Ah yeah, let's talk about my obsession with figuring out what the hell love is. I've tried to pinpoint this kind of thing for years now, and I always seem to come up pretty empty-handed.
For example, one could think back and imagine that the first glance from some adorable chick in the front row of your 3rd grade English class sparked some kind of dormant, pubescent firecracker in your skull until suddenly... POW. You're in love, fool. But what the hell is it? How do you really even know what to think, or to do in those situations? Isn't it interesting??? I think it's down right obsession worthy.
It's one of those topics that people really do take for granted, until they watch some Matthew McConaughey movie or read some blog written by some single dude in Knoxville.
You've fallen in love, right?
If you just said no, for the love of God, just skip this entire blog and watch the video posted at the end. It will sum it all up for you. I guess if you have fallen in love at some point in your life, you know what I'm talking about. Weird stuff, huh? When did it hit you?
Oh, okay... so maybe you're one of those folks who think that it's not possible to fall in love until you're 10? 16? 19? 30? I bow to the "different strokes for different folks" rule, but I can say with confidence that I've fallen in love at least 124,456,034 times in my life. Sometimes my love affairs range only three or four minutes, and the good one lasted a solid four and a half years. Either way, I think it's easy for me to fall in love... probably to the point of being unhealthy or dangerous.
A gorgeous woman walked by me today while I was attempting a piss-poor parallel-parking job... and as soon as I saw her eyes, I was long gone. She had wavy brown hair, full lips and these really amazing eyes. Beyond that, it's all a blur, really... I can't say I remember much else. More so than her appearance or her walk, or whatever, I remember the exciting feeling I got when I saw her. That's the exciting part, to me. I like seeing something really, really beautiful in something and just trying to desperately hold on to that feeling. Does that make sense, faithful reader? I'm not an insane (or desperate) person, I swear—but damn—do I love falling in love.
{Editor's note: it's usually either after they physically talk, or after I notice that they have a tattoo of a pentagram on their right boob that my heart breaks... and that's understandable. For every damn 124,456,034 times that I've fallen in love, there's a heartbreak right behind it. However, that part is a given. It's totally lucid. And this blog is about love, sucka... so we'll move on.}
At this point in the blog you're thinking... "ah, this dumb son of a bitch isn't in love... he's totally lusting after these chicks! Or crushing on 'em, or maybe even stalking 'em!!"
Yeah, yeah, label it whatever you want, but to me, it's way more romantic, hilarious and down right fun to call it love instead of those other things. Besides, half the time I think of the cuddling part before I think of the sex part. Seriously, man. Half the time. Whatever.
So back to my point—if there really is any—where did this all come from? I see love as more of this strange inspiration instead of some kind of creepy deadly-ninja-warrior-type of dangerous element. (When I can.) I try to make it fun when I can (or when it's not beating the ever-living hell out of me). I like to think about it so much that I can almost feel those tears coming from out of nowhere... and then shift my thoughts directly to Spider-man 3, which is exactly the opposite of love. The combination evens itself out pretty well.
When I think back on my childhood, there is one bit of imagery that really, really, really took a hold of me and seriously impacted me probably more than anything regarding love up until that moment of my life. It still stands, to this day, as being the thing that truly made love something exciting for me... and absolutely terrifying at the same time. It means a lot, and even when I watch it today, I seriously feel like I'm 11 years old again—wearing a horrifying early 1989-1990 multi-colored, two-sizes-too-big sweater at an awkward school dance.
Dammit, I love those memories!!!!!
To see exactly what jump-started my idea of love and to get a handle on how important it is to me, please watch this short video:
Enjoy your day, fall in love a time or two for me, and keep me posted.
Much love, of course (until you see the pentagram on my boob),
-McClane
Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Who's this Country FOR, anyway??
Picture this: James Brolin, Tommy Lee Jones and Javier Bardem are all standing at the Jefferson County Pool. Brolin's mustache is gleaming in the sun, Jones' sheriff's badge is still stuck to his bare chest, and Javier Bardem just looks like a fucking badass.
They're all standing next to the super-deep pool, the one that's 15-feet deep. Here they are. They decide to stand on opposite sides of the pool, away from each other, and they never speak to one another... or interact at all.
Tommy Lee Jones stands there and complains about everything from the sun being too hot to his trunks riding up too much in the crotch. He looks around a lot. He cracks funny jokes to himself in a funny country accent. He frowns a bunch, and does this thing where he stares off into space and talks condescendingly to everyone around him because he's old.
On the other side of the pool, you've got Josh Brolin. He's being super cool. He's thinking of all these great ways that he's going to cannonball his ass in the pool, how he's just snuck a six pack of beer into the pool under his towel and how he'll eventually use his goggles to make a gun somehow. What a badass, man. Brolin takes the initiative to stick his foot in the water first. He submerses his foot completely in, feels the water, and smiles. This is his pool, bitch. You like him. He's a charismatic guy. He's fun to watch. He's unpredictable and interesting. You wonder... what will happen to this guy?
On the opposite side of the pool stands Javier Bardem. He's scaring all the kids around him. Adults leave immediately when he walks in. The lifeguard actually gets uncomfortable in her chair 50 yards away and leaves early, even when there's a fat kid pooping in the kiddie pool. He looks to his left, and some guy pukes just from his leering eyes. He looks to his right, and the entire fence surrounding the pool just suddenly falls over. He sticks his foot in the pool too, and the water starts to freeze up around it... steaming and cracking. Just when Brolin thought he had the pool covered... Bardem stakes his claim. This guy is amazingly terrifying. You've probably not seen someone this scary at a pool since Hannibal Lector. He gives you the chills, man. He's like a car crash.. you don't want to look at his face, but you can't stop looking at the same time. Whew. You wonder... what will happen to this guy? How is he possibly one of the most amazing characters on screen in the past 10 years of film??
What we have here is a fucking amazing scene. AMAZING. (Let me say that again: AAMMAAAZING!!!!) It's probably one of the coolest damn things you've personally ever seen. While you're watching this amazing scene taking place between Bardem and Brolin, you're just fascinated at how lucky you are to be watching something like this happen. Who's going to dive in first? Who's pool with this REALLY be? The suspense is absolutely killing you. The stakes are high. The sun is high. Tommy Lee Jones is complaining more about the sun, and whining in general about how old he is and how he shouldn't be there. But... who cares about that guy. He's just comic relief. He's there to make all the old people at the pool laugh from his 1980's "good 'ole boy" type humor. He's been watching too much Andy Griffith and he's boring you to death. Eh, forget about that bastard and keep watching Brolin. He's got an edge... he's about to do something huge here. This is going to be amazing.
Suddenly, some kid behind you screams... and you turn away for a second to make sure he's okay. No worries, though. His sister just pinched him....nothing important. You look back to the suspense-building scene you've been waiting for... for the entire time you've been at the pool. What WILL happen here???
When you look back on the scene, Brolin has run away. He's not even there anymore. He just left. Why? What exactly happened to him? WHERE THE FUCK DID HE GO???? We have no idea. Damn. What the fuck did you miss, anyway? What the hell happened to your guy????
Bardem hasn't left.. but he doesn't really give a shit about the pool anymore. He's at the concession stand getting a coke, and telling the 15-year-old chick working the booth that she shouldn't tell a soul that she saw him. Then he just pays her like 500 bucks and wonders away into the parking lot. Where did he go, anyway? What the hell happened???
Meanwhile... for some reason... Tommy Lee Jones is splashing away in the pool. He's having a great time, he's claimed the pool for his own, and he's looking at you like you're a dumbass. He shouts at you... hey man! Didn't you know that I was the guy who was going to jump into this pool? This is my pool, man!!! Fuck those other guys!! Even though you've been involved in watching them, and really interested in them... and COMPLETELY invested in them for the entire time you've been at the pool... I'm the REAL guy!!!
Watch me!!! Love me!!!! Pay attention to MY story, because it's awesome!!! I'm a complaining old man!!! The world is full of violence and I can't handle it!!!! Crime doesn't pay!!!! Let me teach you lessons!!!! Let me tell you all about my dreams!!! Let me narrate a wonderful social commentary on the state of violence and unpredictability of the world today and how it's all escalated and gotten out of control and let me tell you all about how I've noticed these things my whole life and how I've outlived my dad and let me do it in such an artsy way that it will make you forget all about how you've invested all your time for the last two fucking goddamn hours in two really special and amazingly developed characters!!!! Nevermind them!! Listen to my story because it's so special!!!!!
Then suddenly... everything goes to black.
You've just seen "No Country for Old Men."
Enjoy!!!
-M
They're all standing next to the super-deep pool, the one that's 15-feet deep. Here they are. They decide to stand on opposite sides of the pool, away from each other, and they never speak to one another... or interact at all.
Tommy Lee Jones stands there and complains about everything from the sun being too hot to his trunks riding up too much in the crotch. He looks around a lot. He cracks funny jokes to himself in a funny country accent. He frowns a bunch, and does this thing where he stares off into space and talks condescendingly to everyone around him because he's old.
On the other side of the pool, you've got Josh Brolin. He's being super cool. He's thinking of all these great ways that he's going to cannonball his ass in the pool, how he's just snuck a six pack of beer into the pool under his towel and how he'll eventually use his goggles to make a gun somehow. What a badass, man. Brolin takes the initiative to stick his foot in the water first. He submerses his foot completely in, feels the water, and smiles. This is his pool, bitch. You like him. He's a charismatic guy. He's fun to watch. He's unpredictable and interesting. You wonder... what will happen to this guy?
On the opposite side of the pool stands Javier Bardem. He's scaring all the kids around him. Adults leave immediately when he walks in. The lifeguard actually gets uncomfortable in her chair 50 yards away and leaves early, even when there's a fat kid pooping in the kiddie pool. He looks to his left, and some guy pukes just from his leering eyes. He looks to his right, and the entire fence surrounding the pool just suddenly falls over. He sticks his foot in the pool too, and the water starts to freeze up around it... steaming and cracking. Just when Brolin thought he had the pool covered... Bardem stakes his claim. This guy is amazingly terrifying. You've probably not seen someone this scary at a pool since Hannibal Lector. He gives you the chills, man. He's like a car crash.. you don't want to look at his face, but you can't stop looking at the same time. Whew. You wonder... what will happen to this guy? How is he possibly one of the most amazing characters on screen in the past 10 years of film??
What we have here is a fucking amazing scene. AMAZING. (Let me say that again: AAMMAAAZING!!!!) It's probably one of the coolest damn things you've personally ever seen. While you're watching this amazing scene taking place between Bardem and Brolin, you're just fascinated at how lucky you are to be watching something like this happen. Who's going to dive in first? Who's pool with this REALLY be? The suspense is absolutely killing you. The stakes are high. The sun is high. Tommy Lee Jones is complaining more about the sun, and whining in general about how old he is and how he shouldn't be there. But... who cares about that guy. He's just comic relief. He's there to make all the old people at the pool laugh from his 1980's "good 'ole boy" type humor. He's been watching too much Andy Griffith and he's boring you to death. Eh, forget about that bastard and keep watching Brolin. He's got an edge... he's about to do something huge here. This is going to be amazing.
Suddenly, some kid behind you screams... and you turn away for a second to make sure he's okay. No worries, though. His sister just pinched him....nothing important. You look back to the suspense-building scene you've been waiting for... for the entire time you've been at the pool. What WILL happen here???
When you look back on the scene, Brolin has run away. He's not even there anymore. He just left. Why? What exactly happened to him? WHERE THE FUCK DID HE GO???? We have no idea. Damn. What the fuck did you miss, anyway? What the hell happened to your guy????
Bardem hasn't left.. but he doesn't really give a shit about the pool anymore. He's at the concession stand getting a coke, and telling the 15-year-old chick working the booth that she shouldn't tell a soul that she saw him. Then he just pays her like 500 bucks and wonders away into the parking lot. Where did he go, anyway? What the hell happened???
Meanwhile... for some reason... Tommy Lee Jones is splashing away in the pool. He's having a great time, he's claimed the pool for his own, and he's looking at you like you're a dumbass. He shouts at you... hey man! Didn't you know that I was the guy who was going to jump into this pool? This is my pool, man!!! Fuck those other guys!! Even though you've been involved in watching them, and really interested in them... and COMPLETELY invested in them for the entire time you've been at the pool... I'm the REAL guy!!!
Watch me!!! Love me!!!! Pay attention to MY story, because it's awesome!!! I'm a complaining old man!!! The world is full of violence and I can't handle it!!!! Crime doesn't pay!!!! Let me teach you lessons!!!! Let me tell you all about my dreams!!! Let me narrate a wonderful social commentary on the state of violence and unpredictability of the world today and how it's all escalated and gotten out of control and let me tell you all about how I've noticed these things my whole life and how I've outlived my dad and let me do it in such an artsy way that it will make you forget all about how you've invested all your time for the last two fucking goddamn hours in two really special and amazingly developed characters!!!! Nevermind them!! Listen to my story because it's so special!!!!!
Then suddenly... everything goes to black.
You've just seen "No Country for Old Men."
Enjoy!!!
-M
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Here's your one chance, Nispel, don't let me down.
I know you guys are probably getting sick of these updates, but well... tough shit.
Today it was announced that Marcus Nispel, the director of the most recent 2003 Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, will direct the upcoming Friday the 13th sequel.
Here's the breaking story from Hollywood Reporter, in its entirety:
Marcus Nispel is in final negotiations to direct the revamp of "Friday the 13th" for New Line and Paramount/MTV. Platinum Dunes is producing.
Damian Shannon and Mark Swift wrote the script for the redo, which aims to bring back horror icon Jason, the unstoppable hockey mask-wearing killer.
While Jason made only a brief appearance in the final frames of the first movie in 1980 and didn't even don his famous mask until the third movie, the new movie will focus on Jason -- who will wear the mask and kill -- and keep the famous setting of Crystal Lake.
Michael Bay, Andrew Form and Brad Fuller of Platinum Dunes are producing.
A winter start date is being planned.
"Friday" reunites Nispel with Platinum Dunes, for whom he directed 2003's remake of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." The director, who began his career in music videos, also helmed "Pathfinder" and USA's telefilm "Frankenstein."
He is repped by CAA and attorney David Weber.
What do I have to say about all this, you ask? Oh wait, you didn't ask? Yeah. Well, I'm pretty excited about it. There's lots of hate going around about this guy, like HERE for example, but I'll just be excited to see Voorhees back on the big screen again. Just like that recent (rough as hell) Halloween remake... at least it was fun to see Myers back in action!!
If you guys hear more news, keep me posted.
Violently, happily yours,
-McClane
Today it was announced that Marcus Nispel, the director of the most recent 2003 Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, will direct the upcoming Friday the 13th sequel.
Here's the breaking story from Hollywood Reporter, in its entirety:
Marcus Nispel is in final negotiations to direct the revamp of "Friday the 13th" for New Line and Paramount/MTV. Platinum Dunes is producing.
Damian Shannon and Mark Swift wrote the script for the redo, which aims to bring back horror icon Jason, the unstoppable hockey mask-wearing killer.
While Jason made only a brief appearance in the final frames of the first movie in 1980 and didn't even don his famous mask until the third movie, the new movie will focus on Jason -- who will wear the mask and kill -- and keep the famous setting of Crystal Lake.
Michael Bay, Andrew Form and Brad Fuller of Platinum Dunes are producing.
A winter start date is being planned.
"Friday" reunites Nispel with Platinum Dunes, for whom he directed 2003's remake of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." The director, who began his career in music videos, also helmed "Pathfinder" and USA's telefilm "Frankenstein."
He is repped by CAA and attorney David Weber.
What do I have to say about all this, you ask? Oh wait, you didn't ask? Yeah. Well, I'm pretty excited about it. There's lots of hate going around about this guy, like HERE for example, but I'll just be excited to see Voorhees back on the big screen again. Just like that recent (rough as hell) Halloween remake... at least it was fun to see Myers back in action!!
If you guys hear more news, keep me posted.
Violently, happily yours,
-McClane
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Consider the Signal
I'm enjoying the wonderful new cover of "Down in a Hole" by Ryan Adams and the Cardinals on my way to return a massive 12' x 12' dance floor to All Occasions Party Rentals this morning, and a casual driver in front of me decided not to signal.
I won't go into detail about the dance floor (broken up into heavy 4' x 4' squares in the bed of my truck) or the wonderful Layne Stanley cover... but I will examine this new trend in Knoxville of not signaling when taking a turn.
Let me put it out there, fellow drivers: why the hell don't you signal any more?
Seriously guys. This is getting ridiculous... and if I have to put on a fake cop uniform, get one of those awesome revolving cop lights like that guy from "Police Squad," buy a .357 magnum and yell stuff like, "TRUST ME! I'VE GOT A GUN!" to people who don't signal to make my point... by God, I will. This is really dangerous stuff.
I can rattle off a pretty enormous random list of dangerous things in this world (like flame throwers, 15-day-old beef, or escaped lab monkeys with flame throwers), but not signaling could seriously get somebody killed or worse: almost kill somebody—but not—so they end up with serious brain damage.
Not to go off on a giant tangent, if you will... (and I will)... but that's always been a huge fear of mine since I was a kid. I knew a guy in the seventh grade who had a massive car wreck like this, and it caused him to be mentally handicapped for the rest of his life. I just couldn't imagine being a normal, trouble-causing kid one day and then suddenly (POW, just like that, because some dick didn't signal in front of you) you need help putting on your pants for the rest of your life. Seriously. That's terrifying to me.
All this takes me back, somehow, to my point. Please signal if you're going to turn. Man, I don't care if you signal 10 minutes before you turn... at least I'll slow down for you and not accidentally run up on your ass.
What is it about the human brain that prevents us from simply reaching down and flipping a little switch? Do we get caught up in random thought? Is that new Chris Brown single just that good? Does your girlfriend have her hand on the wrong nut? Having trouble finding the sign for that shady mechanic's garage where you're making your opium deal? What exactly is going on here?
It was rainy this morning, and I was doing the speed limit. For the record, I wasn't riding this guy's ass, but I was late for work. I guess that's a deadly combination, really, but I was obeying the laws, man. Suddenly, the guy in front of me (in some gigantic, Godzilla-sized sport utility beast) just turned. Out of nowhere. Terrified, I had to lock up the brakes, of course, in the rain—which usually causes me to pee on myself a little bit ever since I rolled my truck from sliding back in 1997—and slide my way just past his bumper.
That was one case, but case number two came when I finally made it downtown... and a guy pulled out in front of me at a red light when pulling onto State Street. This guy was in this huge hurry to get in front of me... and then proceeded to slam on his brakes and turn right immediately and casually pull into a parking lot. Dangerous? Sure. Annoying? Definitely. Frustrating me to the point that I wanted desperately to stop the truck, get out, shake my fist at him, get his address and mail him a very stern letter? Hell yes.
This guy can pull out in front of me all day long, that happens. We all do that stuff. But slamming on his brakes in front of me and whipping it into a parking lot without signaling makes me really upset. It makes me upset to the point that I want to write a huge blog about it after getting home from the bar and write in incredibly long run-on sentences.
It seems like this phenomenon is everywhere these days. I've started collecting these moments of non-signaling, and I see it everywhere... from the interstate to the country back roads. Cops are the worst at this kind of thing. (Of course, they're also the worst at not tipping waitresses, not waving back at you when you say hello on the sidewalk and planting false drug-money evidence on your grandmother to pay off the shady guy who runs the haunted amusement park.)
So listen up—all three of you who actually read this blog—let's consider signaling more often. It could save a life, prevent brain damage and cause me not to take up precious time in writing a bunch of crap about not signaling. Together we can all four band together to stop this heinous, infectious virus of a bad habit.
If not for yourself... do it for Jesus.
Hold it in the road,
-McClane
I won't go into detail about the dance floor (broken up into heavy 4' x 4' squares in the bed of my truck) or the wonderful Layne Stanley cover... but I will examine this new trend in Knoxville of not signaling when taking a turn.
Let me put it out there, fellow drivers: why the hell don't you signal any more?
Seriously guys. This is getting ridiculous... and if I have to put on a fake cop uniform, get one of those awesome revolving cop lights like that guy from "Police Squad," buy a .357 magnum and yell stuff like, "TRUST ME! I'VE GOT A GUN!" to people who don't signal to make my point... by God, I will. This is really dangerous stuff.
I can rattle off a pretty enormous random list of dangerous things in this world (like flame throwers, 15-day-old beef, or escaped lab monkeys with flame throwers), but not signaling could seriously get somebody killed or worse: almost kill somebody—but not—so they end up with serious brain damage.
Not to go off on a giant tangent, if you will... (and I will)... but that's always been a huge fear of mine since I was a kid. I knew a guy in the seventh grade who had a massive car wreck like this, and it caused him to be mentally handicapped for the rest of his life. I just couldn't imagine being a normal, trouble-causing kid one day and then suddenly (POW, just like that, because some dick didn't signal in front of you) you need help putting on your pants for the rest of your life. Seriously. That's terrifying to me.
All this takes me back, somehow, to my point. Please signal if you're going to turn. Man, I don't care if you signal 10 minutes before you turn... at least I'll slow down for you and not accidentally run up on your ass.
What is it about the human brain that prevents us from simply reaching down and flipping a little switch? Do we get caught up in random thought? Is that new Chris Brown single just that good? Does your girlfriend have her hand on the wrong nut? Having trouble finding the sign for that shady mechanic's garage where you're making your opium deal? What exactly is going on here?
It was rainy this morning, and I was doing the speed limit. For the record, I wasn't riding this guy's ass, but I was late for work. I guess that's a deadly combination, really, but I was obeying the laws, man. Suddenly, the guy in front of me (in some gigantic, Godzilla-sized sport utility beast) just turned. Out of nowhere. Terrified, I had to lock up the brakes, of course, in the rain—which usually causes me to pee on myself a little bit ever since I rolled my truck from sliding back in 1997—and slide my way just past his bumper.
That was one case, but case number two came when I finally made it downtown... and a guy pulled out in front of me at a red light when pulling onto State Street. This guy was in this huge hurry to get in front of me... and then proceeded to slam on his brakes and turn right immediately and casually pull into a parking lot. Dangerous? Sure. Annoying? Definitely. Frustrating me to the point that I wanted desperately to stop the truck, get out, shake my fist at him, get his address and mail him a very stern letter? Hell yes.
This guy can pull out in front of me all day long, that happens. We all do that stuff. But slamming on his brakes in front of me and whipping it into a parking lot without signaling makes me really upset. It makes me upset to the point that I want to write a huge blog about it after getting home from the bar and write in incredibly long run-on sentences.
It seems like this phenomenon is everywhere these days. I've started collecting these moments of non-signaling, and I see it everywhere... from the interstate to the country back roads. Cops are the worst at this kind of thing. (Of course, they're also the worst at not tipping waitresses, not waving back at you when you say hello on the sidewalk and planting false drug-money evidence on your grandmother to pay off the shady guy who runs the haunted amusement park.)
So listen up—all three of you who actually read this blog—let's consider signaling more often. It could save a life, prevent brain damage and cause me not to take up precious time in writing a bunch of crap about not signaling. Together we can all four band together to stop this heinous, infectious virus of a bad habit.
If not for yourself... do it for Jesus.
Hold it in the road,
-McClane
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Laura and her Waffles
I'm a pretty huge fan of the Waffle House.
You can find me at the Waffle House at Merchants Drive in North Knoxville just about every weekend at some point, enjoying my usual steak & eggs with a side of heaven. My trips to the Waffle House are always interesting to some degree, but the adventure I experienced last Saturday was absolutely worth writing about.
Travis was behind the grill. This guy is a cooking machine, of course, a time-honored professional with lightning hands, tight braids kept neatly under his cook's hat and steady eyes like Bruce Willis from that movie where he drove a car across an asteroid with Steve Buscemi to save the planet.
He doesn't say much, even when spoken to, which is awesome when this waitress name Laura screams at him for any reason she can think of. Constantly.
Laura is, for lack of better words, a maniac. It's the awesome kind, though. Sort of.
I was sitting at the bar looking at the part of the menu that tells me that Waffle House cooks an egg every four seconds and a steak every six seconds and gives people a mean case of the shits every nine seconds (I think I dreamed that last figure, but I'm not sure), when I noticed a very sweet-looking Mennonite couple sitting directly across from me in a booth. The gentleman was wearing these really classic suspenders and his dining companion was wearing a long skirt with a nice bonnet. I smiled at them and noticed they were obviously very friendly.
Suddenly, my waitress Laura accidentally spilled some maple syrup on the floor and screamed, "Damn Travis, why don't you come clean this up for me? You clean up all the other shit in here!"
A statement like this doesn't bother me at all, of course... but I was nervous for the couple in the booth. I noticed that we were practically the only people in the entire restaurant at that time, if I don't count the creepy older lady in the back booths reading a magazine to herself. What would these kind folks think about this kind of profane outburst in the Waffle House? Normal stuff? Outrageous? I don't know about that one. For all I know, they could be avid subscribers to Hustler, frequents of The Mouse's Ear and lifetime members of the Andrew Dice Clay fan club.
...Probably not.
The most interesting thing here was Laura's boundaries. It seemed that when she'd get behind the counter, she believed that no one in the restaurant could hear her. When she stepped out on the floor, she'd go into friendly waitress mode. Even though the only thing separating her from the customers was a four-foot tall counter top, she acted as if it were a 10-foot-thick concrete, sound-proof wall. It was fascinating to me.
She'd scream at Travis, yelling for him to do this or that, and every time he'd just stare down at the grill, paying no attention to the hilarious taunts and screams. Sitcom, man. Sitcom.
When Travis finished up the couple's order, Laura took it out to them and with the most considerate, friendly tone you could imagine, served them their meal. She was walking back towards her invisible 10-foot-enclosed wall when I noticed the couple taking each others hands for a prayer. I really respect their dedication to their faith, so I sat silently with a smile as they bowed their heads. On the other hand... Laura took this opportunity to tell Travis how "that dude on third shift is such a dick because he ratted her out for smokin' during the busy hours after the Vols game," and how "if he don't shut his damn mouth, I'm gonna tell Kenny about how he likes to roll blunts in the parking lot on HIS smoke breaks."
Two words for Laura: "Geeeen iiiiiusss."
I was too embarrassed for the couple to glance over their way.
Seconds later, one of Laura's high school friends would walk through the door, causing a screaming, jumping, fit of insanity across the restaurant. This high school friend was with her little sister (who she'd later say was 12) and her niece (13). Laura took one look at the 12 year old and said (loudly), "I can't believe you're all grown up now... oh my God, you have boobs! Oh my God, your titties are bigger than mine, girl!!"
Again, I was laughing on the inside, sure, but still too embarrassed to glance over at the couple in the booth.
Just when you thought the hilarity was simmering down, High-School friend asks Laura what she's planning for the weekend, and Laura tells her (from across the restaurant) that she's "headin' down to Atlanta to get me some." This statement, to me, was just awesome. Poor Laura's internal editor was completely demolished, letting her most private of thoughts just poor out all over me and the rest of the customers like a horse jumping into one of those old-school collapsing plastic-walled swimming pools. Maybe she should start a blog like me, right?
Laura, of course, asks High-School Friend to come with her... and then proceeds to remind her "who'll be waiting for her down there."
Laura must have been using her mind-reading powers, because in my mind I was really wondering who the hell would be waiting for this girl... so, of course, she turned directly to me to tell me the story.
(Editor's note: Laura calls me "Jason Bourne" because when she asked me for my name, I refused to give it to her, saying that I had amnesia. She immediately said, "Oh you can't remember, huh? Just like Jason Bourne! Hell yeah!")
Apparently, High-School Friend has had an ongoing relationship with a 40-something-year-old man in Atlanta. As she explains this story in detail, the couple in the booth sits quietly, eating their hash browns. According to Laura, they met on the internet years ago, and maintained a very close relationship ever since. (They've never actually met in person, of course.) When the guy in Atlanta told her he was coming to see her... she was very excited about the prospect of getting laid by a 40-year-old Atlanta businessman, but it never happened. She cried herself to sleep that night, tossing in turning in her bed, until finally running downtown to rob a liquor store with a billy club. (I'm just kidding about that part... but damn, I wish it were true.)
Months later, High-School Friend would discover (through a set of circumstances too complicated to re-tell here) that this guy has been married with kids for more than 12 years.
I love Waffle House.
Eventually the couple in the booth left with smiles, the old lady in the back booth demanded another bun for her patty melt (since her current one was "burnt to hell"), I gave Laura a $2.00 tip for the nice conversation and Travis kept on doing his magic without saying a word. I can't wait 'till next weekend.
"Steak & Eggs, Medium over Medium Covered" for life,
-Jason Bourne
You can find me at the Waffle House at Merchants Drive in North Knoxville just about every weekend at some point, enjoying my usual steak & eggs with a side of heaven. My trips to the Waffle House are always interesting to some degree, but the adventure I experienced last Saturday was absolutely worth writing about.
Travis was behind the grill. This guy is a cooking machine, of course, a time-honored professional with lightning hands, tight braids kept neatly under his cook's hat and steady eyes like Bruce Willis from that movie where he drove a car across an asteroid with Steve Buscemi to save the planet.
He doesn't say much, even when spoken to, which is awesome when this waitress name Laura screams at him for any reason she can think of. Constantly.
Laura is, for lack of better words, a maniac. It's the awesome kind, though. Sort of.
I was sitting at the bar looking at the part of the menu that tells me that Waffle House cooks an egg every four seconds and a steak every six seconds and gives people a mean case of the shits every nine seconds (I think I dreamed that last figure, but I'm not sure), when I noticed a very sweet-looking Mennonite couple sitting directly across from me in a booth. The gentleman was wearing these really classic suspenders and his dining companion was wearing a long skirt with a nice bonnet. I smiled at them and noticed they were obviously very friendly.
Suddenly, my waitress Laura accidentally spilled some maple syrup on the floor and screamed, "Damn Travis, why don't you come clean this up for me? You clean up all the other shit in here!"
A statement like this doesn't bother me at all, of course... but I was nervous for the couple in the booth. I noticed that we were practically the only people in the entire restaurant at that time, if I don't count the creepy older lady in the back booths reading a magazine to herself. What would these kind folks think about this kind of profane outburst in the Waffle House? Normal stuff? Outrageous? I don't know about that one. For all I know, they could be avid subscribers to Hustler, frequents of The Mouse's Ear and lifetime members of the Andrew Dice Clay fan club.
...Probably not.
The most interesting thing here was Laura's boundaries. It seemed that when she'd get behind the counter, she believed that no one in the restaurant could hear her. When she stepped out on the floor, she'd go into friendly waitress mode. Even though the only thing separating her from the customers was a four-foot tall counter top, she acted as if it were a 10-foot-thick concrete, sound-proof wall. It was fascinating to me.
She'd scream at Travis, yelling for him to do this or that, and every time he'd just stare down at the grill, paying no attention to the hilarious taunts and screams. Sitcom, man. Sitcom.
When Travis finished up the couple's order, Laura took it out to them and with the most considerate, friendly tone you could imagine, served them their meal. She was walking back towards her invisible 10-foot-enclosed wall when I noticed the couple taking each others hands for a prayer. I really respect their dedication to their faith, so I sat silently with a smile as they bowed their heads. On the other hand... Laura took this opportunity to tell Travis how "that dude on third shift is such a dick because he ratted her out for smokin' during the busy hours after the Vols game," and how "if he don't shut his damn mouth, I'm gonna tell Kenny about how he likes to roll blunts in the parking lot on HIS smoke breaks."
Two words for Laura: "Geeeen iiiiiusss."
I was too embarrassed for the couple to glance over their way.
Seconds later, one of Laura's high school friends would walk through the door, causing a screaming, jumping, fit of insanity across the restaurant. This high school friend was with her little sister (who she'd later say was 12) and her niece (13). Laura took one look at the 12 year old and said (loudly), "I can't believe you're all grown up now... oh my God, you have boobs! Oh my God, your titties are bigger than mine, girl!!"
Again, I was laughing on the inside, sure, but still too embarrassed to glance over at the couple in the booth.
Just when you thought the hilarity was simmering down, High-School friend asks Laura what she's planning for the weekend, and Laura tells her (from across the restaurant) that she's "headin' down to Atlanta to get me some." This statement, to me, was just awesome. Poor Laura's internal editor was completely demolished, letting her most private of thoughts just poor out all over me and the rest of the customers like a horse jumping into one of those old-school collapsing plastic-walled swimming pools. Maybe she should start a blog like me, right?
Laura, of course, asks High-School Friend to come with her... and then proceeds to remind her "who'll be waiting for her down there."
Laura must have been using her mind-reading powers, because in my mind I was really wondering who the hell would be waiting for this girl... so, of course, she turned directly to me to tell me the story.
(Editor's note: Laura calls me "Jason Bourne" because when she asked me for my name, I refused to give it to her, saying that I had amnesia. She immediately said, "Oh you can't remember, huh? Just like Jason Bourne! Hell yeah!")
Apparently, High-School Friend has had an ongoing relationship with a 40-something-year-old man in Atlanta. As she explains this story in detail, the couple in the booth sits quietly, eating their hash browns. According to Laura, they met on the internet years ago, and maintained a very close relationship ever since. (They've never actually met in person, of course.) When the guy in Atlanta told her he was coming to see her... she was very excited about the prospect of getting laid by a 40-year-old Atlanta businessman, but it never happened. She cried herself to sleep that night, tossing in turning in her bed, until finally running downtown to rob a liquor store with a billy club. (I'm just kidding about that part... but damn, I wish it were true.)
Months later, High-School Friend would discover (through a set of circumstances too complicated to re-tell here) that this guy has been married with kids for more than 12 years.
I love Waffle House.
Eventually the couple in the booth left with smiles, the old lady in the back booth demanded another bun for her patty melt (since her current one was "burnt to hell"), I gave Laura a $2.00 tip for the nice conversation and Travis kept on doing his magic without saying a word. I can't wait 'till next weekend.
"Steak & Eggs, Medium over Medium Covered" for life,
-Jason Bourne
Friday, November 2, 2007
The Curse!!!!
Being a bachelor in Knoxville is hilarious to me.
My friend Mark Bernard once said that Knoxville has a curse. He's told me on many occasions how horribly frustrating it is to meet an impressive single woman in this city, and I never put a lot of stock in that statement. The way I figure it, any city probably has those kinds of problems. I figure that it's all about the bars a guy frequents, the amount of alcohol consumed at these said bars, the height level at which your collar is popped or the correct angle and placement of your crooked baseball cap. Chicks dig the guys with the crooked ball caps, man... the proof is in the pudding.
(Side note: For proof of this, consult the cute girl who I met at the bar last weekend. I was wearing a tie and jacket after I'd gotten off work, and the second question she asked me was, "are you gay?" I told her, "no, why do you ask?" and she proceeds to tell me that she assumed I was gay because I was "alone, really cute and wearing expensive-looking shoes and a tie." I left my fucking crooked hat and busted polo in the truck, and... oops... I'm suddenly gay. My fault. I love East Tennessee sometimes.)
At any rate, I didn't really see the point in speculating about Knoxville's curse so much, especially since I usually prescribe to this crazy theory that... hell... well, that guy, Tyler Durden, put it the best: "We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm beginning to wonder if another woman is the answer we really need?"
I can see his point, really. It's pretty lucid stuff when you think about it. Of course, I can also speculate equally on how the amount of hot dogs you consume on any given week will more than likely give you brain tumors.
Anyway, I digress. In my experience with this city... I can logically say from a subjective standpoint on this (thanks to my Tyler Durden theory)... Knoxville might indeed have a weird curse lurking around.
I find that meeting women, going on dates, taking them to the "good" taco bell, porn theater and Jon Ellison's "man barn" for intimate nights of passion is no problem. Neither is sending endless amounts of text messages that serve no point at all but to annoy me while driving. I've got that part totally covered. I also don't find it intimidating to start conversations, change out spare tires or give away free back massages. (Or sending text messages to the woman WHILE giving her a back massage... the 21st century is creepy, man.)
I find that in Knoxville, meeting women isn't the problem. The problem is meeting impressive women. Not that I'm that hard to impress. For the love of God, I love Friday the 13th movies, Pantera and whiskey. I've met women in Knoxville that impress me, for sure... but finding a cool woman who's actually compatible and impressive is the hard part, right?
(You're laughing at me right now, aren't you? Of course it's the hard part, I know.... but that doesn't mean I can't write a damn blog about it, right? Hell man, it's fun to write about this stuff!! Cut me some slack, chump.)
I think my biggest challenge here is not only the cards I've been dealt in life (yeah, I am a weird, horror-movie-loving, too-outgoing-in-your-face-friendly dorky motormouth, sure...but that's just me. Take it or leave it, sucka), but also the strange situation of being 29 years old and looking 30 right in the face. The fact that I'm pushing a number like 30 doesn't really concern me at all. After all, I know guys that are 35 who look, talk and act like they're 25, and I could say the same about myself. Right? Ahem.
However, any single 30-year-old dude could tell you all about it. It's that weird ass point in your life when you realize that you're not in college any more (say goodbye to the 19- and 20-year-old girls, man... seriously), and seemingly everyone your age has been married for at least five years and most have this weird thing called a "family." (What's that shit all about, anyway??)
I'm not even old, yet I still get weirded out when I realize that I'm nearly 10 years older than your average professional football player... or when I see some kid who was born in 1994. For the love of God, I was listening to Pearl Jam in 1994... wearing flannel shirts and sneaking a flask of whiskey in to the theater to see "Forrest Gump" for the second time with my buddy who was obsessed with Bubba.
So it's a weird place in life to be in that strange "in-between" phase. Too old for the young-ish hot chicks, too young for the hot, older, divorced rich ladies and too single for all the tens of thousands of married, family women with cute kids that already look like them. (Come to think of it, maybe I'm not too young for the older rich ladies. I should probably rethink my standards here.)
Is this blog even going anywhere?
So the question here is this: does age bear any weight on this curse problem? Do you think I never meet impressive, respectable single women in Knoxville because my age is at a weird place? Is that where the curse is at its strongest? I honestly don't think so. But it's really fun to speculate on this kind of thing, isn't it? It's something that actually provides really interesting conversation over a bunch of drinks. Or while passed out after a 2-minute-long dose of heroine in the bathroom of a seedy truck stop. You know, whatever.
Maybe... just maybe... this curse is a weird type of self-fulfilling prophecy. Perhaps it actually isn't a virus, or some shit you pick up from not washing your hands after some dude gets turned down by a gorgeous woman in a bar right in front of you... but maybe it's just happening because you secretly want it to happen.
Maybe the truth is that I have more-human-than-human standards when it comes to women... and this just inherently makes me veer away from the typical woman who looks absolutely gorgeous... but (of course) would be super happy with a guy who used to be a mega-badass-kickboxing-wrestler-football-captain guy in high school, but now has a gigantic beer gut and wears t-shirts that say stuff like "You can't buy these pythons in a pet store."
Yeah, maybe my subconscious brain tells me to automatically steer clear of those ladies for my own good? How come those women are a dime a dozen anyway? Why do they all look alike? Why do they all walk and talk the same?? Where are these chicks coming from?? And how do those guys who date them manage to own so many hilarious polo shirts??
Ah, whatever. I guess this blog makes me sound like I'm some kind of conservative snob dude elitist, but the truth is that I'm really not. I got nothin' against pythons. I owned a python for nearly four years. And truth be told, I did not buy him in a pet store.
But then you have to wonder... what do women want these days?
In thinking about it, maybe I should stop being nice... get a motorcycle, maybe... perhaps a helmet with a silhouette of a naked chick on it... start smoking... play more video games... get hooked on some random drug... work at a gas station... start fights in bars & nursing homes... play more video games... steal from my parents... talk slower & drive faster... get a penis extension... play more video games... and finally... argue with women for no apparent reason, except when you've stolen the last of her shoe money to buy more scorpions to fight in the back room of the Harley bar.
You know... I'd much rather just find a nice girl who I can be sweet to.
Anyway, so maybe I've brought this pseudo-curse upon myself by being too gentlemanly, friendly and inquisitive, not being a dick who puts out cigarettes on old people, not wearing popped-collar polo shirts and sideways baseball caps, having my standards set really high and feeling self-conscious about my age and my past. Maybe all that is the curse.
Or... maybe Knoxville was built on some ancient Indian burial ground and the ghosts of these really pissed off, murderous sons of bitches are sabotaging my love life.
Does it make me unhappy?
Not for a damn second, guys. Not for a damn second. I'll pass out under my coffee table tonight with a smile on my face. When I wake up tomorrow morning and pretend to be fighting ninjas on the way to the shower, I'll be smiling the entire time. Yeah man, the entire time.
I don't really believe that Knoxville has a curse. Not really. I just think there's a pretty apparent shortage of interesting, successful beautiful single women in this hilarious city. And never fear, interesting, successful, beautiful single women... I'll track ya down sooner or later. And no worries....I'll be the overly-friendly guy who'll not be wearing a pink polo.
When you see me in the street downtown tomorrow, be sure to say hello. I'll shower you with kindness and outgoing friendliness... and pass on the Knoxville curse. You'll never get laid again and I'll laugh at you as I drive home. With my hat on crooked.
Much love, Knoxville!!!
My friend Mark Bernard once said that Knoxville has a curse. He's told me on many occasions how horribly frustrating it is to meet an impressive single woman in this city, and I never put a lot of stock in that statement. The way I figure it, any city probably has those kinds of problems. I figure that it's all about the bars a guy frequents, the amount of alcohol consumed at these said bars, the height level at which your collar is popped or the correct angle and placement of your crooked baseball cap. Chicks dig the guys with the crooked ball caps, man... the proof is in the pudding.
(Side note: For proof of this, consult the cute girl who I met at the bar last weekend. I was wearing a tie and jacket after I'd gotten off work, and the second question she asked me was, "are you gay?" I told her, "no, why do you ask?" and she proceeds to tell me that she assumed I was gay because I was "alone, really cute and wearing expensive-looking shoes and a tie." I left my fucking crooked hat and busted polo in the truck, and... oops... I'm suddenly gay. My fault. I love East Tennessee sometimes.)
At any rate, I didn't really see the point in speculating about Knoxville's curse so much, especially since I usually prescribe to this crazy theory that... hell... well, that guy, Tyler Durden, put it the best: "We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm beginning to wonder if another woman is the answer we really need?"
I can see his point, really. It's pretty lucid stuff when you think about it. Of course, I can also speculate equally on how the amount of hot dogs you consume on any given week will more than likely give you brain tumors.
Anyway, I digress. In my experience with this city... I can logically say from a subjective standpoint on this (thanks to my Tyler Durden theory)... Knoxville might indeed have a weird curse lurking around.
I find that meeting women, going on dates, taking them to the "good" taco bell, porn theater and Jon Ellison's "man barn" for intimate nights of passion is no problem. Neither is sending endless amounts of text messages that serve no point at all but to annoy me while driving. I've got that part totally covered. I also don't find it intimidating to start conversations, change out spare tires or give away free back massages. (Or sending text messages to the woman WHILE giving her a back massage... the 21st century is creepy, man.)
I find that in Knoxville, meeting women isn't the problem. The problem is meeting impressive women. Not that I'm that hard to impress. For the love of God, I love Friday the 13th movies, Pantera and whiskey. I've met women in Knoxville that impress me, for sure... but finding a cool woman who's actually compatible and impressive is the hard part, right?
(You're laughing at me right now, aren't you? Of course it's the hard part, I know.... but that doesn't mean I can't write a damn blog about it, right? Hell man, it's fun to write about this stuff!! Cut me some slack, chump.)
I think my biggest challenge here is not only the cards I've been dealt in life (yeah, I am a weird, horror-movie-loving, too-outgoing-in-your-face-friendly dorky motormouth, sure...but that's just me. Take it or leave it, sucka), but also the strange situation of being 29 years old and looking 30 right in the face. The fact that I'm pushing a number like 30 doesn't really concern me at all. After all, I know guys that are 35 who look, talk and act like they're 25, and I could say the same about myself. Right? Ahem.
However, any single 30-year-old dude could tell you all about it. It's that weird ass point in your life when you realize that you're not in college any more (say goodbye to the 19- and 20-year-old girls, man... seriously), and seemingly everyone your age has been married for at least five years and most have this weird thing called a "family." (What's that shit all about, anyway??)
I'm not even old, yet I still get weirded out when I realize that I'm nearly 10 years older than your average professional football player... or when I see some kid who was born in 1994. For the love of God, I was listening to Pearl Jam in 1994... wearing flannel shirts and sneaking a flask of whiskey in to the theater to see "Forrest Gump" for the second time with my buddy who was obsessed with Bubba.
So it's a weird place in life to be in that strange "in-between" phase. Too old for the young-ish hot chicks, too young for the hot, older, divorced rich ladies and too single for all the tens of thousands of married, family women with cute kids that already look like them. (Come to think of it, maybe I'm not too young for the older rich ladies. I should probably rethink my standards here.)
Is this blog even going anywhere?
So the question here is this: does age bear any weight on this curse problem? Do you think I never meet impressive, respectable single women in Knoxville because my age is at a weird place? Is that where the curse is at its strongest? I honestly don't think so. But it's really fun to speculate on this kind of thing, isn't it? It's something that actually provides really interesting conversation over a bunch of drinks. Or while passed out after a 2-minute-long dose of heroine in the bathroom of a seedy truck stop. You know, whatever.
Maybe... just maybe... this curse is a weird type of self-fulfilling prophecy. Perhaps it actually isn't a virus, or some shit you pick up from not washing your hands after some dude gets turned down by a gorgeous woman in a bar right in front of you... but maybe it's just happening because you secretly want it to happen.
Maybe the truth is that I have more-human-than-human standards when it comes to women... and this just inherently makes me veer away from the typical woman who looks absolutely gorgeous... but (of course) would be super happy with a guy who used to be a mega-badass-kickboxing-wrestler-football-captain guy in high school, but now has a gigantic beer gut and wears t-shirts that say stuff like "You can't buy these pythons in a pet store."
Yeah, maybe my subconscious brain tells me to automatically steer clear of those ladies for my own good? How come those women are a dime a dozen anyway? Why do they all look alike? Why do they all walk and talk the same?? Where are these chicks coming from?? And how do those guys who date them manage to own so many hilarious polo shirts??
Ah, whatever. I guess this blog makes me sound like I'm some kind of conservative snob dude elitist, but the truth is that I'm really not. I got nothin' against pythons. I owned a python for nearly four years. And truth be told, I did not buy him in a pet store.
But then you have to wonder... what do women want these days?
In thinking about it, maybe I should stop being nice... get a motorcycle, maybe... perhaps a helmet with a silhouette of a naked chick on it... start smoking... play more video games... get hooked on some random drug... work at a gas station... start fights in bars & nursing homes... play more video games... steal from my parents... talk slower & drive faster... get a penis extension... play more video games... and finally... argue with women for no apparent reason, except when you've stolen the last of her shoe money to buy more scorpions to fight in the back room of the Harley bar.
You know... I'd much rather just find a nice girl who I can be sweet to.
Anyway, so maybe I've brought this pseudo-curse upon myself by being too gentlemanly, friendly and inquisitive, not being a dick who puts out cigarettes on old people, not wearing popped-collar polo shirts and sideways baseball caps, having my standards set really high and feeling self-conscious about my age and my past. Maybe all that is the curse.
Or... maybe Knoxville was built on some ancient Indian burial ground and the ghosts of these really pissed off, murderous sons of bitches are sabotaging my love life.
Does it make me unhappy?
Not for a damn second, guys. Not for a damn second. I'll pass out under my coffee table tonight with a smile on my face. When I wake up tomorrow morning and pretend to be fighting ninjas on the way to the shower, I'll be smiling the entire time. Yeah man, the entire time.
I don't really believe that Knoxville has a curse. Not really. I just think there's a pretty apparent shortage of interesting, successful beautiful single women in this hilarious city. And never fear, interesting, successful, beautiful single women... I'll track ya down sooner or later. And no worries....I'll be the overly-friendly guy who'll not be wearing a pink polo.
When you see me in the street downtown tomorrow, be sure to say hello. I'll shower you with kindness and outgoing friendliness... and pass on the Knoxville curse. You'll never get laid again and I'll laugh at you as I drive home. With my hat on crooked.
Much love, Knoxville!!!
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Where's my space, man?
Okay, okay, so here's what happened (to the best of my knowledge):
At the very end of last year, I think the trauma of having one of the worst New Years of my life (along with being abducted by an elite team of soy bean farmers and tortured to near death) and being depressed in general caused me to quickly fall off the planet. You ever get that way? I'm convinced that you do. You just want to be alone-ish.
Sometimes you just don't want to be like the Cheers theme song, you know? Sometimes you want to live like that hobo guy from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" and sneak around unnoticed in the shadows and stuff. And eat sardines. And sing obnoxious show tunes. Whatever.
At any rate, I pulled the plug on a lot of my Web sites at the first of the year, and while I've had a lot of fun talking to nobody on this blog, I've steered clear of MySpace for almost an entire year (well, 10 months, sucka). After sneaking back to Murfreesboro last weekend and surprising all my old best friends at a Halloween party, I realized that staying in touch with people is kind of important after all. You know, one day you're not in touch, the next day your friend gets promoted to some big-time CEO job, or maybe turns into a werewolf, whatever. The point is, it's sort of sad to not know when these things are happening. (Especially if they have a sex change and you see them later at a bar or something... AWWWKWARD!!!!)
So this big ass rambling post is to let you guys know that I went ahead and threw up yet another MySpace page. Yeah, sure, I can complain and bitch and whine about it for hours... (and I just did... I deleted like 5,000 words just now that I'd written and then had second thoughts about publishing), but when it comes down to it... it's kind of fun.
So if you're reading this, mystery person, roll on over to: THIS AWESOME PAGE FORGED IN THE FIRES OF HELL and add me so we can leave each other obnoxious comments and share photos of ourselves in controversial poses with important public figures.
The really exciting part of all this is that I finally have a permanent place to post up BELL STREET, my short horror film, made back in 2005 with all my best friends on the planet. It'll also be a great place to post other films that I have on the back burner, and perhaps even some old school stuff that I've been itching to get online. So when you roll over there to scope it out, give BELL STREET a look over and let me know what you think if you haven't seen it.
I'll look forward to hearing from you soon... and no worries, there's no way I'm ever posting a blog on that site. I'm keeping it real on the Tirade, sucka. Keep coming back for more and I'll keep giving it to ya. Just like Ron Jeremy... except... in written form.
Take care and gimmie a holla.
AFTER YOU CLICK HERE AND BRING THE MYSPACE PAIN!!!!
At the very end of last year, I think the trauma of having one of the worst New Years of my life (along with being abducted by an elite team of soy bean farmers and tortured to near death) and being depressed in general caused me to quickly fall off the planet. You ever get that way? I'm convinced that you do. You just want to be alone-ish.
Sometimes you just don't want to be like the Cheers theme song, you know? Sometimes you want to live like that hobo guy from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" and sneak around unnoticed in the shadows and stuff. And eat sardines. And sing obnoxious show tunes. Whatever.
At any rate, I pulled the plug on a lot of my Web sites at the first of the year, and while I've had a lot of fun talking to nobody on this blog, I've steered clear of MySpace for almost an entire year (well, 10 months, sucka). After sneaking back to Murfreesboro last weekend and surprising all my old best friends at a Halloween party, I realized that staying in touch with people is kind of important after all. You know, one day you're not in touch, the next day your friend gets promoted to some big-time CEO job, or maybe turns into a werewolf, whatever. The point is, it's sort of sad to not know when these things are happening. (Especially if they have a sex change and you see them later at a bar or something... AWWWKWARD!!!!)
So this big ass rambling post is to let you guys know that I went ahead and threw up yet another MySpace page. Yeah, sure, I can complain and bitch and whine about it for hours... (and I just did... I deleted like 5,000 words just now that I'd written and then had second thoughts about publishing), but when it comes down to it... it's kind of fun.
So if you're reading this, mystery person, roll on over to: THIS AWESOME PAGE FORGED IN THE FIRES OF HELL and add me so we can leave each other obnoxious comments and share photos of ourselves in controversial poses with important public figures.
The really exciting part of all this is that I finally have a permanent place to post up BELL STREET, my short horror film, made back in 2005 with all my best friends on the planet. It'll also be a great place to post other films that I have on the back burner, and perhaps even some old school stuff that I've been itching to get online. So when you roll over there to scope it out, give BELL STREET a look over and let me know what you think if you haven't seen it.
I'll look forward to hearing from you soon... and no worries, there's no way I'm ever posting a blog on that site. I'm keeping it real on the Tirade, sucka. Keep coming back for more and I'll keep giving it to ya. Just like Ron Jeremy... except... in written form.
Take care and gimmie a holla.
AFTER YOU CLICK HERE AND BRING THE MYSPACE PAIN!!!!
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