The 300th Blog: Dedicated to My Dad

When I was younger, my dad would often regale me with his "wit" by saying such things as:

Dad: How tall are you again?

Me: 5' 8". Why?

My Dad: I didn't know they stacked shit THAT high.

or

Me: Are we going to breakfast?

My Dad: Who's "we?" You got a mouse in your pocket?

When he died, it was those moments, the stupid throwaway ones, that stuck with me the most.

***

It's odd to think about missing him, seeing as he died almost twenty years ago now. He is more of an idea than a person. "My dad" is something I often don't say...but more of a phrase I contemplate about. I mean, I don't have much of a reason to ever say the two words together. Painful to think about, but it's true.

I do see him. In my mind. Always the fashion guru, he would pull his socks up too high, almost to his knees. His short shorts, and thick and smudged glasses awaited my playful eye rolls, and I remember how his stomach felt when I would try to hug him. Bulging and curving in a too-tight, horizontally-lined shirt, his belly was an obstacle to be reckoned with when I would stretch and stretch my arms around him to complete an incompletable hug.

I remember him as being the smartest person I knew...but I'll never know if that's true. I don't know what's real and what my mind has made up. Crazy to think that I have created in my mind the person that actually created me. There were lessons and methods and real parenting going on, that I know for sure. He made me feel looked after. And safe. And a bit lost when he left. I still feel that way today.

***

I know there are some who believe he is with me. He was there. He was there. Maybe he is. Maybe he was. I don't know. If ever a soul lived on...why not his?

There is much I want to ask him...but life isn't fair. I'm ok with that. But it's the moments...those throwaway moments...that I've missed. The ones I didn't create. The ones that I know in my heart to be true:

My Dad: You should probably have a point.

Me: So?

My Dad: So? So what? Sew buttons?

So, maybe there isn't always a so what. Maybe there isn't always a truth. Maybe there are just moments in my mind and in yours. Floating from time to time. And we try to reach them. Catch them. But we can't.

Sometimes, you just can't complete your hug. No matter how hard you try. It's just a moment. And you will never throw that moment away.

UCSD is Stupid

I was taking a class at UCSD this summer...and every day, as I walked through the campus, I would look up at to see the names, faces, and accomplishments of famous graduates they were honoring. Writers. Scientists. Etc.

But then I would get to this one picture every morning and every morning I would stop and think: Dude...that's just stupid.

Why? Because the sign was touting that UCSD was the 7th best public university in the nation. According to UCSD News, this is true (as of 2009):

U.S. News & World Report ranks UC San Diego as the 7th best public university in the nation, and 35th among the nation’s top 262 universities. Also, in its 2009 survey of graduate programs, U.S. News ranks the School of Medicine 6th among the nation’s public medical schools and the Jacobs School of Engineering 6th among the nation’s public engineering schools. U.S. News also ranks UC San Diego 15th among national universities in the category of “Up and Coming Schools.”

Seriously? I understand that RELATIVELY that is awesome...but in the grand scheme of things, do people ever go around and chant "WE'RE NUMBER 7! WE'RE NUMBER 7!" It's hilarious to me to have a sign right in the middle of campus...proudly displaying that every student on campus should feel inferior to six other campuses:

Thanks for your 30K (out-of-staters)...you could have been getting a better education somewhere else! And we used your money to make a sign to remind you! SUCKERS!

So I would continue on my walk and chuckle...because UCSD is stupid....and I knew the sign would be there the next day, and I would get to chuckle all over again.

(no thought about the fact that I was paying to go there, too)

Juice Fast Day #3: We Survived

Had a bit of a problem with the juicer during the last meal. It started like "not working" and stuff. We did a bit of praying...and cussing...and it started working again. Now, how smart are we to watch Man vs. Food and Top Chef during our last few hours? NOT VERY!

Breakfast:

1/2 of a pineapple
1 Fuji apple
1 handful of grapes

Lunch:

2 tomatoes
3 carrots
3 stalks of celery
1/2 clove of elephant garlic
1 clove garlic
Ginger

Dinner:

1 1/2 beets
2 1/2 carrots
Swiss Chard
2 stalks of celery
1 tomato
2 cloves of garlic
Ginger

Mark Manasse's Foolproof Way to be a Successful Triathlete

Like many things in life, it's all about the preparation. There is no way one could be successful at doing a race like Vineman Half Ironman unless properly trained and motivated. The following is my foolproof way to be ready by any race-day morning.

(1) Put an anti-chaffing substance EVERYWHERE humanly possible. Yes. Even there.

Personally, I'm a BodyGlide man, but whoever you are...you absolutely most cake every inch of your body...or suffer the consequences. On the other hand, you truly haven't lived until you have been chaffed:

A. Between your Butt cheeks, and/or

B. That area under your...well, you know...between your butt and balls (on men or very, very special women), and/or

C. ON the penis maximus (that is the Latin for it).

I use BodyGlide AND Vaseline on my privies. Works like a charm.


(2) Learn How to Self-Urinate

I think anyone who has ever gone swimming has probably warmed the area with last night's milk...but there is something to be said for being able to release your fury while on a bike or when running...Huh?

I mean...you have to learn to piss yourself during every aspect of the race. I'm serious. Why wait in line? This past race was the first time I was able to do this during the run...and while trying to undo countless years of potty training is hard, thinking about running water and having absolutely NO shame seemed to do the trick for me.

Finally...that "no shame" thing has a benefit!


(3) Push...If You Have To

The morning of the race, it is very, Very, VERY important to make sure you have gone #2 as much as possible. This is difficult when you are trying to eat higher quantities of food, water, and salt leading up to race day. During Vineman, I actually started getting stomach pains during the ride, and I thought I was going to have an alien push its way through my stomach. Turns out...I just really needed to go to the bathroom. I ignored this, and it kind of went away (kind of)...but one of the best ways to be a good triathlete, in my experience, is having good bowel movements BEFORE the race.


(4) Go Ahead. Freak Out! Be an Asshole! BEFORE the Race.

In general, I feel like I am a pretty calm person...but the two days leading up to Vineman, I found myself contemplating life, God, and my ability to move to Canada within the next 24 hours. This is normal. I say, let your inner asshole out. If someone cuts you off while you're driving the day before the race, why not run him off the road? Normally, this kind of reaction would seem petty, but not leading up to race day. That person deserved to be run off the road...in fact, he wanted to be! Why else would he cut you off?

Just don't be an ass during the race. No matter how fast (or slow) you are at something, there is someone faster (or slower). So don't be the guy who yells out "On your left means MOVE THE FUCK OVER." Nobody likes that guy or his small penis.


(5) Realize It's Supposed to be Difficult -- Literally and Metaphorically.


It wasn't until training this year that I got over the fact that swimming, biking, and running will never be easy. I had it in the back of my mind that one day, magically, it would all just feel like taking a nap. Like I was skipping along. Clearly, I was wrong AND an idiot.

This shit is hard. Very hard. And once I realized that...it ironically did get easier. There is this wave of energy that goes through me, and I assume everyone else too, and you ride that wave until it leaves you...it will come back. Seeing as I am not a professional athlete, my wave is probably relatively short, and that is ok. One mantra I kept telling myself is "I am where I am." I wasn't going "slow." In fact, many times during the race I tried to slow myself down.

Triathlons are such a wonderful microcosm for life. They are very, very challenging; there is always something to learn; there is always someone better than you at something; and you are constantly caked in stinky, yellow pee.

If that isn't life, I don't know what is.

Juice Fast Day #2

Generally easier today...except for that bacon smell that was haunting me in Hillcrest. What is it with me, meat, and Hillcrest??

Breakfast:

2 Fuji apples
6 strawberries
1 handful of grapes

Lunch:

2 large tomatoes
2 small cucumbers
1 1/2 carrots
2 celery stalks
1 clove of elephant garlic
Ginger

Snack:

12 ounces of OJ

Dinner (THIS WAS AMAZING!):

3 1/2 oranges
1 Fuji apple
5 strawberries
1 1/2 small cucumbers
Ginger

Juice Fast: Day 1

Getting the normal side effects: Headache, lack of energy, weird mouth taste. If my toilet could talk....

Morning:

1/2 of one large beet
1/2 of clove of elephant garlic
Swiss chard
1 cucumber
2 white carrots
1 handful of cherry tomatoes

Afternoon:

1/2 of an apple
2 small oranges
2 1/2 pears

Dinner:

2 small cucumbers
1 handful of cherry tomatoes
1/2 clove of elephant garlic
Ginger
2 orange carrots
2 stalks of celery
Kale

By Special Request

(I just added some new buttons to each posting page...very exciting indeed. Feel free to click on them...or ignore them.)

I wrote a brief piece about my friend's dog...I read it to her, and she liked it, and asked me to blog about it. So...here it is:

***

Disco Jr. is a small Chihuahua-mix. My friend, Jen, rescued him after he was found under a freeway overpass, malnourished and with a busted leg. Soon after, Jen went on vacation for three weeks (no connection, I'm sure), and asked if we would watch her "innocent, little baby."

"Sure, why not."

We are now no longer friends.

From the beginning, it was clear that Disco Jr. was full of life, energy, and most importantly, pee. Although fully potty trained, Disco Jr. would decide to pee in certain areas of the house when it suited him best, and I would find his toothless gaze and gimpy gate increasingly less endearing when I would pick up a pair of recently-soaked pants that I purposely hung on a chair away from his never ending fountain of fun. At times, he would stare at me while he went, and through my yells.

We own two pugs, Maggie and Morrie, and they liked to gang up on poor Disco Jr. To defend himself, he would snarl his gums at them, which only interested them more. So, in retaliation, Disco Jr. would snap, but instead of a clanking of teeth, all we would hear was a bumping of gums. This really made me laugh. Out loud. In fact, I am laughing at him again right now.

So maybe, peeing all over my clothes wasn't a sign of stupidity after all, but instead, a form of doggy karma. As I laughed at Disco Jr.'s misfortune...he would bide his time and give a toothless smile as he stumbled upon something I own. A "who's laughing now, bitch" grin all over his face.

Knock, Knock, Knocking on 300

In the movie 300, a bunch of naked Spartans prance around while a naked Persian guy tries to seduce/conquer them (this is the CliffsNotes version).

Very similarly, my blog nears 300 entries, and I am currently prancing around naked.

OK...OK...that isn't true...I'm not prancing.

Point being, I should come up with something spectacular for this occasion. I mean, who would have imagined I would have spent so much time writing so many things that so many people don't read. NOT ME!

With about nine blogs to go before I get there...I need to think of something that is equal parts meaningful, thought provoking, libelous, self-deprecating, and crude. Something like Hemingway meets Daniel Tosh.

Until then, I'm going to try to contact Gerard Butler and see if I can get him to make a special blog appearance saying something like "THIS...IS...MARK'S BLOG!!" Prancing/clothes optional.

Learning My ABCs

When you're neurotic, like me, you tend to over think things...especially when these things involve other people. Mundane tasks like changing lanes, buying groceries, and walking past people in the hall have to be done the right way to ensure that:

(a) They are done correctly [because there is a correct way to do these things, right?];
(b) They are done politely; and
(c) They are done discreetly.

This formula might not seem to hard to accomplish, but when trying to get a+b+c to = perfection every second of every day...some amount of added life stress comes into play.

Luckily, I find myself to be utterly ridiculous...so I don't get overly consumed. I often just laugh when I find myself spiraling down a rabbit hole of:

Did I say "Hi" at the right time and with enough clarity to sound friendly but not like I want to get into a conversation? You're an idiot...stop worrying about that...shit...did he see me talking to myself...now I look unfriendly...ok...walk normally...not too fast...SLOW DOWN...how can you walk too fast...this is stupid...I'm stupid...oh...BOOBS...What was I thinking about...Oh yeah...that was a good "Hi." Probably the best "Hi" that dude every heard before. *chuckle* I really am insane."

On the other end of the spectrum...there are douchebags that could care less about other people's feelings. I encountered one this morning in the YMCA's hot tub. Clearly, he is illiterate....He does not know my ABCs.

***

First of all, there are two hot tubs at the Y. When I walked up, there was an even number of people in both areas...so I was not going to look like I was picking a side that already had too many people in it (a perfect ABC) although I was going to disturb the balance of tub-to-person ratio going on (substandard A).

Next, I entered my tub of choice, giving the gentleman who was already in the tub plenty of room, without splashing him at all, and without making any odd half-naked-man-eye-contact (Another ABC accomplished...I was on a role...and ecstatic with my performance to that point.) On the other hand, wile he did have plenty of room, I was sitting on the same side of the hot tub with him so I could be in some shade (Bad B...and borderline A).

As I mentioned, at this point, I was happy to find myself under an umbrella that gave me some shade, and I had left room for other shade-wanting-hot-tub-guests (ABC). I did start to wonder if the other guy in my tub knew I was trying to leave room for others to enjoy the shade, though (This completely ruined my C...and I tried to take up even less room).

And there I sat. Content. Shaded. No other person bothered as much as possible. I'm sure everyone was very impressed with my ability to get into the hot tub in such a professional manner....

***

This sense of ease did not last long. The "gentleman" who was sharing the hot tub with me decided to MOVE THE UMBRELLA so that the shade it offered was no longer on me...but only him and the rest of the hot tub. I didn't know what to do. I figure a normal person would request that the umbrella stay in place...but, as I have established, I am anything but normal. I didn't want to disturb his actions of wanting to change the angle of the umbrella (ABC), but I was also left in a hot tub in the sun...

I tried to talk my way through this:

Maybe he doesn't realize that the entire hot tub is covered in shade now EXCEPT where I am sitting. I should politely ask him to return it...no...no...I can't ask...I should tell...Yeah...telling is the right play here...but, he might not speak English. It looks like he may speak Spanish. How do I say this in Spanish? Por favor puede...puede...Move-o....it isn't move-o you idiot...what is the word for move? Is it volver? I think that is turn, not move. Shit, what is the word for umbrella? Did I ever know that word? Why can't I ever remember anything...Damn it...he already sat down. I think I waited too long. Now if I say something, he has to get back up to move the umbrella. Umbrella? Umbrella? What is the Spanish for umbrella? It is so fucking hot in here...I really should have said something...*Looking over at the other hot tub* BOOBS!

So I did what any sane person would do...I got out of the hot tub because it was too hot in the sun. I chalked this entire situation up to the fact that he must just be oblivious...and it was coincidence that the only place that ended up NOT having shade was exactly where I was sitting.

I thought this for about five seconds...until he watched me dry off...and put the umbrella back the second I walked through the door and back into the Y.

I wonder what the Spanish is for "You are a rude piece of shit?"

***

By the time I got to the locker room...all I could do was laugh at how ridiculous he was and I was and the entire situation was...but not for long...I was then down another rabbit hole because the Y is infamous for old men walking around with their wangs out...which seems very rude to me...and I had to get into my "Correct way to not look at other people's wangs without making it look like I am not looking at other people's wangs" (ABC) routine...and didn't have time to worry about the umbrella incident any longer.

Fake Orgies and The People They F Over

I have often thought taking me seriously makes as much sense as a fat homeless person. But in today's blog-centric, Google-driven world...it seems things have changed.

For every light-hearted blog (mine, for example), you get idiots who use the internet to post fake-orgy ads when feuding with a neighbor (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried).

Words, of course, have power, and the thin veil of the internet allows millions of people to voice their ideas, often quite rudely, and often without fear of repercussion. I mean, how much more likely is a person to comment on a blog "I hate you, you f'ing, asshole," than say those words to a person's face? I have done the math. It is much more likely. Like at least three times more likely squared.

What gets me, though, is satire gone wrong...or should I say, satire misinterpreted.

Case in point, I was actually legally threatened this year because of my blog. I got "a letter" from "a lawyer" who demanded I "cease and desist" my "libelous" and "slanderous" accusations regarding "his client."

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you read this blog? A blog in which I claim Eva Longoria is ugly. A blog in which I discuss, in depth mind you, the defecation habits of my dogs. A blog where if my tongue were any further in cheek, I might look like this guy:



The thing is, with the growing "popularity" (if that is even the right word) of this blog, and the ability to easily find content on the internet...I have fallen victim to the cyber plague of the 21st Century:

People are chicken shits.

They hide behind lawyers, HOAs, HR reps, agents, assistants, in fact, any middleman to do their dirty work.

The internet has not only shielded these chicken shits, it has propagated the issue to such an extreme, that some people have lost the ability to have face-to-face discussions about even the slightest disagreement.

Too many one-way, asynchronous conversations have people believing that "to talk something through" is taboo. I'll just have my lawyer take care of that for me has removed the ability for some people to look another person in the eye and say, with conviction, "Hey...asshole...you suck."

Let's keep things in perspective, here. There is a dramatic difference between calling for a "gang-bang on a bored soccer mom" and claiming "Mylie Cyrus sucks."

If anyone has an issue with this, let's talk about it...

Thinking About Thinking

Something interesting happens when in the middle of an endurance sport. You are alone. With your thoughts. And your thoughts. Well, they are alone. With you.

Now, normally, this isn't such a bad thing. Many times into a three-hour ride, I finally figure out what the heck I am going to do with one of my classes...two years from now....cuz, that's important. Hmm...

I have to say, though, "what do you think about" is almost one of my favorite questions when asked about training for triathlons. Some other common (and not nearly as interesting) questions are:

Doesn't your butt start to hurt?

What is a triathlon?

Is that the Ironman?

What order are the events in?

Is that like that thing like in Hawaii?

and

How far is it?

(These, again, are the most common questions. Please don't confuse these with the most common statements: "I could/would never do that" or "I lose my breath walking up stairs" [sometimes heard as "around the block" or "down the street"] or "You are crazy.")

***

Honestly, the real question here isn't "WHAT do I think about?" The more pertinent question is "WHY do I think about the things I think about?" For example, many times when over an hour into swimming/biking/running, I start singing JLO songs. I'm not kidding. JLO.

WAITING FOR TONIGHT. OHHHHHHHHHH

BAM...again and again and again. Now the what in this instance is clearly gay and embarrassing...but the why...the WHY is what gets me.

Why am I singing a JLO song?
Why am I singing THIS JLO song?
Why am I changing the words of the song from:

Waiting for tonight, oh
When you would be here in my arms
Waiting for tonight, oh
I've dreamed of this love for so long

to

Waiting to take a poo, oh
It will be there in the bowl.
Waiting to take a poo, oh
I've dreamed of this poo for so long

Clearly, this is not normal, but something about the rhythm of the song and the word "poo" (which always makes me laugh), keeps me going. I guess that's my why?

Another song that I am apt to sing is the California Drinking Song Now the why here is tricky.

Part of me thinks I sing this song because it's long, and I can never remember all the words. Consequently, I sing it again and again in my head, taking up gobs of time...berating myself for my lack of memory...and completely forgetting about what I'm doing.

I also think that maybe, deep within my brain, I start burning off some cells from when I used to be an alcoholic in college..and as these cells die...they sing me a little song in tribute. You never know.

***

So, it seems, some of my why's are for comic relief, some are for distraction, and others are clearly more scientific in nature.

I also may just have some sort of deep passion for JLO and drinking.

And, of course, I guess I also could be gay.

I'll keep thinking about it...perhaps tonight...with a beer...ohhhhh

Motorists: An Open Letter

Dear Motorists (meaning all motorists, not just certain minorities or certain genders that are sometimes certainly stereotyped as "bad drivers"):

Now, I know that you may realize this...you are very smart after all, but a bike tis not a car. Keeping this pertinent info in mind, please refrain from the following:

(1) Do NOT honk at me...EVER. You see, no matter who is right or who is wrong in a particular situation when you may want to honk...if you refer back to the premise of my argument (the aforementioned a bike is not a car), honking does absolutely nothing but make a bad situation much, much worse.

For example, let's say we are "sharing" (did you notice the quotes there? I am quoting that because you are indeed supposed to share the road with me...but alas, usually, you do not) the road...and I run out of shoulder to ride upon. If I then leave a nonexistent bike lane and "share" a lane with you, I realize that you may want to honk to (a) let me know you are there (b) make me move over or (c) request me to speed up...whatever the case may be...do you remember the premise? Do you? I am not a car...and so I can do none of these things...and while you may scoff at my very existence..honking only makes bikers nervous and SWERVE...maybe MORE into your lane.

So...no honking.

(2) While you may very well be some sort of fashion consultant...Hell, you may be the Tim Gunn of Del Mar...that still gives you no right to comment on my attire...I mean, do you see me lean over at a red light and say "Nice sweatpants...is that velour? My...you look quite gay in those" to you? I'm sorry if my biking shorts (designed for both speed and comfort) somehow offend you...but I can tell you, wearing biking shorts does not a gay man make. Maybe it's the sight of a non-fat ass that is threatening to you...I don't know. Point being...shut it.

(3) We all love a good laugh. I know I do...I mean..look at your wife. I kid. I kid. You see...joking is part of everyone's life. But you know what isn't funny? Yelling out your car window things like:

-Hey buddy, you dropped your water bottle!

or

-You're going the wrong way!

or

-Can't you go any faster??!?!?!?!?.

You are not original. More to the point, you are not funny. I have heard these same things time and time again. If you were to come up with some NEW material, and wanted to try it out...then by all means...go for yours. Until then...no more yelling rehashed jokes.

(4) I gotta say...I don't understand parking and/or driving in the bike lane...this "stumps" me...but the glass? Why do you constantly throw glass bottles into my lane? Again...I am assuming that you are smart...and that you realize that when you throw a glass bottle out of your car...it will...what's the word I am looking for...BREAK. Yeah...it breaks! So why don't you keep all your glass, food, and used condoms IN YOUR CAR.

This is really all I had to say at the moment. I hope you understand my position. Let's work together on this...and way to go with those used condoms! You the man!

Sincerely:

Mark Manasse

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

I think what initially got me was the countdown. A countdown? For food? That's...that's...well that's genius!!

And as the day drew nigh, I knew that not only would I buy, but that I would love the new KFC Double Down.

For me, though, it ended up that the sandwich wasn't even half the story. You see, I had no idea that at 9:45 PM on a Wednesday night was when KFCs turned into some sort of quasi-reality...like a mix of Tim Burton and David Lynch films.

***

The Extras

The first thing I noticed upon entering the pit of despair was rhythmic chewing and scooping.

Dazed look...chew...chew...scoop...dazed look...chew...chew...scoop.

Each table's occupant was a little more...um...portly? than the last...and there were no smiles. None to be seen. Just scooping. And chewing. Mashed potatoes looked popular, though.

Bollywood Leads

As I made my way to the front of the restaurant, I was halted by two Indian men who were trying to complete their orders. I was amazed by them for two very important reasons:

(1) They were clearly at the KFC together when I thought this was a no-friend zone. The other patrons would look up from time-to-time confused at sounds that appeared unwelcomed or maybe just unusual to them...the sounds were of interpersonal communication.

(2) And I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I think I can use my personal experience as an ESOL instructor to comment upon this...these two guys had THE WORST ACCENTS I had ever heard in my life. The more normal of the two cashiers gave it a go...but this got a little old:

Yes..I wut likea pis of chikin plis.

Um...what?

Chikin plis

OK...how many pieces?

Are der wery meny en abuckeet?

A what?

Buckeet.

A bucket?

Yes, a buckeet.

Although only third in a line at a fast food place, I didn't get to order for about twenty minutes. This made me wery, wery, irritated.

Bill and Ted...Bundy

I already mentioned the more normal of the two cashiers, which actually is saying something. This "normal" guy was HIGH as a kite...higher than the two Indian guys...and higher than the scooper-chompers at the tables. His eyes were like a couple of bloody marys floating on his shit-eating-grin-of-a-face. But this guy was nothing...NOTHING...because about ten minutes into my time at KFC...I locked eyes (or eye) with Marty Feldman's grandson..and this guy didn't stop mad dogging me the rest of my stay.

Here's Mark...here's one of Marty's eyes. There's Mark...there's one of Marty's eyes.

Creepy...creepy stuff.

Will Somebody Please Think about the Children

But my favorite part of this entire evening had to be when the future McPoyle Brothers from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia came in with their mom??? and insisted on saying things such as the following:

Are you Mexican? to cashier #1

EWWWW, whoa to cashier #2

I want a BURRITOOOOOOOOOOOOOO to everyone?

Do you have hot sauce? How hot? Is it hot hot or just hot? I don't like hot hot...but I like hot. Mr., what's wrong with your eye?

And while clearly at least ten-years-old...and on amphetamines...their mom??? simply ignored them. To the best of my knowledge, she was deaf.

The Climax

After about fifteen minutes of sitting around and, I presume, someone going out back and slaughtering my chicken for me, I got my Double Down. What I thought would be a nice, little five-minute stop, ended up taking well over thirty minutes...

So, I walked out the door...slowly...while watched by an eye...and listening to some odd mashup of how wery gut the chicken wings were and cheese is good...CHEESE IS GOOD...CHEEEEEESE IS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

Ideas that Might Sound Good...but Actually Aren't

Combining the shows Survivor and Who Wants to be a Millionaire into: Who Wants to be a Survivor? filmed on location in Haiti.

Spending a ton of research money blindfolding dogs, putting an orange under their noses, but feeding them apples...and then asking them what they just ate: an orange or an apple? Dogs can't fucking talk. Duh.

Going to the wake of an old archenemy...walking up to the coffin and gently whispering in the corpse's ear "You're dead to me."

Playing the "My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad" game with the son of a trained assassin.

Ever saying "He wasn't THAT bad, was he?" when talking about Hitler to a Holocaust survivor.

Before the basketball season starts, opening a savings account labeled "LA Clippers Playoff Ticket Fund"

Bringing a knife to a gunfight. In fact, bringing a knife anywhere. They are sharp and might hurt someone.

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where do babies come from?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where's Daddy?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "What's that smell?"

In fact, the phrase "Your mother's vagina" should be used sparingly, if at all.

A Tale of Two Puggies?

All apologies aside, the lack of blogging really has been YOUR fault...if you think about it.

But, seeing as how I am in the final moments of spring break, I believe it may be seen as some kind of "travesty" or "calamity" if I don't at least do one blog post this week.

So. Here I am.

And, as I type, I have a black pug leaning on my arm, lap, leg, doing whatever he can to nudge ever closer -- trying with all his might to somehow, someway be physically closer to me.

His name is Morrie.

***

Morrie is our third dog, but the second one who has been deemed lucky enough to live with us. Oh TJ, the bitch-ass Cavalier, didn't last long in the Manasse household. His fearing of life, his peeing at the sight of exercise balls, and his living under the couch when I would enter the room did him in. I wish I could say we did something awful to him...seeing as we lived in an emotional prison while he lived with us...but I can't. TJ got to go live on Coronado Island. Living the good life that I wish I could live...except I don't have 5 mil to buy a condo. Fucking TJ.

But Morrie...Morrie is different. He is our second Pug, and very different than Maggie, who I have written about time and time again. I find it hard to believe that these two are the same breed, considering how differently they act.

Morrie, who is now sleeping next to me as I type, snoring louder than a fighter jet, loves me in a way that I cannot fully encapsulate. At least, I assume his desire to step, lie, or pounce on my balls is some kind of love. He doesn't do this on purpose, I don't think, by his ability to have a homing device for my testicles is like nothing I have ever seen (or felt). I hope Tauni is reading this (KIDDING).

His head. It's too big for his body...and his tongue...it's too big for his mouth. I'm not sure how his mother birthed him, but I am assuming she didn't walk right for a few months after he was squeezed out....which is what makes his tongue that much more remarkable. I imagine it takes up about half his body weight, and while at rest, it hangs a few inches past his teeth. If there were such a thing as Puggy Porn...he would be the John Holmes of his kind.

While usually quiet and unassuming at home, he won't shut the hell up on trips to the park. Whining. Crying. Yelping. Dying? Time spent with Morrie in a car might be better spent having a root canal or prostrate exam. It's painful. His wide eyes and long tongue rhythmically bouncing as his sirens grow louder and louder the closer we get. He doesn't seem to understand "Morrie, be quiet." or "Morrie, SHHHHH" or "Morrie, SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE I FUCKING RIP YOUR FACE OFF." Or maybe he does...but he just doesn't care.

It's hard to watch TV with him because he reacts to any dog on the screen with reckless abandon. He'll fly at the TV and try to meet his canine counterpart...and the fact that this 2D brethren ignores him, sends him into an even greater fury. Onto his hind legs he'll go, begging and talking to the screen...front paws dancing in time to his futile attempts to make a friend who doesn't know he is there. Such is life for Morrie, who spends most of his time walking on his rear legs when even the least bit excited. Is he the missing link? Does he contain the genetic code that will bridge the canine and human worlds? Or is he simply a spastic munchkin who is unable to bundle up his Puggy energy...so it bursts forth from his front legs, as they do a breast stroke while apparently dancing to YMCA? We call it "Swimming," as in "Morrie is swimming at the TV again," but we are really being nice...because it makes him look like a retard, as in "Morrie looks like a retard...AGAIN." Well, that and his tongue do. Man. He has a long-ass tongue.

I have said it many times while living with our new Pug. "Morrie, you make it hard to love you." He is like nothing I have ever experienced before...because he is his own man. I don't think he cares much for Maggie. And he loves Tauni...when she feeds him. But as I turn to my right, and look at him as I struggle to type, he leans on my arm, his tongue hanging out his mouth, his snores vibrating the couch, and I think to myself how lucky I am to have such a dog with such a deep capacity to love.

So I lean back into him...and type with my left hand. Letting him sleep on my right.

I don't want to disturb him. And I don't want him stepping on my balls.

And I want him to know...that I love him, too.

Beets: The World's Most Dangerous Food

Being part of a CSA is an interesting experience to say the least. I honestly feel like I am doing my small part to help the environment...and when the environment needs help, you know I am the first guy on its list.

The downside of having a box full of veggies that I may or may not want to eat every week...is the guilt. I feel compelled to finish every leaf of lettuce...every ounce of greens...and every single purple, wrinkled, dirt-filled, disease-having (not yet confirmed) beet.

Now if you're like me (until recently), maybe you've never seen a fresh beet before. Let me tell you...they are ugly. U G L Y, they aint got no alibi, they're ugly. (Can beets sue?)













So week after week, box after box, we refused to eat them. And so, much like humping rabbits, they multiplied, and before we knew it...we had A WHOOOOOOOOOOOLE lot of beets. My guilt...it could take no more.

Enter the crusher of cucumbers...the assaulter of apples...the raper of radishes: The Jack Lalanne Juicer. I was ready to juice, juice, juice my guilt away!

On a lark (yes, a lark), I decided to look up a beet juice recipe instead of just going for it. And boy...am I glad I did.

Did you know that you should never drink beet juice by itself? Pure beet juice can temporarily paralyze your vocal chords, make you break out in hives, increase your heart rate, cause chills or even a fever!!! Beets? WTF?

Also, beets cause you're poop and pee to turn red!!! One site had this advice:

Beets are probably one of the most powerful vegetables available. Beets are known for causing both stools and urine to turn red and if this happens, don't be surprised.

Surprised isn't the right word. F'in' FREAKED OUT is more like it...and I can only imagine how quickly I would have driven to the doctor if I didn't read that before I drank my beet juice.

I do admit...while beets ARE clearly the world's most dangerous food and fricken ugly, it was tasty to mix them with apples and cucumber. And now I can die knowing what magical colors my excrement can be! Win-win!

Dear Idiot III

Time to go into the mailbag again. As usual, I took my three favorite emails from the past few months. "Favorite" used loosely, of course.

Stupid Question #1:

Mark,

Do you think you are selling out by posting your blog on Facebook.

J-Money

Dear Idiot,

Of course. Totally. I am selling out because I somehow make money by connecting my blog to Facebook or improve my social standing? In case you were not fully aware of the definition of "a sell out," please, let me enlighten you:

"Selling out" refers to the compromising of one's integrity, morality and principles in exchange for money, success or other personal gain. It especially refers to the attempt to increase social appeal or acceptability through this compromising. The person who acts in this way is referred to as a sell out.

I guess I consider myself a sell out this moment because I got this definition off of Wikipedia, but besides that, no. I discovered a long time ago that I have no social appeal...I think it is your turn to do the same! By the way, do you consider yourself a sell out because you finally learned how to read? Seriously, I hate when people think they have learned a word, but they are on 3/4s of the way there. Do me a favor, J-Money, use the word "ironic" in a sentence for me. If you do so correctly, THAT would be ironic.


Stupid Question #2:

Mark:

Why do you say such mean things to the people who take the time read your blog and write to you? I think you are funny most of the time, but some of your "Dear Idiots" seem a little rude. Can you be a little nicer?

Nancy

Dear Idiot:

This is actually a common question from the mailbag...but I chose yours, Nancy, because it seemed especially meek and whiny.

Let me spell this out for you. My blog, it isn't real. It 99% satire...so if I say my best friend is gay or that someone sexually assaulted me, it is a joke. For example, if I were to call you a moron for writing me such a pathetic email, you have two choices:

(1) You could choose to see the humor in my response by understanding that I have never met you and know nothing about you except you have time enough to read my blog and then write me emails telling me that I need to be nicer.

or

(2) You could choose to get offended and take what I am saying at face value. Of course, that means you would have to take everything in my blog as real...which probably means I have had sex with my dog. Repeatedly. For years. And she likes it.


Stupid Question #3:

Mark,

Why don't you write about Eva Longoria anymore? That shit was HILARIOUS!

Big Bob from Boise (Go Broncos!)


Dear Idiot:

Actually a GOOD question....and I have gotten a lot of emails about this over the past year. I don't know, really. She really bugged me for awhile, but then I stopped seeing her every three seconds. I guess when you suck, you stop being in movies? I also haven't seen any Spurs games recently...I don't know if she is still in the crowd or what. Point being...she isn't on my radar. I got into Mylie Cyrus for awhile...but I stopped noticing her, too. Maybe I need to watch more TV or something.

Do you have any suggestions on who I should ridicule next? I am pretty open.

That's it from the mailbag. Until next time!

The Top Ten Things I Learned (not necessarily did) on New Year's Eve (or close thereto)

10: Sleeping in your own bed with sheets and blankets is so 2009. Sleeping on an expensive new couch that isn't yours in your own vomit, now THAT is 2010!


9: Walking around a parking lot trying to break into hot tubs for thirty minutes is stupid. Doing it while walking around naked is stupid and cold.


8: When wandering in a gated-off park that is not set to open for for a few months with signs every few feet which state "No Trespassing," one should only pick the freshest lemons off of all the lemon trees for the consumption of lemonade the next day (note: if the lemonade is actually made or not is of no importance).


7: Women squatting and peeing on the sidewalk is more common than you would think.


6: Actually trying to commit a felony, such as kidnapping, can be thwarted by a "teacher look" and a well-written note when packing tape is available.


5: A fast way to solve any lingering and underlying race issues is to tell an Afghani cab driver, at least three times, Sorry for what we are doing to your country, man! while giving a "bro-tap" on the back of the shoulder.


4: Some C.M.s find my sense of humor hilarious (Chris Macabuhay). Others (he/she who shall not be named), not so much.


3: Wearing nasty-ass-printed-ruffle-dresses is "in" in the OC, and people who wear such dresses are not actually deaf when one yells (repeatedly) "Why are so many chicks wearing nasty-ass-printed-ruffle-dresses...they are so UGLY!"


2: It is possible to puke and poop simultaneously.


and the #1 thing I learned on New Year's Eve


1: New Orleans 2011 is happening.

The Right to Bear a Hobby Horse

My dog is what some might call a "vagine." I mean, when you think about it, one of the pragmatic uses for even having a dog is protection, right? But I bet if I asked my dog what her job is...she might respond "eating" or "sleeping" or "licking her ass, then my face."

These are not paid positions (and there are no more openings).

So a few weeks ago, when I was awoken by her growling and snorting in our bedroom, my first response was "Maggie...SHUT THE HELL UP! IT'S TWO AM!!!"

But the growling kept going...and she started to pace in the bed. The next thing I know, Tauni is shaking my arm and says "I think I hear someone in the kitchen."

Of course, my first instinct was to say "Tauni...SHUT THE HELL UP! IT'S TWO AM!!!" but I am more pragmatic than the dog...and I thought I better not. I did try to ignore her, but with the combination or growling and the incessant shaking, I eventually, slowly, begrudgingly woke up. And I heard it.

No...that couldn't be...no...A SOUND! And another sound. In fact...that sounds like...someone...NO...moving...rattling...NO F'IN WAY!

And my heart sank...because now...now it was my time to be "the man."

***

Being a man has a lot of perks in life. First of all...I can pee standing up OR sitting down. Really...I enjoy this choice. After a long day...sometimes, I am not embarrassed to admit, I sit to pee. Sue me. This makes me no less of a man. In fact, I think it makes me more of a man. Yes. A manly man I am for sitting to pee.

I also don't have to care about stuff...being a man and all. Some women assume men don't have feelings, but we do. It's just so little is actually expected of us...we can play it up! Centuries of men saying "I don't care" have built upon themselves in a form of ancient viral marketing...and now...when we choose to...we can pull out the "I don't have feelings" card almost at will. It's brilliant if you asked me!

But there are times it sucks to be a man! And I can tell you...hearing a sound in your kitchen in the middle of the night is DEFINITELY one of those times. What the Hell am I supposed to do at 2 AM with rustling...RUSTLING emanating in the room on the opposite side of my house? Ask my eighteen-pound-pussy-ass dog to protect us? Turn to my five-foot-nothing girlfriend?

No...it was time to be a man. So I did what any man would do...I picked up the closest blunt object within arm's reach of my bed and started to head for the kitchen....of course, this being me, the most violent instrument within arm's reach from MY bed...was a fucking hobby horse. Doesn't this look scary:



So, if you can imagine...I am tiptoeing down the hall way...hobby horse in hand...and on my way to beat the living shit of what I presumed to be a 7' tall monster waiting for me in the other room.

Here is an artist's rendition:



Luckily for me...on the way there, with my vicious dog cowering behind my every step, I realized the sound was nothing more than a raccoon that had gotten into the kitchen to eat Maggie's food through our open back door (now closed and locked every night). So...I started banging the hobby horse and clicking its ear. Why? So it would neigh and make some galloping sounds, or course! Worked like a charm...and whatever was eating my dog's food scurried away as brave little Maggie went ape shit...after it had gone.

And we all were safe and sound. Mark MANasse with his HOBBY HORSE...saved the day.

Sigh.

A fun little postscript:

Maggie has taken a big dump every night by the back door to try to cover up the smell of the raccoon who came in to eat her food. So that's been really fun. Way to show the raccoon who's boss, Maggie. You rock!


_

Television Preview Sucks My Ass (A Not-So-Hilarious-Tale of How I Was Scammed!)

I preach and preach to my students that just showing up, butt in chair, does not lead to success. It's important to do your homework...because failing to prepare is preparing to fail! Hokie...but oh-so-true!

If I had taken my own advice, my Friday night wouldn't have sucked major balls. You see, a few weeks ago I received a seemingly innocuous piece of mail from a corporation called Television Preview claiming (I thought) to need my advice about future television shows.

HOW COOL!

Did I think about how they got my name? Why they were asking me? Investigate them even one tiny bit? Of course not...all I could think of was watching some never-before-seen pilots and giving my clearly valued opinion.

To make matters worse, I shared my excitement with a friend of mine the day of the previewing. I explained that I had "somehow" been "randomly selected" and my Friday night would be filled with Must See TV to be!

She then mentioned how a friend of hers went to something that sounded very, very similar before. Unfortunately...the TV shows were actually quite old, and this was a scam to get people to watch commercials and give input about different products.

My balloon sufficiently deflated...I of course decided to put her in the "hater" category and let Debbie Downer know that I appreciated her concern, but there were major TV companies vying for my opinion...and I was going to give it to them!

***

Well, wouldn't you know it? Tauni, a friend of hers, and I went to the screening and we were greeted by the following by Television Preview:

1997's Soulmates. Oddly, while the host claimed that the show took place in 1999, then 2003, and eventually ended up in present day...what we in fact saw was flannel, big hair, and gigantic cordless phones. Bullshit much? And OH MY GOD...not only was it old...but it SUCKED. I mean really, really sucked. Worse than any Lifetime movie made for TV type of sucking. Perhaps this was to get us to look forward to the commercials they made us sit through?

This was then followed up by 1997's Dads. The best part about this show was that C. Thomas Howell was in it...and any 30 something dude knows he was in Red Dawn...sadly...he only played "the friend" in Dads. How the mighty had fallen! This show was better than Soulmates...but 1997? Come on!!!!

But the commercials...holy mackerel! Every few minutes, the shows would stop and they would come on...one of which stands out much more than the rest. It was a TP commercial and literally talked about how other TPs SMEAR POOP while theirs is 3x more SMEAR RESISTANT....and they proved this by showing PICS of the other brand smearing poop! Clearly...this intrigued me....but still...not appropriate for a TV commercial, even in my book.

After being there for a few minutes, we started to think this seemed a little suspicious. So THEN (not before), we decided to investigate. We pulled out our phones and did our homework....just a little too late. Here is Television Preview's take on what they do:

Television Preview® events have been taking place for over 30 years with the sole purpose of testing material being considered for broadcast. By participating in the Television Preview screening event, you have the opportunity to directly influence what you may see on television in the future. You will be participating along with people from across the globe.

Our goal is to simulate your television viewing environment. You will be asked to view pre-recorded 1/2 hour segments (including programs and commercials) just as you would in your home.

It should be noted that our company does not seek to sell you anything. Your opinion on the material you will be viewing is what we want. These data will be analyzed and passed on to the producers, directors, sponsors, and other people that make decisions as to what makes it to air and what ends up on the cutting room floor.

As our way of saying thank you, there be will be approximately $250.00 in attendance prizes awarded throughout the Television Preview screening. We look forward to seeing you at the screening.

Clearly...they aren't lying...but they are TOTALLY misleading...if we just would have gone to good ol' Wikipedia we would have seen this was all BS!

But wa-wa-wa-wa-wait...it gets worse!

The host was a PAINFULLY unfunny, skeleton of a man. He made terrible joke after terrible joke...most including AWFUL sexual innuendo. Seriously...he actually said things like:

On your form, it asks for sex. Please check off yes, no, or sometimes.

I didn't know people told that "joke" after junior high. Now imagine...TWO HOURS...TWO F'IN HOURS of that!

My favorite thing this guy did had to be when he introduced his assistant...the one he deemed "exotic." Want to know why...what possibly made her so exotic???? She was Asian. Yeah...that's right. Asian. Now, don't get me wrong, her silver-skin-tight-and-too-short-dress-with-gigantic-pink-high-heels-ensemble was not what I would call "normal," but this isn't 1960. You don't call someone exotic because she happens not to be white, jackass. I was waiting for him to say "oriental," and I know he would have if he could have stopped making a buffoon of himself for five seconds.

Another thing they did that was completely shoddy was to put signs on EVERY DOOR...EVERY DOOR...that said "This door is for emergency exit only" to try to keep people from leaving or perceiving a way out. I took one of these signs as a keepsake...and then we turned it into the hotel's manager when we tattled on them!

But BY FAR...the cherry on top of the cake had to be the couple sitting in front of us. First of all, at one point, the wife said "this was so much better the last time I came." HUH...WHAT?...You see...she didn't know it was a scam...and went back for more...and brought her husband! As soon as we let them know this was all BS...the husband took out his phone, turned to a fart program he had previously installed (Never know when THAT would come in handy, I guess), and proceeded to create different types and lengths of fart sounds while the Host was talking. This guy made long fart sounds, short fart sounds, wet ones, loud ones, airy ones...you name it...he did it. Again. And again...and after he and his wife almost rolled out of their chairs with laughter...Tauni, her friend, and I bidded Television Preview adieu...with visions of farts, smeared poop, exotic Asians, and terrible late 90's TV dancing in our heads.

And this is exactly why doing your homework is important.

_

There's a Caterpillar In My Bok Choy

Not very often do you google search something like "bok choy caterpillar" and come back with a bunch of results for a movie with it's own website: http://www.theresacaterpillarinmybokchoy.com/

...but I did, and there is, so here we are.

Anyway...I found the mother fucker that single handedly ate THREE of my bok choy plants. Here he is before I threw him into the next yard:



I guess it really is a cabbage moth larva? Here is a professional picture:



I bet you didn't know they have green blood. But they do. Whoops...I might have squeezed it just a little too hard. Tee hee.

But why didn't I kill the little shit before it ate all my plants? I couldn't see it! It was the same exact color as the soil...and it wasn't until this morning that he made the mistake of not burying himself more fully.

If that wasn't enough carnage for one morning, we also found this carcass "living" under our shed. What you might not be able to capture here is that his limbs and spine had been torn from his body. Ah, nature. You truly are beautiful.

Your Tax Dollars at Work

I got a letter from my district office today. The letter contained a form for change of address and instructions.

The instructions stated:

District forms are not forwarded by the post office. We need your current mailing address to send you important information. Please fill out the enclosed change of address form so that we can have you current mailing address.

What I learned:

My district office clearly has my current mailing address because it was ON the letter they sent me today.

My district office made it clear I can't receive mail from them unless they have my current mailing address. They SENT ME A LETTER telling me this.

I need to fill out a form to let my district office know of my current mailing address, even though they have it because it was on the letter, a letter I wouldn't have received unless it was addressed correctly.

Question:

How did we get to the point of needing furloughs in California? No idea. Nope. No idea at all.

So Long "Where's the Beef?" Hello "Where's the North American Beef?"

Ever notice that we add words to foods to make them sound better than they really are? You know...something like:

Q: You want cheese with that?
A: Nah

but if asked

Q: You want Aged Vermont Extra Sharp Cheddar with that?
A: Oh BOY...DO I?!?!?!

This happens all the time...especially at restaurants that are pretending to be high quality. In fact, I find there is a direct correlation between the number of adjectives to describe the food to the price. For example:

A burger with everything on it may run you about $5.00 to $8.00

while

A Japanese Kobe Beef Burger with Arugula and Smoked Real Californian Pepper Jack...well you are looking at at least $20.

This never really bothered me until recently when I saw a Wendy's commercial. Yeah...Wendy's. I haven't been there in about ten years, either...all I know is that they have square (why?) burgers and shakes that they don't call shakes.

Anyway, in this commercial...they claim that they just don't have REAL beef in their burgers...but they have REAL NORTH AMERICAN beef.

Is this supposed to make me feel better? First of all, North America is a pretty damn big area and includes such places as Tijuana and New Jersey. MMMmmmm...polluted.

Secondly, it simply freaks me out when a place claims that they have beef in their beef! That makes me ask two questions:

(1) What did you use before you made this claim?
(2) What are other places using that this is a claim you are actually proud to make?

What's really weird is I went onto Wendy's website to pull the commercial for this blog...and at least on the internet, they aren't using the "Real North American beef" terminology anymore. So that verbiage (a) is only on TV (b) has been pulled because IT WASN'T TRUE or (c) was simply made up in my mind.

Nah...it was probably made up in my real, North American, aged and pepper-JACKED mind.

Ode to Fall (And I Guess Winter If I Have To)

Oh Fall, how I hate thee.
You are a cold time of year.
Your days get dark early.
Your frost chills my rear.

One good thing about you
I hate to admit, but I'll say.
Once October comes around
The tourist, he finally goes away.

Honestly, my bike rides do suck
From May through September.
There are so many novices
Whose faces I want not to remember.

They get in my way.
They ride in dramatic, dangerous droves.
They don't know what they're doing.
They are idiots, I suppose.

Even worse are the "experts"
With their mile-long peloton.
Hogging my road
I have a finger for you to sit and spin upon.

But Oh in October.
Things do take a turn.
Oh in October.
Fewer bikers to spurn.

It's cold in the mornings
The tourist, he begs.
So, he packs up his bags,
And his puss between his legs.

So, I look forward to 60s.
Or 50s. Or 40s. No colder!
Then I can ride free in my jacket
Not crowded on a sandwiched shoulder.

Don't get me wrong.
Otherwise Fall, it still sucks.
But at least I can ride in peace now
Away from all those stupid, motherless...guys.



_

Lost in Mental Masturbation

During my first week of living in the Czech Republic (9 years ago), I got invited to a ball. Yeah, a ball! I still carry my ticket in my wallet because I have always felt that this ball was a defining moment in my life. I was out of my comfort zone, and attempting to communicate with people who had no way of communicating with me. I also puked something awful that night because Americans really don't know how to drink. You know you've had a full night when you puke more than you talk.

Anyway, there was a community bus that took us from the ball site back to town (weird, they actually have a mechanism in place so people don't drink and drive), and during this bus ride, there was a Czech comedian playing on the radio. It was amazing to me to be surrounded by over a hundred other people...all of us in silence...and every so often, every single person on that bus would erupt into laughter at something the Czech comedian said...while I sat there and looked out the window at all the snow that blanketed the ground. Their laughter stinging my ears.

***

At the dog park this morning, I got to witness a fascinating conversation between two elderly guys. I'll call them Bob and Larry for the sake of this blog...and here were some of their finer moments:

Bob: So Larry, you get everything done yesterday that you were supposed to?
Larry: What was I supposed to get done?
Bob: I don't know.
Larry: Guess I did, then.

Bob: That dog just went to the bathroom.
Larry: Yup.
Bob: Sure was a good one.

Bob: You working on your crossword puzzle?
Larry: Yup.
Bob: *Silence*
Larry: Say, Bob...you were in the Marines...what's the strap you carry over your shoulder. It starts with Band.
Bob: Bandolero.
Larry: That doesn't seem to work.
Bob: Well, that's what the Mexicans call it.
(For the record, I think he meant Bandoleer)

Bob: Sorry about my dog growling.
Larry: No problem.
Bob: This dog is grumpier than my ex-wife.

On and on they went, and I sat there for over thirty minutes just listening to them, staring at the grass, seeing nothing but green...and just laughing internally at how ridiculous the conversations were.

***

On the way home, I played and replayed the conversations that Bob and Larry had in my head. The more I thought about them, the less funny they became until the moment struck me where I remembered a young kid staring out a window, feeling ostracised...seeing nothing but white.

I don't know if loneliness has a color, but I know what it sounds like. People are talking and laughing...but there is something missing in the words.

"Clowns and Bikes" are nothing like "Hookers and Blow" Part 1

I get these stupid thoughts sometimes like:

Why do we sleep?

Which then turns into:

What is sleep?

Which, then of course leads to:

Why can't I fit my entire fist into my mouth? (I don't know why...but this really fascinates me)

But this blog isn't about fists, fisting, or anything of the like. I'm writing because after suffering some of the worst and prolonged insomnia of my life (Which of course led to me thinking about what insomnia is and my fist-to-mouth ratio again)...I have had two of the most incredibly deep and relaxing nights of sleep that I can remember in a long time. Unfortunately, when I sleep deeply...I don't dream of anything normal...no sex...no hookers...no blow (this is normal, right?)...I get the following:

Night One

I am walking towards a beach with a giant group of people. We are all partying, screaming, yelling...it appears to be a birthday party for Tauni. I realize that I am going to have to make some sort of toast, and I feel like an idiot because I don't know what to say. So...the only thing I think of possibly saying is:

Here's to Tauni. Here's to Tauni. Here's to Tauni. She's a damn fine gal.

As I finally come to terms that this is what I'm going to say...this guy I know, Mark Clemens, starts drunkenly screaming some jumbled chant that everyone else starts saying...and he has a CRAZY look on his face..like he is drunk out of his mind. I'm telling you...CRAZY LOOKING!!!!

The next thing I know...because of this chant...people are climbing on top of each other and making, what I can only classify as, human totem poles. Higher and higher people went...chanting Clemens's chant again and again.

This of course leads to the people on top of the human totem poles turning into CLOWNS...that's right...CLOWNS...and these clowns then blow up balloons...get on top of the balloons...and try to float away.

But wouldn't you know it. They are unsuccessful. The balloons keep popping..and the clowns plummet back down into the crowd...and the clowns, and the people in the crowd get hurt.

Seriously...what grown man dreams something like this? Clowns? Balloons? Clowns floating on balloons? This dream must mean I'm gay. I'm certain of it.

One website on dream interpretation suggests to ask the following questions of yourself if you have had a dream about a clown:

***

QUESTIONS:

1. Did you feel like a clown on the day before the dream who did not really know what he was doing?

2. Who does the clown with its false smile remind you of?

3. Who in your life seems friendly but is actually a bit false?

***

My Responses:

1. I feel like a clown every day. I never know what I'm doing. It's called being a human being, jackass. I wish I could find the guy who made this website...do you know what you're fucking doing? Can YOUR fist fit in YOUR mouth? I bet so.

2. No one...but now...maybe you, website creator, because your website has not helped me at all.

3. My dog always acts really nice when she wants food. That bitch.


So if anyone has any real suggestions on what this dream means...let me know!

Part 2 to follow.

Tosh.0 is One of the Best Shows on TV

Here is a video from Comedy Central's Tosh.0. If you haven't watched this show yet...you are missing out!



I'M A DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOG!

Farming -- Day One

Tauni and I recently started buying organic and local. Yeah...we truly are THAT kind of yuppie.

Also, we decided to grow some of our own food, too. I'm going to keep track of how terribly this goes.

Here is what Day One looks like:



You'll just have to imagine what the watermelon seeds look like because I planted all of them, but if you look VERY closely, you can see all the other seeds. LOOK CLOSELY I SAID!



We are growing five things: Tomatoes, Carrots, Bok Choy, Corn, and Watermelon...



...but we are growing them two different ways to see which way works better. One way we are trying is inside these peat pellets....never thought I would ever use any kind of pellet...but here we are.






We are also trying to grow our food the "traditional" way, inside soil and pots. Notice how quickly our basil grew!






ok...ok...we bought pre-grown basil.

Wish me luck...I'm sure I'm going to mess this up!

A Circuitous Discussion on the Loss of MoJo and the Need for JoMo

Do you remember (or have you even heard of) Shakey's Pizza? They used to be a large pizza chain in the US, but alas, there are only a few left now, which I don't understand with great adds like this from the 80's. How could that commercial not save them? Hmmm...

Anyway, the reason I even started thinking about Shakey's is because of one of their delicious menu items that I remember eating frequently as a kid: the classic, the tongue-burn inducing, the twice-fried MOJO POTATOES.

Now this is going to sound odd and seem like a tangent, but stay with me here.

A few years ago, Darron and I used to drive by a place called Shaker's Pizza in Fremont when we both lived up in the Bay Area.

We joked that this had to be no coincidence, and that Shaker's Pizza was trying to use the previous coattails of Shakey's to gain popularity....and perhaps even sold JoMo potatoes in a-little-too-close-connection to its predecessor.

Perhaps Shaker's marketing strategy worked because they are still around, and at the pinnacle of their popularity, even made an appearance on THE Casual Critics Review of Fremont's Red Lobster. You know you've made it when you are a passing comment on a shit website's review of a DIFFERENT restaurant.

So why the hell am I mentioning all of this???

For about the last week, every time I try to workout, I feel this lack of energy, drive, desire...MOJO! I have nothing to tap into. No gas is in the engine...and much like all the Shakey's, I don't know where it went. I am getting desperate and looking for energy anywhere I can find it. Coffee. Bars. Gus. Crack. But nothing. My MoJo, for the last week at least, is gone.

Point being...I want my MoJo back, but if it's gone the way of Shakey's, I would seriously even settle for some of that Shaker's JoMo right now.

Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu

The best thing about going camping and ending up placing the tent by a skunk den is that showering definitely lowers on the “to do” list:

To Do List While Camping

1. Bug Spray
2. Lock Bike
3. Megan Fox
4. Shower
5. Roast Marshmallows

To Do List While Camping Next to a Skunk Den

1. Bug Spray
2. Lock Bike
3. Megan Fox
4. Roast Marshmallows
5. Shower

You see…VERY different.

***

Darron (you may know him as one of THE Casual Critics, or from his exploits as playing the “pea” in a recent rendition of Princess and the Pea at the Huntington Beach Playhouse. Don’t believe me? Check it out.)and I had some free time this summer, so we ended up taking a camping/road biking trip to Lake Cachuma, California. When we arrived at the campground, we asked the ranger on duty which site would be the best. She said it depended on what we liked, and we should go check out the campsite to see. We didn't seem to mention that we liked being haunted by skunks, but that's what we got. Remind me not to ask her for any financial advice.

We went out and drove around…finding that site number 455 was somewhat isolated with a great view of mighty Lake Cachuma. Why we wanted isolation, in retrospect, seems odd. We are two relatively straight guys.

Once we found 455, we hurried back to the ranger, not wanting anyone to stake our territory. I even let Darron out before I parked so no one would take our wonderful and fresh smelling spot.

Lucky us, number 455 was still available. When we returned to set up our tent, we found that the ground was dry, hard, steel-like, and impenetrable. But we kept at it. Taking our time to get our tent set up in the PERFECT spot.

That night, at about 8:30, while we were grilling up our dinner, I happened to watch two skunks walk right toward us. The two turned into four. As we try to figure out where they are coming from, we find two of them, turned...butts and tails up, facing us. We ran. And then ran some more.

***

The next morning, I ask Darron if skunks are nocturnal. He says yes. I walk out of the tent to use the restroom, and there is one of the skunks. Waiting for me. I run back into the tent. The skunk it right outside, and starts calling his friends: Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu. And we hear them answer back from around the campground: Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu.

I have translated that conversation into:

HERE THEY ARE. LET'S SPRAY THEM AND THEN RAPE THEM...NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER.

I am a linguist after all.

We have had enough, so I call Tauni about how to get rid of skunks. It turns out, we could use fox or coyote pee to keep them away. Unfortunately, we were fresh out, so we discuss peeing directly into their den with our own urine. I'm not saying we did this. But I'm also not saying that we didn't.

The second night, camp 453 (which was vacant the first night), has some campers. I ask Darron if we should warn them. He says: No. We had to find out the hard way; they should, too. I ask him if we should at least move the tent away from the skunk den before it gets dark. But he again declines and states We’ve made peace with the skunk.

At about 8:30, they return, and Gaguuuud us all night long. I'm STILL sore.

***

If being attacked by the skunks wasn't enough, here are some of my favorite Darronisms that came up in no particular order:

Darron's Take on Wildlife

If you are even exposed to a bat, you should seek medical assistance immediately because they could bite you so quickly, you might not even know it. And then you could have rabies....and die.

Darron's Take on Sports

I am really looking forward to the Angel game. I just hope no one gets killed. Two people have been killed there this year.

Darron's Take on Farm Animals

What a beautiful horse. Just don’t pet it. It will think your fingers are carrots and bite them off.

Darron's Take on Piers

This is a great pier. If I were going to kill someone, this is where I would take them.

Darron's Take on Swimming

Mark: If I pushed you off this pier, would you forgive me?
Darron: NO!
Mark: No? Come on…you wouldn’t?
Darron: I wouldn’t have time…I would be dead.

Soda and Boobs

Conversation Number One -- I'm Not a Good Mentor

I'm in a classroom before a presentation I needed to give today. I am all alone, and will be for awhile. I get up to use the restroom, when half way to the door, I realize that my keys are in the computer's flash drive. We aren't supposed to leave the classrooms unlocked, ever, for any reason.

I think Eh...I don't need to lock the door. I'll only be gone a second....and there is nothing to steal except the sodas people get for showing up to the presentation.

On the way to the bathroom, I walk past a student...and HAVE TO LAUGH at myself as I momentarily worry that he might go into the open room and take a soda....not that I CARE...they are just sodas....but the possibility is there. Nah...Who would do that...and I'll only be gone another thirty seconds...I'm so stupid.

But wouldn't you know it, as I return from the bathroom, I catch him leaving the room WITH a soda...and I feel like I am in the middle of that Seinfeld episode when the guy who is going to play Kramer in Jerry steals the raisins.

As he hurriedly walks around the corner, we have the following conversation:

Me: Excuse Me! Can I help you with something?

Him: (He walks back toward me...soda and a handout for the presentation in hand) Are you a professor here?

Me: (Staring at the soda) Yup.

Him: You'll probably be my teacher.

Me: (Still staring at the soda) Huh?

Him: I have a class in this room next Wednesday.

Me: Ohhhh...well, many teachers use this room. In fact, those materials you have are actually for a meeting we are going to have in here in a second (I didn't mention the soda...but I am still staring at it.)

And then, for some reason, he tells me about his placement test, how he did on it, and some of his life history. While he thumbs through the presentation materials in his right hand, all I can do is just fixate on the can of soda that he has under a napkin in his left....the water slowly dripping off of it...the napkin soaking up the condensation...

We go on...him telling me about his life, me indirectly hinting to return the things he has taken from the classroom. We have a five-minute conversation where the words were about school, but the context was about a stolen can of soda.

Seriously? Who goes into a classroom and just takes a soda?

Conversation Number Two -- Who am I Kidding? I'm the Best Mentor Ever!

At the store tonight, Tauni bought one of those magazines that discusses the lives of movie stars. Alyssa Milano's wedding photos were on the cover, and the sixteen-year-old checkout guy didn't know who she was. So the following conversation ensued:

Me: You really don't?

Him: Nope.

Me: Who's the Boss? Charmed?

Him: I haven't seen those.

Me: Have you seen Embrace of the Vampire?

Him: What's that?

Me: Do you like boobs?

Him: (He looks at me, my girlfriend, my girlfriend's boobs, and then back at me.) Yeah.

Me: Then you'll like this movie.

Him: What's it called again?

Me: Embrace of the Vampire

Him: I'm going to put it on my Netflix queue right now (reaching for his phone)

Me: It might not be there (meaning it's old and not that popular so they might not have it)

Him: Yeah, there might be a wait for it (thinking I meant that too many people have it at home)

I molded a young mind tonight. And I didn't steal ANYTHING from the store...

If Darron and I were in Charge...

Easy step-by-step directions on how to catch a terrorist.



darron_evans: ha - the list of indicators often
associated with suicide bombers released by the FBI
today:
darron_evans: Irregular, loose-fitting clothing not
appropriate for warm weather, possibly with
"protruding bulges or exposed wires" or a noticeable
chemical odor.
mcnastabator: hahahahha
mcnastabator: NO WAY
darron_evans: nice exposed wires
mcnastabator: if they say anything like "I have a
bomb" in arabic or english...they may also have a bomb
darron_evans: if you see a suspicious looking man humming
or whistling the tune "La Bamba," notify police
immediately.
mcnastabator: hahahhaha
mcnastabator: anyone heard "ordering" the "bomb
burrito" when not in an establishment that has such an
item on their menu, such as an italian
restaurant...please watch carefully
darron_evans: Giggles: Hee Hee
darron_evans: I'd like a bomb burrito.... err... I
mean a bean burrito, please.
mcnastabator: see
mcnastabator: that is suspicious
darron_evans: yes - my antenna would go up, definitely
mcnastabator: but sir, we only have ice cream here
mcnastabator: would you like a waffle cone?
mcnastabator: NO...I want a BOMB burrito...WINK WINK
darron_evans: when in a restaurant, and the guy next
to you tips the waitress a thousand dollars, and she
says, "Thank you! Oh my gosh, thank you!" and he says,
"You'll never get to spend it. We'll all be dead in
about 30 seconds." you should be suspicious.
darron_evans: let the police know right away.
mcnastabator: hahahahahhahahahahahahahahahaha
mcnastabator: hahahahahahahahahahhahahahahah
mcnastabator: I'm still laughing
mcnastabator: hahahhahahahahahahah
mcnastabator: I might even give that a
mcnastabator: lkjfahlkhsfklahdsfklhsd
darron_evans: Disco: Roar
mcnastabator: you'll be dead in 30 seconds
mcnastabator: we have to put these on our sites
mcnastabator: this is classic
darron_evans: yes, i'll cut and paste and email it to myself

It Sucks Being Us

My girlfriend's friend has what I would consider "a cool job." A job that when you have the mundane "What do you do for a living?" small talk with her, you actually pause and say: "Wow..really? That's cool!!" Don't believe me?

She works with dolphins for a living. Fucking dolphins! Cute, cuddly, intelligent dolphins. Nothing to complain about there.

You know what sucks about being us...no matter how good we have it, no matter how cool our lives might be....we'll find fault. This dolphin job, like all jobs, has its good days and bad days. Sometimes the dolphins bite. Sometimes the dolphins splash. Sometimes they rape sea turtles. It's a vicious cycle.

How sad is this? If even working with dolphins can suck...there really is no hope of ever truly being happy...ever.

Let's review what could be wrong with some of the world's greatest jobs:

Job #1 -- Megan Fox's Underwear Selector:

She always wants me to pick something out 10 minutes before I'm have to leave. If she knows she needs underwear, can't she tell me at 3 and not 4:50?

Job #2 -- Blow Job Receiver:

Stupid Nancy never finishes on time...

Job #3 -- Space/Time Traveler:

God...I'm so sick of finding life on new planets. It's always the same damn thing. Yeah...yeah...you fear our superior intellect. I'm going to cure some disease for you...then you're going to build me a statue...every time...the same thing.

Job #4 -- NBA Superstar:

$10 million? $10 million? I could leave here tomorrow and they would be fucked. They don't even know how to use the copy machine...and they want me to play for $10 million. Why does Stan get $12 million a year...he doesn't do shit.

Job #5 -- Fresh Baked (Nut Free) Chocolate Chip Cookie Taster:

My boss is such an ass. He yelled at me because I only tasted ten cookies this hour...and he wants me to do fifteen. God, if I had his job, I would totally let everyone eat ten cookies/hour....WITH milk.


We are all doomed. All of us. We'll never be happy

Photo Caption Contest

Below is my latest Facebook picture. Whoever comes up with the best caption (as voted on by me...and maybe my dog), wins...wait for it...wait for it...

His/Her caption being used on my Facebook page. And maybe I'll buy you a coffee or something.

Blogging: A Defense

I saw a pic on one of my "friend's" Facebook pages that said, and I quote:

Blogging: Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.

Now...that's funny, but you know when you start laughing at something, then you start thinking about it...and the laugh turns to a chuckle...to a laugh-pause-laugh-pause...until you finally think "Shit. That kind of is true. About me."

Don't worry. I "defriended" her instantly.

But this did get me thinking. Why do I blog? Should I blog? You know what? I think I was born to blog.

In what other forum could I let people know that a little girl pooped on my leg while her non-English speaking grandmother laughed at me?

How could I go on living without people knowing that I was raped during my colonic?

And that 90% of my massages end with some kind of inappropriate fondling?

The public needs, no, deserves to know that my dog has a drug problem and likes to ooze things from her ass onto me.

What kind of person would I be if someone in Romania didn't know that a beetle attacked my testicles?

Could you really be complete without knowing that I had a man do a 360 so I could check out his outfit in the men's room...or that I am in love with my male swim coach?

How would you know that I have a vendetta against some poor guy with the same name as me because he gets more google hits?

And don't get even me started on Eva Longoria!

Would it matter if I stopped blogging? Probably not. Do I have little to say to few? Perhaps. But you know the old adage...if my dog leaks anal fluid onto my leg, and no one is around to read about, did she really ever ooze?

Oh she did...and so here we are.

A Career Change

So I have decided that I am just going to do it. I am changing my profession. From this point on, when somebody asks So..what do you do? I am no longer going to say "I'm a teacher." Instead...I am going to say "I'm a writer." Here's three reasons why:

(1) The Farrelly Brothers

The first reason I am doing this is because of one of my life mantras that I picked up from Dumb and Dumber, clearly, a deeply philosophical movie. While discussing the rules of a game of tag, Harry (Jeff Daniels) and Lloyd (Jim Carrey) have the following conversation:

Lloyd: [nudges Harry] You're it.
Harry: [nudges Lloyd] You're it.
Lloyd: [nudges Harry] You're it, quitsies!
Harry: Anti-quitsies. [nudges Lloyd] You're it! Quitsies, no anti-quitsies, no startsies!
Lloyd: You can't do that!
Harry: Can too!
Lloyd: Cannot, stamped it!
Harry: Can too, double stamped it, no erasies!
Lloyd: Cannot, triple stamped it, no erasies, touch blue make it true. [puts his hands over his ears and sings]
Harry: No! No! You can't triple stamp a double stamp! You can't triple stamp a double stamp, Lloyd! You can't triple stamp a double stamp! LLOYD! LLOYD! You c--

What we learn here is that while this argument SEEMS childish and absurd, Lloyd is actually taking a powerful stand for what he believes in. He goes so far as to decree to his interlocutor "[You]Cannot, triple stamped it, no erasies, touch blue make it true. [puts his hands over his ears and sings]"

In sum, I don't care what you say. You have your truth. This is MY truth. I will not, in fact, cannot listen to your disagreement any longer.

I have touched blue, people. There is no going back now.

(2) I Don't Need to Show You the Money, Jerry.

I have asked and re-asked many, many people about this possible "change in employment" for the past week or so, and you know what? Congrats! Most responded as a good American should. They wanted me to show them the money. Or, more specifically, they asked:

What have you published?

Although the answer to that is a big, whopping nothing, that does not mean that writing cannot be my profession. One person in particular noted "It wasn't like Vincent Van Gogh made money while he was alive...but he was clearly an artist." And while I'm not 100% happy about being compared to a nut job, the sentiment is definitely there.

The difference in me now compared to let's say, a week ago when I started thinking about this "career change" is that I had only tried to publish one time in my life before last week. And you know why I previously tried? I was taking a creative writing class in college, and the "final" was to try and publish something.

So my nothing has been a very special nothing because I never tried. But I'm trying now...and money or not, that makes me a writer.

(3) Heart of Darkness

Like all people, I'm probably not 100% sane, but that's ok, right? What is sanity, anyway? Maybe it is pretending to be something you're not for the sake of others. I'm a writer because I'm looking for something. I haven't found it...yet.

I'm not a "literary quote" kind of guy, but this about sums it up:

I don't like work--no man does--but I like what is in the work--the chance to find yourself. Your own reality--for yourself not for others--what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. -- Joseph Conrad.

I guess I just couldn't say it any more clearly than that.

Netflixism

If you're like me (and I know that you are), you probably suffer from a case of Netflixism from time-to-time. You like the idea of having movies shipped to your house...and you're good at watching them weeks at a time, but there is always that lull. Maybe you get too busy. Or maybe, just maybe, you got a little too adventurous in what you chose to have delivered to your home.

The red envelope starts to haunt you. You don't want to watch anything on, by, or related to whatever unfortunately lies within it. I know. I know. You even recheck the envelope once in awhile to see if the movie living inside its red prison happened to change. Nope, still When Harry Met Sally. Shit.

Yes. I understand. It seemed like a good idea to put (fill in the title of that movie you have always wanted to see here) in your queueueueue three months ago, but then it arrived, didn't it?

Oh...Citizen Kane...yeah...I'll watch that next weekend.

The problem is, next weekend becomes two weeks, next month. Before you know it, that little red envelope, which is supposedly so full of guilt-free membership, becomes a fucking Albatross. Stupid Netflix with their stupid no late fees.

So, Netflixism -- the act of letting a movie sit on your coffee table for months on end, but you are too stubborn to return it without watching it first. Also see "idiot" and "we todd did."

***

My most recent bout with Nexflixism was with the movie Hancock. I think that movie moved from my coffee table to my kitchen counter 15.5 times. The .5 is for when I threw it on the floor and did a jig on top of it. (By the way, I don't know if you have ever looked up the word jig, but I just did because I was curious about what it would say...and man, I am glad I did: a rapid, lively, springy, irregular dance for one or more persons, usually in triple meter. Who knew?)

Anyway, this movie sucked...and it was the worst kind of sucking imaginable. Yes...it used teeth. Also, it didn't suck from beginning to the end. I have mentioned this before with movies...but I can appreciate (and sometimes enjoy) movies that just let you know they are going to suck from the first scene. Take any movie with Jessica Simpson in it for example. Right away, you know it isn't going to be be deep or meaningful. She is pretty much happy when she is in a movie that isn't released directly to DVD. Point being, you don't get invested in it. You just sit back, relax, put your hands behind your head, and let the suckfest begin!

But Hancock...oh no...Hancock didn't do this. Hancock decided it was going to be pretty good for about one hour. I was sitting there actually presently surprised...wondering why the movie got shit-canned by critics, and why I hadn't seen it yet. But like a lot of other Hollywoody type movies...they realize that the average American probably has about 1.5 hours of attention span...so once they hit that one-hour mark...they fall into the dreaded how-are-we-going-to-wrap-this-up-neatly-in-the-next-twenty-to-thirty-minutes game. I hate this. I absolutely hate this with a passion.

I think this is akin to a girl getting you all riled up, pants off, condom on...and then saying she's got to go because her husband is coming home. Lady...you should have told me you had a husband in the first place, and I wouldn't even be here right now...I would be home watching Jessica Simpson's Private Valentine instead!

***

So after Hancock ended tonight, I was initially mad at myself. Why did I waste my time? Why did I watch this crap?

But you know what...it really isn't me who is to blame. It is my Netflixism...and my hope that just once...one of these Hollywoody movies will finish what it starts. No husband. Full penetration. There really is no better way to summarize a good flick.

Alas, this may be impossible to find. So, I'm just going to go watch Embrace the Vampire again. Alyssa Milano sucks...but she sucks so good.