New Job

Hey kiddos...

Okay, so tomorrow... Wednesday... I start my new job. Which, oh, by the way, I got a new job. Hooray for me!!! It's doing data entry for the City of Arlington... a sweet gig, actually, being as how there's no customer service involved, I don't have to wear a nametag or a hairnet, and did I mention that I don't have to deal with customers?

The only downside is that my shift starts at 6:45am, which is apparently a time that exists, though I personally have never seen it. Not sober, anyway.

But whatever... money be money. This kind of work, I could do standing on my head, nude, while being pelted with lil' smokies by midgets (nature's lil' smokies), AND... bonus... they're cool with us listening to our iPods while we input.

Who could ask for anything more?

Well, okay, insurance would be nice, but in this economic climate, beggars (me) can't be choosers (people with insurance).

So stuff will remain a little light around here for the next few days as I get settled into the new routine. Very exciting, very nervous-making, very a lot of stuff. Fingers crossed, my beautiful boys and girls. Yap at ya soon.

-C

Now That's What I Call Music That Sounds Like America Farting

On March 24th, the "Now That's What I Call Music" label will release it's 3oth stateside compilation of music that closely resembles a dump I once took after a chili cook-off. In honor of this momentous occasion (the release of the album, not the dump I took), let's take a discerning look at the track list. Sound like fun?

Well I don't care if you don't think it sounds like fun. Daddy's driving this car and if you don't like it, you can go live back at the last rest stop with your whiny grandmother. Ooooh... please stop... my heart pills rolled under the passenger seat and I need you to get them for me... I'm having one of my spells...

Whatever, lady, we're on a schedule here!

Anyway...

Now That's What I Call Music 30: The Track List

Just Dance -- Lady Gaga - I've heard her name (mostly screamed out ironically by gay guys), but I haven't listened to any of her music. However, given that it appears she sings about dancing, and also that she goes by the name "Lady Gaga," I'd be willing to bet that if I ever DID listen to her music, I'd want to track her down and hit her really hard with some sort of mallet. Perhaps a croquet mallet. Or maybe the kind of mallet you use to tenderize pork cutlets. Who can say? Certainly not me. (probably the croquet mallet)

Womanizer -- Britney Spears - Hey look, it's a barrel of fish! And I've got this gun!!! Oh, those fish are going DOWN!!! Don't worry dead horse, I'll be beating the living shit out of you in just a second. Just gotta make sure all these fucking fish get "taken care of" if ya know what I mean.

Keeps Gettin' Better -- Christina Aguilera - She's been the sweet, innocent, "Genie in a Bottle" Christina Aguilera, and she's been the skanky, gutterslut "Dirrty" Christina Aguilera, but I think the Christina Aguilera I'll remember for always is the stupid-hot, breasts-wildly-engorged-from-pregnancy Christina Aguilera. Did you see those things? They were like the entire Nazi zeppelin army on the front of a 4' 8" pile of fake hair and flaking bronzer. Magic, essentially, but also a bad idea, like drinking Everclear around 8am when you're supposed to be a work.

Let It Rock -- Kevin Rudolf - I'd bet a million billion dollars that this guy isn't even like a real thing. Not famous, never been on the radio, hasn't even HEARD of Vh1. However, I bet he DOES work the janitorial night shift at the CD processing plant and managed to slip into the mix his killer track that he and his cousin have been working on for months now. It's about letting it rock. Also, it's about karate, as well as how it's okay for you and your cousin to touch penises if it's on a dare and doesn't mean anything.

Heartless -- Kanye West - I am so sick of the Kanye West cult. Like, oooh, we have to worship him because he wears large glasses and sings about being insecure but it's okay because he KNOWS he insecure and that smooths over him dressing like a jackass and being shitty about losing meaningless awards. He's just another slick-ass song-and-dance man who really actually can't sing all that well and probably can't dance either. Jokes on us. That being said, this song is pretty great. And most of his other music too, truthfully. I just don't like that we HAVE to like him. "Gold Digger" was stuck in my head for like three months, for serious.

Miss Independent -- Ne-Yo - Your name sounds like "yo-yo." I bet you sing about yo-yos and all the cool tricks you can do with a yo-yo. Haha... yo-yos. Anyway, I don't know who this is.

Green Light -- John Legend f/Andre 3000 - I like Andre 3000 because you don't see enough people these days with numbers in their names. Not counting rich people like Nigel Fredrickson Picklepants III, or whatever. Those people are snobs a million times over and probably inbred, besides. Oh, and if I were John Legend, I'd change my middle name to "the." That way people would always turn to their friends and go, "Who's that guy?" And their friends would reply, "That guy... that's John The Legend." And the original guy would go, "Whoaaaa" because he just met a fucking legend, dude. And THAT'S when I'd hit him up for a $20.

Rehab -- Rihanna - Um... are we allowed to make jokes yet? No? Okay then... Rihanna is a part of this album. Let's take a minute to think about how we can talk to young girls about boyfriend violence. Thank you for your time.

I Hate This Part -- Pussycat Dolls - What a coincidence, because everyone hates this part of the album. Also, and you probably know this already, but just in case hearing it from a random blogger is what finally clicks on the light bulb... you know how you all dance around in your underwear all the time and are nasty? Well, we... collectively, as citizens of Earth... think that you smell like vagina. Like, the bad kind. Sweaty-on-a-hike, pants-that-don't-breath, day-before-the-period vagina. It's grossing everyone out. So stop it. Thanks!

Sober -- Pink - Two words that don't go together, like "leftover" & "sushi, and "nutsack" & "weedwacker."

Crush -- David Archuleta - I watched his season of American Idol, so I know of what I speak: David Archuleta is a freak. Not in a sexy, silk scarves on the bedpost kind of way... he's a freak like that kid in high school who admitted to you that he never grew pubes. He can only sing about having crushes, because THAT'S ALL HE'LL EVER KNOW! Sex is just a bit of Harry Potter mysticism to David Archuleta. He wants to hold hands and look into your eyes because maybe there's an idea for a song in there, but he won't ever take it any farther. Ick. He's the dream date for Mennonites scared to death of their fathers.

About You Now -- Miranda Cosgrove - It was so sad when Miranda Richardson died. I always liked her, and she was JUST on Top Chef. Not cool, fate... not cool.

Gives You Hell -- All American Rejects - I was done with this list and was reading it over and then I realized I hadn't done this one yet. I skipped over them. That basically says everything you need to know about everything this band is. Look, they even named their band after their state of being. Way to be self-aware, dudes.

Light On -- David Cook - David Cook represents the great irony about American Idol. On the show, I fucking loved him... his cover of "Billy Jean" knocked my dick in the dirt. But outside of the strict confines of a televised reality show singing contest, he makes the kind of music that makes me hate music. All emotional-rocker, eyeliner, and chest sweat. Blah. Go get judged by a moron, a crazy lady, and an always-right Brit and then we can maybe give each other a masculine yet tender hug once again.

18 Days -- Saving Abel - I don't care enough about anything going on here to even pretend I know what this song is, who the fuck Saving Abel are, or having a third thing in this sentence.

Gotta Be Somebody -- Nickelback - You know what women fucking love? Greasy, blond curls that hang down to your shoulders. And if they're badly dyed blond, that's a bonus. Oh, and if you sing shitty songs about photographs and how they're like memories that represent symbolism, you're basically a roofie.

Thinking Of You -- Katy Perry - I kind of liked that "Hot and Cold" song, but not in a way that I'd feel comfortable ever mentioning it in public, so let's pretend that there's only 19 songs on this album so I don't have to confront the difference between who I thought I was as a music listener and who I actually am as a music listener.

I'm Yours -- Jason Mraz - This song, though, I'll totally take the hit... I love this song. Unabashedly and with a licking-the-prison-visitation-room-glass abandon. Listening to it on a stressful day is like taking two Percocets with a strong Mojito and lying in a hammock for a three hour nap. It's just... pleasant. And pleasant has been in short supply these days. So let me have my pleasant, you jerkwads.

Love Story -- Taylor Swift - Here in TX, turn on the radio and 9 times out of 10 this song is the first song you hear. And that's not a bad thing... it's decent. And I bet a bunch of pussies get all misty-eyed at the end when she talks about the guy proposing to the girl all romantic-like. Bunch of pussies. On an unrelated note, my allergies are bugging me so bad... eyes just won't stop watering... why yes, my allergies cause me to sob, why do you ask?

Sweet Thing -- Keith Urban - He's had sex with Nicole Kidman, but Nicole Kidman now... not Nicole Kidman when she was actually someone you would want to have sex with. Now it would be like having sex with something you put together from Ikea. All breakable plastic and wooden dowels holding shit together. No thanks. Also, doesn't he have a soul patch? Ugh. They deserve each other.

Ideas For A Novel

Since I've found myself wallowing in large, sticky pools of free time these days, I thought... hey... why the fuck shouldn't I just sit my fat ass down and write a goddamned novel? I like writing, I could probably keep a story going for 300 pages or so, and I've always liked the idea of me being an real, genuine author... someone who can hold his head up high as a titan of the literary world and whose drinking problem is dismissed as merely a side effect of being so fucking brilliant and handsome. That sort of lifestyle would sure as shit beat being just a displaced blogger in Arlington, TX... a town that's barely heard of reading, much less of novels, and where you have to break into funeral homes to steal jars of coffin polish because regular booze doesn't get you drunk enough to get the creative juices flowing anymore...

...coffin polish tastes just awful...

Anyway, so here are the ideas I've got so far. Any of these could conceivably top the list of best sellers, particularly if we put a hot chick on the cover wearing nothing but a discreet layer of peach preserves. Or, for those who don't have much of a sweet tooth, guacamole. Oh, and I guess we should probably cater to the female market too... so... maybe a guy is also there with his dong in a jar of Duncan Hines frosting. Or a bowl of guacamole. Look, I'm getting ahead of myself... here now, I present to you fine folk:

My Novel Ideas

NOTE: As always, if any of you steal these ideas and make a million billion dollars, I will find out where you live and sneak in dressed as a maid and when you're asleep I will sneak into your bedroom and kill you so hard in your face that I won't be able to get the deposit back on my rental maid uniform. BECAUSE IT WILL BE COVERED IN YOUR BLOOD AND ALSO SOME SPILLED COFFIN POLISH!!! So don't steal, motherfucker. I cut you. I cut you for real.

-Dinosaurs get cloned and go on a rampage in a theme park. I know what you're thinking... it's exactly the same plot as The Phantom of the Opera. That's where you're wrong. These dinosaurs don't sing. They do dance, however, which is going to be hard to convey on the page. Hm... maybe we'll had illustrations. Filthy, filthy illustrations.

-A small-town Southern lawyer defends a monkey because the monkey is accused of having evolution, even though that's not how it works. The monkey and the lawyer hate each other at first, but eventually become best friends. They fight crime. I envision a great fight scene where everyone slips on banana peels and the monkey laughs his ass off. In the movie version, Kurt Russell could play either the lawyer or the monkey. Also, Jack Black in a suit made of banana peels... that's our poster right there.

-A young girl moves to a spooky town where there are a lot of vampires. She falls in love with the most romantic vampire and he bites her and she thinks she's becoming a vampire and they're going to live happily ever after. But it turns out, the guy wasn't really a vampire... just a jerkwad with a biting fetish. And now the girl has Hepatitis. Everyone learns a lesson about how vampires don't exist. But they DO EXIST... in our hearts. The novel ends with all the other major characters getting Hepatitis.

-Grizzled cop Steak McManpants is two days away from retirement... but he's got to track down a vicious serial killer before he (the serial killer) retires him (Steak McManpants) for good (that means he serial kills him). That's just the first 30 pages or so... Steak McManpants dramatically arrests the serial killer for non-payment of child support and then retires to a condo in Ft. Lauderdale. The remaining 260 pages are mostly about shuffleboard and prostate exams.

-A magical boy wizard does some shit for a while, then bitches about his parents being dead. But they're NOT dead! They're vampires dinosaurs being sued by grizzled cop with Hepatitis that he caught from a monkey while singing and dancing and banana peels and omigod you guys have got to try this coffin polish it makes you feel like a two ton brick of white hot fuck steely-eyed creativity on windowpane acid where all ideas are both knowable and unknowable and the world truly makes sense for one microsecond that lasts longer than a whole baseball season and...

NOTE: C-dog is in the corner vomiting into a decorative urn that we believe he also stole from a funeral home. Please just let him know in the comments which idea you like best and he'll get on writing it just as soon as he stops freaking out.

NOTE: He's pooping in the urn now. And crying. What a sad scene.

The Many Exciting Features of My New Temporary Dwelling

-Cable TV

-Walk-in closets

-A disconcerting amount of animal skins

-Toilet that technically works, but must be refilled after each use from a hose connected to the shower

-Hose IS the shower

-A standing lake of gasoline right outside, so I guess I'll never want for gas... does make me kind of nervous though... my landlord is made of fire...

-A comfy leather sofa that you just want to nap on, or you would if it didn't reek so strongly of a thousand unclean asses

-Paintings of old British soldiers whose eyes follow you where ever you go

-Refrigerator

-Freezer

-Time machine

-A fastidious, tidy roommate, which is awkward because I'm such a slob; hijinks, as I'm sure you can imagine, ensue

-A grand ballroom that will be just perfect for holding this year's cotillion

-The ghosts of dead hobos

-The rotting corpses of dead hobos

-A crazy hobo who likes to kill other hobos (he sleeps in the walk-in closet; thank god I'm not a hobo)

-Two hand-crafted antique wardrobes; one leads to the magical bullshit world of Narnia and the other holds all my winter clothes

-A/C

-A never ending parade of junkies looking to score some cheap skag; I try to tell them that the guy who sold them the stuff doesn't live here anymore, but junkies don't listen.

-Several suitcases full of cheap skag (GOT to figure out how to get rid of these)

-Wet bar

-Wet carpet

-Feral cats

-Cthulhu

C-dog Continues to Pose With Regional Products

I bought this at the Kroger's grocery store near my house and... Mmmm... it tastes like the fiery soul of a Texan mixed liberally with vinegar. Which stands for... I don't know... our defeat at the Alamo or something.

Actually, it doesn't even matter because Texas Pete hot sauce is manufactured in Winston-Salem, NC. So this has actually just been a waste of everyone's time. Although I do take issue with their company appropriating the whole idea of Texas-ness to bolster the populist appeal of their product. The last time someone did that, we ended up with eight years of George W. Bush.

Ah, topical humor!

Topical for last year, anyway.

Look, the point is this: I bought some hot sauce and I'm going to go put a lot of it on a bowl of Chef Boyardee while I apply online to work at a Kroger's grocery store. Because that is my life now, apparently.

Parenthetically, I also bought a lot of beer.

Testing... Testing...

So, I've moved into my temporary place... an old garage apartment that's on the same property as the house I grew up in... and, much to my chagrin, I have discovered that the internet is slow as a motherfucker.

Not sure what the issue is. It's DSL, but it's running like dial-up. My Gmail barely works, every page takes forever to load, watching video is but a fanciful dream... in short: No bueno. I seriously don't get it; my signal strength is excellent, my connection is the full five bars, and yet, here I sit... waiting (shock!) for pages (shriek!) to load (horror!) like its 1995 (Hootie & the Blowfish!).

Any thoughts, tech-minded readers? Because I may kill myself if this problem doesn't get resolved. Then where will you all be? C-dogless. Don't let that happen to you.

Syfy?

The Sci Fi Channel... America's greatest resource for Twilight Zone reruns and movies about computer-generated snakes attacking bad Canadian actors... has decided to change it's name/logo/state of being from this:

To this:

(sigh)

You know... I really don't even have anything to add. What they're doing, very specifically, is going from being an actual thing to being a thing that just sounds like an actual thing. "Sci Fi" is a real concept that people can grasp immediately. "Syfy" is a made-up word that means nothing more than "our marketing department has a drinking problem, but we're running out of options."

So... yeah... okay, honestly, I wasn't really going anywhere with this. Other than pointing out that what the Sci Fi Network is doing is stupid, of course, but I guess that's kind of obvious. What do you want from a dude; it's Saturday and I'm running on bad sleep, Dr. Pepper, and lil' smokies. Content be content, bitches.

Our Kids Are In Danger, Or Whatever...

You see news stories and really concerned TV doctors bitching all the time about childhood obesity and how our kids are turning into amorphous Wall-E blobs that can barely grip their Go-gurts and then the next generation will be "The Greatest Generation," but only in the sense that great equals big fat fattypants AND YET...

And yet...

Nefarious dicks are still cranking out products to rip the activity right out of our Cheetos-breathed darling's precious little lives.

My slim, fit readers, I give you:



It's a fishing rod that you don't have to cast. No movement is required. You just pull the trigger and it... rockets... I guess... sending out the hook that will eventually end the life of an innocent carp, no effort required. So not only are they taking away the ONE THING that makes fishing somewhat sorta kinda sport-ish and skillful, they're making fishing more like shooting which sends all kinds of crazy signals to our kids about how it's okay to participate in execution-style murders and/or sniper attacks that hold the city hostage with fear!

Look, here's a budding maniac now:

That kid carries with him the stink of death. Also fish guts. Look into his eyes... chilling, no? Like staring into a Godless abyss where you can just barely make out Satan waving at the bottom, trying to get your attention all, "Ooooh... hey there... I'm Satan... this kid is FUCKED UP, y'all, for reals!!!"

Anyway, look, I don't really care about the future of our children or anything. I'm sure I'll be dead soon anyway (I like to bet on Russian Roulette) and then why should I give a shit. I'm just saying that if anyone out there is looking for a new cause to jump on now that Obama is kicking out the White House jams... you know... maybe look into getting our kids not to be such lazy little shits.

Or don't, whatever. Anyone want to split a Go-gurt?

Fuck It, Let's Just Talk About American Idol

Since I don't really have anything in particular to say... well, nothing that's not whiny and a pity party and a four paragraph comparison of my life to that of Napoleon who died in exile... how about we just dish on the newly-minted American Idol Top Ten? Because seriously, who gives a shit about anything anymore? Might as well just watch reality shows until we suffocate on our own pizza farts.

So here they are... the final ten contestants of the greatest show on Earth, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, from 8 to 10 and 9 to 10, respectively.

Oh and how funny is it that the below pics were taken directly from the FOX-hosted American Idol website and they are all the worst pictures these kids have ever taken? Isn't the whole point of all of this to make their commodities look as shiny and attractive as possible? Weird. Anyway...

The American Idol Top Ten - A ZFS! Exclusive Look



He's got a great voice and he can go up real high like an 80's hair metal singer but he's also really, really gross in the same way that a sticky floor in a bar bathroom is gross. There's just something skeevy about him, like you're pretty sure he did some fucked up things in his late teens and we're all just kind of waiting around for the videos to surface. Also, I really don't care for people that work really hard at cultivating "a look." We get it, you're a metrosexual theater goth with hair made of synthetic fibers and a hieroglyphic tramp stamp that means some bullshit about how music is your fiery soul's quiet death or whatever. Good for you.

Oh and he was on LA's version of Broadway in Wicked. That should fill in the rest of the blanks for you.

Seems like every year there's a 16 year old with a voice that's light years ahead of her age and this go-around it's Allison. When she's being interviewed, she sounds exactly like she's supposed to sound... like a dumbass, inarticulate teenager who just discovered irony and has funny thoughts that she can't wait to draw on her binder during study hall. But when she sings... something... happens... and she becomes herself from the future, where she's 35 and has been living on unfiltered Camels and Jim Beam for a decade and a half. She sang that Heart song "Alone" a few weeks back and you could hear in the background Nancy Wilson smashing a guitar in a rage because she just got served by a girl who by all rights should be working behind the counter at a Spencer's Gifts. Since then, Allison hasn't been all that awesome, but no matter what happens to her on Idol, she's going to be famous because freaks of nature are like Miracle-Gro for the music biz.

Ugh. The first thing you should know is that he has a dead wife and, thus, he's Part 1 of the two-part Inspiration Sensation dynamic duo heavily featured this season. Anyway, his wife died and it's sad and he's a church music director so Jesus is just all right with him and he wears kooky glasses so you know he's an alcohol-free good time and there's just something about him that makes me want to puke so hard it cracks the Earth in two and we all die but that's okay because at least I don't have to ever hear him sing a Mariah Carey song again. He's got a very strong, clear voice... granted... and he has what approximates soul for a white person... fine... and I guess he's kind of non-threatening cute in a boring way... though in the above picture he looks like drug dealer date rape... and all of those things would be tolerable individually, but combined in the shell that is Danny, they're like a lifetime of stubbed toes and paper cuts and splinters all mushed together in a two-minute song. But I can't say that because his wife died. So... I guess... go Danny, you magnificent jewel of man, you.

There is absolutely nothing of note about Kris other than that he sounds like a boy band and he's always the most handsome guy at all the frat parties. Oh, and he's married to a girl who... every time they cut to her in the audience... she looks like she's ready to claw the first bitch who lays hands on her trophy meat.

She seems like a real sweet lady and she's got a huge, impressive voice that could fill up a blimp hanger if so required. She's doing this for her kids, her husband, they were all trapped in a hurricane at one point or something, and thanks be to God, etc. My only problem with her... and it's not her fault at all... is that she sings the kind of music that I don't care about. Like, at all. She's squarely in the Mary J. Blige/late-era Whitney Houston wheelhouse and that's all pretty much the opposite of what I listen to on a daily basis. Again, not her fault, but when she comes on, I usually take a bathroom break or go raid the fridge or something. Because she's OBVIOUSLY going to be good and she's OBVIOUSLY going to make it really far in this, so, kind of who cares?

The judges have been riding his jock pretty hard the last few weeks about how he's amazing and like Michael Buble crossed with Justin Timberlake while wearing stupid hats but... I don't know... I guess I'm just all dead inside or something because Matt doesn't do anything for me. He sings just fine, he plays the piano well, he doesn't overtly seem like the type to mug grannies or punt kittens into blazing trash fires or anything but... eh. Oh, one thing of note: Sometimes he gets the weird vibrato thing going and he sounds for just a second exactly like Jim Breuer's Goat Boy character from SNL. That's pretty funny.

She has the most cuckoo-bananas voice I think has ever been featured on Idol. It's... sort of old timey, but also kind of modern, but with crackly weirdness and kinda nasally but not in a bad way. That's not an accurate description but it's the best you're going to get with our Earth words. Point is, she's not going to last much longer, which is a shame because she's crazy hot. She looks like a girl that works in a record store in Austin, TX, with all the tattoos and skinny jeans that that implies. And the other night she wore this dress that was a quarter-step away from porn. So I like her, but not for reasons that she wants to be liked, I'm sure. Or who knows... she's got a kid, so maybe that's her deal.

My mother described him best: He's the guy who's here because, "shucks, my wife thinks I sing good." And that's it EXACTLY. The good ol' boy, blue collar Joe who happens to have a very decent set of pipes. He's from Jasper, TX... the place where hate was, not born exactly, but certainly refined... and he works on oil rigs for a living. Nice backstory! Or it would be, if he was actually playing on the same level as the rest of the contestants. Unfortunately he's just not that great... like, he should have a really popular bar band, or he could maybe be the first opening act on a triple-bill staring whatever's left of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. He needs to figure out which of those fits him best though, and quickly... he ain't long for this competition.

This would be Part 2 of the Inspiration Sensation. Scott is blind. And that's fine... some people are blind, life is a motherfucker, and it's cool that the guy has made the best out of a bad situation by learning to play the piano so good it's basically a Fuck You to his cold, unfeeling creator. But here's the thing... American Idol isn't a Best Human Being Ever competition. It's a show where they try to pick the "best" singer. And Scott... honestly... really... for realsies... doesn't sing all that well. He's not BAD, of course. But he's not awesome. But he IS blind and, thus, America is going to keep him on this show because doing so means they don't have to give money to charity this month. And look, I feel bad saying it, really I do, but that's kind of where we're at with him. And you can tell Simon is feeling it a bit too and I bet he snaps pretty soon and, though he might get stabbed in the parking lot, it will be the most horrific/entertaining hour of TV ever devised by man.

Anoop! ANOOOOOOOOP!!! He's my favorite. He sings like Boys II Men and he puts off just the right amount of "I could give a shit because I'm a real person who just kind of ass-backwardsed my way into this show and isn't it kind of weird that I've made it this far?" No, Anoop, it's NOT weird. Because you're awesome and America... when it's not being blinded by the white, cleansing glory of the widowed and the blind... picks up on that every once in awhile. Stick around, dude, because American Idol is just so much horseshit, always, and you're like an ice cold beer after doing yard work and we NEED that to keep us all from kicking in our TVs. Thank you for being you.

The State of C-Dog

-Posting has been a little light around here, as I'm sure you've noticed... things in TX have been, to say the least, chaotic. I don't have a permanent place to live yet, so I've been bouncing around from relative's house to relative's house, sleeping when I can, using newspaper to keep myself warm, fighting bums in 7-11 parking lots for money, and a few nights ago I'm pretty sure I ate a dead guy's arm. So, you know, it's gotten kind of weird. Also, I just haven't been able to get any sort of creative juices flowing lately. I hate throwing around the phrase "creatively bankrupt" all willy-nilly, but that's sort of how I've been feeling. Whatever, I'm sure it's all just a product of my not being able to get settled yet and when I finally do, all will be right with the world.

-Ankle Update: I can walk on it without looking like a gimp, but it still hurts. After a day of moving around, it tends to feel like someone has hammered a nail right through the bone. I know these sort of things just take a while to heal and all that, but there's a part of me that has started to think, well, you know I've had a good run... 28 years of doin' it my way... maybe the sweet embrace of death is just the ticket. Crazy talk, sure, but at the same time... OUCH, MY FOOT!!!

-Finally got a lead on a job. Had an interview with a popular corporate-run video store chain that shall remain nameless (Hint: rhymes with Shmockshmuster) and it went really well. I'm currently in a holding pattern with them, waiting on a second interview to get scheduled. I feel good about it, but I've been burned a lot in the last couple of months, so I'm not going to get excited until I'm actually restocking shelves and directing stoners to the Horror section. Oh, and I think it's only going to be part time, but that's cool... beats my current "no time" position.

-One of the houses I've been staying in is my uncle's out in a really nice suburb of Ft. Worth. I've been dogsitting for him and my aunt while they're away on vacation and, though it's been cool to have a place to myself for a week, it's also been deeply, deeply terrifying. Maybe I've seen too many movies, maybe I'm used to living in an apartment building with tons of neighbors, maybe I'm just a big pussy, but... big, dark houses in the middle of the burbs are fucking scary around 3am. There are so many places for serial killers to hide! And when you look out the windows, all you see is blackness. I don't know, man... it's hard to really get comfortable when you feel like you're going to get killed in the face or chased around by a naked guy with a chainsaw. (why is he naked? why not!)

-Went to see The Wrestler last night. Hell of a film. Depressing as all get out... like real motherfucking bleak... but one that's not likely to be forgotten anytime soon. Highly recommend it if you, like me, haven't gotten to see much in the way of movies lately.

-Guess that's it. More to come, probably. Just know that if I miss a stretch of days or something, it doesn't mean I'm quitting the blog. I'll rise again, stronger than ever! Everything is fine, the sun is shining, love is for everybody and it's all true: God is an astronaut, Oz is over the rainbow, and Midian is where the monsters live.

In Case You're Wondering What Variety of Off-Brand Dr. Pepper I'm Drinking...

Ah, Dr. Skipper... it tastes like if Dr. Pepper and a bottle of cough syrup got blended together with a ground-up poor person. It also kind of tastes like the tears of an orphan; one who's got a lot of health problems and thinks learning how to read is just a lie the TV told.

Serving Suggestions for Dr. Skipper:

-Serve Dr. Skipper in a rusty tin can, lukewarm, while the bank takes back your house.

-Why not drink a can of Dr. Skipper while you wait for your test results to come back? (I'm sorry, you have tuberculosis)

-Fill a shoe with Dr. Skipper. Drink it down. Eat the shoe, but don't eat ALL the shoe. That shoe is dinner for the next couple of days. Dr. Skipper made the shoe taste terrible.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian



Here's the thing... I actually like Ben Stiller. Before he started kicking mud all over his good name for paychecks fatter than yo momma, the dude actually was responsible for some high-quality comedy. The Ben Stiller Show? From the Fox network back in the early 90s? C'mon... that was diamond-covered gold lotto numbers. And I'd be okay if it was a "that was then, this is now" kind of situation; he was funny then, he's not now. Fine. Sucks for him, sucks for us, but fine. But did you guys SEE Tropic Thunder? That movie was HILARIOUS!!! It's like, oh, Stiller CAN be funny when he wants to be... he just usually doesn't want to.

That shit is frustrating. But whatever. What-fucking-ever. So what's the plot of this one, Ben? You go to another museum and everything is once again alive? Does Robin Williams show up to do funny voices (fingers crossed!)? Is there a shot of you crying in a corner while watching DVDs of what you were like fifteen years ago? Because if THAT is in there, I'll buy a ticket.

Also, your poster looks like every image in the world got tossed at a piece of paper and it all stuck! So maybe let's just use that to market a movie! We're so bad at movie-marketing!

Also, also... you leave President Lincoln alone.

One Week



Haha... oh, Pacey. You're not a bad ass! You're barely a smart ass. You look way too much like a guy who studies really hard for the LSATs to ever be taken seriously as a motorcycle owner. So is that like the joke here? Someone loaned the dorm's RA a motorcycle for one week and isn't it hilarious all the shenanigans he gets up to, trying to be all cool, but then he dies in a horrible crash because trying to be someone you're CLEARLY not offends Jesus? Yeah, I bet that's the plot.

Or maybe not, who really knows? The movie poster sure as shit isn't helping us out. Let's see, we've got Joshua Jackson thinking he's Sal Mineo, so it's a comedy. But there's moody weather and a misty lake, so maybe it's a tampon commercial. But there's ALSO a vague tagline... "What would you do?" Well... um... I don't know, movie poster, is the rest of the question, "What would you do if a former third-lead on a popular WB teen drama came up to you fronting like an extra in Grease?"

Because if it is, then my answer would be, "laugh my ass off until I had to bolt on a fake ass."

Black Dynamite



I don't know, I think I'm kind of done with irony. Oooh... it's a blaxsploitation film, but it's new and we're winking at you, so come and laugh at the afros and the 70s jokes and whatnot. No thanks, Black Dynamite. No thanks. Besides, didn't I'm Gonna Get You Sucka say everything that needed to be said about the blaxploitation era already, like a million years ago? I'll just rewatch that again.

Parenthetically, I think I'm also done with sincerity. I've been watching American Idol this season and there's this blind guy on there who only sings about how it's inspirational to be blind and everyone should follow their heartsongs and overcome adversity on the wings of an eagle made of hope. I can't stand him. He just wants to share his gift with the world, I get that, but it's like that kid Oprah was all on about a few years ago... the cancer one who wrote poems or whatever. I'm glad both of you have been able to make a small glass of lemonade out of the shit-ton of lemons you've been assaulted with but, I don't know, your earnestness and the way you want me to know I'm loved makes me really, really, really uncomfortable.

So I'm done with irony and I'm done with sincerity. I'd say I just want stuff that's neutral, but then I'll probably just think that stuff is boring. Man, it's hard being me.

My Life in Ruins



Alternate Tagline: "Hey, remember when I made My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding? You guys all liked that, right? Sure made me a lot of money. A LOT. Blew through it pretty fast, though. Bought a big house, had some work done (casting agents were saying I looked 'too ethnic'), starred in some movies that... didn't... so much connect with an... audia.... look, I'm dying over here. You want me to do more shit about being Greek? Fine, I'll fucking go to Greece!!! Look, it's me, Nia Vardalos, and I'm in Greece!!! Please, go see this movie. My house payments are enormous!!! I'm scared all the time. I haven't paid Richard Dreyfuss yet; he killed my dog and said I'm next if he doesn't get his money. Please... I'm begging... I'm actually begging... Dreyfuss won't stop until he's paid or I'm dead... go see this movie..."

Public Enemies

I will obviously go see this movie because it's Johnny Depp and Christian Bale being old-timey gangsters and that's a pure kind of awesome usually found only in dreams where robots fight vampires for my amusement. HOWEVER, this poster... not sure why Johnny Depp has a bad case of the ol' "text crotch." Is that the kind of STD you get when you fuck a book?

My Severely Injured Foot: A Complete Guide

The Incident

Okay, so first things first, all ladders are cordially invited to smooch my dong. They are nasty and mean. They smell of sulphur and they worship Satan. They deny the Holocaust, ladders do. 

They also collapse under your old pal C-dog while he's doing nothing more than trying to help his sainted mother hang some posters in her school's library. I mean, okay, you might could make a case that certain people (not saying who) should have checked to make sure all the ladder's joints were locked before heaving his fat ass upwards on the shaky, villainous structure... maybe the accident could have been avoided and maybe not... but the point, really, is this: That fucking ladder collapsed under me and I fell down and I hurt myself!!!

Fucking ladder!!!

A Breakdown of Disaster

1:45pm - The ladder collapses and I, in an avalanche of swear words and attractive facial hair, am pitched outward to hang ever so briefly in the ether before falling... falling... and landing squarely on my left ankle. Details are hazy, but there were definitely some popping sounds, as well as the sound of children everywhere weeping, an antique armoire full of expensive china exploding in disgust, and the weary exhalations of a tiny planet in another galaxy's population dying out

1:46pm - 1:49pm - Sobbing so hard, the school's principal calls in a SWAT team.

1:50pm - The SWAT teams arrives and I beg them for help, mercy, Tylenol, and a hug. They laugh heartily at my condition and make me wear a dress.

1:53pm - My dress is gorgeous but I am convinced that my ankle is broken. My mother suggests that I get up and try to put weight on it. I'm shaking all over like a Mexican-built space shuttle, but I want to appear brave in the face of grave injury, so... with the aid of my mother and a lent forklift... I get into an upright position.

1:54pm - I take a tentative first step.

1:54pm - 2:04pm - Missing time. I'm told that I fainted dead away onto a chaise lounge made of my own shame, but there are conflicting reports that I just shat myself in the fetal position while keening like a war widow.

2:05pm - Suddenly awake and alert, I text everyone's favorite male nurse, Todd (the computer is stupid and not letting me link to him, but you should go to his blog at http://blognameremoved.blogspot.com/). My text to him is garbled, half in French, and mostly swears, but he is able to decipher that I am in great pain and that my ankle might be dying. He gives me sound advice involving rest, ice, compression, and elevation. He also compliments my dress, even though he can't see it, which I think is very thoughtful.

2:10pm - Deep in the throes of shock, I begin to stride around the room like a big shot, deliriously convinced that the whole thing was just a silly dream. My ankle is making noises like two old-timey robots fucking. 

2:20pm - My ankle swells up like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon and turns all the colors of the world, all at once. It looks like if hate were a foot.

2:21pm - I am ordered to go home immediately because everyone is grossed out by my ankle and, if you ask me, jealous of all the attention I'm getting from sexy SWAT team members.

2:25pm - I drive myself home and plop down on the couch, my leg resting on an enormous stack of pillows to the point where I resemble a lower-case "y" that fell over. I lay there for the next 24 hours, demanding that family members bring me tacos and fresh sodas because the soda they brought me an hour ago is now slightly warm and, what, they expect me... A HURT GUY... to drink a WARM soda??? Jerks.

The Aftermath

It's been a few days since... "the incident." My ankle, we've determined, is NOT broken; we're thinking now it's just a really, really, really bad sprain. The swelling has gone down, but it's still all multi-hued and unpleasant. And yes... yes, my children... it still hurts. Not as much as it did, of course; I can walk on it now, I can climb stairs, I can still lay down old-school breakdancing moves just in time for tonight's Pants-off/Dance-off... but there is still pain. Every step, every stair, every Harlem Shake reminds me of the tragedy that has befallen me. And with every twinge from my ankle, I die a little inside.

And so should you, you ungrateful bastards. I hurt my ankle!!! WEEP FOR C-DOG!!! WEEP!!!

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Greetings, my totally pleasant and hopefully pantsless readers, from beautiful, downtown Arlington, TX! The sights! The sounds! Movie stars! Dancing girls! Slick cats with shiny hair looking for danger and the next big score!

Ah... it's nice to finally be back in a REAL city again. None of this one-horse, one-mailbox, Dairy Queen-littered, small town New York nonsense for ol' C-dog. No thank you! I'm an Arlingtonian again, baby... sky's the limit, the streets are paved with gold, we can build this thing together, NOTHING'S gonna stop us now!!!

Anyway, pretending is fun.

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Hypothetical Air Travel Question:

Say there's a crazy billionaire who opens his own airline. It's amenities are comparable to JetBlue, it flies to most major metropolitan areas in the US and abroad, and... most significantly... all tickets, no matter the destination, are only $5 a piece. However, there's a catch. On every flight, at exactly the halfway point between the departure city and the destination, one passenger is ejected from the plane like a fighter pilot, sans parachute. Just, POP; shot out of the plane, leaving him or her to fall to their death. The selection of the unlucky passenger is totally random. Each plane holds about 200 people, so the odds are definitely in your favor. Keep in mind... they go just about everywhere in the world. Five bucks to Europe, five bucks to a tropical paradise, five bucks to that one place you've always wanted to go, balanced out with a 1 in 200 chance of dying a terrifying death.

Would you book a flight on this airline?

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I don't know if any of you kids have flown on Midwest Airlines before, but... not too shabby. Comfy chairs, they actually offer Dr. Pepper which I believe is a first, and their mid-flight snack? Hot, fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies. How totally silly/awesome is that? I mean, it's a little condescending... "okay boys and girls, you've all been such GOOD little passengers... who wants a yummy cookie?!?!" But at the same time, it's like, mmmm... give me just so many cookies in my face right now, thanks! I had two flights yesterday, so I ate four chocolate-chip cookies. That's a win in my book.

I do kinda take issue with the whole "fresh-baked" thing. It's not like they have your beloved Grandmother back there slaving over a hot stove or anything. I get the feeling that "fresh baked" really just means "heated up," but... you know... whatever. Still tasty. Beats the shit out of a mylar bag containing seven peanuts and untold disappointment.

Thanks, New York, for the laughs, the scars, the arrest record, the drinks, the retardedly good food, the retardedly good friends, the love of my life, and the life that... for a time... I loved like a reckless teenager exploding down a back road in a brand new car, punk music cranked real loud.

It's been fun but it's time for something new. Next on ZFS!... C-dog slouches toward adulthood. Good times. Hope to see you there.

(don't worry though, the fart jokes will remain; I ain't joining a monastery or nothin')

Your Movie Title Is Dumb

What does that even mean? Is that, like, a saying or something? As in, "when you're staring out a broken window with a black guy standing behind you, well you're just spinning into butter." Even if that's the case, it doesn't make any sense. Although I guess if the butter was spinning hard enough, it could work up enough force to shatter a pane of glass. Maybe THAT'S why Sarah Jessica Parker looks so upset... She's mad at the other guy because he spun the butter too hard and it broke the window and now everyone can see her possibly-cancerous mole.

Hm... well, whatever the reason, it's a dumb title and the movie is probably also dumb. Although it IS good to see Beau Bridges get some work. It's hard being the ugly brother, so it's nice of Hollywood to cut him some slack.

NOTE: I just looked this movie up and, apparently, it was shot over two years ago and is JUST NOW being given a "limited release." That means, if you read between the lines, that watching this movie will be a lot like getting your nuts caught in a revolving door. Or, for the ladies, getting a boob thwacked by the mighty hand of Zeus. He thwacks hard, for reals.

Updates From a Man in Transition

-Part 1 of the big move went great... Girlfriend is now settled in her stylin' new digs, the cat has stopped freaking out about being in unfamiliar territory, and the only thing left to make this house a home is for the Time Warner guy to put in an appearance and hook up the sweet, blessed cable TV. We're working off the wall antennae right now... basically just getting the major networks, plus TBS... and seriously, those guys air a LOT of bullshit. I mean it's cool because I can still watch American Idol and Simpsons reruns, but for fucks sake have you ever actually WATCHED The Today Show? With Al Roker and Meredith Viera? I've got it on in the background right now and it reminds me of when I was a waiter, every once in a while I'd get a table that thought they were HILARIOUS and would always make FUNNY JOKES about EVERYTHING, "Hey your name's Clinton... Where's Hillary... I didn't vote for ya... HAR HAR!!!" etc. The gang on The Today Show is like a group of "funny customers" that won't stop fucking around and just give you their goddamned appetizer order so you can get back to the kitchen for the rest of your section's entrees. Anyway, I hate them and wish nothing but plague and darkness upon their various households.

-I just realized that I'm going to have to re-pack my suitcase because, A) I forgot all about the clothes that I had in the dirty laundry, and B) I did a really horrible job of packing the first time. I kinda just threw stuff in there all willy-nilly; very much a "we've got to skip town because the landlord called INS on us" type of suitcase-filling scenario. So, needless to say, I'll be putting that off 'til the last minute because, ugh, packing is lame times your mom. Hey, can your Mom come pack my suitcase? That'd be awesome if she could. I will not pay her.

-My flight leaves day after tomorrow (Thursday). The fact that I'm actually leaving New York doesn't seem real yet. I mean, it does and it doesn't. Six months ago, I would never have thought I'd be moving back to Arlington. Then again, six months ago I would have never thought I could kill a hobo in cold blood with my bare hands, but hey... this hobo-skin suit I'm wearing certainly speaks to the fact that anything is possible. Still, though; going back home to start my life over. Never thought I'd be that guy. Then again, seems there's quite a lot of "those guys (and gals)" out there these days, so at least I'm in good company.

-More updates as things develop, or if anything of note happens along the way. If not, I'll catch you all again on Texas time. Stay beautiful, kiddos.