I Wub You

If I may label myself (with the accuracy of a laser guided bloodhound, barracuda, or heat seeking missile) I would say that I'm probably the most romantic, soft hearted, open minded, lovey dovey, fancy pants, least bitter, most appropriately emotional individual wandering the face of the Earth today. Ask my friends and family. They would certainly agree.  But even I'm not falling for this Valentine's day bullshit. Now don't get me wrong, I always appreciated the chalky taste of conversation hearts, especially if they were given to me by one of the girls in my class who "developed" early.  Don't look at me like that.  It's not pedophilia if you're also 12 years old.  That night my mom would make heart shaped meat loaf.  It was always delicious. I would cover it with ketchup.  She probably thought I was making it red in the spirit of the holiday.  Little did she know I was pretending that I was partaking in the forbidden delicacy of human heart.  The ketchup obviously... oxygen rich blood.  What do you expect?  I went to Catholic school.  Themes of violence and horror were frequent.  I wonder how she would have felt about Valentine's Day meatloaf if she knew that she was actually fostering my juvenile fascination with cannibalism.  Suck on that Esther A. Howland.

But Valentine's Day was, from it's very inception, nothing more than federally mandated affection.  And while it is a boon for the fine people at Applebee's because it's the only night of the year where every other restaurant is so booked up that people are forced to go there, as an official American holiday it's still the illegitimate creation of some of the biggest bastard sons o' bitches to wandering the face of the Earth today, politicians (Was that a run on sentence? Grammar police, get at me).  Admittedly, I'm skipping a few steps.  There was of course the decree of a pope back in like late 400 something A.D. celebrating the life and death of one of several possible martyrs.  But ultimately, Valentine's Day was created to fill the consumer gap between Christmas and Easter.  In short, people weren't buying enough shit.  Well, people in the U.S. weren't buying enough shit.  We don't care what Iraqis or Portugese are buying.  Probably sand.

I'm not lobbying against love.  I'm just saying that if you participate in a corporate holiday then you're indisputably a sheep and you're giving into the man.  You might as well just line up at the post office and get on the next bus to the federal internment camp.  Because that's what's coming next.  That's right.  If you celebrate Valentine's Day, you hate freedom.  Quite a moral conundrum, isn't it you right wing neconservative whack jobs?  If you love someone, I've read somewhere that it's probably a great idea to express it daily in some form.  Tell them.  Give them a hug.  Make them an egg sandwich for breakfast.  Don't read into that.  I literally mean an egg sandwich.  To my knowledge it's not the name of an elaborate sex move.  And then every once in a while make a big celebration of your love.  Write a letter.  Hug them twice.  Make them an Egg Sandwich for Dinner.  That one is what you think it is.  But it shouldn't be forced.  If your major concern is that grocery stores don't sell a large selection of red candy year round, your fears have been addressed. Everyone loves Starburst. Even Iraqis.

Truth is, all this corporate stuff just casts a shadow over the otherwise honest and sincere acts of love that might be taking place anyway.  And that's a shame.  I have to protect the identities of the innocent.  But I know a guy who wrote a Valentine card to his wife after he died in which he threatened to haunt her by switching lights on and off and rubbing her butt.  Just another in a long life of loving actions.  Take notes Hallmark.  If you're not willing to become a "goast" to prove it, it just isn't love.

If Fashion Were Puke, It's in My Mouth a Little Bit Now

WTF?

When I first saw these, I panicked worse than in the first grade when I thought I could save time by taking my pants off without taking my shoes off, botched the procedure, and had to waddle back to class, pants strangling my shoes, for faculty assistance.  But after two Xanax, a Valium, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's (presently, not in the first grade) I was able to recenter myself, get my wits about me, and process what I was seeing.  I realized, just before jabbing a complimentary spork from Taco Bell into my eyeballs, that it didn't matter if they were selling these pajamajeans as long as no one on earth buys them.  "We'll let the free market solve this little problem."  That's what I confidently said to myself with patriotism in my heart and the pride of capitalism coursing through my veins.  But just to cover my bases I also went ahead and prayed to several hundred gods from any religious tradition or cult about which I could find an entry on Wikipedia.  Three short months later, I've lost all hope in the free market, humanity, religion (except Scientology), and the future.  I'm a shell of the man I once was.  I haven't slept in weeks.  Every time I close my eyes... I see them.

I just have a few points of consideration I would like to offer the 26 adult women and 1 adult male that I've seen wearing these things, as well as the cross section of people that these 27 messengers of the apocalypse represent.  Seeing them in person, in clear view of the general public, was exponentially more upsetting than seeing them as a digital image on TV.  I don't remember exactly where I was on 9/11.  But I do remember, to my unending horror, the first time I saw these denim colored sweatpants in all their faux-riveted glory.  Since the unapologetic wearers of these atrocities are essentially the face of an epidemic, I feel it only right to give them a cohesive identity.  Something catchy, accurate, and descriptive.  I learned from TV that the key to making a memorable label is alliteration.  Thus, they will be called The Teratoma 27.


1.  If they're that comfortable, wear them at home.  Exclusively.  And preferably only in an emergency.  Like if your washer and dryer break, all the laundromats in your town have been burnt to the ground due to their unfortunate proximity to exploding meth labs, and you've worn all your other clothes to the point that they are literally no longer wearable (Science has shown that a pair of normal jeans can be worn 15 months without washing).  And you've also torn down the curtains, cut swatches of fabric from the couches, and humanely "processed" the coats of house pets to cover the essentials.  Then, and only then should you even begin to think about wearing your pajama jeans.  Even these thoughts should be accompanied by great trepidation.

2.  There are some things on this planet that just should not be combined.  Jeans and sweatpants have been on this list since time immemorial.  It's baffling to me that this natural law was violated.  And not only violated but marketed.  And not only marketed but purchased.  And worse, worn.  I can only assume that whoever invented these enjoys a nice sheltered life somewhere upon the Autism spectrum.  And not the good kind of autism either.  Other examples of things that should not be mixed: canned tuna in olive oil and ice cream.  The gamete of anyone from the cast of Jersey Shore and any other substance that might potentially yield life especially other gamete.  Women and professional basketball.  But I have heard that the best way to clean pajamajeans is to combine ammonia and bleach.  Don't worry.  That sensation that feels like your lungs are melting and drowning you in your own blood... that just means it's working.  (Disclaimer:  Mixing ammonia and bleach will probably be the last thing you ever do, so don't.  And if you do, you can't sue me.  I'm pretty sure that counts as a legally bulletproof disclaimer.)

3.  Wearing of this blight upon human existence calls into serious question one's quality of character.  People who wear these jeans lack integrity.  In short, they are liars.  How can someone who isn't even honest about their rivets and/or jean pockets be trusted in any capacity at any point in the future.  I'm a person who believes that even a murderer can be reformed.  But for The Teratoma 27 and like minded individuals, there is no absolution.  No one will marry you.  Ever.  Not even with a prenup.  And if any part of you believes that you're fooling anyone, you're also lying to yourself.  This inevitably irritates the hell out of the famous pirate Shakesbeard who said, "To thine own self, be true."  If Liz Lemmon has taught us anything, it's that you can't have it all.  Just as you can not simultaneously have a raging methamphetamine addiction and a normal sleep schedule, you also can not be that comfortable and trick people into believing that you're a rational human being.  The Romans spent the entirety of their empire trying to figure out how to be stylish slobs as well as trying to discover new holes in which to make sex after they, as a society, grew bored with the traditional 9 points of penetration.  Look where it got them.  Why must mankind always ignore the lessons of history in favor of their own peril?  When will we stop trying to fly so close to the sun on wings of wax?

4.  Finally, I have a short list of things you could buy for $39.95 + $7.95 that aren't total abominations in the biblical sense of the word.

1/6 of a stuffed armadillo.  It's a small price to pay to have to have in your living room the animal most often splattered across Texas highways.  It's a great conversation piece and could probably be used as an object of meditation... something about evidence of the impermanence of life, even if your whole body was covered in fancy pants armor loosely modeled after the dimples of a golf ball.

A couple of these wolf shirts.  as far as levels of awesome and social appropriateness are concerned, this fine garment is the quintessential opposite of pajama jeans.  If you buy two shirts you get 6 wolves and two moons.  We don't even have two moons on earth.  But you could have two in your top drawer.  How have you not already entered your credit card info?

A nice claw hammer.  To be used on oneself in the event of pajamajean sighting.  With any luck, the resulting head injury will leave you with a case of one of the good kinds of autism.  Experiment with both sides of hammer, striking cranium until desired effect is achieved.

I'll Let the Pictures Tell the Story...

I occasionally do passable tattoos

My nephew seems to be teething

He also really doesn't give a f*** about social mores concerning public nudity (his words, not mine).  And if anyone has a problem with that, the regal looking beast behind him will eat your face off with extreme prejudice.

Updates...

I added some images to the Photo, Draw, and Paint sections of the website.  The vast majority of it is in the Photo section.  Check it out.  Or don't.  Who even cares in this economy.

Dos.

Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-raugust? Fa-ing Raugust.

I love Christmas just as much as the next person; the consumerism, the crowds, the merchandise based affection, the slow advancing fervor that culminates in a sloppy religio-economic orgy; what's not to love?  It's a time of Joy™, Generosity®, and Caring©.  I once made a tongue-in-cheek reference to the very obvious fact that retailers were jumping on the Sell Christmas Shit Express Train way too early.  But it turns out that I was wrong... in the context of underestimation.  If you're keeping score at home, that's the first and most likely last time that it will ever happen.  So soak it up.  Today, August 26, 2010, I took the following photos:

That last one was actually just an IV from paramedic class yesterday.  It wasn't one that I did.  All the ones I did bled a lot more.  Actually, I guess now would be a good time to let everyone know that based on extensive research conducted yesterday, there has to be way more than 10 pints of blood in the human body. Anyway, I think the last photo illustrates an important point about the other two photos.  They're trying to bleed us dry.  Christmas in August?  What's more, I live in Arizona.  The temperature is still regularly breaking triple digits.  Santa's fat ass would literally die if he came down here with his furry jacket and arctic reindeer.  This is getting ri-goddamn-diculous.  It sort of makes me want to renounce everything upon which I've been raised and join one of the more rational countries and/or religions.  I wonder if there are any North Korean Raelian missionaries in my neighborhood that might be able to offer me a promise of eternal happiness and guarantee that all holiday seasons will commence on an appropriate timeline.  I would seriously consider it. At least in North Korea they're up front about the fact that you'll be worshipping a short fat guy with delusions of grandeur.  Here they don't tell you that.  They just quietly slip some Christmas paraphernalia in between the 40 lb. containers of Slim Jims and the 50 gallon drums of Jose Cuervo and hope the fish start biting.  We're the fish, in case you have the devastating learning disability known as analagexia.  It's not as dirty as it sounds.

The most startling thing to me is the very real possibility that all that Christmas crap was there even before today.  I haven't been shopping in a long time.  The toilet paper situation at my house was dire.  I've been rewearing well used underwear for weeks because we ran out of laundry detergent.  My beloved canine (pictured below) has been subsisting on a diet of dryer sheets and nickels for like a month.  So for all I know, they put that stuff in the store around the same time every ethnic Albanian that I knew was celebrating Sultan Nouruz Remembrance day.  But I don't know.  Because I didn't go to the store.  I was helping my Albanian friends celebrate.

So listen to Molly.  You can tell by her photo that she is both swift and wise.  Molly wants the order of holidays to remain.  Molly says it goes Halloween, My Birthday, Thanksgiving, theeeeennnnn Christmas.  Not fucking... Christmas pre-season, Labor Day, Christmas Lite, normal December 25th style Christmas, then like, Christmas Extra Time brought to you by FIFA World Cup®.  Have some decency American retailers.  Let us pay off our credit cards from last Christmas before you start flaunting stuffed Rudolphs in our financially overextended faces.

I would boycott Christmas altogether.  But let's be serious.  Harry Potter Lego Hogwart's Game is out this year.  And I can't risk getting trampled in a Wal-Mart style Christmas Sacrifice Ritual.  That's a role only a mother could fill.  Hint Hint.


And if you're wondering about the title, think of the Chinese restaurant scene in A Christmas Story.

Baby Got (hurt) Back...

Last week I did what any rational adult male would do on a normal weekday.  I went to the gym and injured my back.  Having no experience with back injuries aside from seeing other people have them and knowing that I never wanted one, it was a bit disconcerting.  Back injuries were the realm of old people and I guess, at 27, I've finally become one.  It's unfortunate that it will still be another 38 years before I can claim the true and rightful spoils of my status, the glory that is the senior citizen discount.  Until then, I exist in sort of a generational limbo.  And anyone who has actually been to limbo knows there's not much to do there except think.  So even though my back has mutinied against me, not being able to climb, run, hike, tattoo, or do anything really except watch TV and contemplate, this event has thrust me into a clarifying introspection and I realized a few things about myself.

In an act of uninsured desperation, I went to the chiropractor (the short story is that it worked in spite of my preconceived notions) and while filling out the necessary forms, there was a simple question that struck me as odd.  The question asked "What is your level of health and fitness?"  And the multiple choice answers were as follows:

-Below average
-Average
-Above average

The choices seemed simplistic.  And even though it wasn't asking me to integrate a differential function, my mind began reeling.  Level of health compared to what?  Averages are by their very definition comparative.  But the question offered no further information.  Compared to the patients at a heart hospital in Kentucky?  Probably above average.  Compared to the predators I've been watching during Shark Week?  Below average.  Not knowing exactly what they were asking I just went with the safe bet and circled average.  But then I started to think about my efforts toward health and fitness and began to wonder what other people were circling on this form.  I imagine there must have been humble triathletes who would have circled below average because their 3 hour 22 minute marathon time was 27 minutes shy of the world record.  And I'm sure there were the delusional ones who circled above average when they have been existing on a diet solely consisting of foods with Mc in the name but they walked 12 minutes on the treadmill last April while waiting for the results of one of Maury Povich's paternity tests.

It got me to thinking about averages and self perception.  So I did a bit of research, which, in honor of tradition will be presented without sources.  On another blog (I guess that's a source, secondary at best, probably tertiary) I found this:

96% of cancer patients in a hospital claim to be in better health than the average cancer patient.

93% of motorists consider themselves to be safer-than-average drivers.

90% students see themselves as more intelligent than the average student.

94% of college professors said they are better-than-average teachers.

Ironically, 92% said they are less biased than average, too.

Just click through to the other blog.  Because that guy sums up my thoughts with way less peripheral BS.  If I had written an article on the same concept it would have been 45 times as long.  You know, because I think I'm awesome and I love to hear myself talk.

This sort of outlines the stance one must take when undertaking any endeavor in life.  From the artist's perspective, the moment you don't think you suck, you stop learning, you stagnate, and you die.  So even if from the aspect of comparison to the general public, someone is talented at drawing, in comparison to their unrealized potential they might as well be smearing dog poo on a piece of paper.

And this is the big issue I have with mothers.  You know who you are.  You all think your kids are so great.  I'm sure this instinct is related to some kind of evolutionary survival imperative.  But try and understand the disparity between what you think of your kids, what the rest of the world thinks of your kids, and what your kids actually think of themselves.  It's a delicate balance between developing self esteem and reaching one's potential.  So even though a child might do something good or even extraordinary every once in a while, years of empirical research by teams of doctors and scientists have repeatedly shown that the sun does not shine out of anyone's ass.  Except mine.  Just ask my mom.