Chaos, Nonsense & Tourists

Questions, Oh, Questions!

2012-06-11T21:06:00.003-07:00

during my year-long absence from this dear blog, i've received a number of questions.

i've also received a number of accidental visitors all looking for "lindsay lohan sex tapes". a really unhealthy number of accidental visitors. in fact, certain months have outranked their previous years, all due to her popular fire-crotch. i suppose that was all my fault.

but all of this is irrelevant. the point is i've gotten a lot of questions about where i went and why i went where i went.

maybe there's a secret blog. but maybe there's not. who really knows. it's all a DAMN MYSTERY.

i will say this: if you have a question-- a question about anything at all (except why i've stopped blogging-- because the world may never know)-- please see the below ad.

stop tape is a podcast, co-hosted by good ol' me and chris rhee. and we will answer anything you ask. we've tackled such quizzicals as "who would win in a fight between bruce lee, jet li, and jackie chan", or "would you rather brutally murder your entire family or be a part of the human centipede".

anything.

call 50 STOP TAPE (or 507-867-8273) at any hour, leave a question on our voicemail, and tune in to hear the answer. it will blow your entire family's mind.

and believe me, there is no limit to the number of questions you ask, nor the quality of question. do it drunk, do it sober, do it while pooping, or do it while being lectured at work. we'll answer it all*.

this may be my last post here.

that sounded darker than i meant it. but it's true. so move on over to stop tape-- leave some questions, and await the greatest show ever to be put inside your ears.

DID I MENTION YOU COULD WIN $288‽

all you have to do is call in a question and guess a word. if the word is the same word chris and i have chosen: you win. it's a lot like the secret word on pee wee's playhouse-- except it doesn't change until someone guesses it. and our furniture won't yell from their throats when you say it.

though i definitely will.

make some money, find your answers, and call us at 50 STOP TAPE. be a part of the violent orgy.

so long, and thanks for all the whiskey
president wishnack

* only the entertaining questions.

Dear Academy of Art Students

2011-05-11T18:35:00.000-07:00

right now i'm disappointed in you. i'm disappointed in me for siding with you.

i know what it's like to spend sleepless weeks, and thousands of dollars in [not just tuition but] course fees. the rush around finals is more detrimental than some of the hardest drugs-- especially for those of you majoring in graphic design.

but please try and use your brain.

almost every one of you wants a perfect bound book-- they're classy, wire-free, and look like a REAL BOOK. but there are some things you should know before coming into my work.

i've compiled some of those things into three rules and a lot of me bitching.

if your book is not a minimum of 1/4 inch in thickness, we cannot perfect bind it. it's not that we don't want to: it simply cannot be done. during the process of gluing your cover and spine to your book-guts, the machine is required to apply pressure to all sides of the project. most people are not interested in perfect binding a 25-page book, so the machine is not designed to do so. it makes sense when you think about it.

RULE I: do not ask us if we're "sure there isn't any way?"

i know, your professor wants the book perfect bound with NO EXCEPTION.

if your book is too thin, we can saddle stitch it, and it'll look like a standard magazine. or we can coil bind it, wire bind it, velo bind it, or even tape bind it. but we cannot perfect bind it, so do not ask us if we're sure and do not stare at us with blank eyes.

what does this mean? make sure your book is at least 45 sheets in length. 45 sheets-- not 45 pages. there is a difference and if you aren't aware of what that difference is, you should drop out of your graphic design major right now.

there are many ways around this problem. i've seen a fair amount of books with blank pages inserted throughout, or at one end. i've also seen artists reduce the dimensions of their pages so more sheets are required. they look nice when they're done with thought-- and, more importantly, they can be perfect bound.

RULE II: do not enter our store if you do not know what "crops" or "bleeds" are.

you should have crop marks on every page-- and, for perfect binding, every page should be set up as a single-page pdf, not a spread. a spread is only helpful if you plan to french-fold, or saddle-stitch your book. in those types of bindings, your first sheet is made up of your first and last page. in a perfect bound book, the pages are in order and double-sided.

also, your bleeds need to be a minimum of 1/4 inch as well or the binding will cover part of your design.

these are simple facts that will save you and me a lot of time. and i don't need to save time: i'm at work ten hours a day no matter what. but it is frustrating, and you do need to save time because you're going through finals.

help me help you.
or you could let us do the work for you and we'll tack on another $70 per hour of labor-- it all depends on how much you like eating ramen.

RULE III: do not bring in your own stock and expect us to use it.

most of the time we can't: it'll jam our printers because your stock is almost always textured. your best bet is to call the store before arriving with a ream of linen. but, even if we could use your stock, it's just a bit rude to come in with your own. if we can use it, we probably already have it and what you're doing is like going into an independent cafe with a starbucks coffee to get some sugar packets.

i didn't know most of what i just wrote before i had this job and don't expect you to know it automatically. but i ask that you treat your art as you would a job-- not as "just a school project"-- because every time an uncaring, lazy artist is seen the idea that creating art is not a REAL JOB is furthered.

you're giving artists a bad name. i work in the financial district and the majority of our customers are financial folk. they come at us with the same last-minute rush-jobs that you do-- and you're both picky as all hell-- except they know what is required of them for us to do the job. they're professional about it; they're timely in their responses, and precise with their files.

when you don't even try to take this seriously, the whole art-world looks a little bit dumber.

i know you're still a student, but please, please do your research before coming into our store and quietly degrading the name of artists.

and good luck with finals-- you're almost through it.

frustratedly,
president wishnack

p.s. this goes for you, too, california college of the arts students.

Sheet About Feet

2011-05-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

i'm not angry at my feet-- i'm not even entirely convinced it's their fault. but of the millions of ways i've been fired, quit, or otherwise left a job, i've never imagined my feet to have much to do with it beyond transporting me through the door.

after showering, putting on clean clothes and cologne, my boss still seems to believe he can smell my feet. in fact, in his nose, they're so horrible they merit open doors and "we need to talk" PRIVATE TALKS.

my feet smell: it's true. i'm on them the entire ten-hour shift, some of which is spent running deliveries about downtown. but there is no way my boss can actually smell my feet.

"you're going to need to do something about this," he explained.

"i'm going to try," i said, "but i seriously have no idea where to start. i'm wearing clean socks, i'm showered, and i don't know what else to do. i can't smell them and no one else here can."

"i can," he said, "and it's bad. it's something that needs to be fixed, or else i won't be able to have you around here. do you follow me?"

he can't go many sentences without asking if someone follows him.

"i do," i said as i reached for my audio recorder, "are you saying you'll fire me if my feet keep smelling?"

"just get it fixed."

i definitely would've expected my lack of mathematic skill, or cigarette-smoking to have been the problem sooner than my feet.

"don't take this personally," he continued, "i've kicked women out of my bed because i didn't like the way they smelled."

"oh," i said, unsure of what exactly i was supposed to do with the new information.

"but look into solutions tonight."

when i first started this job, i would secretly document conversations between customers, employees, and my boss with the intention of highlighting his lack of soul. but as time passed, i realized he isn't soulless-- rather severely OCD. he would go berserk if his pen went missing, even if other pens were nearby. he needed HIS PEN.

he wears rubber gloves at home to avoid germs, and that's just how things need to be in his life. everyone's got their thang.

but he's aware that he's not the best conversationalist as a result, and that's why i have the job. he's actually stopped me to say, "sometimes, when i listen to you talk, you make me wet." which is disturbing not only because he said my sentences sexually arouse him, but also because he referred to himself as having a vagina.

the point is, my feet have become the enemy of his nose and i have no idea how to solve the problem. i'm slightly worried because of two important facts:

1. he is quick to fire people.
2. no one else can smell my feet.

no amount of charm is going to save me here. i'm going to play beautiful classical music for my toes tonight. and tomorrow, i'll double-shower, wear new socks (not just clean, but new), and boots rather than converse. i'll have shampooed hair, a cologned body, chapsticked lips, and brushed teeth.

and if my boss can still manage to sniff out my feet from 5' 9" above, and through my scentacular wall of protection, more than ever i will be convinced he is a machine.

and i will be the guy who gets fired because his feet might have smelled.

Come Git Some

2011-05-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

after a great while of post-less days, fingers find themselves pointing at whatever they can. some blame my job: saying, "you're working too much again-- it's only a matter of time before you quit again." and others ramble about how i've entered a relationship, citing my half-hearted promise to irene.

and a loud few fingers just call me lazy. but those fingers are middle fingers anyway.

A LOT HAS HAPPENED.

street-scores, garbage, & other goodies.
as someone who habitually writes online-- and has been since middle school-- it's difficult to disappear and then try to reemerge randomly. it's a lot like sex after a severe dry-spell: the return is mostly awkward, filled with unexplainable stumbling moments, and a great big boom only before a horrible attempt at explaining why the whole thing was so short and jerky.

blog-pause aside, work is going swimmingly and tuxedo-free, and i really am IN A RELATIONSHIP. we met on the most romantic place known to humankind: this blog. though, technically, we met inside an abandoned pool-locker where we'll probably get married and start a family.

i just took a vacation from this blog. at times, writing here can be very stressful-- but by no means will i ever stop. if you think i'm mentally unstable now, you'd never want to meet me without a pen. but i needed a break.

just know i was still thinking about you and i want you inside me.

sorry. it's been a while since i've written a post. i think i just got too excited. that doesn't normally happen: i'm usually much more eloquent.

Spider Vs. Ant, President Vs. Internet

2011-04-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

i'm an avid fan of blank versus blank videos; i love watching monkeys toy with tigers, and sharks fight birds-- it reminds me of the time DC comics teamed up with marvel and quicksilver raced the flash.

and yesterday, [non-roommate] travis told me about spider vs. ant.

the video was said to contain a spider and an ant, believe it or not, and they were to fight to the death. perfectly typical, and shot with a macro lens.

i would've skipped it in the same way i would skip seeing prince williams get married, but there was something about the way travis described the battle. he was being vague. i met travis in an improv class while we were both studying film and i've always had a firm respect for travis' taste. i know when he's being vague i'm entering the zone of "you have to see it yourself and i don't want to ruin the experience by giving you too much information."

so, i googled it.

and it was nowhere. youtube said it had been deleted, and vimeo said it might come back sometime, but probably not. reddit, metacafe, and all the rest couldn't locate it either. all that remained were broken links, scattered comments, and apologetic video sites.

it was gone.

in fact, it was worse than gone. the only remaining evidence of its existence was a ripped version, in which a shotty editor had added the theme song from the fight between dr. spock and captain kirk. it included awkward dialogue and made the entire thing theatrical to the point of ruining the experience.

i refused to share that video with you.

but, today, i found the original: re-uploaded-- this time with a watermark to ensure proper credit.

so do enjoy. because, OMG, it has a surprise ending.

Spider attack from Ahmet Ozkan on Vimeo.

let this be a lesson in life.

Dear Typographic Graffiti Artists

2011-04-28T14:00:00.000-07:00

please do something about this incomplete sentence. it's been this way since i moved to the city in 2006 and it's boring.

consider the security camera half the challenge. finish the sentence. add an illustration. blow your h. excite the damn wall. it's on 3rd and stillman in the soma.

thanks,
president wishnack

p.s. don't drop the ball on these sorts of blatant opportunities. like that one togo's advertisement.

Eyeglasses for Africa

2011-04-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

there's something strange about the wealthy vacationer who visits the slums of another country and paints great paintings of the horrible life. they get INSPIRED by it all. so they transform the suffering citizens into artwork to be sold for thousands of dollars back in america. and they look caring and deep and wonderful. and the sufferers continue to suffer. that's always bothered me as much as it's confused me.

and while running a delivery to one of our biggest clients, i stumbled across this odd charity:

it insta-boggled my mind, so i had to google it.

why is this important? according to the do something website,

Because when I met people in TZ, it was so sad that they had no money to buy glasses. I couldn't imagine not being able to see the sunset, see the blackboard, see the flowers, or your family--just because you had no money.My project is called Eyeglasses for Africa, and it was started to collect used glasses and deliver them to Africa.

i've never been to africa because i've simply never had the money to go on overseas vacations. but despite that, i feel like this red shoebox is not a lot more than a grand mixture of noble and naive.

like when crocs sent 100,000 of pairs of their ridiculous pool-shoes to japan, and japan was like, "wtf, guys. we just had a tsunami, please don't make things worse for us."

sending anything to any country is nice. everyone can use a hand, here and there. but if i were to name five things africa might want sent from america, eyeglasses would not make the list.

in fact, my list would be as follows:

1. money
2. food
3. medicine and/or first aid kits
4. efficient power generators
5. kiera knightley

it is entirely possible there's a serious EYEGLASSES SHORTAGE PANDEMIC that i'm oblivious to. after all, i've never been to africa, and charity stats say 75 entire people have been helped by Eyeglasses for Africa.

i just don't get it. i'm going to start my own charity, and it's going to be way more helpful.

i haven't figured out just what it is. but there's a good chance it'll have to do with poop. because everything does.

An Alcoholic Romance

2011-04-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

from the kitchen of president wishnack.

Most Untriumphant

2011-04-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

this is worst than the time hunter s. thompson shot himself to death and the time i got stung in the testicles. this is like if both those events happened at the same time: like bang! and sting! overlapping. plus tears.

didn't you read my letter, mr. reeves?

i wish you the worst.

The Condom Conundrum

2011-04-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

they were located with the mouthwash and first aid, just behind tins of altoids: four kinds of trojans, and the notorious magnums. i was hoping there would only be one choice and it would be regular. as someone who only started using condoms in the recent years, i don't know much about that sort of shopping.

all i know is you don't get to try them on in-store.

i've always banked on someone else already having them, or a friend being near enough that i could send a sloppy text requesting one to be delivered IMMEDIATELY.

i've never bought condoms myself and it's so much more difficult than choosing ice cream flavors.

of the five, magnums would've been a good joke but the potential consequences wouldn't be worth the possible half-laughs. a part of me has always wondered if there is even a difference between magnums and regular condoms outside of their names-- or if they're the same size and named to inflate male egos. but i doubt it. so my parts in a magnum would be like a lima bean in a potato sack.

trojan's non-lubricated condoms were the next to be eliminated on account of how horrible the inside of a dry condom must feel. like getting a blowjob from a dead snake. plus, the pack was covered in dust and that is just never a good sign.

ultra-thin seemed to be advertising a fun way to accidentally have a baby, ultra-ribbed made me wonder if it would be so ribbed that she might think she was being molested by a small güiro, and trojan's her pleasure just kept reminding me of the scene in wayne's world where garth pokes through rob lowe's penthouse.

it was like trying to pick a halloween costume for my penis, and i wasn't sure what he wanted to be. i wasn't even sure he wanted to dress up, i think he just wanted the treats.

i couldn't stare at the row of condoms any longer. i had to ask barry for advice.

"get ultra-thin!" he said without much thinking.

"really?" i asked, "it just seems like it'll break and i'll wind up with a kid."

"nooooo," he assured me.

"but," i said, "you just had a kid."

we debated for a while-- mostly agreeing against non-lubricated and magnum. but the situation wasn't a whole lot better. instead of standing alone, awkwardly scrutinizing various condoms, i was doing so with a paper-thin chinese man.

"fuck it," i said, "i'm going to just get a pack of each."

of course, as me and my team of colorful condoms were being rung up, a thirty-something woman walked in and stared. i'm still not sure why the experience was so embarrassing beyond that i'd never experienced it before-- but it definitely felt odd.

"also a fifth of jameson," i told barry.

the woman kept staring and i absolutely could not read her thoughts. i was tempted to tell her the whiskey and condoms were for a friend, but she finally spoke.

"you know those two don't mix well."

"well played," i laughed.

but we'll see about that, lady. we'll see.

Dear SF Zoo

2011-04-25T14:00:00.000-07:00

i'm just like everyone else: i'll visit the zoo and have an absolute blast while hypocritically mumbling This and That about how very UNETHICAL it is to keep wild animals captive. i'll preach about the sun on polar bears and the cages around birds. and i will secretly hope to see a lion maul the shit out of a small child.

everyone is that way at the zoo.

but with all that said, i'm legitimately bothered by your rhino.

i'm pretty sure my first reaction to this rhino was, "what the fuck", and i'm pretty sure a young girl heard that reaction. but i'm also pretty sure she was having the same reaction inside her head. with different words.

where is his god damn horn?

if i were to make an entirely unscientific [research-free] guess, i would say you sawed if off because the rhino is the size of a mid-sized vehicle and you've already had one or two animals attack your trainers and teenage guests.

but, according to the handy-dandy rhino-placard, this is not the case!

i want to just make sure i got this right:

• it's normal behavior for a rhino to rub his horn flat in the wild.
• you guys keep trimming it to... help it grow.

i know those are just bullet-points, but have i missed something? or did you trick me into reading thirty seconds worth of bullshit? i may not be a master of rhinoceros knowledge, but i am certainly not a dewy-eyed fool.

it was my understanding that rhinos rub their horns on trees and boulders to keep them sharp. but i would love if one of your zoologists could explain to me why a rhino might want to rub his horn flat considering it is one of his only means of offensive attack-- besides the ability to spray liquid poop twenty feet with impeccable aim.

look, i had a great time-- i'm being honest. but be straight with me-- i can take it-- why is the rhino missing his horn?

thank you in advance,
president wishnack

p.s. the owl-feeding was fucking awesome.

but you might want to consider moving it out of the Children's Zoo section.

Drunk Pelicans Don't Use Glasses

2011-04-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

the greedy tiles of my kitchen floor get together with Gravity and snatch my whiskey glasses time after time-- my drunken hands are never much of an aide-- and the apartment is growing to be where goodwill glasses go to die.

at the peak of it all, there were six whiskey glasses and a good selection of eclectic coffee mugs.

i've only lost one mug. it was something to do with hot liquid and a cold mug-- an un-caffeinated mind cannot be expected to comprehend the delicacies of chemistry at 6:30 in the morning. but that was just one mug. the rest are alive and well-- they're a resilient breed.

but my whiskey glasses are a gentle bunch.

the first glass to go was particularly upsetting because it was my favorite. and because travis' favorite went moments after. in one foul swipe, allison knocked both glasses to their embarrassing deaths. they kissed those cursed kitchen-tiles only for a second before exploding into an immediate disappointing collection of unusable glass.

and the wasted whiskey spread across the floor, wondering what to do with its new freedom.

i brought a new whiskey glass home from whiskyfest shortly after.

but that glass had an even more humiliating death.

it was confiscated at the hyde out. there is nothing classy about arriving at a local bar with your own whiskey on the rocks-- especially if you try to justify it as a "road-whiskey". i never went back to grab that glass, and probably never will.

travis had also abandoned a glass that same week: a crown royal glass left with an upstairs neighbor, and never seen again.

then one glass was crushed in a collapsing pile of unwashed dishes. we lost our champagne flutes to that lazy disaster.

i'm not sure how the very last glass broke-- i came home to it, and travis' goodwill invitation-- but without explanation. when i saw it broken i was more upset to see one of the last ancestors go than i was worried about how i'd drink. it was sort of like finding out my favorite bubbler had been broken well after i'd stopped smoking weed-- something about it is still depressing.

the average life expectancy of our glasses seems to be shorter than a robot chicken episode. i've seen cocaine last longer than some of our whiskey glasses.

some would call this A SIGN-- perhaps a chaotic nudge to quit drinking whiskey entirely. but i opted to buy two new glasses from goodwill.

of course one of the two broke on the way home-- which some would call ANOTHER SIGN.

but i still have one left.

Real People & Stuff

2011-04-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

i like the following videos because they're serious.

they're both long, but i recommend watching them in their entirety. i also recommend all sociology professors show these videos to their students and have them write a COMPARE AND CONTRAST essay.

oh, and send them to me, please.

my favorite part is exactly between 05:29 and 05:43.

my favorite part is exactly between 01:48 and 02:16.

i was surprised, in my research, that there were no puppy review video blogs on youtube. in fact, the only thing close to it was a six year old reviewing his clown action figure while mumbling [what i think were] racist remarks.

anyway, i think there is some very valuable STUFF in both of those videos-- especially when seen together.

intoxicated poop segment: part cx

2011-04-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

introduced to me by cynthia-- who once had a brilliant tumblr, but claimed no one read it-- comes poop makes me laugh.

another thing i'm surprised i didn't come up with first, but can respect regardless.

they say they've, "got your pooped-your pants, almost pooped-your pants, farting, sharting and all other funny poop stories" holding credibility with categories like Celebrity Poop, Near Miss, Public Poop, and even the very classy Sharts.

i've never had a very embarrassing relationship with poop-- rather an odd one that involves swallowing marbles, or backpacking-induced giardiasis-- but i'd be a liar to say i don't enjoy reading stories about other people struggling to find a toilet.

poop makes me laugh, it does. so peruse their site, but submit to mine. eh? eh? ok then.

Mount Tampants & it All

2011-04-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

maybe the curse is never knowing quite how to express what an amazing time i had. i'll throw at you two or three half-coded sentences about vague happenings and hope you feel it. but it hardly works.

have you ever felt like the universe is thanking you while quietly apologizing for all of the times it was outwardly a dick? if you have, you know it's hard to write out.

if you haven't, i salute you. but i will not promise it will ever happen. i promised someone i'd stop making promises, so you'll have to excuse me.

just know it's amazing. it feels like discovering a super power; like writing in cursive only to discover your elegant words taste just like ice cream.

brittany and i went to mt. tampalamaipamsiaisas. and i think, perhaps, i'll give you the pictorial jist instead of my usual run-on sentences with all too many semi-colons, invented hyphenated words, and commas were they don't belong,

i did, of course, manage to get my standard STALKER SHOT of brittany. that's practically a must considering the whole bit about the world wide web, abandoned swimming pool locker rooms, and other such secluded meetings.

note: smoking cigarettes may cause Suck at Stairs.

snakes were rumored, but we only saw banana slugs.

banana slugs are to forests as giraffes are to zoos: you haven't really been to either if you don't come back with a picture of one. and there's something childish and awkward about the two of them. banana slugs are like great lazy loogies, sneaking their way past the feet of overlooking hikers-- only noticed by the spectacular few who might be looking for another $20 bill amidst the woods; only visible to the bug-lovers, and The Fanatics of Gross.

that slug and i had one sensual moment-- a woodsy photoshoot. i think he might write about it on his blog.

while the plan was to trek up the mountain, we arrived at the top by means of accident and google instructions. so we climbed down before climbing up. in some ways, it was a better choice because we were thrown directly into the thrill of scaling ladders past waterfalls and moss-covered bridges, before beginning the lung n' leg challenging climb up.

i want to say we were both convinced we had no idea where we were at times. we'd traveled through forests of redwoods and into thick spindly tim burtonesque woods with no direct understanding of where it might lead. but neither of us were going to say, "we're lost" because it was an adventure and we had water, beef jerky, and each other to keep us entertained.

at the top i thought it was possible i'd taken too many mushrooms years ago and simply died. that perhaps everything from 2006 and on had just been some strangely pleasant dream. past the rolling hills, san francisco looked like a gigantic playground with its pointy tower and red bridge poking about. and the epic red-tailed hawk, soaring by, laughing at the doomed field mice below.

and in the middle of it all, i was hanging out with my new amazing friend from the internet. i thought about brittany's initial comment on my blog. i had no idea what a huge door that comment was, and i'm still without the capability to express how happy i am that past-me responded to her note.

i'm convinced i have outlandishly unfair Luck. when my Bad Luck is bad, it's badder than bad, and when it's good, you'll simply never believe it happened.

in that way, maybe it is actually kind of fair.

the end

5 Quasi-Uselessful Thoughts

2011-04-19T14:00:00.000-07:00

during the month of march, i started keeping a list of "daily discoveries". but because i was rarely discovering something worth ink, the list transformed into a series of realizations and opinions. and then it transformed into... death, and one drawing of a whiskey glass with sad ice, before it ultimately was never updated again.

both ways, here are some clips.

well, i hope you all learned something.

Put Me in the Transamerica

2011-04-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

"it needs to be sent to 600 montgomery street," my boss said.

"that's the transamerica pyramid," i squeaked, "i'll take it."

the transamerica pyramid is on my list of tall places, and it's the only building on the list that just has "lobby" marked as the highest floor reached.

"they're not going to let you go up," my assistant manager said, "just to the mail room. the lady there takes everything up."

someone is always quick to tell me why i won't ever get to ride the elevators in the damn pyramid.

but kindly behold the following photo.

you may notice the transamerica pyramid is not in the shot.

BECAUSE I'M INSIDE IT.

yep, 35th floor. eat it.

see, if there's one thing i've learned about deliveries it's that they get very strange between 12pm and 1pm. it makes sense. those are the short-staffed, moody, and lazy hours of the day; it's when people like, let's say, mail room ladies, are out eating their lunches and hating their lives.

it's when security guards are all just the under-studies of the real stars, receptionists are distracted by french fries, and the rush of suits and heels on the street are enough to swallow you up and carry you right inside any building you choose.

"well, i'll take it anyway," i said, "how about... at 12:30?"

and it all went as planned: the mail room lady was off with her meal and herself, the security guards were frat-bros in suits and ear-pieces, and the elevators were wide open.

and it was the most confusing experience i've ever had inside a skyscraper. the elevators take you only to the 27th floor where you can get off and hunt down the second bank of elevators-- some three turns and a hallway away-- to ride further up the triangle.

there was even an exit door that told me, "never use this door. use door to your right." and the door to my right lead me outside, only to pass right by the first door.

i didn't even notice the sign till a guard told me to shut the door. but that made it even more ridiculous because

1. it was unlocked.
2. i could definitely see that it lead to the exact same place as the door to the right-- more efficiently, in fact.

more confusing than the winchester mystery house.

but i will be back. and i will make it to the 48th floor.

oh yes, she will be mine.

Mirror Pond

2011-04-15T07:00:00.001-07:00

this works better if you see it while you listen to this song.

The Law Offices of Beep & Squeep

2011-04-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

what ended in bloody testicles began with an average job: a pick-up from another law office, the usual legal tab insertion, and a velo bind. most financial corporations go with coil binding, but lawyers are suckers for velos. it's to the point where i ride their elevators singing, "no need to re-miind me, you want your velo biinding."

it's not the best song in the world.

but what made the trip more than average is that i actually met mr. squeep. i meet a lot of our clients, but rarely do any of the lawyers show their faces. there's always just a very attractive receptionist scouring craigslist for new jobs while taking a break only to inform me that she's "sorry, but mr. beep & squeep are both in meetings."

this time, however, mr. squeep was there to meet me personally.

"one piece of advice," he told me sternly, "when you go to add the legal tabs, be careful."

i took his warning as a mild insult to my intelligence. a three-toed sloth could insert legal tabs with great success and i'm not only faster, but i can speak english.

besides, i've spent so much time in court, i could practically cross-examine the judge.

"don't worry," i said, "we'll have it back to you by noon and it'll be perfect."

"no," he responded, "let me put this another way: when you reach EXHIBIT 2, do not look at the page before it."

"of course," i reassured him, "i'm aware your files are CONFIDENTIAL and it's something of a policy that we never read through any of it. don't worry."

he looked around and sighed. i was saying something wrong.

"this case revolves around a serious injury to a man's testicles," he said in a cold voice, "and it has photographic evidence. i recommend you do not look at the page before EXHIBIT 2."

did not see that one coming.

"oh. wow. thank you for the advice, mr. squeep!"

...i definitely looked. it was horrible.

then i forced everyone else to look because i'm a human and it's what we do.

"hey man, can you QC this exhibit for me?"

"sure."

"BOOOOOM! SEVERED TESTICLE IN YOUR EYE!"

"fuck you."

"seriously though, can you QC that?"

i'll be honest, i spent the majority of that morning trying to rick roll co-workers into seeing the bloody ballsack as many times as possible while still hitting our 12pm deadline.

when i delivered the velo-bound papers back to his offices, mr. squeep eyed me the same way a parent might eye a pothead late at night.'

"you looked, didn't you," he said.

WHATEVER YOU DO, PANDORA, DON'T OPEN THIS BOX. HERE'S THE KEY OMG!! DON'T OPENZ!

"no, mr. squeep," i said blankly, "i don't believe i did."

he smiled.

At the Start of 05

2011-04-13T14:00:00.000-07:00

i lived on the benches of a coffee shop, ran my own "botanical business" and still didn't have an ID or bank account.

but what even some of my closest friends never knew is that i kept a ~~diary~~ captain's log inside a secret hard-covered red book. it's where i documented everything in form of oddly coded sentences and various double-meaning doodles. it was in case of prison, death, or super powers.

it's where i planned my silent escape from parties, coffee shops and the silicon valley.

and i've just recently rediscovered that book. it is, dare i say, a trip. HAHRAHRHSRAHAHRAHRA ha.

Oh Me Oh My

2011-04-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

about four hours before deadline, i found myself drawing a quick cactus-boy and i suddenly realized how busy things have gotten. for every line i drew, i received four text messages. and, in a fit of irony, about half of the texts were from the person paying me to hurry and finish the drawing.

i can't draw and text at the same time. you're confusing "drawing" with "drinking".

the texts were flying in because i had missed our regular illustration meeting sunday and there was a panic. but i'm doing my absolute best to balance it all. i skipped the meeting on sunday for a very good reason.

i had other meetings.

but it's only made me busier now.

and somehow, amidst it all, i've also managed to get myself into a japanese benefit show. i don't know how that one happened, actually. i was just handed a flier that had my name on it-- and told i had till the twentieth to ready a piece of art.

"you have to: you're on the flier."

i'm convinced my life will always be strange and unexplainable.

i drink six cups of coffee a day and i don't even have time to masturbate anymore. sometimes i'll realize i'm overdue. and even though i'm acutely aware of my need to catch up, sleep is more important.

i need to be awake at 6:30am to work a ten-hour shift, illustrate for a website and a [new] ipad app, and come home to read about how i haven't updated my blog the usual twice-a-day. jerks.

i know it's only teasing. and i don't know where i'm going with this post.

just don't take it personally if i owe you a phone call, a drawing, or a meeting. i'm trying desperately not to fuck up and this is the best i've done in my entire life. but, being new to it, i'm having a difficult time doing everything i've promised to do exactly when i promised i would.

i need to learn how to turn down offers more often.

but if i promised it'll happen, it will. just give me some time because it's not only you. i'm taking vitamins and hardly drinking, so believe me when i say i'm trying.

and please, please, do not be late if we're supposed to meet somewhere. it's not my goal to be that "my time is valuable" guy, but seriously: i might have skipped masturbating to see you.

This Mouth was Made for Talkin'

2011-04-12T14:00:00.000-07:00

only moments after my boss vomited colorful insults at my face, thoroughly lectured me for failing to notice an error in a large client's project, and managed to yell "do you follow me?!" seven times in it all, the phone rang.

"peter?" it asked.

peter is the name i've chosen for my assistant manager who was, at the time, on his way to tahoe.

"this is steven," i said back.

"where is peter?"

"peter, i believe, is somewhere between here and tahoe," i explained, "how can i help you?"

"well, he was working on my business cards," she explained, "and i wanted to check the status on them."

"ah yes, perfect!" i said, knowing we'd just sent them out, "your business cards are somewhere between here and your offices."

i saw my boss laugh-- which is a rare sight, and usually a bit awkward-- and when i was off the phone he was beaming like a child meeting an astronaut.

"somewhere between here," he laughed, "you can talk. i'll tell you that. the way you talk saves you. you have no idea."

he laughed again, this time snorting a little. a snort is how you know a laugh is genuine.

i had an idea that my style of speech was what got me almost all the jobs i'd ever had-- considering i've never been qualified for any of them-- but it didn't really hit me how important it had become at the print-shop. the job is very mathematical at times, and there is so little room for Mistakes that even if Mistakes were a japanese midget, it would still be uncomfortable in the office.

i don't learn by following rules, generally. i learn by winging things and figuring out why they did or did not work. and my kind of learning is not made for this job.

needless to say, i get yelled at frequently. in that sense, charming clients is the only thing that will keep me employed.

"do you mind if i go to fedex," i asked, "we need this out by 5:30pm."

"go ahead," my boss said.

i really only wanted to go to have a smoke and kill part of the end of my shift. but we really did need to deliver that package, and things were slow.

at fedex i saw a redheaded man struggling with a pull-down easel. i was more than familiar with the mechanism-- speakers at conventions always need them and we sell them for $600. we had just sold four to a company out in the soma.

"ah," i said to him, "nice choice."

he looked at me angrily.

"the pull-down easel," i explained, "portable, reusable, professional. nice choice."

"yeah," he said, "except there's a typo on it. i have to present tomorrow, and there's a freaking typo on it."

i briefly thought about the error i had nearly missed earlier in the day. quality control is important so that business men don't find themselves frustrated in a fedex, the night before their presentation. this particular man was at that particular fedex because he was hoping they could sell him a sticker that might cover up the typo.

unfortunately, fedex does not sell "R" stickers. they only sell stamps.

"eh," i shrugged, "we could fix that for you."

"what?"

"sure," i said, "what is that? outdoor vinyl? we could fix that tonight. it's $12 per square foot, and if you have the file, we can print you a new one in about an hour and reinstall it in your drop-down."

the man's ginger eyebrows scurried across his forehead like anxious orange caterpillars.

"and," i continued, "no offense, but our printers would annihilate whoever printed your easel. we could make that dew drop image so crisp and so real that you'll legitimately get thirsty when you see it. no joke. you'll get thirsty and you'll feel like you just got a really nice hug from your grandma."

his orange caterpillars were intrigued and his mouth was a smile.

"where do you work?"

"right around the corner," i said, "come with me. my name's steven: i'll show you what we can do."

arriving back to work with my new friend and his misprinted drop-down easel felt like the time i convinced a construction worker to let me drive his 15 ft cherry-picker while smoking a cigarette-- it was one of those unexplainable entrances that single-handedly proved to anyone nearby that i am not fucking around when it comes to convincing people.

"steven tells me this is where i need to be!" the man said upon entering.

my boss just stared.

"you're in good hands," i told the man, "he'll fix you right up. i'm going to step out for a smoke, if you don't mind."

i live for moments when i see my boss dumbstruck.

when i came back, he told me i'd managed to line up a major sale while inadvertently convincing the man to take his company away from his old [horrible] print-shop and join our magical force forever.

"see?" i said, "this is why everyone should talk to strangers."

"i don't know what you do," he said, "but you can talk. you know something we don't know, and i don't care what it is-- just keep doing it. you should be a lobbyist."

"i'm okay with being a print-shop boy," i laughed, "at least for now."

A True Story [For Children]

2011-04-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

so president and brittany got in the car,
headed to the woods, which weren't too far.

redwoods and squirrels and possibly bears!
waterfalls and tree-houses were hopefully there!

there was a line to get in, and a five dollar fee.
but they snuck passed everyone, and got in for free!

they bought no map, and made their own trail
debating a nap, and resting on rails
they smoked a smoke inside of a tree
and joked a joke or maybe three.
snapped some shots and enjoyed the sight
climbed the hills with all of their might.

they even saw a bear!
there.

it was a day for adventures, chaos and fun
a great world of nature, for a day off and sun

they found hollow trees, and pretty flowers
and saw hovering bees, with magical powers
they crossed over streams, and climbed over logs
got lost in their dreams, and... rhymed... clover frogs (...sorry)

but then, right there on the ground,
you would not believe what president found.

a twenty dollar bill-- in the middle of the woods!
there are plenty smaller bills, but this one was good!

"now lunch will be free!" he shouted aloud.
"this forest loves me, and i'm undoubtedly proud."

they gobbled up hot dogs and took a quick pee
and laughed at the fact that it was all free.

the day had been perfect, sunny and grand
so they walked back to the car, money in hand.

they giggled and smiled, too amazed for words
everyone was happy: from the trees, to the birds

except the person who parked way too close to the edge of the road and had no idea their jeep fell into a ravine while they were probably taking iphone pictures of really tall redwoods and draining their phone battery because they figured they had no reason to worry about calling a tow truck.

lesson: absolutely nothing in the world is fair. deal with it.

the end.

Because Ninjas Are Everywhere

2011-04-07T14:00:00.000-07:00

A Wishnack Back

2011-04-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

at this stage i know i will limp and hobble permanently when i'm old. my only hope is that it will be a charming limp, and not some sort of wretched quasimodo stumble.

"how old are you?" my co-worker asked.

"i'm twenty-six," i responded, already knowing what he was about to say.

"twenty-six?!" he laughed, "i'm double your age and you don't see me complaining about my back!"

"well," i said, "thank you for highlighting the unfairness of the genetic handouts."

my tangled spine is about as doomed and pathetic as a game of jenga with michael j. fox. and it is not an example of a youngster whining.

i was told when i was eleven that this would happen. my dad was already doing the majority of his activities in a lawn chair. the doctors told me my spine would twist and my hips would tilt and my whole body was fucked from the start. they put things in my shoes to slow it all down-- but, early on, it was my destiny to be a bent man.

i wish at least my spine glowed when it hurt. that would be pretty neat.
last week, crawling out of bed was about as easy as explaining transsexuals to a six year-old. i collapsed while trying to put my pants on, and if i hadn't received an EMERGENCY text from work, i would've called out.

i also would've explained transsexuals in the blink of an eye if i had a choice between the two.

i've mentioned back-issues before, but things were worse than they ever have been. i had to call a cab just to make it to work. and during the length of time it took my broken self to wince down the stairs, the cab had given up on waiting.

"he can't do deliveries today," my boss explained, "he has a bad back."

"i thought you were eighteen?"

"i'm twenty-six," i said, "but thank you."

"wow," they responded, "twenty-six? and a bad back already... good luck with your forties."

i don't think anyone quite understood how bad things were that week. and too many adults were anxious to explain that i was too young to be bitching about my back-- that i don't know anything yet. and, in comparison to me-at-50, i probably don't know anything about bad backs. but compared to them-at-50, i find i may be an expert.

it was a classic case of unnecessary competition-- like when you tell a friend you've only had four hours of sleep and they feel it important to tell you they only had one hour. and then, for some reason, you find your own mouth saying, "well, i had four hours. but the night before, i had none. so i was even more tired."

the whole thing is stupid. my back is not a competition, it's just a failure. and i don't need fifty year-olds talking shit on top of it.

i couldn't lift my legs higher than three inches off the ground without my hip giving out. and i had to move so carefully-- holding my breath and doing a sort of forward-moonwalk, while keeping most of my weight on my left leg.

all i want, is to be spider-man. and last week was a real dream-shatterer. but, if nothing else, it reassured me that the doctors were right [for once]. i will have a very useless back when i'm old. it's going to happen. it's already started.

so, here's praying my future-limp will at least be a real cool gangsta-like limp.