Wednesday, July 30, 2003

The Best Thing Since

My little hometown that sits smack-dab in the center of the midwest, one thousand miles from anywhere important, is actually famous for something.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Jesus Saves

Today at work when I was in the restroom pinching a loaf during my break, I started to read the graffiti on the stall walls. There was the usual phrases: Fuck you, I suck dick, _ _ _ is a whore,etc., and then there was one that kind of stood out. Right in front of me, etched into the stall door, was Jesus saves.

Christian graffiti is uncommon, but if you take enough craps in public restrooms, you'll see some. And believe me, I've taken enough craps. So, it wasn't the fact that it was religious in nature, among all the other filthy language, that made Jesus saves stand out. It was the thought that occured to me when I read it.

Under normal circumstances I would not vandalize other's property, so I had to convince myself that these were not normal circumstances. What I was about to inscribe upon this restroom stall door was not just another graffito utilizing a curse word in some not-so-clever anti-homosexual phrase, nor was it some infantile poem detailing the writer's bout with constapation, ending in the line "But only farted." (You know the one.) No, what I was about to write was far more intelligent, far more poetic. I couldn't just keep this all to myself; I had to share it with the whole world. Yes, what I was about to write was art! And this door was my canvas.

As I washed my hands, a wry smile spread across my face. I looked in the mirror at the stall I had just exited. The stall door slowly swung close, the canvas still wet from the artitst's pen strokes. It read:

Jesus saves
up to 15%
with GEICO

Sunday, July 27, 2003


I just finished watching 8MM. It is an excellent film depicting the gritty underworld of S & M pornography. What makes it so great is the way it shows how (but not always why) regular people can do "evil" things, and how an ordinary man is only two steps away from being a killer. You dance with the Devil, the Devil don't change. The Devil changes you.

People, even "evil people," are still human beings. There are no monsters. The only reason we make them out as such is becuase to admit that we are the same as "evil people" would be to acknowledge that there is a monster caged inside everyone of us, yearning to be released. And we don't want to taunt a caged beast, do we?

Friday, July 25, 2003

Other Blogs

I added a section called Sites of some of favorite places on the internet. I also finally updated my Blogs section to contain all the blogs that I peruse on a regular basis.

I never noticed it before, but in my Favorites folder I have nearly twice as many blogs by female bloggers as I do blogs by my gender (10 to 6). It got me wondering: Is this just me, or is this ratio indicative of the whole internet blogging community? It wouldn't be unfathomable to believe that there are twice as many female bloggers as male bloggers. I mean, keeping a diary or a journal of one's day-to-day activities is usually thought of as a feminine past-time, but you still see some men doing it. So, is this the reason why there appears to be more female than male bloggers?

Or is the real answer that are nearly equal amounts of male and female bloggers, but females, on average, just have better, more interesting content?

Or are neither of these true, the real answer being that out of the small slice of the internet that I have viewed, I just happen to have by chance run across twice as many interesting female bloggers than male bloggers?

Someone should do a study.

Thursday, July 24, 2003


Guy1. D'you know what the longest word in the dictionary is?

Guy2. Is this a joke?

Guy1. No, I'm asking you. Do you know?

Guy2. No, what?

Guy1. "Antidisestablishmentarianist."

Guy2. Oh. (pause) Is it hyphenated?

Guy1. I don't think so. Why?

Guy2. I don't think it would count as the longest if it was hyphenated.

Guy1. Well, I don't think it is.

Guy2. What does it mean?

Guy1. I think it is someone who is against the downfall of a society. "Anti" "disestablishment."

Guy2. Oh. (pause) Wouldn't it just be easier to say "proestablishmentarianist?" Someone who is for the "establishment?"

Guy1. (thinking) Yeah, I guess so. But it wouldn't be as long of a word that way.

Guy2. Oh. Good point.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

Sticky Situation, Bad Pun

I was minding my own business when I heard one of the dogs whining and yelping in terror. I rushed to the garage to find Ish, the pug, running around with a fly trap stuck to her head. In the process of ripping it off of her, I got sticky fly trap goo all over my hands (and inexplicably on the back of my right leg). When my mom got home, I had to hold the dog while she shaved the sticky fur off. And after that it took me an hour of scrubbing with paint-thinner and soap with pumice to get the stickiness off of me.

It's official. I officially hate fly traps. O - fficially!

Monday, July 21, 2003

Postpartum Depression

See How They Run is over. Promptly following yesterday afternoon's matinee performance, we (the cast) promptly struck the set and cleaned the stage. I give congratulations and thanks to the cast, crew, and director. It was definitely the best show I've ever worked in or on, and my best perfomance yet, if I do say so myself.

I think the depression is already starting to set in. If you've ever been in a play before, you'll probably know what I mean. It's the same sort of thing that a mother feels after she's carried her child inside of her for nine long months, and then it finally comes out of her. She's left feeling empty. Postpartum depression, I think they call it.

Anyway, it's sorta like that. After pretending to be someone else (and in some cases, actually becoming someone else) for so long, it's hard to just let go of that person. They've been inside you for weeks and weeks as you rehearse the play -- so long that they've become a part of you. They've affected the way you walk, the way you talk, and even the way you think, if only for the several of hours you spend at rehearsal each week.

But if you're like me, and I'm pretty sure most people are, your character isn't just developing inside you during rehearsals. He's growing every time you read your script. He's growing every time you practice a gesture, a fall, a turn, or a look. He's growing every time you're in a conversation and you respond with a line from the play -- his words coming out of your mouth. He's growing and growing and growing and growing, until he's so big that both of you can't occupy the same body any more.

The contractions begin and you're rushed to a stage, dressed in your maternity constume, and wheeled onto the set where a hundred, maybe even a thousand, eager father's expectantly await their child's arrival into this world. You pant and sputter and groan and scream until finally the character comes out of you and into the open arms of their father, who immediately checks for all ten fingers and toes, and ultimately, deems the child perfect despite the occasional unsightly birthmark, dropped line, or late entrance. And there it is, a new life is born.

The father welcomes their child into world with applause. And as you bow, you resent the father. Where was he when you were fat and ugly and there were lines memorize and blocking to learn? Where was he when you were eating pickles dipped in double fucge icecream and screwing together wobbly set pieces? Where was he during this whole process? He hasn't done any work; this is your child, and yours alone! Then the realization sets in that without the applause, without the wide-eyed excitement and laughter, without the energy radiating from every audience member in the house, this character could not have been born.

And then the curtain falls, the audience leaves, the lights go out. It's over. You can no longer feel the character kicking inside you and you feel like an empty, useless husk. You change back into your regular clothes, get in your car, and drive home in silence.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003


I apologize for my extended, two-week absence. If you feel that an explanation is in order, here it is:

When I awoke on Saturday, July 7th, my mother explained to me that my computer was inexplicably* ill. As I had to be at work that day, I couldn't spend time trying to diagnose the problem. When I finally got time to examine my computer on Sunday, I could not, for the life of me, figure out what was wrong with it. Windows XP was just going crazy-go-nuts, and nothing was working properly.

Then last week was the final week of rehearsals before the opening night of the show I'm in, See How They Run. (More about that later.) So, the entire week, I was either at play rehearsal, at work, or sleeping. I didn't have time to look at my poor little computer. But after the show last Sunday, I knew that I would never have another opportunity to fix it until next week, as the show is running this weekend as well.

So, I sat down and fiddled with it, but ulitimately I decided that the cure for my sick little Sony was a system recovery. I did my best to back up my important files (scripts, stories, poetry, bank book, favorite illegally downloaded songs) and started from scratch.

So, today when I didn't have to work or go to rehearsal, I thought about my blog and remembered how I've neglected it over the past two weeks. I hope my lack of posts hasn't turned away any readers, (Ha ha, McBastard, funny joke! You know you don't have any readers.) so I just thought I'd write a little something to let all of you know that I'm not dead, and to apologize in advance that I will not be able to post again until next week after the play is done.

Until then, I'll be missing you.

*I actually do have an explanation for this occurance, but unfortunately no hard evidence. You see, my mother had been using my computer for the past week because hers had "inexplicably" crapped out. So, when mine did the same, I became a little suspicious of her. I mean, only so many computers can die at your hands before people catch on to you. I don't know what she did or how she did it, but I'll always be a little wary of my mother when she's around my computer from now on.

Friday, July 04, 2003

Fourth of July

This man knows what it means to be an American!

1000 Miles

There is a woman that works with me. She is possibly one of the most annoying people I've ever met. She talks loudly, she likes to interrupt people, and she has a god-awful annoying laugh. But the thing that bugs me the most about her is her New Jersey accent. How a woman from New Jersey ended up in rural Missouri, I'll never know (literally, because I don't think I could stand to listen to her try and explain it to me). But now I know why New Jersey and Missouri are separated by a thousand miles.

Thursday, July 03, 2003

What I Wanted to Say

At work today I had to man the outside register and watch the clearance merchandise that the store puts on the sidewalk. Since the register's battery died, I basically just had to stand out in the afternoon heat for three hours, making sure that no one made off with a truck-load of discount clothes. While standing there, a truck rolled up to right in front of the doors and the tinted windows rolled down. The driver beckoned to me and I looked inside.

The driver was a fat old man. And by fat, I don't mean that he was slightly overweight. He was obscenely, grossly fat. So fat, in fact, that I'm not sure how he could turn his steering wheel because his belly was mashed up against the bottom half of it.

The fat man asked me to run in the store for him and buy him a gallow of 2% milk (Why not Whole milk, are you trying to be healthy, mister?) and bring it out to him. I assumed he had to have someone else do it because he was either too tightly wedged in his car, or so obese that walking would break his knees. I begrudgingly agreed to do it -- knowing that by walking the twenty feet to the milk cooler, another ten feet to the register, and back to his truck myself was depriving him of the only exercise that he would have gotten that whole week -- took the money he handed me, and walked into the store.

Now, all that's not so bad, I guess. Fat people are people, too; some can help it, some can't. So, I tried my best not to pass judgement on this hefty soul. But after I'd bought the milk, put it and his change in a sack, and gone back to his truck is about when I threw all that "don't judge him" crap out the window.

When I handed him the sack he asked me how much the milk had cost. I told him the approximate amount. He asked me the exact amount. I told him that his receipt was in the sack, and I was about to add that his change was with it, but he cut me off and rudely accused me of taking his change. His change was a matter of pennies. If he had told me to "keep the change" as a tip, I would have been offended. Even if I had taken his change, there was no reason to get as upset as he did about a few pennies.

As I've learned in the past, the best things to do while dealing with stupid customers is to shut my mouth. Saying to such customers what I actually want to say has gotten me in a little bit of trouble in the past. So, I just turned and walked away from the fat man in the truck.

So, I wrote all that so I could finally say this: You stupid, fat fuck! I just saved you from an activity so strenuous it most surely would have given you a heart-attack, and now you want to bicker with me?! I hope you choke on your 2% milk and it froths up in your mouth like cream in a cappuccino maker and you drown! Fuck you!

Thanks for listening.

Wednesday, July 02, 2003

By Association

I hate the movie "Step-Mom," not only because it's a horrible movie and I'm afraid of Julia Robert's mouth (It's so cavernous and scary -- don't even get me started!), but also because every time I hear the title, I'm reminded of how much I despise my own step-mother.

Topping My List of Things That Are Hard to Believe

I just saw a snippet on E! Network of an interview with Paris and Nicky Hilton in which they stated that just because they are blonde, it doesn't make them dumb.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

What I Look for in a Woman

I've decided on a career path:


I am currently "job-hunting," looking for powerful and rich women. Preferably, young and hot. But if they're young and hot, why would they want to marry me?

Hm, I guess to make it more believable, this hot, young, rich woman should be a parapalegic, giving her a kind of desparation in knowing that I may be the only man that could ever lover her, the only man that could see past her debilitating condition and see the real woman inside, or some crap like that.

She should also be deaf, so she won't hear all the moronic things I say.

And blind, for good measure.

Now we're talking! Anyone know any hot, young, rich, deaf, blind, and paralized-from-the-neck-down ladies on the market?

Circa Now