Vacation Klog: The I Heart Kevin Shirt Story

Surprisingly, I am a sentimental guy. Whenever I go away with my wife, I always try to get her some little memento of our trip. And that usually involves cheap little tchotchke with my name emblazoned on them. Over the years, she has garnered a quite nice little collection of various necklaces with yours truly’s name on them. I know she has a surfboard and I think a flip flop necklace with my name on them. In fact, I remember the first year I started this tradition. I came bounding out of the boardwalk store with a personalized surfboard necklace, much like a cat presenting its’ owner a bloody, dead bird. Cheap little bright orange thing (the necklace, not the bird). She smiled and said it was “nice”. I said, “Great! It’s yours. Put it on now.”

You’ve never seen a facial expression change so fast. Now this little sign of my enduring love for my woman looked like a heinous piece of cheap jewelry. I asked her what the problem was; I would proudly wear something with her name on it. She slowly put it on like it said “I kill puppies and eat their brains”. Really, I don’t see what the ado is all about. It’s not like she ever bought me anything on these trips. So every year, it’s a bit of a challenge to find something ugl…er meaningful for her to wear with my name on it.

This year it was easy. It was on my first therapeutic trip to the boards that I saw it, like a bright neon light in an otherwise dark sky. It was indeed bright. It was loud. It was ugly. It was just like me.

Yea, that’s right. One of the big fad t-shirts at the shore this year is this.

How. Fucking. Cool. A rare smile creased my usually unsmiling face. I ran back home with all the enthusiasm of a 5 year old child on Xmas Eve. “Youwon’tbelievewhatIsawuponheboards!It’sawesomeandIcan’twaittogetit.Ican’twait,Ican’twait!Andyouaregoingtolooksohotinit.I’mgoingtobuyoneforeveryoneinthehouse!”

They looked at me like I had two heads, and neither one was thinking straight. “Yea, right.” “No, I’m not making it up. They are actually selling neon I Heart Kevin t-shirts!” Even John couldn’t get my back here, “Um, how come they don’t sell I Heart John t-shirts?” John’s always gotta piss in my Cheerios. It’s because no one Hearts John, they heart me, damn it. They didn’t believe me. T says if I can find it, she will wear it. Game fucking on, beyotch. I was like the town loon, warning of impending disaster. Well, the disaster usually comes, and for some reason, the loon always seems to buy it, too. But I knew what I saw; I saw it in at least two different places. I knew I was right, and they would soon see.

The next morning, I went to the boards armed with my cell phone. I slyly took a picture of it. It’s rather difficult to sneak in taking a picture of an I Heart Kevin t at the boards, and still look manly. I immediately sent the pic to my wife, smug in the knowledge, she was truly busted, and she was going to be wearing this thing at some point for all the world to see.

A day later, we were at one of the 432 Sunsation locations that seem to dot the blocks like Starbucks used to do. And I see the IHK shirt, this time in a flattering fit model. I find one in her size, but she all hems and haws that the heart looks a little off and she wouldn’t want to wear one like that. So I find another shirt in perfect condition and in her size. Wow, what a heartfelt and loving memento of our wonderful vacation. We get home, and she tries it on.

Now, if you’re like me, you’re probably thinking she is only too proud to be seen wearing such a lovely item proclaiming the love for her husband. Why foolishly spend thousands of dollars on tiny little rings that no one can see from 10 feet away? No, love demands a bright green neon I Heart Kevin shirt so everyone can see you coming. Again, if they made such a thing that said I Heart T, I would proudly wear it. She comes down the steps with a look of…embarrassment? Huh?

Look at that pose. Shoulders slumped. Will clearly broken. A faint attempt at a smile.

And look at me. It looks like I won the Stanley fucking Cup. I am thrilled my pookie will do this for me. And she can’t even look at the camera or fake a smile. I look like the King of Siam, and my humble servant looks so sad. God, I can such a prick sometimes.

She claims the shirt is ‘too tight’, even though she okayed the size. I say it made her boobs look wicked. She is clearly not enthused. Tonight is a night we’re all going out, and I have seen this scenario a hundred times before. She is all pissy, and will do everything to drag everyone down into her pit of despair. Me being the bigger man and all, tell her she can take it off. Happiness returns to her face like air to a drowning woman. Yes, I have lost this battle, but the war is still on, and I will not lose.

April loves to instigate, probably because T likes to instigate a fight between J&A. April finds a place that sells the IHK t, in white, and it’s buy one get one. Damn, I always knew I was a cheap lover. Another day goes by as me and T hit a few of the beach type stores. None have the desired black IHK shirt. (Yes, for the record, I know most of these joints can probably just iron it on a black shirt, but that sounds like far too much work, and I don’t have the time to wait.) We walk into one place, and April subtly points out a whole row of IHK t’s! Suh-weeet. There’s the large, and hey, an XL too! You can never get too many of these. T sees me, she knows doom is impending. She walks around the store in a haze, like a convict awaiting the chair. I proudly plunk down $20 for my second and third IHK shirts.

T nervously says, “O, hey, you bought two.” She’s thinking she’s totally busted, which of course she is. “Yea, one for you, one for me!”

Yes. Yes I am that shallow, vain, foolish, proud, dorkly, stupid to wear my own IHK shirt. Really, dear reader, if you were in my position, you would do the same thing, no? If you saw a big, bright shirt that said I Heart , you would snap that summa bitch right up and wear it proudly. Aside, I’m leaving town in like two days, and could care less what anyone thinks of me. I get outside of the store, take off my non IHK shirt, and replace it with this fine, fashionable shirt. I felt like Superman putting on his ‘S’ shirt. (Unfortunately, I was capeless.)

T deserves credit, because she puts hers on as well. Wow, we’re such a cute couple, don’t cha just wanna hug us?


Merrily we go, down the boardwalk. Of course, it’s one thing for a girl to be wearing such a shirt, but it’s another thing when it’s a guy. I totally expect to get shit for it, and it doesn’t bother me. It isn’t long before I get some feedback. As we wander in and out of stores, I do get positive comments. First, two young girls giggle. I realize my fly is down, so I XYZPDQ. Then they tell me they “love Kevin, too.” Ergo, 2 girls have already said they love me. Sure, if you added up their ages, I probably still had a good ten years on them, but affection is affection. A few stores later, another girl sheepishly tells me she loves me, too. But she was chubby, and Kev don’t play that, homie.

As we continue down the crowded boardwalk, I keep my eyes peeled. I do get the occasional double take; “Is that dude wearing that shirt?” T points out that if I wasn’t so ‘big’, I would be getting a lot more shit. But I guess being 6 foot 215 pounds of twisted steel and raw sex appeal can get me away with a few questionable fashion choices. I was walking by a bench with a kid about 16-17 and a few girls about that age. This kid was your typical kid, wearing Hurley shirt, definitely trying to be a bit of a hardass, too cool for the scene. As I walked by him, even he snorted and said, “That’s a great shirt” in a manner like ‘yea, ya got me dude, I ain’t ever seen a guy wear that’.

We were stopped by a store, when I distinctly heard a teen aged girl say something to the effect of “I think it’s cool he’s comfortable like that.” Yer GD right. I wore the shirt the whole rest of the night-wouldn’t you? I give T credit. We walked a bit, and I told her she could take it off, but she troopered on and kept it on for a few blocks more. So we went to OCMD, and all I got was three I K t-shirts. But they’re really the best things I’ve bought in a long, long time. And I promise you, you will be seeing me wearing that shirt.

Vacation Klog: Run For the Boardwalk

I am not a runner. I find it boring, physically awkward and sometimes gassy. I got these bitchin’ new running shoes with bouncy things at the bottom. I am sure they make me run faster, or at the very least, a little bit higher. I made sure to pack them for the big week at Ocean City, MD. Please note, that for the rest of these Klogs, Ocean City, MD will be shortened to the far easier to type OCMD. Please don’t confuse it with OCNJ. We were able to spend a week there last year. It’s a nice place, nice beaches and boardwalk and all. But it’s dry. And that immediately disqualifies any seaside town from being a place I want to frequent. It’s much harder to pee on the corners when one is sober.

I have found running on the boardwalk at the beach to be a surprisingly serene thing to do. In fact, I already wrote about it at length, so feel free to familiarize yourself with it here:
http://kevolutiontheory.blogspot.com/2008/06/vacation-2007.html
Just read the 5th through 9th paragraphs, and ignore all the rest. It’s all jokes I will probably repeat here, so cut me some slack.

For not being a runner, there is something rather cool about loading your iPod with all kinds of summer tunes and shreddin’ surf instrumentals and running by the seaside. I ran the boards the first opp I had; Monday morning. And I will admit, I get a perverse amount of pleasure running the boards knowing other saps are actually working. Stupid gainfully employed suckers.

It’s insanely hot. It’s so hot, if I was back home, my ass would be in the AC. But since we’re at the beach, it doesn’t bother me at all. I spray on suntan lotion until there is an unpenetrable cloud surrounding me. Grab a bottle of Powerade, and go out in the sun. I interval up the few blocks to get to the boardwalk. And finally, I see my old friend, the sea. It’s good to be back. There is a new strength in my spindly legs as I start intervalling.

Since my last time here, there has been a new monstrosity recklessly corralling about the bwalk. I don’t actually know what these bikes are called, but they look like this:


Maybe they are called reclined bikes? Spider bikes? Crab bikes? I really think they are called ‘drive like a motard bike’. I saw dozens of these damn things all over the bwalk. And it didn’t matter if it was an 8 year old child or 40 something old man driving, they all drove it the same way. Like fucking assholes.

Now I admit to never having been in one of these things. And I guess that’s a requisite of renting these things. I can just see every out-of-town-yokel renting them, “Yea, well me and my family ain’t ever seen one of dese here bicycles with the tree wheels and so low to da ground. What’s dat? Do we know how to drive them? Son, I’m fixin’ to terrorize dis here boardwalk with dese here things. Give my family four, chief.” I am not sure of the steering mechanism on these things, but from what I can tell, it only makes turns one way; sweeping.

I found most of my time playing some sort of demented game of Frogger. Except in Frogger you avoided the empty spaces. Now I am trying to weave through all the empty spaces, and these new bikes at knee height aren’t helping. I swear, every freaking one doesn’t drive straight. They weave in and out, clogging up precious space. No lie, I ran right up to one. I was looking to politely run to the side and get in front of Mr. Asshole because he was slow. Every time I ran to the right, he swerved to the right. When I dodged to the left, he glided to the left. WTF, these things have rear view mirrors or something? I slowed down as I proceeded to watch him careen into his daughter.

He bounces off of her (she was fat), and right back into my way. I can hear his wife now yelling at him to get out of my way. Man, if I ever wanted to get diarrhea while running, now would be the time. He’s at the perfect level for a splat.

I get that the bwalk has to be shared by everyone using it. I try to be conscientious-even if I can’t spell the word-and check behind me as I try to dodge the slacker walkers. I know a majority on the boards are just walking. But do they still have to fan out? And what’s up with the yahoos that just fucking stop right in the middle of the damn bwalk? I try to obey the unwritten rule about staying to the right, but sometimes I have to jet all the way over to the left just to get by the human barricades. I know that sets me up for a heinous and gnarly accident and injury that will surely be caught on the boards’ webcams, and be the hot viral video of the first half of the week. I am surprised there aren’t more virals of bwalk accidents. I am sure they would be hilarious.

All in all, I went for 3 runs and 2 walks (i.e. was too hungover to run 2 days), pretty good for me. And even though the time varied around generally mid-morning, it was funny to see the same people running/walking. There’s always the shirtless ripped dude who runs up and down the bwalk at breakneck speed. Just one for one of those spider bike thingies to jut out and send him sprawling on his ass. Serves you right Mr. Younger and in better shape than me.

I saw the same red faced girl huffing and puffing up and back. I saw the same groups of walkers. The only two mullets of the week I saw in the morning, and I saw those guys repeatedly. The same employees working the same shops. See the same couples running. I saw the same old man ‘running’. I mean, mechanically, he was running and all, but he was going so slow. A bit of a bummer to think that will one day be all of us. But still, gotta admire the guy, out there huffing and puffing. I am sure when I get to be his age, it will be everything just not to make in my pants. It was here I also saw the baddest ass tattoo of all time. It was on a guy with long raggy black hair, his pasty white skin already had multiple illustrations. On his shoulder was a picture of the face of a woman. With a ballgag. Badass. Cripes, how do you explain that one to your dates’ mom?

All in all, these runs were among the highlights of the week. It was cool to add new memories to the summer songs in my iPod. So calming and peaceful. On the trips back down the bwalk, I would cop a squat on a bench and just look out at the ocean. One day I managed to camp myself out in front of a bikini volley ball game. What are the odds of that happening? But still, just for the sun to be shining, time have no meaning, worries all back in PA and staring at the ocean is time I will hold onto. I came back to the house calm and relaxed. And reeking of BO and sunscreen as well. I can still see the beach now….

(The First of Many) Vacation Klog

Yes, last week I was in the land of friends, sun, heat, bay, ocean, sand, boardwalk, rum, Corona, crabs, crossword puzzles, books, suntan lotion, caramel corn, cheeseballs and awesome t-shirts. Yes, I was on vacation.

Right, I know what you’re thinking. “Jesus Christ, this shithead hasn’t had a job in two fucking years, what the hell does he have to vacation from?” And, well, you’re kinda right. I could bore you with the slight existence of a pathetic sot like myself. But I am really trying to stay away from such starkly realistic Klogs. Never mind that I’m drinking nail polish –I prefer Revlon the best- and huffing gold paint like it’s going out of style. And to be honest, this vacation would never have happened without the extreme generosity of our friends John and April. Earlier this year, we hypnotized them and….

OK, that’s a lie. Earlier this year, they told us they would generously provide a vacation for all of us. This was great news to hear in our humble little refrigerator box. We are in no position to turn down such a deal. Really, I mean, have someone go ahead and make us the same offer, we will gladly take it up. I double dog dare ya.

So that’s why there has been no Klog goodness last week. It turns out I was unable to get on a wireless network. And to be honest, I really didn’t miss the ‘Net. I checked email one time via John’s iPhone, and that was it. I didn’t really feel the need to write either; more a need to just have this week and see what I come back with. I didn’t miss the Net at all. The porn, yes, but the Net, no. Actually, it was quite nice to be away from it. I think part of what makes a vacation a vacation is the chance to NOT do things you do all the time.

And that is what I am working on, a whole bunch of mildly amusing and short (no more fucking 10 pagers about vacationing with kids) Klogs about my wickedly keen observations. Expect that to be the gist of the next few Klogs. Then it will be back to fart jokes and my rum fueled rantings.

I will say that going down, I was hoping to have a wacky adventure along the lines of those great 80s movies like Summer Rental or One Crazy Summer. I really wanted to be in one outlandish scenario, whereby all my friends and I were thrust into a wacky situation, where we all bonded together to ultimately save the day. John Candy saved Summer Rental via his trousers, and Hoops and friends rehabbed a boat to beat the bad guys. Plus, he totally got to nail a young Demi Moore. Are my expectations too much to ask for? Just one adventure where all my friends bond together to fight some sort of weak evil, and somehow save summer for everyone at the beach.

I can assure you no such thing happened, but it was awesome nonetheless. I hope you stay tuned, or whatever is the equivalent term in the blog world.

Bullshit Facts 8/5/9

Used prudently, a year’s supply of Turtle Wax can easily last 3 years.

The nail on your middle toe grows the fastest of any other nail on your foot or hand.

The active ingredient in penicillin is also the active ingredient in vinegar.

Urine is blue in space.

Last week, over 70,000 people visited Kevolution Theory.

After the initial contact, you will never see, hear from or get another email from 96% of your Facebook friends.

Nostradamus predicted 9 natural wonders.

The further west you go, the more potassium in the ground water.

Sarah Palin’s IQ rivals that of Steven Hawking.

Drawings of an ‘iPod like’ device were found in caves dating back to the Paleolithic era.

In the early 20’s, the FDA momentarily approved of cocaine as a healthy drug.

Carrottop is on the FBI’s watch list.

Outside of a few handful of decaying scientific practices, there is no real world application for trigonometry.

The Axe fragrance line is for straight men.

In a fight between Batman, Ironman and Aquaman, Aquaman would win, and look damn good doing so.

I Hate You Mark Harmon

You know, Mark Harmon, I really used to like you. You always seemed to be the affable, laid back guy. Your first big impression on me was one of my favorite classic summer 80s film, Tuff Turf. Er, no wait a minute, my bad, wrong movie. No, your first big role to me was Summer School. What a great movie, and those of you old enough to remember it probably to this day wonder whatever happened to the lovable Chainsaw. Or the kid who never showed up to class. That was a great movie, and I am sure Mark counted himself lucky to be acting with a young Courtney Thorne-Smith and a pre elephantine Kirstie Alley. Even Saw cutie Shawnee Smith was in this flick. Day-um, stupid girls sure were hot back in the day.

He would continue through more TV and movie roles. He married –and apparently is still married to-Mindy from Mork & Mindy. He was voted People’s Sexiest Man Alive in 1986, the year People also suspiciously disqualified me, for some bullshit reason of ‘not being even remotely famous’. Fuckers. Anyway, Harmon all but disappeared from my consciousness, to be replaced by such happy things as orange creamsicles and Tetris.

Recently, Mark Harmon has reappeared in my life in a big and negative way. In fact, I now hate you Mark Harmon. I see entirely too much of you. Apparently, he’s been on this show called NCIS, which I believe stands for ‘now can I speak’. And this show, unbeknownst to me, has been on the air for quite a few years. I didn’t know this until the show started rerunning on USA. I know all of this because my wife is addicted to this goddamn show.

At first it was just on USA and whatever other channel it first airs on. Life was good, life was tolerable. But that has all changed over the last year. Now, NCIS is omnipresent in my house. We have 3 TVs in the house. At any given time, all of them are on channel 13 (aka USA, aka NCIS central). This pisses me off more than when they all used to be on the Food Channel. It’s not like she ever made me any of that stuff…

Since then, I have clearly been put in my place. I know between the hours of 5-7, I am second fiddle. I am third wheel. The house can be on fire, and upon telling her this fact, I will get scolded, “WAIT FOR A COMMERCIAL!” If this was only contained to scheduled intervals, I am laid back and accommodating enough to work around it. Hell, I’ll even give her the big TV-you know, the B&W one-to watch all the nefarious goings ons going on. But it has grown worse. It appears NCIS spreads quicker than the swine flu.

Now it seems NCIS is on 4 channels that I am aware of. Which I believe still pales in comparison to how many fucking channel show Scrubs. That was her previous crack TV. I think I’ve counted Scrubs on no less than 6 fucking channels. It’s now gotten to the point that I can watch Scrubs rather than NCIS. But Elliot is still fucking annoying.

Also, USA appears to be so devoid of alternate programming, test patterns and infomercials that it now runs NCIS marathons. So imagine my shock as all day yesterday-a Wednesday-USA went all NCIS. Surely somewhere, there must be unaired Billy Mays commercials. Fuck me.

I’ve arrived at the point where I am familiar with the characters and certain storylines. Me. But she can sit there and watch the whole damn thing all over again. Yesterday, I hit a new low. “We” were watching the show, and about 15 minutes in, I realized I fucking saw this show before. Yet, her gaze was the gaze of a traveler spotting water after a week in the desert. Ambrosia to the angels and such shit.

I don’t like the show, for a few reasons. Chief amongst them is she likes it so goddamn much. But there’s more to it than just that. (And I am ashamed I can go into this much detail of a show I don’t even watch.) First of all, Mark Harmon’s character is named Jethro. Right, Jethro. That’s his first name, too, not his last. It’s hard to buy an action hero as a ‘Jethro’. A Clampett? Sure, but not a federal agent. Unless he was the federal agent of moonshine. So Gibbs (Jethro’s last name, the name most people use to call him.) is one of those smarmy types that is always fucking right. What’s that? All the evidence points to the husband as the killer? No, because Gibbs is Gibbs, he has some sort of ESP that actually tells him the real killer is the neighbors’ gardeners’ cousins’ eighth grade teacher! Alas, how could we not have seen this? We all must bow to the knowingness of brother Gibbs. Gibbs always knows where the bad guy is hiding.

Gibbs is a maverick. Gibbs will only use your last name, even if it’s Gibbsisapedophile. OK, that was a funny episode. Gibbs thumbs his nose at his superiors, he disobeys orders, he ‘goes dark’. I believe he even has a pristine copy of that Erin Andrews video. Gibbs can anticipate the bad guys’ next move. Gibbs is a deadeye. Gibbs. Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs. Enough fucking already!

Sure, he is surrounded by less smart characters as well. There’s the suave guy, the nerd guy, the chick, the goth forensic chick, the weathered coroner. Every week, it’s a new struggle against evil. And my sanity. I don’t like the slickness of Gibbs. It gets quite tiresome to see the same general scenario week in and week out. Right, I can see all of you rolling your eyes-you know your webcam is on, right?-thinking, “Well what about your hero, Jack Bauer?”Jack Bauer is far more hardcore than fucking Gibbs. Take away seasons 5 & 6 (please) of 24, and 24 is the far better show.

But, boom there is NCIS on just about every damn channel we have. Look, we’re poor, we just have basic cable. And at the rate they’re taking away my channels, we’ll be lucky to have 20 left. And Mark Harmon will be on at least 5 of those. Maybe T snuck in some sort of NCIS channel unbeknownst to me. All I know is I have 20 channels-16 if you take away the Spanish speaking ones-and I am pretty sure I’ve seen NCIS on 4 of them. And one of the Spanish ones. Eh, Senor Gibbs?

I can see by the hour upon us, that soon, the NCIS channel will be on, and any actual conversation must take place between the commercials. Even if it’s a rerun. Even if it’s a rerun I’ve seen, I’d best not spoil the ending. Sure, you can argue the same thing with me and The Simpsons. Yes, true, I’ve seen the majority of the shows, but not all of them. And since it’s only a half hour long, I get 2 episodes for the price of one measly NCIS. Plus, with all my drinking, my memory is spotty, so sometime it really is like watching a brand new episode. And it’s all about escapism for me; it makes me laugh, and my troubles vanish for a brief, fleeting amount of time.

Besides, if Gibbs ever got bonked on the head with a transmission, I would laugh my ass off. Hey, I am starting to hear a certain theme song right now….

My Latest Brilliant Idea

I am really pretty stupid when it comes to the Internet. I would have loved to have gotten a sweet domain name, copyrighted it, and have the money to own my own island. But I was such a loser, the only domain I snagged was HotNakedChikcs.com. That’s right, I didn’t even spell it right. Well, for the record, I did “own” WEAMissile.com, the last edition of which still shows up via Google search.

So I don’t get Twitter; don’t get it at all. I think it serves to make every asshole seem self important. Yes, because I have to know that you are currently at the supermarket. You may think it’s edgy and deep to post something like “why do they call it a supermarket when there is nothing super here? And where’s the milk?” In your mind, you may think it’s some sort of post modern slice of witty brilliance. And your friends think you’re a self righteous dipshit. And an unfunny one, at that.

Face it, no one has to know your every move. “Gee, I see Joe ‘got up’, ‘went to work’, ‘at the game’, ‘having a drink with the boys’ and ‘tired & going to bed.’” Wow, Joe, you are quite happening and make my day of “jerking off like a rabbit” rather shallow in comparison. I know by and large Twitter is a by-product of having cell phones with net access. And maybe this is sort of off topic, but shouldn’t the past sense of Twitter be “twat” and not “tweet”? Maybe “twit”? Just saying.

Anyway, I really think Twitter is mostly full of self important douchebags. So maybe you will be surprised to find out that I am on Twitter. (I know, I know, what’s next, I’m on Facebook…er, wait a minute) I am on Twitter to follow 4 people; 3 are musicians and one is a hockey show. I check in from time to time, and that’s it. I. myself, have never twatted or tweeted, or twitted once. I just follow a few off the radar type people.

I don’t like that Twitter limits you to 140 characters. Actually, for some people, it’s a godsend, because it limits their normally longwinded monologs. On the other hand, when you happen to be a gifted and loquacious writer-such as say, myself-you can find it to be quite constricting. I would like to think I have more to say and offer than a measly 140 letters will limit my brilliance to. (Already I’m past 410, and aren’t we all the better for it?)

I don’t like that Twitter seems to be like a voluntary giving up of your rights. It wasn’t all that long ago that everyone was crying for more privacy. Now, with Twitter, you can blab to the whole internet that you are on vacation. Your house is empty, but the fridge is full. Doesn’t it seem a little invasive? Sure, if you don’t twat about your actual whereabouts, it’s no issue, but it seems most of the shitheads on there openly tell everyone where they are all the friggin’ time. A friend of mine invited me to a site called Loopt, where people can see wherever you are, based on the GPS on your phone? Huh? Again, I got nothing to hide, but that seems pretty invasive. But, hey if you wanna give that kind of info out, then I got no problem knowing you’re at Taco Bell or 7-11 or wherever. I am one of the un-specials; I don’t have an iPhone, and I think my phone is so ghetto, it doesn’t have GPS. Sometimes, if I wander too far, the string breaks…

So what was I talking about?

Yes, about my next get rich quick scheme. Being out of work for so long, surely I have the mind that will conjure up the next, multi-billion dollar idea. Hey, Billy Mays left the space, someone’s gotta fill it. And like most great ideas, it’s more so a twist on an established idea. I can’t stand Twitter (I think you know that by now, right?). But I really enjoy 2 similar sites that are the same basic concept; except more focused. The sites I refer to are http://www.fmylife.com and http://www.textsfromlastnight.com

Both are similar to Twitter in that all the ‘entries’ are short. F(uck)MyLife deals with short, mostly ironic or embarrassing stories. TFLN deals more with either strange or drunken texts that people have received. If you waste your time on Twitter, I highly advise you knock that shit off and visit those 2 sites instead for far more laughs. So with that in mind, here if my idea, none of you peckerheads steal it, all right?

Shitter.com. (Yes, it’s a pseudo skin site now, advertising everything from Russian brides to Christian singles, but I think I can get it.) The focus of Shitter.com will be material (texts, voicemails, even video) taken while people are on the hopper. Reading on the bowl is so 1950’s people! These days it seems everyone else has an iPhone. So why not use it while you’re deucing? I have admitted a lot of my great ideas take place while in the bathroom, so let’s harvest that energy. Did your roommate leave something embarrassing in the bathroom? Are you in a public stall and the guy next to you has riotous gas? Tape it and send it in. (All you First Amenders just look the other way here, I will protect the innocent and gassy.) Is there a mass of something in the shower you just can’t figure the origin of? Let the Net decide!

C’mon, tell me this isn’t money. Did your hot female roommate leave her thongs out again? Did you leave an upper decker at a party? Vomit in the sink? Are you trashing the bathroom of the hotel you are at? The world needs to know. Shit, man, once I get this off the ground, it is Easy Street, my friends. So while I take care of all the mumbo jumbo legal stuff, I need all of you to start gathering evidence I could post. I know for most of you, that won’t be a problem.

Another Loser Fair and The Giant Legless Blonde

Another day, another Loser Fair. For those of you who don’t go back with this bad ass blog (to September of last year), that is the term I use for “job fairs”. I have been to my fair share during this unemployment odyssey. I hardly get that rattled anymore. Before I carry on, I suggest you click on over to the original Loser Fair post to refresh yourself of one of my first experiences at such a “fair”. (Damn it, now I know I have to use all new jokes this time around.) See it here
http://kevolutiontheory.blogspot.com/search?q=loser+fair

I find it tough to still believe I don’t have a real job. An extended layoff plays with one’s head in all kinds of ways. I don’t know that I exactly find ‘comfort’ in being in a roomful of other unfortunate souls like myself. While the notion of attending these lose..uh job fairs bothers me less these days, there are still aspects that bother me. Namely, the whole prep involved. As documented in the above link, I am not a suit and tie, shave every day, sit in traffic, cubicle monkey, corporate type of guy. So the fact that I have to go through all these processes to get to be the above mentioned paradox is quite troubling. To better prepare myself, I actually shaved yesterday. I did so for the fear that my usual scruff has somehow left the never-seeing-the-sun-beneath-it skin maybe a paler shade of white compared to the rest of my mug. So I shaved just to check, and get it used to the sting of fresh air. That actually went OK, and the loss of blood clearly wasn’t in the transfusable level. And, yes, I just made up ‘transfusable’-I must go alert Webster’s that I have another new word.

In doing my due research, I see that most of these jobs are near the civil service level. Some branches of the armed forces will be there, as well as the local police. There are a few companies like Aldi and Mary Kay, along with some tech schools. In fact, this los..uh job fair was specifically advertised as being military friendly. Well, duh. Is there a company that ISN’T military friendly? I mean, who wouldn’t want to hire a former Marine or Iraq vet? “Sorry, Cpl. Johnson, but we have no room in our place of business for a Purple Heart winner.” I don’t know about you, but I sure would feel safe working with someone who has been in the Army.

This morning, I go through all the machinations of someone who actually has a job. Get up, eat a big ol’ bowl of Cookie Crisp, shave again and put my monkey suit on. Why can’t the suit companies make a more breathable suit? Rag on Don Johnson all you want, but he looked damn comfortable in the suits he was wearing in Miami Vice. I hop into the KevAmPire for the 15 minute trek to the place. It’s not more than 5 minutes into my journey that I run into a motard. Fuck, how do people do this shit every day? I am rolling up to a light where the lane divides into two; the left lane goes straight or left, the right lane is for rights only, which is where I need to go. Motard stops a good 2 car lengths before the split. And it’s like “c’mon, give me, like, three more inches.” (Man, if I had a nickel every time I heard that.) I start edging up to the right when suddenly his right signal comes on, and he slides right in front of me. Douchebag.
I’ve been to this restaurant/banquet hall before for lo…er, career fairs before. Even though there is a fairly big parking lot, it never fails to amaze me that lazyasses refuse to drive the extra 150 feet to the parking lot. No, instead, they park right on the fucking grass as soon as you drive up. This isn’t ‘event’ parking here. I hope none of those people got jobs today.

It also never fails to amaze me just what people wear to these things. Even a peckerhead like me knows you really can’t be ‘overdressed’ for these types of things. Not everyone got this memo. For example, I saw an older guy-as in the older enough to know better category-wearing a dingy NASCAR shirt and jean shorts. Huh? Really? You should know to hide your inner redneck at these things if I do. I saw kids wearing some A&F bullshit shirt with baggy pants. The prison ain’t gonna hire you, kid. And just another note in case you find yourself in the same boat as me; bedhead is never a plus at these types of things. Just sayin’ and all.

We are held like bulls in pens until the magic hour of 10 arrives. Then, we are unceremoniously released to assail the poor schleps in the room. Surprisingly, not all the companies are there yet. OK, so that doesn’t say much for the companies if they are late for the job fair. I mix and mingle with a few places; my little speech always ready. A small seminar about posting resumes, etc on the Net is also happening. I join that, and from where I sit there is a big cardboard display to my front right side. On this display is a big, happy blonde. She has a cell phone raised triumphantly in her hand. I guess the message here is supposed to be, “Look at me! I just got a job. Fuck you losers, I’m outta here.” Ok, so maybe that’s not what the message is supposed to be, but that’s what I think it is.

As the presentation goes on, my ADD will occasionally take me over to the blonde. Hey, what can I say, I’ve always had a thing for tall blondes. But this is a bit unnerving, because she doesn’t have legs. The picture is cropped right at her waist. But the image is so big, she still appears to be of regular height. I refocus back on the presentation, but I get the feeling she’s giving me the eye. (As most one-dimensional tall blondes do.) It’s hard to pay attention when a tall, legless blonde is giving you the eye. At least I know she'll never run away... I even thought of trying to snap a quick pic for the sake of this Klog, but that really would have ratcheted up the creepy meter to a place not even I am comfortable with. (Further GIS don’t reveal the girl I am looking for, but it sure is fun Googling pictures of blondes.)

If anything comes of this, we’ll see. I come home to find a reply in my Inbox to a music writing job I was inquiring about, so that’s a nice little kick in the ass. And it’s a sunny Friday. So it might be time to celebrate with a few drinks. I think the booze will go a long way to soothe the pain that is the air interacting with my face.