Happy Halloween Hodgepodge

Aw, yeah. Zombie pumpkin all up in here. And for the record, NO, I did not carve said masterpiece myself. I don't really "do" that sort of thing on a regular basis, seeing as how I'm too lazy to be bothered, usually too drunk to be trusted with a knife, and generally wary of any sort of gourd that hasn't been combined with cinnamon and nutmeg in some sort of whipped cream-adorned pie. However, I certainly respect the people out there who take the time to carve shit right; their work is interesting, festive, and a sad metaphor on the state of the human condition when it begins to rot on the front porch in early November. It can be appreciated on an aesthetic level AND on a smarty-pants intellectual level and that's why every single art school in the world should allow students to choose Pumpkin Carving as a major. It's at least as valid as, say, multimedia installation art (although that is the one art school major that can help you out later in life, post-failure, when you're trying to get a job at Best Buy).

Anyhoo... pumpkin carving: Totally on board, as long as I don't have to participate in any way other than in the role of casual, liquored-up observer.

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A few posts ago, I ragged pretty hard on a bunch of costumes that were, in my highly respected and heavily biased opinion, mostly bullshit. This of course leads to the inevitable question, "Oh yeah, Mr. High-and-Mighty Internet Judgement Guy, what are YOU going as for Halloween, if you're so fucking handsome and smart???" I mean, no one has technically asked me this question, but I imagine a few of you out there were thinking it. And if not, well why the fuck weren't you? I'm trying to be controversial over here because controversy equals attention and attention equals a big time book deal and a big time book deal means I can sit on my fat ass for the next forty years drinking fruity rum drinks manly scotch and laughing myself stupid at poor people. I want this so fucking bad, you guys, and nobody even cares!!! ...bastards...

But getting back to the question at hand: What am I dressing up as for Halloween this year?

Nothing. Not wearing a costume. Not this year, not ANY year. And it's not because I have any sort of ideological problem with people dressing up, or I'm one of those fucking losers like in high school who "rebelled against the prom" by not going but really it was just because no one wanted to be their date. No, I'm not dressing up because... and I mean this... Halloween in New York is a fucking hassle. Times every number in the world. Okay, yes, it's also because I'm a crankypants old man that hates fun and thinks good times sting like Mace. Whatever. Mostly it's because of the hassle.

Look, I hate crowds, okay. A lot. And I hate crowds even more when I'm dressed up like The Crow and having to fight my way through a million billion people in the West Village that smell like greasepaint and hairspray and tequila shooters. Granted, not going down to the big parade does mean that I'll miss out on drunk girl boobs flopping around and/or some dude puking all over his homemade Transformers costume... both of which are highly entertaining spectacles and cheaper than most off-off-Broadway plays... but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

"So, C-dog, why don't you just go to a Halloween party then and skip the collision of mentally ill theater people and rape-y frat guy vibes that's happening downtown?" Yeah, like parties are any better? I'm awkward and strange enough making small talk over Everclear punch (at least until it kicks in and I start trashing the place like someone showed Frankenstein their cool new Misfits Zippo). The situation ain't going to improve much with the addition of costumes.

And all of this is not even mentioning the gallery of horrors that IS riding the subways in costume. One of the saddest, most devastating things I've ever witnessed happened about four years ago... I was coming home from the Halloween late shift at the video store I worked at at the time (it was about 1am) and, on the train with me, heading straight into the heart of the ghetto, was about nineteen gang members, a few recently released convicts, two or three armed robbers, and one guy dressed up as Puck from A Midsummer Night's Dream. His costume consisted of a dancebelt, great swirls of multicolored body paint, a heavy shake from the glitter can, and elaborate fairy wings held to his mostly-nude body by what appeared to be Christmas tree tinsel.

I am not making any of this up. It was like watching a frail, sickly mouse who just wanted to study modern dance in the big city get surrounded by alley cats in FUBU jackets who think bullet holes are hilarious and crack tastes amazing. My stop arrived before they'd done any real harm to his dumb ass (although I assume they were just waiting for me to leave before they obliterated his very existence), but I think you see my point about riding the subway in costume, generally, and Halloween in NYC, specifically.

Major fucking hassle.

So, tonight, I'll be chilling in front of the TV getting drunk, eating Doritos, and watching horror movies. And, okay, you could try to make an argument that this is basically how I spend the other 364 days of the year, but that's where you're wrong. I will be adding candy corn to the mix, as well. I'm not COMPLETELY immune to the charms of the holiday, ya know.

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Wow, that middle section turned out way longer than I intended. Kinda got on a roll. Well, this won't be much of a hodgepodge I guess, seeing as how I'm now bored with writing and would really like to go back to sleep for a few hours, but whatevs. Let me just say this to you, boils and ghouls...

I hope, despite my anti-Halloweeniness up there, that YOU have a pleasant, fun time tonight and that you get really drunk and laid by a Sexy Nurse or a Hunky Fireman or whatever happens to be the slutty costume-wearer that most tickles your fancy. Be safe, don't drink and drive (the mugshot of you in your Miley Cyrus costume will be all over the internet by dawn, especially if you're a dude), don't take any apples with visible razor blades jutting out from the flesh, and... above all else... take videos of any and all well-choreographed zombie groups doing the Thriller dance and send them directly to me. That shit cracks me up.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Bedtime Stories



Gotta love movie marketing departments without a clear vision. "What should we put on the poster? What image best represents the movie we're trying to sell?" "Well... how about everything in the world in a big busy jumble-fuck of colors and visual noise so from twenty feet it looks like a candy barf AIDS quilt designed by drunk marsupials that know Photoshop?" "Hmm... can we get Adam Sandler in there?" "He'll be the carrot chunks in the vomit metaphor!" "Fantastic, yes, we're extremely good at our jobs. Now, let's all blow some rails off each other's stomachs then call it a day!" "Making movies!!!"

I would also like to point out that one of the 4,287,935 images on this poster is Adam Sandler riding a Roman chariot. There is no reason for any movie to exist that features such an event. Adam Sandler, as much as I love Happy Gilmore, has about as much business participating in Gladiator-style events as I do wearing tight leather pants for the benefit of all the lovely ladies. Both are inexplicable, uncomfortable, and have a high probability of making everyone in the vicinity nauseous times a billion to the power of gross-toasties.

Twilight



Ah, so Anne Rice is moonlighting as a Glamour Shots photographer. Good for her; it's smart to have a second job for when the world finally gets sick of your gothic-fetishized bullcrap and puts you out of work by collectively not buying a single copy of your latest vampires-are-all-totally-romantic-and-deep-and-mysterious-and-sold-exclusively-at-Wal-Mart novel.

Anyhoo, this movie... Twilight... is not an Anne Rice joint. No, it's written by a Mormon (who by the way is a TOTAL babe) and it currently has the sixteen-and-under set all in a tizzy because... well... I don't know, to tell you the truth. I haven't read the book because I'm pretty much done with the whole puberty thing (finished up in early 2005), not to mention the fact that I have exactly zero interest in any and all teenage vampires not speaking words written by Joss Whedon. However, I *did* catch the trailer for Twilight and... yeah, no thanks. It looks like a very special episode of Dawson's Creek where Pacey and Joey meet Nosferatu at an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue shoot and everyone kung-fu fights to a Hot Topic in-store playlist. I'll pass, but if any of you lovable scamps want to write and tell me how it is/how I'm a big meanie for ragging on the one novel/film/tweener phenomenon that's touched your life more than Jesus, feel absolutely free. A good laugh is always needed in these troubled times.

Dying Breed



Haha... gross! You don't see enough movie posters these days that look like rejected Cannibal Corpse album covers and I think that's a shame. We, as Americans, love our splattery, teeth-n'-eyeballs gore! It's practically written into the Constitution that everything is better with a little arterial spray and disemboweled guts thrown into the mix. I mean, it doesn't say it explicitly or anything, but it's there in the subtext if you bother to take the time to actually read the damn thing, you terrorist-fellating freedom haters. God bless the USA!

What's that? This movie is from Australia? Ah... well, never mind then about the jingoistic accusations up there. C-dog hasn't had his coffee yet and tends to come off as a bit of a warhawk crazypants without the aide of caffeine.

So not the point, though. What's important is that someone... Australian or not... had the huevos mas grande to put out a lurid movie poster featuring a pie made of people parts and don't we all just love 'em for it? Sure, it kind of makes us collectively want to hurl, but can it not be argued that having any reaction to a film at all is better than feeling nothing, even if said reaction forces one of our friends to hold back our hair so it doesn't get caught in the firehose blast of semi-digested Olive Garden salad and breadsticks? Good cinema should hit us on a gut level, even if that blow is quite literal (and nasty). So I say "Good show, you magnificent Aussie bastards!" You've made the lot of us long for some dry Saltines, a damp, cool rag, and a glass of ginger ale. You are a success.

Gran Torino



I was going to make a joke here about Old Man Eastwood yelling at kids to "get off [his] lawn," but then I watched the trailer for Gran Torino and HE ACTUALLY SAYS THAT!!! How crazy is it when the makers of a movie actually write the unintentional comedy for you? SO crazy. And it makes my job easier because I can just kick back with a glass of generic cola and a package of Pop-Tarts and let them bust hilarious moves on my behalf.

Beyond that, though, this movie actually looks pretty good. I grew up with a mother who was an unabashed Dirty Harry fan and thus I was imparted with a devotion to same. So it's nice to see Clint Eastwood back in ass-kicking, do-you-feel-lucky-punk mode, even if he is technically old enough to qualify for inclusion in a Smithsonian exhibit on early man's ability to work with crude, hand-fashioned tools.

Whatever, though. Gotta love the Eastwood. He rules as an actor, he ruled as a director (seriously, if you haven't seen Mystic River or Play Misty For Me, do yourself a favor), and from what I understand, he's just generally a nifty person with which to drink many beers. I will be as sad when he dies as I was when Paul Newman died. And that's pretty sad, considering they're men I don't technically know and who would both more than likely find me unpleasant and frightening were I to run up on them all watery-eyed and spouting quotes from their movies like a broken Speak N' Spell.

The Intervention

Um... are... you... implying that drinking is bad, movie poster for a shitty movie no one's heard of? Are you really going THERE with this? Because, bitch, I will stab you with a broken Jack Daniels bottle. I have many broken Jack Daniels bottles at my disposal and I am NOT afraid to stick one of them in your sternum and twist until you make sounds like an eighteen-wheeler constructed from bone crashing into a carnival's Hall of Mirrors during a tropical storm consisting entirely of your blood. That's right, motherfucker... don't you mess with the concept of drinking. Trying to turn it all evil like cellphones in a Japanese horror movie. Fuck YOU!!! We drunks get surly when you knock our hobbies.

That being said, I would also like to point out that, should any of you feel the need to kill me, drowning me in a large bottle of whiskey would be my preferred method of murder. Sure it'd be terrifying and I'd die and all that but, hey, at least I'd get to have a little drink to take the edge off before my horrible, horrible death by drowning. And, if Hell ends up actually existing, I'd like to show up there sloshed because that would probably make dealing with Satan and all his little demons a shitload easier to deal with. They'd be all "Blah, blah, welcome ot Hell, we're red and have pitchforks and look at all that fire!!!" and I'd just stare at them all eyes-half-closed, "yeah, that's great... fire... neat... looks, can I lay down for a few minutes because I'm gettin' the spins pretty bad up in this piece."

They wouldn't let me because obviously it's Hell and they're not into treating you like a visiting dignitary staying at the Waldorf Astoria but that's fine. I'll just puke on their cloven hooves.

Judge Me Harshly By My Snack Food Choices

I've been writing this blog now for over two and a half years and, in that time, I think I've presented you guys with a fair representation of what exactly it's like to be me, C-dog. Not that the world was exactly clamoring for information on the subject, mind you. But still, day in, day out, come rain or come shine, I've been here... plopping knowledge on you pleasant-smelling people... laying naked my soul before you all and accepting your adoration, yes, but also your scorn, pity, careless whispers, nude photos, and drinks bought for me out of fear because I threatened you with a rusty hunk of metal ripped off an old shopping cart.

So, given the history we have together, I think I finally feel comfortable admitting something to you that's... well... a little difficult. I've hinted at it before, of course, but I've never just come right out and said it. At least I don't think so; I've posted A LOT on ZFS! over the years and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to take the time to wade hip-deep through the archives on any kind of fact-checking mission. You have any idea how much bullshit is in there? Let's just say having to sort through the drunken ramblings of a madman (even if said madman is me) makes a haymaker to the temple feel like a deep-tissue massage with full release.

Anyway, I'm stalling. This is really hard for me to say, but... fuck it... it's time to come clean, in front of God (or whomever) and everybody (y'all). Okay, here we go:

Deep Breath

Kids, seriously, I am just the worst.

That's it; that's my big announcement. I am just the worst person in the world, pretty much hands down. I mean, okay, you could probably make a case that whomever the guy is that's causing all the problems in Darfur is worse than I am, and maybe there's a serial killer out there dispatching nurses in parking lots... he's most likely worse than me if you break down all the facts on graph paper and use a calculator and whatever but... these special cases excepted... your ol' pal C-dog is literally the worst person on the planet.

You know how you can tell? Look at my choices in snack foods and extrapolate outwards from that. Don't worry, my confused lambies... I've brought with me to class an example that will clear up all your questions and quite possibly even get you laid (I don't know how it could get you laid, exactly, but I guess it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility).

Here is what I ate as a snack during the shortened Game 5 of last night's World Series broadcast:

The Ingredients

-A bag of Tostitos Scoop-style corn chip
-A container of sour cream
-A bag of shredded cheddar cheese
-A bottle of Louisiana-brand hot sauce

Method of Consumption

Take one Tostitos Scoop and dip it into the container of sour cream, getting a liberal amount of the product into the handy bowl-shape of the chip. Next, gather a healthy pinch of the shredded cheddar cheese... generic-brand, please, as it is much, much sadder... and place it on top of the sour-creamed chip. Then, add a few drops of the hot sauce, because you need something to cut through all that rich fattiness and give it some flavor. Finally, eat that motherfucker while taking stock of your life and trying to figure out where exactly you took the wrong turn that lead you here, eating two kinds of dairy and cayenne pepper squeezings on corn chips while sitting on the floor surrounded by Tostitos shrapnel and dropped cheese. Repeat as necessary until your heartbeat starts to sound like someone trying to pull a fence post out of a mud puddle (blorp-SPLORTCH, blorp-SPLORTCH, blorp-SPLORTCH).

See what I mean? Who eats sour cream straight out of the container? Who sprinkles it with cheese and hot sauce and shoves it in their face like some sort of swamp hog that learned to approximate human speech patterns well enough to fake the world into not calling Animal Control every time he wanders into the grocery store for more tasty, tasty dairy products?

The worst person in the world, that's who. Hi, how ya doin'? Jesus Christ, it's no wonder I'm still unemployed. It's frankly a miracle that people don't routinely drag me into dark alleys with the specific purpose of pinning me down so they can shit directly in my face. I'm lucky the government hasn't gotten involved.

Yikes. I've really got to make some life changes. Starting with snack foods and then working my way out in a spiral to all the other stuff that's horribly, horribly wrong with me. Oh man... oh man... it's so lonely here at the bottom of life's septic tank. But looking upward, I can see the bright, hot sunshine of an existence well-lived. It's only a pinpoint now, but I'll make it. Yes, I will make it there one day soon!

NOTE: Seriously though, it WAS a pretty tasty snack, all things considered. Not for everyone, I'm sure... probably not going to secure me a bust in the Culinary Hall of Fame... but... mmmm... so delicious in my mouth like a chunk of Heaven blown out of the sky by Cajuns using a homemade dairy rifle that works so well, people forget it doesn't exist.

Awful Halloween Costumes: A Pictorial

NOTE: All of the following costumes are available at Ricky's, the shitty costume superstore for shitty people buying shitty products.

The Joker



I get it, okay. He gave an amazing performance in a fantastic movie and OF COURSE people are going to want to dress up as him to show their fan-love and appreciation and what have you. However... this costume? Blows. For one thing, that's a fucking mask. A mask! Granted, not everyone looks like Heath Ledger, but still; you can pull off The Joker look well enough with face paint and some hair dye and then it won't look like you bought your shit at the dollar store. Also, I don't think dude ever wore a costume in the movie that was the same color as a stripper's underwear. And the OTHER thing that sucks about this costume is you just know there's going to be some wiseass out there that'll pair this with a whole bunch of empty prescription bottles because that's SOOOOOO CLEVER and everyone will look at him with a mixture of disgust, pity, and an almost overwhelming desire to hit him in the face with the bumper of a car.

"Vampire Lord," Apparently



I don't have a problem with people dressing up like Vampire Lords per se; it's more that I just didn't realize Vampire Lords look like if Howard Stern was a Goth. Maybe that's really their image and I need to bone up on my Anne Rice or something.

"Rehab Queen" (or, Ricky's couldn't secure the rights to use Amy Winehouse's name because OBVIOUSLY)



In theory, I have no problems with an Amy Winehouse costume. She's got a very distinctive look, granted, and hey... "Back to Black" was a great album. But, seriously, FUCK YOU Ricky's for marketing it as a reference to her drug addiction. We get it, she's a mess of a human being ha ha ha hilarious do you also sell special effects make-up that looks like track marks? Plastic crack pipes that hold bits of rock candy? Applique impetigo sores? Way to fart class, you shitty, shitty retail outlet, you. I can't wait until she dies and you can put out the Rehab Queen Zombie deluxe costume kit with a body bag and a real vial of her mother's tears.

Horrifying Clown-Child



Sure, Halloween is a time for we as a nation to revel in all things ooky-spooky but Jesus Breakdancing Christ trick r' treating isn't going to be a lot of fun this year if everyone you come in contact with immediately shits their pants from fright. Why don't we just dispense with the "clown costume" charade and call this for what it really is? This year, little Billy is going as "a murderer of sorority girls and whoever else gets in his way." Wait a second... where IS little Billy... and where are all he steak knives... oh god... there's someone in the basement laughing all high-pitched like a madman... AIIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!

Sarah Palin



Sorry, ladies... dressing up as Sarah Palin? So is EVERYONE else. Seriously, I challenge you to go to any Halloween party in America and count the number of girls pissed off because Judy is dressed just like her with the matching suit and the pageant banner and the fake gun and whatever and OMG so is Bianca and Lacey and Raquel too!!! If you walk out of the party having counted less than ten Sarah Palins... well, then... there were only eleven people at that party. (the odd man out was dressed as The Joker)

The bikini is a nice touch, though, but only because girls have boobies and it's awesome of them to use a holiday to show them off, uncreative costume or not.

Balls-Out Guy/Frat Guy Completely Out of Ideas



One of my favorite things about costume crap-factories like Ricky's is that they sell you shit for $20 that you could do yourself with NO effort whatsoever for free. I mean, granted, you probably don't have a large set of plastic fake testicles just lying around the dorm but... um... if you're a dude, barring a horrific farm machinery accident, you've already GOT balls willing and ready and eager for the chance to breathe a little bit if only for one night. Now, yes, there's a good chance that replicating the above costume with your own goodie bag (as it were) would most likely get you arrested... but, hey, that's risk you take if you're trying to make stupid people laugh beer out of their nose on Halloween. Plus, getting arrested for showing your balls around campus will make you a Phi Beta Kappa LEGEND, dude.

Racism



Um... how... exactly... is this an okay thing for them to sell? If it were a bag containing a canister of black shoe polish, some fake watermelon slices, and a huge afro wig, I'm pretty sure all the Ricky's in the city would be firebombed within an hour of opening for business. I mean they should be firebombed anyway (because they're awful places where souls die... have I mentioned that?) but that's not the point. Anyway, I bet this costume is a huge hit in areas where NASCAR races trump graduation ceremonies as Must-Attend Events.

"Jason's Babe" or, Thing That Makes C-dog's Head Explode



Oh come the fuck on! That's not even a real thing!!! Jason murdered girls that looked like her; he didn't have one of them dress up like a slutty version of himself!!! What is this costume even supposed to mean? I like horror movies and am also a whore? I'm dressed up as Jason Voorhees if he killed coeds with STDs? My boyfriend is a in black metal band and I lost a bet? The mind reels and melts and leaks out my ears from the sheer boneheadedness.

Your Kid's Tragic Future



What the fuck kind of sad-sack five year old looks at all the rows of spacemen costumes and cowboy costumes and Dracula costumes and goes... ya know... I think I'd really rather dress up as a barely-above-minimum-wage blue collar worker who drinks a lot of beer and has a bad back from improperly lifting people's Amazon.com purchases all day. That's who I am in my deepest childhood fantasies! I mean, sure, the clown costume up there is still way scarier, but this one has pure, uncut sorrow locked down tight.

We'd Like To Announce to The Party That We're Having Sex With Each Other... But How?

I don't know, maybe just carry around a huge, hand-painted sign that says "We're Fucking" instead of dressing up as a cheap visual metaphor for your penis and your vagina connecting in a way that "like totally makes electricity, get it, ELECTRICITY, we're gross and lame and the sex we have is boring!" You people smell like strawberry lube and frustration. You make porn look romantic. You make the Karma Sutra cry in a million different positions.

Also, way to be the one girl in the world who decided to wear a shapeless sack as her Halloween costume. Way to miss the point so badly, the point follows you home and kills you in your sleep because the point will not be ignored like that!!!

The Stuff We're Into... You Know... Sexually

NOTE: This is a fairly inconsequential post, I'll grant you, but it's something that's been rattling around my brain for a couple of days and... since it's a Saturday and nobody reads blogs on Saturdays... I figured now would be the best time to expunge it from my thought banks. Kind of like blowing up a car out in the desert to eliminate any evidence of Mayoral ties to the gangland-style execution of a notorious Mafioso. Or... something... anyway, so yeah. Here's this:

One of the things that sucks about having normal sexual interests... like, digging butts and boobies and lady-parts and wangs... is that those are the stuff that people, generally, keep covered. Which means you don't get to see them on a regular basis, which, as I said, sucks. Because, and I think I speak for everyone here, those are basically the things we want to look at at least most of the time. Maybe not first thing in the morning, say, or right after we get chewed out by our boss... having a droopy dong or what have you shoved in your face while you're cleaning up your best friend's vomit after a late night of drinking wouldn't be ideal. But you catch my drift: The naughty parts are what we want to see and we can't see them under normal circumstances because of "decency law" bullshit designed by The Man to keep us all puritanical and lame.

So, you know what must be AWESOME? Having a foot fetish. Like, being super into men or women's toes and arches and the tops of their feet and the heel... all that. Don't know how it is where you're at, but... especially during the summer... people in New York are total foot sluts. Flashing their race car-red toenails all sexy in little sandals that leave nothing to the imagination. Can you imagine what that's like for people who get boners or wide-ons over feet? It would be like walking around a nudist colony full of porn stars on Ecstasy for we "normal" folk.

And I put the word normal in quotations because... ARE we normal? We that like the aforementioned covered parts? Maybe we're actually just idiots. We've sexualized the stuff we don't get to see, which is kind of retarded. We should be drooling over necks (ew, not literally) or going hot-pants horny over earlobes or Lambada-ing each other because of some pants-quakingly exposed wrist-meat. What the fuck were we thinking?!?!

Now... okay... I suppose you could make a case for us being all into boobies and butts and wangs and lady-parts because they're covered all the time and we want them because they're a mystery wrapped in an enigma covered in blue jeans or a tasteful sweater. But that is SO not the point.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to be all about the toes from now on. It just makes more sense. Foot fetish, ahoy!!!

Oh, wait, feet are disgusting. Never mind.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Today's post is brought to you in part by a federal grant from the US government (I told them I was doing atomic bomb research... in truth, I'm just "the bomb"), as well as our brand new sponsor...

What is Panda With Cookie? Why, it's the one-stop solution for all your Holiday gift giving needs. The store is run by my good friend and mega-talented artist Lisa, all the stuff therein is hand-made, and you should buy lots of it because she is awesome and I said so. Also, I'm hoping if I generate tons of traffic for her via ZFS!, she'll hook me up with a free bag of her homemade candy corn. So, c'mon, help a brother get his sweets on. Shop at Panda With Cookie TODAY!!!

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Further Adventures in Job Hunting: A couple of days ago, I had a job interview for a clerical position at a marketing firm so hip and sleek and cutting-edge, I'm fairly certain it was from the future. Walking in, I felt like a dump truck trying to navigate through a sea of sporty Miatas that all wore trendy eyeglasses and talked about bands like they were best friends with the lead guitar player. That was bad enough, but the WORST part? The guy I interviewed with, who would be my boss were I to land the job... totally younger than me. And not like I was born in August and he was born in October. No, like I was born at the end of Jimmy Carter's Presidency and he was born during Ronald Reagan's SECOND term. It was like a slap in the face with a dick made of sadness. I mean, okay, I'm 28 year old... I get it that I'm at a point in my life where people I come into contact with are going to be younger than I am. It's a fact of life, sunrise, sunset, every rose has it's thorn, etc. I fine with all of that, particularly the off-topic Poison reference. But still, dudes. BUT STILL.

That shit made me feel like something an archaeologist would dig up and go, "hmmmm" at all studious and whatever before labeling me and putting me in a museum next to the cavemen and the dinosaur bones. C-dogicus Maximus... once proud and brave and able to quaff many beers at parties with a "toga" or "luau" theme. Now, sadly, he is extinct, or at least he's in bed before eleven because he gets cranky and sore if he doesn't get a full eight hours of sleep. Lame-o.

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If I may make a few musical suggestions for your Autumnal listening pleasure...

Scandinavian folk you should be enjoying

Tobias Froberg - He's like if Ryan Adams and Simon & Garfunkel got all smushed together in Sweden, but were shot through with a sense of humor so no one could get sick of their mutant-y form.

Ane Brun- She's perhaps the loveliest singer/songwriter I've ever seen. Like, if a real no-shit angel fell from Make-Believe Land clutching a guitar and said, "well, since I'm here, might as well sing a few songs I wrote." That's her, in a nutshell. I saw her play the other night and she did a cover of Alphaville's "Big in Japan." Can you imagine?!?! That, from a girl that looks like a heavenly creature with an accent that makes adorable stuffed animals kill themselves from inferiority issues.

Theresa Andersson- I'd never heard of her before Wednesday, but now I'm thinking about starting a religion based on her voice and what she does with it. She's got that kind of talent that makes you feel very small. Even if you're not a musician; if you're a writer, say, or a guy who makes artisanal cheeses. You listen to her do her crazy loop-pedal music with violins and drums and guitar and four-part harmonies ALL BY HERSELF and you go... fuck... my stories/cheeses are just piles of wet dirt now. I'm not kidding... to watch her perform is to bow your head and know in your heart that you've been bested in this world by one more talented than you. But in a way that's so good it's retarded.

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It's turning cold here in New York. All of a sudden, it's hoodie weather. Very exciting! Also, chilly. But they've turned the heat on in my building, so I no longer feel like a Swanson's dinner awaiting the microwave, and it's a welcome relief from the sweaty-crack humidity of the summer. No, I'm still not over that (me and heat get along poorly). I'm sure when it's like mid-February and a degree outside I'll be humming an entirely different tune but... for now... bring on the coolness and the leaves falling and the thick blankets, mugs of spiked cocoa, the World Series and all that Fall crap. Happy days indeed!!!

No, Celebrity, I Will NOT Call You By Your Stupid Nickname (And Also I Hate You)

Fucking celebrities, I swear to God... okay, so, some of you might know this already but, as you might not all be fifteen year olds that consider Perez Hilton "the news," let me fill you in on what is simultaneously the biggest story on the planet right now AND the stupidest thing you'll hear today: It seems that Beyonce Knowles, of Dreamgirls fame (and I think she was in some shitty girl group), has decided to change her name to "Sasha Fierce."

I'm not kidding.

This, by the way, was on Yahoo's top headlines this morning. Meaning, to Yahoo, THIS is one of the top five stories of the day. And... holy shit... I just checked back with Yahoo to see if the article was still up and it's been replaced on their front page by ANOTHER article about Bey- Sasha Fierce concerning her gaining of fifteen pounds for a movie role! Seriously, is Beyonce now Obama's running mate for the Presidency and I just missed it because the World Series is on? Because otherwise, I really don't see how any of this qualifies as newsworthy. It is, at best, "info-tainment" and it stretches thin the credibility of even that word (which is made up).

Look, I know that pointing out the foibles of our country's media is a blogging cliche right up there with listing your favorite songs and talking about this wacky thing you saw on the subway (all of which I do as well, but that's SOOOO not the point), but... c'mon... this is offensive, right? I'm not alone here, right? I'm just going to assume that it makes you all want to smash your faces in with a white-hot sledgehammer that's also a bomb because if everyone else is totally cool with this kind of shit going on and I'm the crazy nutty bonkers guy who's just coming off like an old man yelling at kids for cutting across his lawn on the way to soccer practice... well then... I might sit down on the floor of my living room and cry and cry and cry until the police come and arrest me on charges of being A Total Bummer.

So, yeah, whatever. Stupid Yahoo and their fake-news-is-real-news-because-OMG-FAMOUS-PEOPLE-SQUEEEEE. You think I like having to be all high and mighty about this shit? I would really rather be talking about farts and taking pictures of myself eating gross foods.

Anyway... in conclusion, and in the spirit of things, here's some names for which I'm considering discarding my current moniker. Everyone pick their favorite and then from now on I'll just be that. Or, you know, until I need a NEW alter-ego to shill a crappy R&B album that only the gays will buy.

C-dog No Longer, or, "Renaming the single most important person in your life"

"Boozer No-Pants"

"Dr. Sammy Goodtimes"

"Sgt. Hard Bargain USA"

"Nathan Detroit"

"He Who Walks Behind The Rows"

"[generic humorous woman's name]"

"Mike Hunt"

"DJ Frazzle Snazzle"

"Diamond Danny and the Chanterelles"

"You can call me whatever you want, long as you don't call me LATE FOR DINNER!!! HA HA AHA HA HA HA HA!!!!"

Oh, and PS, Beyonce is now exactly like Garth Brooks. This is her "Chris Gaines" moment. I hope she knows this and I hope it makes her feel a shame so intense that she spontaneously bursts into flames during an interview about how it's really hard being a millionaire who gets everything she's ever wanted in both regular form and covered in solid gold melted down from the wedding rings of poor people who had to pawn them to make rent.

Right Way/Wrong Way: The Job Interview

Right Way

(a small business office in midtown Manhattan; a gruff but likable boss sits reviewing some work. Presently, Timmy, a bright, young prospective employee, enters. He holds a copy of his resume and is nervous, but filled with energy and is "rarin' to go.")

The Boss: Ah, Timmy! Thank you for meeting with me today.
Timmy: Oh, sir, the pleasure is all mine. I have long admired your company, and I have always admired your snappy fashion sense as well.
The Boss: Why thank you! My suits are made by Jews. Now, I understand that you are looking for a position here. What sort did you have in mind? I'm afraid you don't have the legs for the secretarial pool! (knowing wink)
Timmy: Your humorous jape is most appreciated and has greatly put me at ease! But in all seriousness, I am looking for employment in the position of Businessman. I understand there are several opening in your Businessman department and I think I would be just perfect for one of those.
The Boss: Well, I don't know, Timmy... being a Businessman is very hard work. There is much sitting and drinking martinis and lording your status over the guys in the mail room. Do you think you could handle such a job?
Timmy: Sir, I'm glad you asked! I have numerous qualifications that I feel make me a perfect fit for one of your Businessman positions. I went to a college that didn't allow ethnics. I pledged a fraternity known far and wide for it's brutal, gruesome initiation tactics. I've married your daughter. And, most importantly, my father and your father saved each other's lives in The Big One, which, I believe, was some sort of war. So, as you can see, I am a candidate unlike any other.
The Boss: I do believe you're right, Timmy! You're hired! Let us celebrate with a beer stein filled to the brim with very old scotch.
Timmy: Well, just a touch, I only rarely drink. I am a responsible adult.
The Boss: You are! Now, buy yourself a briefcase and get ready to spend the rest of your life in this building, in that chair over there, one day blending into the next, until we force you out a year before your pension matures, leaving you to fight off roving bands of alley cats for the remainder of meat left on a discarded pork chop bone.
Timmy: Will I get a gold watch?
The Boss: You will get nothing and like it!
Timmy: Hooray!
The Boss: Welcome aboard, son!!!

Wrong Way

(a small business office in midtown Manhattan; a gruff but likable boss sits reviewing some work. Presently, Timmy, a bright, young prospective employee, enters. He holds a bottle of Cabin Still whiskey and is intoxicated, but filled with unusual bacteria and is "rarin' to go" to the bathroom so he can take a shower in the sink)

The Boss: Ah, Timmy! Thank you for meeting with me today.
Timmy: ...I don'... who... look, this is my bottle, okay... you're not... pee...
The Boss: You're wiping what appears to be axle grease all over my finely tailored suit. Will you please sit down. Please? Sir your pants are drooping in such a manner that I can clearly see your testicles. Please sit down... thank you, thank you for...
Timmy: I'm here for a jorn. A jorb. A... job. You got any of those?
The Boss: Yes, we have many jobs available here. What position did you have in mind? I don't think you have the legs for the secretarial pool! (knowing wink)
Timmy: I'll wear a dress if you want. I don't give a shit anymore. I'll make you feel good...
The Boss: That won't be necessary, but I thank you. Now, we have several openings in our Businessman department. Would one of those positions fit your needs?
Timmy: (no response; appears to have drifted off to sleep)
The Boss: Please, tell me your qualifications. Is that your resume?
Timmy: Well, it's a blood test. Does that count? I did not pass.
The Boss: That will be fine.
Timmy: I went to college, you know. Well, I trained to be a sandwich artist at Subway. I got fired for eating tomato slices directly off the line and in front of many, many customers. I went to a lot of frat parties in my early 20's... you could always steal VCRs after everyone got drunk. And I had a lot of brutal, gruesome sex with your daughter. Oh, and my father and your father were on-ship boyfriends during The Big One, which, I believe, was some sort of floating casino out in international waters. I'm not sure, as I drink a lot and most of my brain cells are on fire.
The Boss: You make many excellent points. However, I'm afraid, Timmy, that I cannot hire you at this time. You are clearly a diseased homeless person and you have already defecated in your chair twice. I would hate to see what sort of output you would accrue during a full day's work.
Timmy: There would be an extraordinary amount of feces, I can assure you. I am quite sick.
The Boss: I don't doubt that. Now, to show there are no hard feelings, would you enjoy a tiny drop of very old scotch on your tongue, to taste what the good life is like before I have my security guards toss you back into the streets, teeth-first.
Timmy: I appreciate your offer, but I think instead I'll stab you with this rusty piece of what was once a licence plate, then I'll use it to dig out your fillings.
The Boss: Well, thank you for taking the time to stop in for an interview. Please keep us in mind if and when you get out of prison.
Timmy: Hooray!
The Boss: Ouch! My intestines!!!

Conclusion

I think we've all learned a lesson here, and that lesson is this: The homeless will stab you in the stomach if denied employment in the field of business. Also, Jews make the best suits.

Arbitrary Rulings 20 (Shapes Edition)

Circle- Apparently, the shape of the circle is proof of the existence of God. It's true, I read it one time in a book that was really long and had very small type, so, you know, obviously the statement must carry a bit of weight. They don't make leather-bound volumes (the book was leather-bound; didn't mention that) about frivolous falsehoods. I should know. When I published my autobiography... "C-dog: A Man And His Dream And Some Farts"... they would only let it be bound with old napkins from the gyro stand down the street from the publishing company. And all the pages were printed on pita pockets. Okay, there was no publishing company, I just like to write on Middle Eastern food. But my point is, circles supposedly prove the existence of god because of pi or some bullshit I don't understand because I never studied in school. HOWEVER, I don't need to understand all that nerdlinger talk because circles are the shape of delicious, hot-n'-bubbly pepperoni pizzas, slutty deep-dish blueberry pies, pints of beer if you're looking straight down at them, and tacos if you line them up on their side fold-to-fold. That last one may be a stretch but, fuck you, I like Mexican food so it stays. Anyway, food shaped like a circle? God is in the details, if he exists, which the jury is still out on, whatever, someone buy me a pizza.

Square- Ha! Speaking of nerdlingers, am I right??? Because... they're "square." In the sense that they don't have a lot of promiscuous sex and aren't overly familiar with drinking large quantities of grain alcohol and Hawaiian Punch from a trash can during parties with the potential to cause more structural damage than Katrina. But overall, being square is okay. You probably won't get STDs, for one thing, and you won't poop out your liver at 45 (as is my understanding of how the human body works). But we're not here to discuss the social aspects of square-dom. We're talking shapes, bitches! A square is... well, it's very... okay, you know how it's the same on all sides? That's neat. Math probably had something to do with it, but we'll let that slide. Oh! When you were a kid and you ate lunch in the cafeteria on a Friday, you got slices of pizza that were TOTALLY square! That right there is... you know... a thing.

Triangle- Boooooo! Triangles are the shape of witch hats and Klan hoods and yield signs which make you slow down and slowing down is LAAAAAAME 5000. Who knew triangles were totally evil? Arrrgh... but... wait... they're also the shape of your traditional pizza slice, as well as wedges of red velvet cake and individual portions of quiche (not that I'm a sissy who eats quiche, mind you; I threw that in there for the ladies) (if someone brought me a quiche right now, I'd TOTALLY eat it all fuck you style, sissy-ness be damned). But yeah, so the triangle is both evil AND good... it's like a bad ass biker with a heart of gold, or a serial killer that gives a lot of money to charity, or a dragon that plays the banjo. Sigh... the triangle is soooo dark and dreamy and mysterious... I bet it's the way it is because someone hurt it real bad one time...

Pentagon- The only shape in existence that's wholly the property of the United States government. It's true... it's why you can't find pentagon-shaped pizzas, say, or five-sided cookies even though the kids clamor for them in the streets, causing such an uproar, much more so than when the Jonas Brothers come to town. "Give us our five-sided snickerdoodles or give us DEATH!!!" they say in a scenario which I just made up to suit my purposes, and they shake their homemade protest signs and put on amusing skits that parody our nation's leaders and Bob Dylan from the 60s writes a song showing his support for their cause. Heady times, those. But the government is like, "I'm sorry, hippies, we bought the rights to the pentagon shape because it looks like one of our main buildings and we don't want people to eat it in effigy. So get bent." And thus the war rages on... in the streets, on college campuses, across this great land of ours... five-sided cookies, that's the dream, man, can you dig it? We shall overcome, brothers and sisters... we shall overcome.

Heart - Awwwww... it's what love looks like if you're lucky enough to get some of it under a microscope. Lots of little pink hearts flying around leaving stardust trails and crashing into each other with itty bitty rainbow-colored explosions that smell like strawberry lemonade on a sunny Saturday in the Springtime. It's true. Well, you know, it's PROBABLY true... no one has ever successfully been able to study love in a scientific setting because every time they took the lid off the jar, the scientists started smooching under the lab tables and holding hands when they're supposed to be working. Love's a toxin like that, I guess; messes with people's minds and makes them shirk their responsibilities for the chance at some cuddles and... if they're lucky... NAKED cuddles. Which are the bestest cuddles of all. So maybe we'll never truly know the actual shape of love on a molecular level; we'll just have to make due with the knowledge that love is everywhere and it generally makes us want to take our pants off. Which is fun for everybody.

Oh, and just so I score a perfect five-out-of-five... there was this pizza place in Austin that, every year on Valentines Day, made heart-shaped pizzas. How adorable? SO adorable. Love studded with pepperoni and covered in melty cheese is so awesome, it makes cherubs fly down from outer space and slow dance to old Van Morrison tunes in a warm, red light.

Young Frankenstein: The Musical

What you need to know going in to this post: I have so much baggage with regards to the movie Young Frankenstein, it's like my whole trip to the theater was sponsored by Samsonite. I'm going to try like hell to not let my voluminous back story influence my thoughts and opinions of the large-scale musical production of Mel Brook's finest film, but... hey, I'm not perfect, nor have I ever made any claims towards complete objectivity, and let's not forget that I'm drinking while I write this so there's every chance that the liquored-up nostalgia will kick in and I'll short out the keyboard with my wistful tears.

Here's the deal...

-Young Frankenstein, the movie, is one of my favorite movies of all time. Literally, like top ten. I've seen it roughly a kajillion times and, while that's technically a make-believe number, I think you get the point I'm trying to make.

-When I was a senior in high school, our drama department... and this is for real... decided to do Young Frankenstein as our fall production. Meaning, we... or rather, this dude named Alan... sat down and transcribed the entire script of the movie from off an old VHS copy, and then we did it in play form. I played the Gene Wilder part, i.e. I was THE STAR. The show was... and I'm not just saying this because it was the highlight of my pre-college existence... a qualified smash. Everyone loved it, and rightly so, because we as a collective group of actors and techies quite simply worked our asses off. To this day, it remains a very proud moment in a life studded much more frequently with failure and disappointment.

-I always feel that lists like this should come in groups of three, so let's just say, for the sake of symmetry, that Young Frankenstein killed my Dad.

So, as I said... baggage. Like a motherfucker. And given that I'm coming from the lost luggage room at the airport with regards to this show, I don't think anyone would blame me if I thought Young Frankenstein: The Musical sucked ass and was the spark that will eventually burn modern theater to the ground, metaphorically speaking.

However... even though I'd love to be a pouting child about it... I can't say any of those things. Young Frankenstein: The Musical is good. It's not great, mind you... there are some issues that I'll get to in a moment... but, yes, it is in fact good. Better than my high school production? Um, well, I mean they were so different, we didn't have tap numbers for one thing and, like, they have a waaaay bigger budget... and... well... oh, fine, YES, it was better than the one I was in. BIG WHOOP, a North Texas high school got owned by Broadway. What's next, a Ferrari sports car outracing a bag of dead mice? A four-star Chef cooking better than a wad of dried chewing gum? The Sun being warmer than my refrigerator? Puh-leeze.

So... Young Frankenstein: The Musical... what's it like?

NOTE: I'm not going to bother to recap the plot. You've seen the movie, so you basically know what it's about. And if you HAVEN'T seen the movie... dude... what the fuck? The only acceptable excuse is that you come from a super-religious family that thought TV was the Devil's trickster lies and so you're just now catching up with the cinematic world. Otherwise, you're just a masochist.

Okay, for starters, the thing looks like a million bucks. Or, more accurately, like several million bucks. The whole stage is practically fire-hosed with money, at least as far as the production design is concerned. Crazy theater magic all up in your grill with sets flying around and sparks shooting everywhere and all sorts of bonkers special effects that make the tourists go, "wow." And they should go "wow;" the show is wow-worthy. Relentlessly so. Were I coming to New York from, say, Murfreesboro, TN, and I wanted to get just bucketfuls of spectacle for my Broadway dollar, Young Frankenstein: The Musical would definitely be the way to go. It's certainly more pizazz-y than Spring Awakening, however Spring Awakening DOES have boobies in it (and that's an entirely different post altogether).

There's a dark side to the whole spectacle thing, though, and it's this: The show is SO big and SO impressive, a lot of the joy and heart and soul get sort of lost in all the flash and noise.

Let me see if I can explain it another way... Young Frankenstein: The Musical is like math. It's very precise and very figured out, every joke and every song-n'-dance number have been tabulated and configured to produce the maximum amount of required reaction from the members of the audience. It's entertainment value can be proven on a pocket calculator. This, mind you, shouldn't be seen as a slag on the production... it's really just a fact of theatrical nature. Some shows are corporate products and some shows are labors of love. This happens to be the former, and the best possible example of same. It might leave you a little cold inside, sure, but you don't lay down with a robot expecting warm cuddles, if you catch my meaning.

But whatever... there's a lot to like about the show, beyond the heart vs. wallet argument. Roger Bart, as Dr. Frankenstein, and Christopher Fitzgerald, as Igor, are both completely winning in their respective roles. Fitzgerald, in particular, seems to be having a blast and is generally just fun to watch. The cast as a whole is quite game, though I will say that the show we saw... a 2pm matinee... seemed to have the energy dialed down a notch or two from what I imagine is the evening-performance standard. I get it that they have to conserve for the day's second show, but still. It wasn't distracting or anything; I only noticed because I was looking at the show with a critical eye and, of course, because I'm petty like that.

And I guess... look... I'm not doing a super job at conveying to you the fact that, yes, I *did* like Young Frankenstein: The Musical. I enjoyed myself, it was time (if not money, as I got in for free) well spent, and hey... when you get right down to it... seeing a shiny Broadway show of this caliber is just flat-out entertaining. It might not be the most emotionally resonant experience you'll ever have, granted... you're not going to walk out affirmed of your love for the theater and/or strengthened spiritually for weeks to come. But you ARE going to walk out going, "wow." And there's nothing wrong with that at all.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Ah, Friday... end of the workin' week... time to kick back and drink a large quantity of beer with your friends and maybe talk to that pretty girl standing all by herself over by the dart boards. Maybe make a real connection with her as two human beings living in [the city you live in]. And, hey, you never know, maybe she'll invite you back to her place for some "coffee" which is actually code for "doin' it like springtime weasels." Be careful, though... she's got what appears to be an Adam's apple and her hands are large enough to comfortably palm a basketball. Also, she needs a shave. And she's not even wearing a dress... dude, the bartender just called her "Jimmy." She's just a guy chilling in the bar who's got next on darts. Why'd you think he was a girl when he's clearly a burly bald man who works as a Foreman at a construction sight? You really need to watch it with the drinking... maybe it's time to think about rehab...

Anyway, my point is that it's Friday and isn't that fine? Of course, seeing as how I've not worked all week and have, in fact, barely even put on pants, I'm less excited about the weekend than, for instance, you. But still.

Speaking of my joblessness... because I know you're all so fucking concerned... things are pretty much still the same. Actually, they're a little better than that; some prospects have shown up and they do indeed look promising. Better to not get all excited about them, though. Don't want to get my hopes sky high, only to see them crash to the ground like a trapeze artist who thought he could handle some tequila shooters before the big show. Drinking hard liquor before balancing on a thin rope stretched between two buildings is no way to die. Be smart when you're on the high-wire, kiddos. And keep your fingers crossed for your ol' pal C-dog. Perhaps soon we can put this ugliness behind us.

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Flipping through the channels last night, we ended up on the GAC network, which is a place where all the latest country music videos are shown. Something told me to hold up a second and I did and... much to my surprise... the next country music video was the new single from Darius Rucker, who, if you'll remember, once fronted the popular 90's band Hootie & The Blowfish. Apparently, dude's gone country. And not with any aplomb, judging by the video. I mean, he's still got a nice voice and everything, but yeesh... bland song, he looked uncomfortable being surrounded by so many racists, and the whole things smacked of him desperately needing to make a house payment. However, it did whomp me upside the head with a tasty, cheesy slice of junior high nostalgia. Yes, I was a Hootie & The Blowfish fan. I even saw them in concert at the Starplex arena in Fort Worth when I was fourteen or fifteen. We had lawn seats and were TOTALLY badass because we went with my girlfriend at the time's older brother and WEREN'T dropped off by my mom in a mini-van because we're not babies, HA, suck it, other teenagers!!!

But yeah, so is this the new trend? 90's stars starting over on the country and western scene? Like, Jakob Dylan in a Stetson and Rob Thomas singing about honky tonks and Cadillacs? I'd be totally down with that, of course... for one thing, it would be hilarious... but, you know, just curious.

Oh, hey, remember that band Nixon? They had that one song "Sister?" I saw them at Starplex too. Good times...

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Wow, that game last night, am I right? Classic sports moment. Made me wish I was a Red Sox fan, where occasionally miracles do happen, as opposed to being a Mets fan, where missing the playoffs on the last day of the season is becoming a baseball tradition right up there with eating hot dogs and hiring Dominicans to handle all your pitching needs.

I'm rooting for the Rays to make it to the series... I like the whole "outhouse to the penthouse" motif they're rocking... but no matter. Watching the Sox come back like that was pretty breathtaking, regardless of the team you support. Well, okay, I'm sure hardcore Tampa Bay fans probably weren't too thrilled with it, but you know what I mean.

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Guess that's it. I have a job interview in a couple of hours, so I'm going to go get ready for that. Few beers to calm my nerves, huff some spray paint to make me awesome, then slap on some makeup and dig out my fuck-me pumps from the closet and this mother is ready to ROCK. Look out, employed America... the bitch is back!

Me, I'm the bitch, is what I'm saying. Not sure if I was being clear.

It Came From The Grocery Store

So I'm at the Rite Aide last night, looking to score some generic soda pop and maybe a bag of Goldfish, when... like an archaeologist accidentally discovering the lost city of Atlantis underneath a big rock or something... I stumbled upon perhaps the greatest find in the history of junk food shopping. I saw it there on the shelf, glowing like the Ark of the Covenant, melting Nazi faces, and giving me a look that said, "eat me, big boy... you know you want to eat me all up." And I did! I did want to eat them all up! It saw into my very soul, you guys! It's a brand new flavor permutation of my favorite cereal!!! I give you...

!!!Blueberry Muffin Frosted Mini-Wheats!!!



Holy shit! I mean... seriously, c'mon. That's two of my favorite things in one magical box with a cartoon panda on the front trying to sell me a DVD. It's the very personification of the phrase, "say WHAT," and it's presence made me make this face...



...until the Rite Aide manager kicked me out because I was freaking out the other shoppers. I may have also peed myself a little bit (a lot, actually) but that's beside the point. We have a new flavor of Mini-Wheats, yo! It is an exciting time to be alive in the Western world. So let's muscle this bad boy open. First, the smell test...



Well, there's certainly notes of blueberry muffin-ness. But, not like, blueberry muffins straight out of the oven at your loving grandmother's house on a rainy Saturday. No, more like... and, of course, this isn't much of a shock... blueberry muffins that were made out of old dodgeballs and car floor mats and other synthetic materials in a lab somewhere in New Jersey. You can smell something that's quite near to blueberries, and you can smell something that could very well be described as "muffin-like," but the two are just a few steps away from being like the real thing, kind of like the replicants in Blade Runner. Again, I would expect nothing less from a mass-produced kid-oriented cereal, but still. Not super enticing.

Now, the look...



It's kind of hard to tell because of the light from my computer monitor, but they're the normal bale-of-hay style of Mini-Wheat, but the frosting on them is a pale purple, almost a lavender. It's a color that wouldn't look out of place in a Jane Austen novel, or in the bathroom decorative soaps that your aunt always has that you're not sure if you're supposed to actually use so you end up just washing your hands with water which doesn't really get them clean but you're okay with that because what if you use the decorative soaps and then you get yelled at for destroying something all Martha Stewart-y and you never get invited back again. Your aunt always has good ham and you don't want to fuck up your chances at getting in on that.

But, yeah, the cereal is light purple. Which isn't a color you see a lot of these days in the world of cereal; usually it's all POW reds and KABLAM blues and ZOWIEEEE yellows. Something to distract the kids from the fact that they're eating ultra-sugared cardboard shavings and ground-up animal bones in milk.

Anyway...

So the big question, I guess... the one we have yet to answer... is how do the Blueberry Muffin Frosted Mini-Wheats taste? Surprisingly, not that bad...

I mean, they're not going to give your aforementioned grandmother's blueberry muffins a run for their money or anything... in fact, discounting the smell, they don't really even taste all that much like their stated flavor. They're very sweet (obvs) but the shredded wheat cuts that a little bit, and they're kind of plastic-ish like you're licking a spork, but overall they're much more subtle and mild tasting than you'd expect. You don't feel like your sinuses have been packed with muffin batter or anything like that. They're not cloying. They're not bad. They're not particularly in the same room with blueberry muffins, either (again, obvs), but... you know... a bowlful of these in the morning isn't going to hurt you any, or make you feel like you just ate Pixie Stix and hard candy pieces in maple syrup like with other cereals.

Overall... edible, but not cravable. Not amazing. I didn't see the Way and the Light in their ugly purple-blue box like I sorta kinda thought I would, but whatever. Brand name permutations are always just retardedly fun! Variety!!!

Granddad Prepares The Gigantic Fruit Anus

I'd really like to think that that's a phrase you've never heard before. ZFS!... breaking new ground with regards to gigantic fruit anuses and their old-man caretakers. This blog makes my parents really proud.

Anyhoo... so... how about that, huh? Fruit anus. Or whatever it actually is. I assume it's not REALLY a fruit anus, because that would just be weird. Don't know if I want to live in world where the elderly are spending their free time constructing sensitive body parts out of produce. I suppose I should use the Google to figure out what's going on here. Okay, let me see what I can find...

(Using the Google)

Okay... wow... you SERIOUSLY don't want to type the words "fruit anus" into a search engine. Yikes. Let's just say there are lot of people out there with some really frightening issues that need to be immediately addressed by the psychiatric community. Though I will admit that I'm slightly impressed with the elasticity of the human butthole. You wouldn't think a pumpkin...

Well, look, I'm getting pretty far afield of my original goal here, which was to find out just what in the hell that old dude is up to with the fruit and whatnot. Turns out, the thing he's building is some sort of religious whatzit for a ceremony or a festival over in Israel. Or Palestine. Or possibly both... Wikipedia was a bit vague. (what are you hiding, Wikipedia?) But no matter, I did find out that it's called a "Sukkah" and so, um, now you've got THAT information at your fingertips, I guess. If you happen to find yourself chilling on the West Bank and some guy you just met wants to show you the giant fruit anus his grandpa made, you won't be alarmed. You'll be all like, "yeah, it's a Sukkah, big whoop." Which is pretty rude of you, considering a stranger invited you into his home to share in his beliefs and possibly make a cross-cultural connection with another person. Way to be a dick.

Whatever. Point is... Fruit anus mystery? Solved. I should totally be a detective, but one that doesn't leave his house or put on pants or technically do anything that a thirteen year old with a rudimentary understanding of the internet couldn't handle. And I'd wear a fedora because I'm the one fat guy who can pull it off without looking like a TOTAL poindexter. Yeah... this is what a good idea sounds like...

C-dog... Ace Google Detective!!!

Funniest Thing I've Seen In Weeks

Don't know who made it or where it comes from but, hot n' fresh from the YouTube, here's a literal interpretation of A-Ha's classic "Take On Me" video:

NOTE: Audio is a must



(pipe wrench fight)

Micro Story

Liquor Run

(PART ONE OF THREE)

Cold outside… cold in here, too. Feels like the whole world is stuck inside a freezer, waiting to be thawed out at a later date. It’s probably warm in Guatemala or somewhere like that, but those places are so far away it’s almost as if they don’t exist.

We’ve been in this building for three weeks. Foods mostly gone… we’re down to one crate of Fancy Feast (smells terrible but it tastes okay) and a few jugs of Poland Spring water. And of course, we’ve got booze. The bottom floor of this building was occupied by a liquor store; a well-stocked one at that. The bottles survived the bombings, the attacks, the shotgun blasts, and everything else… somehow, they held on, unbroken… waiting for us to find them. A miracle at the end of the world. A couple of times a week, we’ll draw straws to see who’s the unlucky bastard that has to go down there and re-up our supplies. Last week it was me. Brushed up against death for the bourbon I’m drinking as I write this. For Margaret’s vodka and Lem’s fancy tequila, for Danny’s spiced rum and for the wine coolers we’ve been giving the kids. Whatever shuts them up, I guess.

When I pulled my straw (really just splinters of wood) out of Lem’s hand, before I even looked at it, I knew it was my turn over the barrel. Just had that feeling. Everyone compared lengths and mine was the short one. I shrugged. That time, I guess. No matter.

They gave me the list. I wrote a few things down, stuff I wanted, because I didn’t want to forget anything in the heat of the moment. I stepped into our makeshift bathroom in the far corner of the building and took a long, thoughtful dump. It cleared my mind, made me feel lighter, but Christ almighty if it didn’t stink like cat food. This fucking place… this fucking miserable place.

I buttoned up my coat; the army one made out of thick material. I put on a silly, hunting-style hat that I’d swiped off a dead policeman a few months ago, but then I took it off and switched to a ball cap instead. The earflaps on the hunting hat are warm, but they do make it harder to hear; you need to have all your senses in working order when you’re on a liquor run. There are those who found that out the hard way. We used to have fifteen people in our group, you know.

We moved all the heavy furniture out from in front of the main door. We put our ears up against the wood, listened close, but heard nothing. We knocked loudly on the walls and on the door itself, but again… nothing. We opened the door and I stepped out into the hallway. Margaret handed me the shotgun and a box of shells. She was so pretty, before all this started. Like an actress on a soap opera or a Broadway show. But she’d lost an eye during the First Attack, and the scars on her face had built up from there. You could still see her beauty, true, but you had to squint. Not that I’m any great shakes, mind you. Being old and fat isn’t going to land me on magazine covers. If magazines still existed, of course.

I loaded the shotgun, cocked it, and slowly walked to the stairs. They were barely visible in the gloom. I thought about turning back and taking down that last inch in the bottle sitting next to my cot, but… no… I needed my senses sharp, not dulled by the booze. It would be there when I got back, I thought, and I’ll use it as well as the new stuff to toast any of those miserable bastards I happen to kill. They used to be human, right? They deserve a toast at their end. That’s how I do it, anyway. Must be the religion bubbling up in me.

Suddenly, I felt arms around my waist. I started a bit, nearly tipped right over down the stairs. It was one of the kids… Lira, I think Margaret calls her. She was hugging me tight, not wanting me to go. Not wanting to hear about another death in the group, to be more accurate. Lord knows she’d heard enough stories… enough explanations… about where so-and-so had gone, or how they were up in Heaven now, looking down upon us all. Or some horseshit, I don’t know. I don’t concern myself with the children too much. Long as they’re quiet.

I brushed the little one off, told her to get her ass back in with the adults. Margaret gave me a mean look from the doorway and I saluted her with the barrel of the shotgun. I thought to myself that I just might lie down next to her when I got back. Drink my drink with her and see if she’s of the mind to get physical with an old man such as myself. That would be a fine reward for a job well done. That, and the booze of course. I took a deep, frozen breath. I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, ready to shoot.

And then I took the first steps down into the dark.