav sure banged the pretty out of her, and he still looks like a pencil neck wearing a hat sideways. I fear he might fall over

Yes, even girls can’t pull off the sideways hat look. Sure, they can try-again, to be “ironic”-but they can’t pull it off. Unless they have long hair. And a nice rack. In which case, they can wear tin foil for all I care.

These are just undeniable truths. Another one is the older you are, the more retarded you will look. Quickly, old guys wearing sideways hats is the open shirt, hairy chest and gold chains look for this generation.

I often wonder if it is all some secret language. Like if he’s wearing the hat at, say, 3 o’clock, it means he’s carrying. (Remember the one jeans leg up look?) If he sports it at 6, it means ‘I have tickets to the game’. And just how does one determine what time the hat is set at? Is bill over the face 12 or 6? Yea, it must be some sort of code. I am not a big hat guy at all, but I believe the only proper way to wear a hat is either bill over the face or towards the back. For the record, a lot of guys still look like tools wearing it backwards.

While we’re on the topic of hat transgression, I have an even bigger one. Schmucks who wear two head coverings. Yea, Toby Keith, I’m looking at you. Do you really think you’re fooling anyone? “Hmm, someone might notice if I just wear the mandana, but if I top it with a big ol’ cowboy hat, no one will notice for sure!” No, you just call more attention to yourself. He must be doing a good job, since a Google image search for Toby Keith + hatless reveals no pictures of his bald noggin. Keep up the good fight, there, TK.

Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top is another offender. I saw them 2 summers ago (and for the record, it was a really fun show). You should see the lids this guy is sporting. First he comes out in a horrid dome-coverer like this mess. What the hell is this? Brussels sprouts?

So he leaves it on for 3-4 songs, then puts a cowboy hat on top of it. Fuck, can you imagine how hot that must be? He’s gotta sweat more with 2 hats on. Didn’t leave the stage to switch hats, made it a point to put the cowboy hat over it. Can you imagine how much that first hat must reek? Whose job is it to wash Billy’s hats every night? By the way, I totally envision me doing that ZZ Top look as I get older. I see me sporting a Mick Fleetwood like ponytail, and a longass beard. Because that’s the look that will turn on all the ladies in the home.

So there, Blogland. Another plaintive cry for America to straighten up and fly right. Fellas, all it takes is wearing your hat properly. You’ve been told.

When Harry Met Whitey

OK, so I finally have lots to write about. Lots of half baked ideas looking to be…well, baked, I guess. And I really had no intention to write on the following topic. But I find things have hit me, and it’s affected me more than I thought, so I will go with it.

Famed Phillies announcer Harry Kalas passed away yesterday.

When I heard the news, I was not immediately affected. I thought it was sad, and you never heard of him being sick or anything. But as the day wore on, I found myself thinking more and more of old Harry. Look, I am not going to say I am a baseball/Phillies fan, because I am not. But there was a time in my childhood when I did follow the team. And if you followed the team, that meant you heard/saw Harry every game, every night. As many fans have already said, he was the voice in my childhood. Baseball is an incredibly parental kind of sports; sons bond with their dads over the game. For a while, I did the same with my old man.

I played baseball (pretty poorly) as a kid, and wanted to be the next Larry Bowa. I even had an ugly yellow shirt with him ironed on. This was fashion in the early 80s. And Harry was The Voice. He had been with the team since ’71. Generations of fathers and sons listened to him call the game. As someone said, he was the soundtrack to the summer. And fathers and sons would sit and listen to the game with Harry broadcasting it. (Now, I suppose I could use this as a rant about who dafuck listens to a baseball game. Apparently, it’s a big deal. It’s quite possibly tied with soccer as THE Boringest Sport on the Face of the Planet. I mean, what is there to say? “The pitcher throws the ball. The batter watches it go by for a called strike.” Seriously? Whatever.)

To generations of Philadelphians, Harry was the Phillies, he was baseball. And if you’re not from around here, you’ve still heard him. He’s been on tons of commercials, like Campbell’s Chunky soup, and also voiced NFL Films. So every January, you will still be able to hear him when ESPN does their NFL films marathons leading up to the Super Bowl. If you’re not from here, losing Harry Kalas is the equivalent of waking up with no cheese steaks or soft pretzels. Yes, it is that big of a deal around here.

Philly has been kind of lucky when it comes to our sports guys. We’ve had some true legends like Harry and Gene Hart with the Flyers. Dave Zinkoff was a famed in game announcer for the Sixers. Merril Reese has seeming been doing play by play for the Iggles like the last 60 years. Reese is a horrible homer, though. But, all in all, I am not aware of another city that has head the dearth of superior announcers than Liberty City. It’s a shame for the most part, the teams have sucked.

Losing Harry Kalas is losing a bit of your childhood. For many current fans, he’s the only voice for the Phillies. I know, at that time in my geeky life, he shared some big moments with me. All the big games and events. He’d be sharing the mike with long time partner Richie “Whitey” Ashburn as Schmidt hit 500, or the Phils beat the Expos on the way to the playoffs. The Xmas of 1980’s hottest gift was the vinyl record of Harry & Whitey calling the 80 World Series. Which never really happened in real life. At that time, the World Series was only broadcasted nationally by a national broadcast team; local broadcasters were not allowed to call the World Series. After Whitey and Harry were shut out of calling the Series, such an outcry arose, that the rule was dropped, and since then local markets can broadcast the games. So what we heard was those 2 calling the game via replay. And you know what? To my kid ears, I am sure it was magical.

How ironic, then, that Harry finally got to call a World Series the Phils actually won. I remember watching the end of the game going, “Shit, I wonder what Harry said?” The rest of the night, just about every newscast synced Harry’s call with video of the moment. As someone from the Phillies said yesterday “We have lost our voice.” There was reaction from the players themselves. Which I find kind of ironic, since they are playing when Harry was broadcasting. How could they have ever heard him? Anyway, I am sure their loss is far more on a personal level that professional.

Over the last 2 days, local radio has been flooded with fans calling in; relating their Harry memories and stories. No surprise, it turns out the guy was a true class act. (Just once, after someone dies, I would like to hear someone say, “Now that the son of a bitch is dead, I can tell you what I really thought of him.") A tribute grows at the stadium. Not that I’ve ever regularly watched the Phils over the last 20 years or so. But, usually, once or twice a season, I would drop by and check out Harry. He was always there. Always. I am sure many could close their eyes, and go back to their childhood.

Harry was beloved in this town, a fixture you really don’t realize how much you will miss till it is taken from you. Harry died yesterday, before a road game. Same way as Whitey. Harry was Philadelphia. He was known for singing “High Hopes”. (I suppose I could use this to lead to another rant about just what the fuck that song is about. Who writes songs about ants pushing rubber tree plants?) For many fans, they spent more time with Harry than any Phillie player. Not that I will ever watch another Phillie game. But when I do just happen to flick by, and not hear Harry, it will be odd. I am sure I will get many flashbacks over the next few days as his life is recalled. And I guess, down somewhere, deep, deep down, a piece of my childhood is gone. I can’t imagine how the real fans must feel.

OK, thanks for reading, and I will get to klogging the BS we all love. If you’ll excuse me, I have some rubber tree plants to move.

Picture Day at the DMV

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Christ, doesn’t every hack comedian do a bit on the Department of Motor Vehicles? Why do I need to read a Klog about it? What’s next, a stirring Klog about airline travel?” I had an experience today at the DMV that I thought I would share. BTW, be sure to be here next week for a stirring piece on airline travel.

So I got it in the mail, that little official form that says “dude, you’re getting older”. Yes, it was time to renew my driver’s license. Is there any other depressing memento of time passing by? In school, it was always the yearbook picture. Every year, you were well aware when ‘picture day’ was. You made the proper sacrifices to the acne gods-2 male chickens, I believe. You didn’t want zits. You wanted to have a good hair day. You worried how your braces would look. Back then, we didn’t have the digital luxury we have these days; there were no do overs. You would dread the day yearbooks came out to see how your picture turned out. We all knew kids who unfortunately fell into the following categories; closed eyes, zits, bad hair, molest-ache.

Turns out we never quite get away from that. In adulthood, it’s called getting your license picture taken. Few such days strike fear in my shallow heart as this day. It’s almost impossible to not do a quick inventory of your life when you show up to get your mug taken. Have I progressed any since last time I was here? What significant events have occurred since Uncle Sam last took a picture?

‘K, I will confess to being a bit shallow, even maybe just a tiny, tiny, tiny part vain. I mean no one wants to look like a goober, even if they really do look like a goober all day. I don’t need to see photographic proof to reinforce the fact I am said goober. Yet, I still get unreasonably nervous come picture day at the DMV.

Which is kind of odd. When you really think about it, just how often do you really look at your driver’s license picture? Sure, it’s usually readily visible in your wallet/purse. It’s usually the first thing you see when you open your wallet/purse up. Except for me. No sir, I cover mine up. The first thing you see is my American Express Black Card.

OK, it’s more like the plastic facsimile that comes in the mail with the application, but hey, it makes me feel better about myself. Back to the point, just how often do you look at your own drivers license picture (which will now simply be referred to as DLP, I don’t have all freaking day to type out the extra letters)? The only time you take it out is at the bar-if you are still lucky to get carded. Being well north of 21, it’s still a little flattering to get carded at the door. Even if the bouncer is clearly just doing his job, and calls you ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ as he hands it back. Chicks absolutely love getting carded. God forbid, you also have to whip out your license if you get pulled over.

I have always admired those brave souls who take goofy pictures for the DLP. You know, they make the ‘busted’ face, or roll their eyes or look super happy, etc. I think that’s damn funny, But I know if I ever did that, I would get pulled over all the time by cops with no sense of humor. That’s a taserin’.

Point is, you hardly ever do look at your DLP. Even at the bars, you just blindly hand it over, never even acknowledging the picture. So why do I (and maybe even you, for all I know) get so worked up over taking your DLP? I really reckon it to meeting your dates’ parents for the first time. You at least want to look decent. “Yes, hello Mr. So-and-so. Please don’t worry about your precious daughter. Yes, yes, I know she is your only daughter, and your wife miscarried the previous 3 girls. Please do not worry, as I have no ulterior motives or will do anything untoward or disrespectable towards your daughter. It will just be a movie-PG, of course-then perhaps a burger and a drink. Please don’t worry, as I will be more than happy with the handjob she will give me behind Fridays.”

I know I am not one of the ‘beautiful people’. I am OK with that. So why do I get so caught up in this? I am old, I am married, I have little to live for at this point, so why do I care? There’s not much to change. And face it, you never want to screw around with your look-whatever it may be-right before getting your DLP taken or married. I’m certainly not gonna change my scruff or goatee. Really, the only thing I have to worry about is hair. And there’s less and less of that. I know that because I look at my old license. There is long, healthy, blonde hair. Now a days, not so much.

I think I get worked up because for some reason, I think this picture might be on the news some day. I will go off and do something heroic. In a scramble, the media outlets have no picture of me. So I believe there is some imaginary government office that will release the only pic they have of me; my DLP. “And the big story today is the heroic acts of this man, who singlehandedly saved the crippled orphans from the raging fire.” O, who am I kidding? The story will most likely be “In other news this night, this man was found running and screaming naked up on the town water tower. It took 3 sedative darts to take him down. When he was on the ground, reports have him saying, “Where is my rum and where are my pants?”” And then you will see my DLP.

I lay picture day out. Since these places have notorious wait lines, I plan to get there early. Early in, early out. I shower, then proceed to ‘do my hair’. I put in some leave in conditioner, comb in, then headbang for a minute. I find Judas Priest music to work quite well. Make sure some of it covers my ugly mug. Ah yes, sweet, flat lifeless hair. It’s sunny today, and that’s one less things to worry about. Imagine my surprise when I show up and there’s already a line. Damn it! So I wait outside, just enough wind to mess up my already messed up hair. O, the humanity.

I go in, and there are only 2 photo desks open, which is fine. Turns out not too many people are there. One desk is manned by a woman, the other by a man. I start to feel like a girl. I feel self conscious. Suddenly, a flashback to my last time in this very office. I can’t remember too many of the specifics, but I do remember that the guy I got to take my picture, something was different about him. Shit, was he deaf, or mentally retarded or something? It really was something along those lines. I remember even feeling more self conscious. I felt like such a girl when I had to sign that damn electronic screen twice. No, priss that I am, my first autograph wasn’t good enough.

I have suck handwriting. Apparently, I didn’t pick up good penmanship in my 12 hellacious years in Catholic school. Honest to God, my cursive is no better than an 8 year olds. I have seen my nieces’ handwriting, and they are all better than mine. About halfway through high school, it was so bad, I couldn’t even read my own writing. So I fell back to printing, more or less. I hate what has turned out to be my ‘official’ signature. My printed one is far cooler. It’s neater looking, and also, when you bend it in half and hold it up to a mirror, it totally looks like a labia.

Fate calls me to the guy’s desk. It is here that I discover he is cross eyed. Shit! This makes me even more self conscious. I admire anyone who has any such sort of thing, really. I just worry about my reactions around them. I surely want to be respectful. But, fuck, which eye is the good eye, the one I’m supposed to look at?

I sit down and hand over my paperwork. I am so hyper aware, I take off my jacket, I don’t want it to be in the picture. Hell, I even labored over what color to wear today. I am such a priss. So he’s doing his thing on his computer, and I see my chance. On the wall a few feet away is a mirror. I am sure my hair got messed up outside. So I run over to take a look. As soon as I am a half step out of my chair, of course he has a question. Damn it. I continue to the mirror, just a quick glance. But now I feel bad, and I really don’t primp as I would want to. I am sure he’s rolling his eyes (at least the eye that can roll) at me. I sit back down. I have to sign that damned electronic screen thing again.

You know I have piss poor handwriting. Have you ever signed one of these things; they are everywhere. From UPS to Target, etc. No matter how clear your writing is, it comes up looking like indiscernible scribble. I do it once, and it really looks like an illiterate monkey signed it for me. I sheepishly ask to do it over, and he acquiesces. From observation, just about everybody asked for a second shot. I sign it again, and it is clearly no better. I could have all damn day to get a good ‘graph in there. But that would be rude to the motards behind me. Fine, whatever, I can let it go.

Next up is the hard part; the actual DLP. I have no idea what my hair looks like. He tells me to get ready, as I slap on what I refer to as ‘cheesy grin #3’. Look at the white dot and-flash! Damn, it takes forever as the picture comes up to the monitor on my right. Finally it appears and it’s…..eh. It’s about as “not horrible” as we can get. It looks like my goatee is eating my jaw. There’s no bangs hanging down to cover the mess that is my face. And it looks like there is more hair coming over my left shoulder than right shoulder. Fuck, what a mess, how horrible. Shit, how everyday.

Really, if I had the time and knowhow, I would post what both DLPs look like. But I am not that tech savvy, and I fear some nerd could come along and steal my info. Yes, even if I covered my license info with a thick piece of black cardboard, I am worried there is some hacker who could somehow eliminate that and steal my identity. It would be their bonehead move, because who wants to assume the ID of a jobless, penniless loser? Plus, one dark night, the Internet Police showed up at my door, and politely told me I am “far too ugly for the internet, and to please remove all pictures”. I shouldn’t complain; I thought they were coming about all the porno…

So now I am stuck with this for another 4 years. My mug will lamely shine from my Velcro Harley Davidson wallet. (Note to self-it might be time to get a new wallet.) One day you just might see it on the news.

Home Cooking

I have a personal chef. His name is George, George Foreman. Me and George get along well, real well. George will cook for me a few times a week. He understands me. He knows I am not a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I am a meat guy. Seriously, I can eat nothing but meat for a meal and be more than happy. I am not a vegetable guy. At all. I can honestly tell you I cannot remember the last time I ate a vegetable. I know they are good for me, but I just don’t like them.

I am a fairly clean, boring eater. I can eat tons of boring stuff and not complain. Fruit, nuts, chicken breast, fish, cottage cheese, tuna. I am fairly versed in the use of spice. Although my favorite was Ginger Spice from all those years ago.

I also make what I affectionately call Glop. Glop comes in many forms. At night, Glop contains a scoop of protein, oatmeal, cottage cheese, and maybe some raisins or peanut butter. Glop can also contain meat; like say diced chicken breast, crushed nacho chips, some cheese, maybe a dressing of some sort. Throw in a bowl, mix it around, nuke for 45 seconds and chow down. I have made some truly disgusting Glops that are actually pretty good. Even the dog looks at me like, “That’s disgusting.” And that’s saying something, because I am pretty sure he eats his own poop. At least I hope it’s his own poop. I am not a chef in the traditional way. Like, you know, what goes with what. I am intrinsic. I use whatever hits me at the time. I have no need for measuring cups or tea spoons. That’s what pussies use.

As it is in most relationships, my wife is the total opposite. Food Channel or whatever dafuck it’s called is her favorite channel. She can watch for hours. After watching a whole episode about cooking dish X, I will ask her if she will make it now, and she answers “no”. So then, what’s the point? She’s all into recipes and stuff. She takes an Oriental cooking class, and endures all my stereotypical jokes about how she’s cooking cats and gophers. There are things in the cabinets that only have Japanese written on them. And that scares me. How the hell are you supposed to know what’s really in them? How do you know it’s not a ploy to get dipshit Americans to eat foul stuff? Some say the war never ended….

T is also taking a night class. The class was asked when the last time some one did something nice for them was. The class-mostly broads, surprise-all said their husbands make them dinner. T seemed to be making a subconscious point when she came home to tell me this. I may be unemployed, but I ain’t stupid. It’s her gentle way of telling me she wants me to make her a dinner. For the record, I have made breakfast and lunch and dinner for her many times in the past. I think you can see that we do have differing tastes and definitions when it comes to dinner. I will gladly spice up extra chicken breasts and throw them on the grill so she can eat/use them whenever. I will always make extra turkey burgers, salmon, etc so she can mix them in a salad or take to work, etc.

My idea of ‘cooking’ involves the Foreman grill and that’s it. However, T will use these things called ‘pots’, ‘pans’, ‘stoves’ and ‘ovens’ in her cooking. That seems a tad too much for me. I am a one cooking device kinda guy. Anything more and you might as well alert the fire department. A gauntlet has been thrown down; make her dinner. Fear is struck into my heart. I mean, it’s only fair, she’s made me tons of good dinners over the years. I still refuse to eat her ‘broiled cat” or “stir fry squirrel”. Mama didn’t raise no fool.

On a Sunday while she has class, I head to Google to search for a recipe for the catfish I have. Protip when searching for recipes here, fellas; ALWAYS include the word “easy”. That will make your life so much easier. I cross reference the recipe to make sure we have everything we need in the house. Turns out I am missing 2 fucking things. It’s hard to hold onto your man card in Acme when you’re in the spice aisle.

It’s minimal work. All you do is throw the spices in a bowl, dip the catfish in and cook in the oven. OK, it was pretty smooth sailing after I figured out where the oven is. So I present her with the fish like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Ya know, “edible” is an oft under rated word. To be honest, it was fair, no Legionnaires at all. I probably fucked up correctly mixing the spices. I mean, is it my fault I don’t know the difference between what a teaspoon is and what a tablespoon is? It didn’t really taste Cajun or have a kick, but, still it was good, and there were no ensuing vomit session.

She’s been working long days lately. Plus, she’s been letting me borrow her car while mine was going into the shop. It occurred to me to give this making dinner another shot after she had a long day. She can bring home the bacon, at least I guess I can try to fry it up in the pan. Again, Google and easy lead me to a yummy sounding garlic crusted chicken. The degree is raised a bit, as I have to use the range and the oven. Dial 9 and 1 on the phone and keep it nearby.

I essentially melt butter in a pan, dip the chicken strips in, then coat them in a bowl of spices I have mixed. It’s about halfway through I realize I made a key mistake. In my haste, I have put the garlic in the bowl, not in the pan of butter as directed. Fuck! I fucked it up and it’s gonna be all garlic-y. Too late now. I even tried to figure out if there was a way to counter act the garlic by mixing something else in. I reassure myself that doing that would just make a garlic-y situation worse. I throw the sheet of chicken in the oven and hope for the best.

T came home and went right for a nap. She was wakened by the smell of garlic chicken floating through the house. Which is far better than the expected smell of charred drywall and burnt plastic. I take the chicken out and it actually looks pretty damn good. I load up our plates. I gentlemanly let her eat first. OK, that’s bullshit, I wanted her to go first to see how bad it was. Again, mama didn’t raise no cook and she certainly didn’t raise no fool. I watch her serene face turn to that of…pleasant surprise. She keeps chewing! Damn, this is a good sign. It has been decreed; I have made “damn good chicken”.

I bite in, and am also pleasantly surprised. No overwhelming garlic taste. T is genuinely impressed. She’s such a trooper, she tells me she was dreading eating this. But I have surpassed her expectations. For once, Kev done good. So now I know how to make two things good: garlic crusted chicken and rum and coke. Now, that’s a dinner. And I see it’s after 5…

Woefully Inadequate

I have been charged with a mission today, a mission I’d rather not complete. Go to Home Depot and line up getting carpet installed. This is in direct conflict with my “usual” schedule. I wake up early-6 is still considered early, these days, right?-make breakfast, spend a few hours trolling the Net for jobs, consequently band my head on the wall I even have to do this, try to do some sort of house stuff, cry, try to write something. I will also mix in going to the gym (keep me sane) or do something with the dog. You will note there is no mention of ‘shower’.

Shoot me, fucking shoot me. I hate Home Depot, hate Lowe’s, hate home improvements, hate tools, hate wrenches, hate it, hate it, hate it.

I do prefer HD over Lowe’s for some reason don’t ask me why. OK, I will tell you what my retarded reasoning is. Here’s is Jimmie Johnson, the current three-peating NASCAR Sprint Cup Champion. He is sponsored by Lowe’s.

I hate him because he is so successful. I hate him because that fag Jeff Gordon co-owns his team. I hate him because he is so goddamn bland and corporate and PC and vanilla. He gives the lamest cliché ridden interviews. Boring and vanilla. On the other hand here is Tony Stewart, who up until this year, drove for HD.

He is open and opinionated. He is aggressive on the track and will spin you out if you really piss him off. He is a 2 time champ. And I mean, just look at him’ he looks like he sustains himself on cheeseburgers and Molson Goldens. Yea, that’s who I wanna buy my tools from.

Plus, he used to have a monkey as a pet, and one day I want a helper monkey for myself. I am sure the monkey would be more adept at using a drill anyway. That’s what monkeys have opposable thumbs for, right?

Thankfully, in the yin and yang of our relationship, my wife is the tool head. She spends time in those stores like I used to spend time in record stores. God bless her for that. My most recent big tool purchase was a measuring tape. Big whoop.

I think I hate these stores because of that fucking show that started this whole home improvement movement. That one with that super-chipper host who you want to strangle with and electrical cord. Yea, Trading Spaces. I have it on good third hand knowledge that the show is faked. They shoot the bit with the couples, then kick them the hell out and get real workers to do the job. Think about it. Do you really think that just 2 dipshits can redo a kitchen in 2 days? Tear down tile, tear down drywall, rip down cabinets, reroute wiring, reroute plumbing, install new countertop, install new cabinets, put up drywall, tile, paint, wallpaper, install a new floor, build a new island, install a garbage compacter and lighting? Fuck no, open you eyes. But dumbfuck America buys it hook line and sinker. “Hey, look, that couple can do all that in one weekend, so can we!” No. No you cannot, not yours.

And would you really want your neighbors nosing around your stuff? Hell, no. I am convinced the neighbors next to us will be murderers. I am convinced there is something very odd going on in that house. The curtains are always drawn, you barely see the parents out, and you never see any of their 3 young kids running around in the backyard or going out for a walk. Fuck, they never even come out for Halloween. But I know one of these days, there’s gonna be news vans outside our houses. And I’m gonna have to be the dumb hick that says, “Duh, no, I never saw this coming. They were always quiet and kept to themselves. Snuffing cheerleaders on the web, you say? Yea, never saw that coming.”

Why are people so obsessed with this do it yourself thing when it comes to their homes? Would you try to fix the brakes on your car? No, so why is putzing around your house any more acceptable? In this economy, your house is the biggest asset you have, I get that. But what the fuck makes you think you can run electricity? Or properly install a deck? There are guys, good guys who can and will do this. Yes, it is costly, but think of the time and trouble you save yourself. Let a pro do the work. It shouldn’t be lost on anyone that you can’t spell “idiot” without “I do it”.

You would think laying a carpet would be easy. Remove furniture, take up the carpet (lucky for us it’s just an area rug), throw new carpet down, put furniture back in and life is normal. But NO! Of course it’s more fucking involved than that. No, you have to sweep and dust the floor. You have to order the carpet larger than the room so they can make the proper cuts. You have to install tacking. (O, so that’s how you get the edges to stay down) There’s the padding that goes beneath the carpet. You can’t have the carpet ‘sag’ in the middle. Then you have to air out the room because there’s chemicals in the carpet. Hey, if you can catch a high off the new carpet, I am down with that. Aside, geez, that’s a lot of fucking work.

The home improvement gods have not been kind to me since losing my job. We’ve had to replace the washer, dryer, fridge and now our shitty little TV in the bedroom finally flickered its last image. Now I can’t watch TV to help me fall asleep. Hopefully, all the voices in my head will get together and put on a play.

So I will wander in to HD. And I hate the way it makes me feel. I feel dumb. I feel stupid. I feel ignorant, retarded, clueless. I feel helpless, embarrassed, ashamed. I feel dopey, foolish, dense. I feel confused, lost, intimidated. I feel woefully inadequate.

In other words, how I feel every other day these days. I certainly don’t need ‘Stan’ back in ‘flooring’ to remind me of this fact.

I guess somewhere deep inside, I cling to that old school idea that a guy should be good with wrenches and saber saws. Maybe it’s because my dad is pretty handy. He has tools in the basement and garage. That’s a man there. It seemed growing up, if he had a situation he wasn’t familiar with, he went to one of 2 books. It was either the yellow or blue Reader’s Digest How To books. That was all he needed, those books somehow must have magically covered every scenario.

It’s not like as soon as you’re issued your balls, you are also graced with the know how to fix that running toilet or build a book case. I am so retarded, I couldn’t even hang a picture straight. Sure, they could draw me lifelike illustrations, get me NASA 3D technology, write it in simple steps even a 2nd grader could understand, and I would still hang the picture crooked. Probably backwards, too.

I am such a tool, I at least try to dress the part. I go in wearing old jeans, workboots-untied, of course-some ratty ass hoodie. Aw, who am I kidding? I might as well go in there in a tux or a sombrero. Hell, if I wore the sombrero, I could probably get some day work from the contractors in the parking lot.

Sigh, I have procrastinated long enough. Time to bite the bullet. Now if I can only find my hat with the propeller on top….

Things That Go Beep in The Night

Four in the morning
Came without a warning
Everybody’s got a place to be
-Night Ranger

Being unemployed, I spent a lot of time existing (because I sure as hell won’t call this living) in my house. I have become attuned to many things that previously would be unheard and unseen. Lately, I have become attuned to many sounds that previously were just ‘wallpaper’. It’s funny when you slow down, the things you can catch. Quiet can be so loud sometimes.

My house is no different. It’s a cacophony of sounds on days like this. Sometimes it’s all comforting; other times its pretty disconcerting. There are sounds that are constant. For example, the ticking of the Homer Simpson clock downstairs in the living room. The ticks can travel all the way upstairs to the bathroom. If I put another battery in the clock, Homer will issue one of his trademark quotes at the top of every hour. Yea, that’s pretty cool, but that got real old real quick the first few days. Plus it was freaking the dog out. So now we save Homer for just the special occasions, like wakes.

Our new fridge makes sounds. (It never fails, once you lose your job, every major appliance will fail. So far we’ve bought a dryer, washer and fridge.) It also has the annoying habit of freezing the icemaker. Ice gets caught in the chute, and the motor won’t turn to crush the ice. This has happened twice, and it’s a fucker both times. We’ve resorted to pouring hot water through the ice maker to melt the clogged ice. It’s not a very neat process, at least Bauer licks up all the water on the floor. I swear, if it was ethical to put Spic n Span on his tongue, I would have him clear the floors. Every few days, I will get some ice for my water, just to keep the chute clear. Then I will hear water run into the freezer, and a few more rounds of ice will drop during the day.

If it’s a windy day, the flag outside (duh) will whip back and forth. The wall will creak as the flag blows. There are the normal creaks and moans that any 50 year old house will have. Fortunately, it is not the scary kind, like footsteps on major joists shattering. And the toilet runs like a motherfucker.

Bauer performs his own concerts. You can hear his nails as he continues to scratch our exposed hardwood floors to shit. Even his dog tags emit a certain jingle that is all his own. That is actually pretty comforting. He’ll groan as he plops down on the floor. He’ll bark when other dogs walk by. Or the mailman. Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is OK because I trained him to do that.

Over the last few weeks, months actually, there’s been a new sound. It happens twice. One seems to be intermittently on its own schedule. The other time is at freaking 4 o’clock every morning. I am a light sleeper. Often, I won’t hear its digital cry at 4AM. The last few weeks however, the alarm has gotten me almost every morning. I guess it’s not all bad, there have been times it’s awakened me from nightmarish dreams. You know the one with the scary monster that is chasing you and your feet won’t move? You just stand there as this killer rages towards you. The 4 AM beep can be a savior.

No one likes to get woken up at 4 fucking AM. Doesn’t matter what the cause. Kid crying, smoke alarm going off, bloodthirsty killer coming up the stairs. We’ve all been there. We hear that foreboding and unexplainable sound, and roll over in our warm bed praying it’s just nothing. Or nudge our mate, and pretend to be asleep so they can go put out that grease fire in the kitchen. It’s clear that over the last few weeks, I’ve been waking up at 4 when this hidden alarm goes off. It sounds like a digital alarm from a watch or stopwatch. Not terribly loud, but loud enough. Not big, but small enough to hide when it goes off.

The 4 AM wake up call doesn’t jive with me too well. Usually because I have to get up half a dozen times a night and go pee. We don’t have one of dem dere fancy bedrooms with the bathroom right next to the bed. Well, technically, we do have a small deck right off our bedroom that I might or might not have pissed off of during the summer. I’ll let the neighbors figure that one out. The bathroom is the other end of the hall. Not a long trip, but enough to keep me awake for another 45 minutes or so. You can imagine I am not thrilled to hear the digital rooster go off at 4. So one morning, I’m whizzing away, when I hear it go off. Ha! The stars have aligned! I run downstairs to try to track it down. I’m like a blind Perry Mason. The alarm stops before I can track it down. It’s coming from the dining room, possibly the closet. Bauer, who usually sleeps under the dining room table is looking at me like WTF are you doing? Now he’s up, and he wants to pee, too. I let him out as I stare into the black night, promising this will be the last time this happens to me. A fire is lit.

The next morning, I am now bent on finding this damn thing. I diligently tear everything apart in the closet. It’s a mess of various shit we haven’t used in years; sleeping bags, party favors, my pride, etc. And bags, lots and lots of bags. Backpacks, gym bags, hockey bag, sacks. It is in one of these that I find a stopwatch. Ha! I have finally found the culprit! Now if I can only somehow include this in my resume. I remove the battery, and leave it on my desk as a sign of victory. Ah, yes it sure will be sweet to sleep through 4 AM tomorrow…

My body wakes up a few minutes before the chirping would start. It’s somehow gotten on a schedule because of all this. But I will soon head back to sweet, sweet slumber come…. FUCK! Is that the alarm still going off?? WTF? I thought I got it! Shit! Shit, shit, shit. My wife rolls over, “I thought you said you got that thing?” “Yea, me too.”

As I Klog this now, I still hear that occasional beep. Fuck, this is pissing me off. T found a stopwatch in her schoolbag that might now be the culprit. And I believe I turned the alarm off. Now I will get a screwdriver (the tool, not the drink, although that might not be a bad idea, either) and pop the battery out of that. Hopefully, that will be it. Well, I better get to bed, I might have an early call tomorrow…

Bonus material
Commentary
OK, I admit, this is a rather quick and dirty Klog. It’s more of an exercise than my usual attempt at humor. Lately, I’ve been reading books about writing. And I’m trying to incorporate some things I’ve learned. This Klog is a bit more like a ‘slice of life’ piece then my usual stuff. I tried to bring in some minor details to make it feel like you hear all the usual sounds that go on in my house. So please forgive me if this wasn’t the usual “funniest Klog you’ve ever read” post. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and please feel free to tell me if you didn’t.

Plus, I always wanted to start a Klog by quoting one of my favorite bands. Now I just gotta figure out how to start a Klog with Dogstar….

Suffering for Art

In my quest to be a real ‘writer’ (stop your snickering), I’ve become aware I should expand my horizons. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to stray too far from fart jokes and stuff, but maybe tackle some new challenges. It seems most writers suffer for their art. So why should I be any different? Sometimes great things come from pain. And, today, for you, brave reader, I am willing to suffer.

So there I am in Sam’s Club a few weeks back. I know, I know, evil empire and all, but I am out of work and that’s a damn good price for 8 pounds of chicken breast. I like to expand my food/drink horizons from time to time; try something new or I’ve never had before. You have to understand, as much as I write about how much I drink, I am really quite boring. The fact is I drink far more milk, water, green/black tea than anything else. Occasionally I step out and treat myself to Propel. And I’ve gotten into some funky juices now. Who ever thought blueberry and pomegranate juice wouldn’t taste like yak barf? I was looking for something new, and it came down to something called Fruit 20 or Talking Rain. I had never seen this Talking Rain stuff before. It’s one of those trendy drinks that brags about being organic and shit. OK, I’m game.

I come home, chill it, and proudly boast how on point I am. This stuff will be good for me, and no doubt increase my vitality, health and over all damn good looks. I drink the first one and-

BLAH! This shit tastes like fucking Alka Seltzer. Holy shit, how did this happen. After further review, this swill turns out to be ‘sparkling artesian spring water’. It comes in funky flavors like pomegranate & lime? I guess pomegranate is the new ‘it’ fruit. The label might as well say gravel and iodine. This shit is horrid. I have clearly made a gross error. I couldn’t even finish the 17 ounce bottle. Yea, that’s right, 17 ounces, 1 extra ounce of crap than usual bottles. I promptly try to forget I have a case of this shit now.

Flash forward a few weeks. I am a bit stalled for something creative to write about. Then it hits me. I can Klog about trying to finish one bottle of this stuff, how long it will take me and my thoughts. I will stretch my writing wings (and learn to fly again learn to live so free…). Suffering and misery could work for me.

So here we are. It’s just about 9:30 AM. I have already performed many household duties; wash, make the bed, do the dishes, and now is about the time I fucking bang my head against the wall as I search for decent job opps online. It is a meager existence to be sure. And I will document, real time, the progress of me trying to drink this shit. Yes, great writers write about their drug habits, I will try to sound manly drinking ‘sparkling water’. Hey, ya gotta start somewhere, and I can’t afford cocaine right now.

9:30 AM Taking the cap off now, here we go.

9:31 Ready to give up. I don’t even know why they say this has a flavor, I can only taste what I can only describe as “general yuckiness”

9:51 Jesus Christ, this sucks. Right now, how many other losers are there wearing Homer Simpson slippers cruising Monster, CareerBuilder, etc looking for a job? Ugh, how hopeless. Here’s what I’ve learned spending this much time online; there are apparently 3000 girls right here in my town that would fuck me, but no job that belies my degree and 8 years in sales and marketing. But I think this is the week I score an interview. Wanna know why? Because last night at hockey I got a black eye. I put my stick in front of this guy with a notorious slap shot. And I watch the ball leave his stick, bounce off of my blade and shoot right up to my eye. This morning, there isn’t much swelling, but I am sporting a nice shade of blood red from the side of my eye half way across. It looks like I put eye liner on, then stopped half way. Sigh, this dose of reality sucks, almost as much as this pomegranate and lime shit. I take another small sip, but I am clearly not winning.

10:05 Well, one good thing about this stuff, it makes me belch. The scary part is my burps actually have more taste going out.

10:57 Who am I kidding here? Why do I get so into an idea, and then just give up? Kinda like New Years’ Eve. At about 1 AM I decided I would try to stay up for 24 hours. Don’t ask me where I got that idea; probably the same place I got this one. Come the 23rd hour, I thought “what the fuck is the point” and went to bed. I am not giving up on this, it’s just a small break. That shit don’t taste any better at room temp, so I put it back in the fridge and will get after it in a bit.

1:04 There is nothing more depressing than trying to find a job. For the last few hours, it’s been the same Goddamn thing. Let’s see, I interviewed with them a year ago, sent them a resume more than a year ago, that one is the same company I interviewed with last year but with a new name. I think it’s dawning on me the best I can do is apparently assistant manager at Mr. Muffler. I wouldn’t even be Mr. Muffler, I would have to be Mr. Muffler Jr. Or Mr. Muffler the 2nd. After a maddening waste of time, I look forward to taking Bau for a walk. Today it was snowing big, fluffy flakes. And as we were walking, we could hear church bells ringing off in the distance. Kinda cool in a serene way. I really think Bauer is the only one rooting against me landing a job. Most afternoons, I will take the PC downstairs, just so I can hang with him a bit. Anyway, I’m eating lunch now, and totally wussed out about drinking more of that Talking Rain shit. I wonder how they come up with the fruit combinations. Just who is responsible for aligning pomegranate with lemon? Wouldn’t lemon and lime make more sense? How about strawberry & banana. I will finish my lunch, then drink some more. Man, suffering for art sucks.

2:06 Seriously, is this swill they feed to like hogs and sheep(s)? I can’t imagine anyone actually thirsting for this. “Hey, honey thanks for cutting the lawn in the 105 degree heat. Can I get you something to drink? How about a nice, cold pomegranate & lemon sparking water?” People can’t drink this on its own, no way. They have to mix it with something. What the hell, do you add like 5 teaspoons of sugar? Real fruit? What the hell do you…..o….o no….no…..no. Please don’t tell me I really came up with this idea. No. Fuck. I did. It’s there now. Shit, really? It can’t be any good, can it? Fuck. Fuck, I wonder what it tastes like….with coconut rum. Really? Dayload on a fucking Tuesday afternoon? Talk about stereotypical out of work loser. But it would be strictly in the name of science. Or literature. Fuck, if I do it, it is really opening up Pandora’s Box.

2:12 Pandora’s Box is opened. There is no turning back. I don’t know what this will taste like. At least with Coke, you can get a good idea of the mix by the color. And the Coke is just for coloring, BTW. But when you mix 2 clear liquids, you just never know. O well, cheers, and down the hatch.

2:13 First thoughts. Not enough rum. There is still an Alka Seltzer like, bitter taste right at the top. Not as chalky as just the plain sparkling water though. But since rum is involved, I owe it to follow it out.

2:16 Ok, this is odd. The more I sip-and make no mistake, this is something you can’t take a full swig of-the less and less grotesque it is. Which was exactly my angle with the chicks in high school. Actually, mixing this concoction reminds me of a story from when I was a kid. It was one of the rare weekends when my parents left me alone. I had to be like 14-15 and dumb as shit (Yea, funny how not much has changed). I had to take advantage. They had a small collection of liquor bottles. I knew if I took a lot from just one, they would notice. So my brilliant idea was to take just a little bit from ALL of them. I didn’t care about what mixed with what, it all went together. So in one big jug I mixed amaretto, vodkas, whiskeys, rums, etc. I then took my jug o’ happiness and met up with a friend so we could drink. Only, after I opened it up, I discovered that many strange and foreign reactions had taken place. The best way I can describe it is to say if looked like moose yack. Not that I’ve even seen moose vomit, but I imagine it to be fairly similar. Something congealed, and it looked like oats in larvae. But, fuck, I couldn’t waste it. So I summoned all the Irish in me to take a good, long swig. Now, I don’t remember waking up in the hospital 4 days later. ..just kidding. I realized I had just wasted the whole damn thing. It was undrinkable.

2:39 The slush is now becoming a bit sugary. I realize that the coconut taste is masked by the pomo-lime connection. And maybe some Coke would make things go a bit smoother. Hey, I never said I would drink the sparkling water straight, did I? No, I’m allowed to mix. There’s still a lot of the sparkling water left, though. I was hoping to knock it out in one more drink. What to do, what to do?

3:10 OK, the Coke def helps. Now there’s a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste, but over all, it’s far better than just the sparkling water.

4:30 Uh Oh, wife just pulled up, and I am surely buzzing. Shit, way to be the stereotype, dufus. She comes in. “Hey! Have you been drinking?” “Wha..wait…what honey? And I musht shay you look shimply rafhishing.” “Goddamn it, I am out earning money and you’re drinking? What the fuck? And hey! Is that an empty box of bon bons on the floor?” “Wha..wait…where? Aw shift. Umm…uh…Goddamn it Bauer! Bhad dhog! You are a vewy bahd dog.” “Uh, dipshit,” she replies,” dogs can’t eat chocolate, it makes them sick.” “Well,” dipshit answers, “that would explain the human size dump under the dining room table. Anh bfy the way, youuuu lhook shimply rashivishing.” Shit, no response. Have to go to back up plan. I roll on the floor, “Ow! My eye! My eye!”

7AM Next day. Shit, it’s Wednesday? What the hell happened to Tuesday? In conclusion, I was able to finish the bottle, but not on its’ own.

I hope you enjoyed my suffering, you sick bastards.