It’s one of those mornings. Those of you of drinking age know exactly what I’m talking about when I say that perhaps that last half dozen shot’s worth of liquor was ill advised.

Trapped in the pseudo-hangover limbo. The alcohol is burning off leaving me woozy, hot and staring into the distance like a catatonic with the wrong meds. Too tired to stay awake and too woozy to fall asleep. I am the walking dead now, and there’s not a brain to munch on in sight.

Imagining my stomach doing wobbly hula-hoop loops around my waist.

Imagining what it’ll be like to have a bathroom reunion with last night’s tuna and buttery rice mix.

And thinking about the first time I ever got drunk.

Now the first time I got seriously, belligerently wasted was, of course, on my 20^th birthday. Of course, I can’t advise drinking before the lawful age in your country. Not because I’m particularly fond of those laws in general, but instead because of the completely horrible experience I had.

It started, like the worst drinking sessions do, with a foolish decision to “get totally hammered,” in celebration of another year survived on our whirling ball of clay. Why anyone would want to celebrate survival by throttling your innards is something that remains a mystery to me (and doubly so, since I still damn do it).

Screwdrivers were to be the favored sugar in my gas tank that evening. I had OJ in the fridge and more than a fair amount of vodka chilling in the Chukotka winter of the freezer. A six-pack of Budweiser tall-boys was provided by a friend of mine who was celebrating with me, and was to provide crucial back-up in case the threat of sobriety became real.

My two friends and I clinked glasses, toasted, and drank the first stiff drinks down like our throats were aflame. We were the gasoline firemen, and our petrol was as smooth as water. We quickly fixed another round of drinks and got down to the serious business of not being serious.

See, the big problem with drinking is that regardless of how educated we might be on the speed at which the body metabolizes alcohol, we all inevitably drink too fast. The first drink goes down, and within 15 minutes or so we get a delightful comfortable feeling and think Well that’s nice. I think I’ll have another.

By the time we have the second drink down, we only feel the full effects of the first and only some of the most recent one. Oh I’m quite fine. Let’s have another round!

On and on ad nauseum infinitum until you are so many drinks in that you realize that the earth does spin on it’s axis and that at this point you should stop doing shots and hold on for dear life. The kicker? You probably still have drinks queued up in your stomach like the alcohol DMV and they are very VERY cross. Dear god why does the ceiling have to move like that?!

A few hours into the whole shebang found me not doing well. I say this based on the evidence that came later in the form of drunk testimony from friends and frighteningly physical proof left over.

I was told that for quite a while I sat on the couch with my head moving in that manner particular to cats that have been spun around in a pillowcase for a few minutes and then dumped out onto the linoleum. My body had stopped taking me seriously and decided that if my brain put us in this mess, perhaps it’s not the right candidate for leadership at that moment.

Yum. Regrets.

Now being born in the 80s, I had quite a few drawbacks from the get-go: Zebra-print spandex tights and Kenny Loggins. John Lennon assassinated, 1980. Three Men and a Baby. And, of course:

The Cold War.

I was too young to fully appreciate the bad vibrations and understand the principles of the Cold War. It happened around me, not to me, and long before I was old enough to have a righteous misplaced sense of rebellion and outspokenness.

That night I got an intimate education on the conflict. It was the hardest class I can somewhat remember taking, especially considering that I didn’t enroll willingly.

We had abandoned the empty husk of vodka and were now slamming back tallboys with the determination of what I imagine alcoholic elephant linebackers might have. PSHKT! *gulp gulp gulp* SLAM, CRINKLE (slight pause, catch breath) PSHKT!

If I had been born perhaps a decade earlier I might have known better that Americans and Russians have had some pretty bad international disputes. If I had known better, I might not have put the Russian “Hammer and Sickle” vodka in the same organic shoebox as the heady “Red White and Blue” of American beer.

They agreed to have a brawl in my stomach. It became Thunderdome, but without any inclination for “one man leave.” Well… not at first.

That, for the most part, is all I can write with any sort of confidence. The rest of the night went the way of Jack Kerouac, Billie Holiday and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Continue to Part 2!

Love and kisses, Beer.

In our last post:

They agreed to have a brawl in my stomach. It became Thunderdome, but without any inclination for “one man leave.” Well… not at first.

That, for the most part, is all I can write with any sort of confidence. The rest of the night went the way of Jack Kerouac, Billie Holiday and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I had become a time traveler with no history written down to catch up on. Below is what ran through my mind the next morning.

Nothing like a nice warm- OH NOES!

I fell asleep on a carousel. No, no… that’s not right. Maybe if I blink I’ll understand what I’m seeing better.

Shit well that didn’t help at all. If anything, it got worse. It was bad when I felt like a dreidel, but at least the motion was smooth.

Ugh I think I’m going to be sick.

When did my legs become cooked noodles? And why is my head flopping around like a chicken with a broken neck? Oh god I have to get to that toilet faster.

Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurk. Huuuuuuuuurk huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurk.

Well I’d rather not do that again. I like to have something to show for my work, you know. This dry heaving business wont cut-huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurk.

Oh well.

What’s this stuff on the floor? I didn’t have anything to vomit!

Splashed around the base of the bowl (but none actually making it to where I assume it was directed) was something… odd. It had been liquid once, I was sure of it. But what struck me wasn’t the chunky-smooth Morse code that someone’s stomach telegraphed on the bathroom floor. It was the color.

Black.

Someone's gonna pay.

Not thick like dark chocolate syrup, but black like a monochrome Batman painting that had a bit of turpentine thrown on it out of spite. On my floor. Worse yet, trailing off out of the bathroom like the snail trail of some bile demon from outer space.

For a moment I debated whether or not I would like to find out where it led. Considering I was house-sitting for my stepdad at the time, I decided it was my duty as steward of the house to investigate.

I quickly regretted it.

It was a Tim-Burton line of twists, curls, and gothic grunge texturing leading in a staggering line down the hall. It was drunkvomit Tron with a staggering lightbike leaving a putrid trail.

Bloodhounds have to walk on all fours to follow a trail because that is their nature. I had to walk on all fours to follow the trail not because it was my nature, but because my legs hated me and wanted me to know it.

So I crawled, closer to the splattery mess than I ever wanted to be, down the hall… to my bedroom. God someone had passed out in my bedroom and got up in the night to puke, I thought.

“NOT cool, Jerry. Not cool. But you GOTTA see this. You’re like Pollack if he had been working with a new medium in an era without color. Jerry?”

Crawled around the bed like a kid with an inner-ear infection playing hide and seek. No Jerry.

“JERRY?”

_{“Whut man?”}

Such a lovely quilt

Jerry was downstairs, having passed out on the couch in lieu of the Everest-quest up the stairs after a night of drinking that the word “heavy” just can’t describe.

Oh god. This is my doing. My runny black stomach footprints leading to my bed and-OH GOD! INto my bed. No… not my bed. My step-dad’s bed.

Sure enough, the trail ended in a small pool of what looked like the symbiote from Spiderman on the quilted wedding comforter some relative had lovingly made and given to my stepdad. Luckily, the symbiote was dead or sleepy and instead of trying to mate with my genetic structure, it opted to recline in it’s own messy way on the bedspread.

I couldn’t help but wonder how the vomit had gotten black. Had I eaten a pound of licorice that I just didn’t remember? Perhaps I munched on some charcoal briquettes in a drunken rant on Prometheus being a smug bastard.

As it stands, the only theory I found reasonable was that whatever food I ate turned full-blown Goth and bolted for the door when the international beverage conflict in my stomach reached it’s pinnacle.

Chuck is gonna kill me.

_{“Chuck is gonna killlllll me!}“

I had found my new mantra. I practiced it a lot that day. I chanted it as I scrubbed the rug. I perfected it as I pounded my friends to the outside world with the force of my voice. I whispered it just before all the stains were gone, and I thought it right up until the moment my stepdad got back…

And didn’t notice a thing.

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When I was small enough to consider a cardboard box equivalent to spaceships, submarines and time machines, Television was my friend. More than that, I think. Television was family.

I sat every morning with my father, eating Coco Puffs¹, watching about 15 minutes of Woody Woodpecker before my dear old dad inevitably turned on aerobics.

I remember asking on a few occasions why we watched the female exercises and not the male ones, especially since he never followed along. It wasn’t a long time later that I realized watching women in swimsuits jiggle and bounce to shitty music was a great deal more manly than actually working out.

My Television aficionado continued into my teenage years. I watched MTV go from broadcasting music almost all day, every day to it’s current Dark Side incarnation which has, ironically enough, damn near nothing to do with music. I got acquainted with Ren and Stimpy. I laughed at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade and Kids in the Hall. I was deeply disturbed at VH1’s sense of self-satisfaction.

Then, the very day after I graduated high school, I moved out. I moved far away from Florida, my father’s big screen television and ridiculous cable channels to my mother’s apartment in Alabama. It was a fall from grace almost to hard to bear. Thought the bruises would never heal up.

Her television, you see… it was small. And it only had basic channels coming in spottily. Her VHS tape player worked well enough, but she only had a copy of Druids, starring Christoper Lambert and a really shitty wig.

I quickly went cold-turkey. Not an easy feat, since at the time she only had dial-up internet and a burning need to actually receive phone calls. I got a job at Wal-Mart and tried (and failed) to join the Marines. You can see just how much not having television effected me, I’m sure.

A few years later, I moved in with some other 20-somethings downtown in an area known as “Five-Points.” They were waiters, like me. And like other waiters, I found, they loved pot and Adult Swim. These were fellow Children of the Coaxial.

¹: That is, of course, until the fateful morning that my father’s robe failed in it’s duty. I turned, chomping on my Coco Puffs, to the left towards my dad and (as I was on the floor, head level with the coffee table) saw lurking in the shadows of the old brown robe something no child should have to see. To this day, I still have not gotten the courage to eat a single Puff of Coco, and my father has probably wondered why at that age I had a sudden distaste for the cereal I had loved for so long.

Continue to Act 2!

In our last Act:

A few years later, I moved in with some other 20-somethings downtown in an area known as “Five-Points.” They were waiters, like me. And like other waiters, I found, they loved pot and Adult Swim. These were fellow Children of the Coaxial.

They had get-togethers for new episodes of the Sopranos. They introduced me to Dexter on Showtime. They had more remotes than Radio Shack, and only two of them worked.
I was home.

I quickly settled into the old familiar activities. The passive-aggressive maneuvering towards the remote. The “Squatter’s Rights” regulations of whoever got there first chose the show. The sight of my roommate, Chris, slowly being swallowed by the recliner as he feasted on peanut butter from the jar. Things seemed to be going great.

Then I moved to California. Glorious, sunny, smog-hanging-over-like-a-fart Los Angeles. A new apartment with a shower, plenty of space… and no Television. Or, rather, there was a television, but no reception. Not even basic public access.

I panicked. I fretted. I tossed and turned in my bed at night like a sweaty deranged heroin addict locked in his bedroom realizing he’s being played in a movie by Ewan McGregor.

Then, after a while, everything got better.

I had a cable internet connection, and quickly worked out the best ways to get hold of all the entertainment I needed. I read books. Wonderful, insightful, cleverly written masterpieces that tickled my brain and fondled my soul.

Until the day Zack moved out. He left to live with his girlfriend in Long Beach, leaving behind a room populated by spare change on the floor and unrecognizable food bits scattered about like a rat buffet. The apartment seemed to have an open sucking wound for a room and I needed a roommate skin graft.

Continue to Act 3!

In our last Act:

“Until the day Zack moved out. He left to live with his girlfriend in Long Beach, leaving behind a room populated by spare change on the floor and unrecognizable food bits scattered about like a rat buffet. The apartment seemed to have an open sucking wound for a room and I needed a roommate skin graft.”

Enter Brandon, stage left.

Brandon was from Oklahoma. He was almost, but not entirely exactly the sort of guy I never hung out with in high school. He played golf, and well. He had a nice, cherry-red car that flew if you so much as nudged the gas pedal. And, like most men in their early 20s, he produced a god awful amount of garbage that he didn’t have any inclination to take to the bin.

Brandon eventually brought a friend of his, named Joe, from his little town in OK¹. Joe brought a television and the willingness to try everything he could to get must-see-tv. Within a week, they were watching Howie Mandel sucker poor, sad Americans to pick the bitch’s brew that is “the wrong case.”

I kept my distance. All of a sudden my apartment turned into “New Jack City,” with me as Pookie, sweaty and shaking, staring down a tableful of the crack rock that is television programming.

Thankfully, they had their door closed most of the day. I could still see the flickering light from the crack under the door, and I could still hear the scripted soul-less telepromptertalk leaking through the cheap hollow wood of the entrance.

At one point I gave in. I sat down for what must have been about 10 minutes to see if I still had the addiction. If I had not been stronger, I would probably still be there staring into the pixellated media being funnelled into my senses.

But I noticed something strange. It had no hold over me any longer. Where I used to pull a couch potato and wile away hours upon hours staring at the TV I now found myself disgusted.

It was the programming, I think. Everything I saw was formulaic and stiff. Basic, really. Every gameshow was the same to me, and every sitcom and every reality show. It was like a black hole of content that not even talent could escape.

The commercials! Jeezus the commercials. After going for over a year without I felt insulted at the shit they were trying to make me buy.

Seriously, now: when you look at commercials on television after a long absence you don’t see them as just things to be ignored but as reflections of just how stupid they seem to think you are. They try every bullet in their arsenal to snare you into buying whatever useless bauble they hock.

Sex, guilt, fear, insecurity: all weapons of advertising whether you like it or not. Buy this or you won’t be pretty. Buy this, or you could get cancer from your cell phone. Buy this and people will fuck you.
It’s all a sham.

So with a final sneer towards the glass screen, I turned my back on television. I stepped away from people telling me what to think and what to buy and what I should look like. I left it all behind, and you know what?

I’m better for it.

¹: Frankly, from the way these two acted, I can’t help but cultivate the opinion that the poor state is anything but O.K.

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Another blog in the bag!

I’d like to welcome some of the new subscribers that have joined up. Seems like more than a few of you dig what I’m doing. I’m so glad to have you guys and girls appreciate what I’m doing enough to subscribe. Really, it means a lot to me. You’ll find it more reliable than youtube subscriptions, I’m sure.

I’m also working on some new t-shirt designs and such. I think you all will like them a lot. Perhaps I’ll show them to you within a few days. I want to have a few color schemes and designs to vote on before you see any of them, though.

Also! Project Wonderful was kind enough to allow me to use their services. While there are still a few Google AdSense ads running on the site, I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to choose which ads show up on my site. So from now on, with the exception of Google Ads, any ads you see on this site will have been pre-approved by me personally and should reflect my skewed sense of humor and irony. They will, for the most part, be ads which I myself am interested in and would buy from.

I hope they offer something to you all in the way of products and interest as well. Feel free to voice your opinions to the contrary or otherwise so I can get a bead on what you like and don’t like.

Politics.

Now before your eyes glaze over and the drool starts to run from the corner of your mouth, let me say that this isn’t going to be about Obama. It’s also not going to be about McCain or Palin or Biden.

No no. This is a post about you. My American Brothers and Sisters. Siblings that are unfortunately thrust together not by choice, but by proximity.

Like the standard American family of today, we don’t treat each other the way we should. What would more smoothly be settled with a detached, calm discussion is quickly turned into a screaming match where invective and insult is catapulted back and forth like flaming pots of oil in a castle siege.

This seems to be the norm and standard for political process at all levels of our American government and media.

Above is a video titled “The Sidewalk to Nowhere,” and it is footage of McCain and Obama supporters divided by asphalt lobbing one-liners at each other. The procession of McCainies is headed to the McCain/Palin rally in Bethlehem, PA. In spite of the name, it seems like there’s not a Wise Man among the bunch in their journey to what I’m sure they believe is their new savior.

0:36-0:39 - “Obama’s a Muslim! He’s a terrorist himself.” 2:29-2:31 - “And he is a… a Muslim”

I couldn’t help but shake my head as the man-child and the aging pensioner belted that phrase sideways to the Obama supporters on the other side. His logic is flawed, and based on the idea that “some terrorists are Muslim, so all terrorists are Muslim. And if all terrorists are Muslim and Barack Obama is a Muslim, Barack Obama is a terrorist. QED, end of story, lets have lunch and vote for McCain.” A house-of-cards logic that falls to pieces when one considers that Obama is a Christian.

Personally, I don’t care what either candidate believes as long as it has nothing to do with his political motivations. Separation of church and state is paramount and, frankly, shouldn’t have fuck-all to do with who you want to lead your country. But then again, I’m an odd guy. Some people care about the color of curtains you hang in your living room more than the people who sit in it.

0:56-0:58 - “Commie faggot”

At the end of this video, I did not see a single Socialist bundle of sticks. My best guess is senility spiked with a bit of Metamucil and rum. Maybe his catheter snagged on the heel of his shoe, who knows?

0:19-0:27 - “Socialism, communism… GO TO RUSSIA! … Socialist swine”

Look I know this might be a wild idea… but when even Rush Limbaugh calls the bailout bill that was passed into LAW “Socialism” I can’t help but agree with the cigar-chomping mic-jockey.

The people they elected, just as much as the people across the street, made this bailout happen. When you consider what’s happening to the economy and that all taxpayers are footing the bill for these bloated wall-street fatcats, you have to wonder what these people are thinking (if anything at all). Perhaps they will take it easier on Socialists after we all scramble for pennies to bail out Wall-Street for a few decades and realize that our elected officials voted us all into Socialist law.

1:33-1:59 “Screw Obama! Boooooo. Die! European Socialist!”

Perhaps it’s just me, but I couldn’t help but compare the swaggering baby boomer to the droogs of Clockwork Orange. Maybe it’s the suspenders. Anyhow, let’s dissect what’ he’s saying here. He’s telling people across the street to “die” and calling them “European Socialists.” Is this any way to voice your opinions? Telling a fellow tax-paying American who is also enjoying their First Amendment rights to expire?
What does this really say about how people really feel in regards to freedom of speech? “Say whatever you like, as long as it’s in accord with my opinions.” You’re peacefully protesting what I believe in from a safe distance, and I think you should die because of it.

“European Socialist”? These are Americans, to the best of my knowledge. Nothing about them at the end of the video sends up a “I’m from Europe and I HATE YOU” image in my mind. I’m not saying that they are all American, but I didn’t see a St. George Cross or a European Union flag on the lot of them.
Socialist? What can be more American than protesting? Wasn’t the Boston Tea Party an act of protest, if not outright defiance of our government? Protests are as American as apple pie, the star-spangled banner and obesity.

2:37-2:49 “God bless America, my home sweet HOME”

Seriously? This sounds like a damned football hooligan chant the way they lace the last “home” with enthusiasm.

Look: I’m not going to tell you who to vote for. It’s not my place and it’s not right for anyone to try and make decisions for you in the first place.

What I will say is that in my eyes, a Gentleman or Lady should be accountable for every word they say, whether in the heat of the moment or not. It is dignity and respectability that we should be encouraging, not some Jerry Springer-style ejaculation of quippy malformed opinions fed to us by whatever slanted and biased media source we value and vomited up at the first sign of differing opinion.

Our people, our American people, are already seen for the most part as the global trailer park. Vocal stupidity flung as far as your throat will allow is only helping that image and hurting intelligent discourse in this nation.

So next time you see a supporter of the “other side,” I hope you consider sitting down and having a talk instead of walking by calling them names and asking them to find a new home 6 feet underground.

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So here’s the grip: I’m putting ads on the site.

I hate ads. In fact, I think that advertising in general is right up there with the genocide, torture, and Michael Bay movies. If there were another way of swinging this, I’d be all for it.

This is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. As of right now, I’m running adsense units on the site and looking for new ways to swing things.

It’s my hope that with a bit of work, I can host videos without those annoying in-video ads on this site and earn enough money to keep the site running without taking cash out of my pocket. I’m not looking to get rich off the site or turn blogging into my full time job. I think that puts too much strain and priority on advertising and makes the whole mess more annoying to everyone involved.

I AM looking into a service that allows bidding on adspace, instead of the usual google-generated stupidity that nets me five pieces of lint and a slap in the mouth.

I also plan on having some merch put together, in the form of stickers, T-shirts, and maybe some DVDs of my videos for people to buy if they want. I realize that’s a bit arrogant, so I’m not going to have more than a few items that are related to me. Instead, they will focus on my abilities as a designer and graphics dude and include inside jokes and graphics from this blog and videos. Of course, there might be the few basic “text on a shirt” kind of bits. Hard to ignore them, since they are easy as hell to make.

But I’m going to put designs to a vote by YOU guys, so that stuff that isn’t good gets the axe and things that pass can get feedback for tweakage.

The ads will never be pop-ups, or annoying “You’ve won a free ipod nano/laptop” kinds if I have my way. Adsense will have to be the bit for now, but that may not last long.

So please give me your thoughts on this whole arrangement. I can’t say that comments telling me to keep the site ad-free will be taken seriously without a suggestion on how to make money to pay the server bills. Suggestions are completely welcome and kind of needed at the moment.

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For your consideration: Bob.

I’m going to tell you something that I’m terrified to believe myself. I am going to write something that, up to this point, has been a personal taboo phrase ever since I was old enough to speak. Something that shakes the very core of me to consider.

Our dads were right.

I don’t expect you to believe me, since it’s universally accepted that it takes the better part of a decade for the ennui and angst of our teenage years to get pissed out of our system like last night’s beer. Teenage rebellion burns long but not forever.

Just take that sentence under the first paragraph and stick it in the back of your mind. Wedge it among the trunks of old memories gathering dust and cultivating cobwebs that you can’t seem to forget but still seldom remember. Bury it in the soft folds of your fuzzy teenage memories with a note saying “Consider this in 5 years, repeat as necessary.”

“Parent-isms” attack like a virus. They lurk dormant in all of us until a triggering event sets the renegade cells in motion. These “Parent-sites” are composed of idioms, parental tics/habits and everything you once thought of as “a waste to know that will never come in handy.”

My first symptoms came in the later part of my 21st year. I was working at a restaurant in Alabama, and on the way back to my truck¹ I realized that I had forgotten my umbrella. I hurried back inside the restaurant to the employee storage area and grabbed it.

On the way back out, noting my umbrella in hand on a sunny day without a cloud in the sky, a coworker laughed at me for coming back in a hurry over something he found “useless, at least for the next couple of days.”

It was then that, like some sort of cerebrovocal² hijacking, I uttered a phrase that my father had thrown my way on more occasions than I cared to count:

“Well it’s better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it!”

I blanched. Instantly I felt the blood drain from my face and my stomach start a drunken hula-hoop routine. If it were a shot in a movie, I imagine one of those intense push-pull zoom-in DOF manipulation moves going right into my pupil, through the ocular nerve and to my brain. I imagine my brain, in computer generated splendor, rearing up on it’s cerebellum and with a cartoonish mouth screaming “WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?!?!?”

To this day I don’t recall any detail or event that transpired from that moment until the next morning.
The next instance I can recall came in a conversation I was having with someone at the first San Francisco YouTube meetup. We were sitting at a bar discussing methods of editing and shortcuts on production, which quickly turned into a debate on just how much time and effort one should put into one of those “silly web videos.”

Again, the virus struck. Before I could beat my tongue to a pulp and leave it for dead I uttered:
“Well you get what you put in, and if you work hard and put some effort into it great things will happen”
The words escaped my mouth like they were breaking out of Shawshank. Upon realization of their escape, my warden brain started throwing itself against the walls of my head in an effort to punish itself and possibly prevent an escape of any words ever again.

My neck lost the will to support my head and I found myself looking into the half full/empty beer glass on the bar in front of me.

I visualized a tiny manifestation of my dad doing some mad sort of can-can dance behind my eyeballs in one of those button-up shirts he used to wear, smelling like his cologne of choice for 10 years. With two mighty high-kicks both of my eyes plopped neatly out of their lids into the glass. Floating pupils up, they saw the mad spectacle whirling in my empty sockets laughing like a madman and clapping.

I don’t think I said much to the poor chap after that, and I hope he didn’t think I was angered by our conversation. That night I shivered in bed under 4 sheets and a huge comforter that did not live up to it’s namesake.

Seriously, son: a blue blazer is the most basic part of a man's wardrobe.

Since then, I’ve found myself at random points voluntarily scrubbing the bathroom with a diligence I’ve never known.

I’ve harassed roommates about doing chores with the very phrases I was harangued with as a youth.

I have realized just how incredibly valuable knowing how to grill a perfect Teryaki marinated steak is.

I have bought a blue blazer.

And through it all, I’ve never found anything so damn funny in my life.

As my father would say, I have no reason to lie to you about this.

One day, if you have the chance that is, expect to share a few drinks with your father. And when a few rounds are done and you get finished catching up, expect to get into a roaring conversation about just how damned hilarious it is to be the spiritual medium for a father you once disregarded, disrespected, and did not realize was completely and totally fucking right.

Then maybe write a blog about it.

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¹: In the south, it is a requirement of residence to own a pickup truck for at least a year before the age of 30.
²: Here I invoke the Writer’s Privilege that states “A writer may create words at whimsical happenstance when research is unavailable, unwanted, or otherwise a drag.”

RSS Tutorial: http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-use-rss-feeds

• Made a Press Clippings page for any articles about or including me. More of a scrapbook for the family, but it’s there if you want to take a peek.
• I’m also open to the idea of paypal donations if you would like to be featured on my Producers page

Nuttier than squirrel turds with a bottle to match. Drink vodka endorsed by an ex-Ghostbuster from a glass human head TODAY!

It’s no surprise that the pressures of being a celebrity have a profound effect on those “graced” with the “privilege”. Some turn to drugs and loose women (but then again, who doesn’t these days?), others prefer large amounts of alcohol and expensive cars (SugarTits!).

However in MY opinion, a true celebrity is the most entertaining on screen AND off.

I can’t have been the only person amused with rumors of Michael Jackson buying the bones of the Elephant Man and sleeping in a giant tupperware penis while a CD of children screaming played through the night. I got a thrill my second night in Los Angeles when I spotted Tom Cruise scuttling from the Lucky Strike in Hollywood to his spaceship (cleverly disguised as a black tinted Escalade), eliminating Thetans with the sheer force of his nasal protuberance.

It is my great pleasure to report to you that Dan Akroyd has joined the ranks of “true celebrity” with this new endorsement for “Crystal Head Vodka“.

While it can be argued that this is might be an act in the same vein as Kaufman’s wrestler gig, it seems far more likely that after years of huffing the fresh ink laid on royalty checks from Ghostbusters he has gone batshit monkeyfuck nuts.

From a personal standpoint, I’m completely unnerved by the fact that he presents the information in the video in such a “I’m not a scientist, but I’ve played one in movies.” This combined with the fact that he’s selling vodka in bottles shaped like human bones is more than a little unnerving to me. It would be one thing to be selling it because it looks interesting enough and might be a great vodka, but to include “The Tale of the 13 Skulls” as a fucking pitch point is indicative of the truly cockeyed view of the alchohol business, if not the world as a whole.

But then again, he is Dan Akroyd, and will probably outlive us all by living in a cellar drinking vodka and dry humping ancient crystal bric-a-brac.

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