Parachute House

New base. New fort. New hideout.

I've got a new house, folks. My lovely girlfriend Brennan and I now have a new rental home in historic Kenton. The house is an oldie but a goodie. It's got classic Portland charm, modern electricity, and a whole lot of personality.

In no time at all, this house will come to be known as "the parachute house" as it is the new home base for my band, No More Parachutes. Before we moved in any of our personal belongings, we set up the band practice space in the basement. And it's sounding GREAT. The carpeted floors help absorb sound so as not to annoy the neighbors and the cool neighbors will help absorb our cool sound so we don't annoy ourselves.

YES!

A small excerpt from my new short story.

“Hello? Is anyone there? We need help!”
A man came running from the back of the greenhouse.
“Yes, I’m Mert! How can I help you?”
“Listen, Mert. Our son is part pumpkin…”
“Half-pumpkin, half-man?” Mert asked, as he studied the boy.
“That’s right, sir. The school nurse cut his vines off because he had some head lice,” Runbun replied.
“That’s just terrible!” Mert replied. “Listen guys, I might be able to help but I’m afraid it won’t be cheap,” Mert said as he rubbed his chin.
“We’ll pay anything!” Tuppy screamed.
“Okay then. Hurry, follow me!”

Hulk, Lemonade, and my daily thoughts.

I am really, really captivated by the idea of this "master cleanse" diet. I keep hearing about it in the news so today I finally did a little bit of independent research to see what all the hype is about. Basically the diet involves not eating for a total of 10 days. Instead of consuming solid food one drinks a concoction consisting of water, lemons, maple syrup, and cayenne powder a few times a day, whenever hunger strikes. Sounds scary, right? The diet comes with fairly mixed reviews. I mean, it works across the board for whatever benefit you're looking for. Some people do it to detox from bad food, drugs, alcohol, or whatever else. Some people do it to cleanse their intestines and get all the excess shit out. And some people do it to drop 20 pounds. Any way you slice it, this diet is fucking badass. I really want to give it a shot. I think the only deterrent is... it's biologically and emotionally stressful. Some people go a little bit insane... some people make it through just getting grumpy now and again... The responses vary... but the results... the results speak for themselves. Everyone that does it (correctly) gets all three benefits (Detoxification, weight loss, intestinal cleansing).

On a completely different topic, I was shocked an appalled to hear that Edward Norton was removed from the cast of the upcoming Avengers movie. What in the fuck is Marvel thinking?! They claim that he's "difficult" and "not a team player." I think that's a load of shit. Ed Norton was a great Hulk. He's a great fucking actor. He's one of the best of our generation. And he's also an intellectual. I was so happy to see him and Robert Downey Junior finally breathing good life into Marvel franchises. So yeah... he didn't like the original Incredible Hulk script so he pretty much demanded to do a total re-write. And that, my friends, is why the movie was so fucking coherent and watchable. Ed Norton is a proactive motherfucker. He's a free thinker. And he produces results. And because of him, the movie turned out good. Shit, the critics even liked it.

Marvel seemed to be on a decent roll. They started hiring good actors to play Marvel characters and... HOLY SHIT... they got good movies! Unbelievable, right? And now that Ed Norton's hot-to-trot about starring alongside Robert Downey Junior in the fucking Avengers... you're going to fire him?! You're going to bugger the crux of the entire Marvel Universe in front of the free world? And RE-CAST!? An unknown!!?? It's not that I don't have an open mind... I know they're re-casting Spider Man as well. But Jesus Christ... you might as well fire Robert Downey Junior from the Iron Man role. He's too much of an individual. Hire an unknown. Oh yeah, you too, studio executives at Marvel. You guys do a little too much free thinking. You don't follow orders well enough. You should fire yourselves and hire some unknowns to fill your positions. I hear there are some pretty capable homeless guys on Ventura avenue looking for a buck or two.

Poisoned! Left for dead.

Everyone’s heard the stories about people who fart and accidentally shit their pants. And sure, everyone’s heard the story about the person who had to take a shit but there wasn’t a bathroom anywhere so they just said “fuck it” and shit their pants. I’ve heard more stories about “sharting” and shitty drawers than there are stones in a pond. I’ve heard ones about people shitting their pants at the store, in the woods, from laughing too hard, and from people mistaking a wet clump of dung for a fart and pushing it out without hesitation. These ol’ yarns are a dime a dozen. And my whole life, I’ve laughed gleefully at these stories. You know why? Because none of it’s ever happened to me. I’m fucking EXEMPT! I’ve made it through my whole life without ever “sharting” or running out of time on the way to the honey bucket. But yesterday… things changed. It was a close fucking call…

It all started during lunch. I ate some old leftovers. Five days old to be exact. It was food from my graduation party, buffet items that sat out all day. Things like BBQ chicken, cole slaw, and fruit salad. Anyway, I spent the whole week picking at these leftovers. By the time Thursday rolled around the food was looking pretty fucking depressing. Shriveled fruit. Shriveled cole saw. And chicken that smelt rather questionable. And here’s the mistake I made: I ate it anyway. Bad idea. Rotten idea.

Later that day after work I was out running. I decided to take the long route. I started at my house on 57th and took side streets up to the top of Rocky Butte out past 92nd. It’s about a 4 or 5 mile run total. Well I got all the way to Rocky Butte and started to turn around to head back when I felt some really violent digestion take place. My stomach started to turn. And sure enough, the first warning sign set it in. The sharp pain. The warning. The cramp of doom. Food poisoning. It’s that feeling when you know you’ve got a four alarm emergency on your hands. It's the point of no return.

The damnest part was, I was two and a half fucking miles from home. I had what felt like 2 gallons of diarrhea that was ready to come blasting out at any waking moment. There was no way I could run anymore. I started power walking. There weren’t any decent public bathrooms to speak of on the way home so the way I saw it, I had two options: 1.) Walk all the way home, or 2.) take a shit in a bush… I wasn’t about to take a shit in a bush. There were no woods or reasonable cover anywhere. Only dense neighborhoods. I decided to choose the latter option. I began to hustle home as fast as my shit-ridden body would take me.

Anybody driving by me on the road could see the concern spelt out on my face. I was fucking scared. I knew I didn’t have long. Maybe 5 minutes… maybe less. I had two and a half miles to go. And the more I walked, the worse the pain got. By the time I was a mile from home, the pain was unbearable. I could see myself in the reflection of car windows as I passed and the expression on my face scared me. I looked like a man marked for death, speed walking for life, limb, and soul. And things got worse. Pain started happening in waves. Every thirty seconds it would feel like someone held a tommy gun to my stomach and fired a whole burst of hot steel into my gastrointestinal system. It was an intolerable, savage, primeval pain. The kind of pain a possum feels when it gets run over by a MAC truck on 1-5 and has to drag its broken lower half back into the woods. This terrible cycle of pain repeated more times than I care to remember over the course of about 30 minutes. The worst moment was when I was within 5 blocks of home. Isn’t it always the hardest when you’re almost there?

It felt like my insides were a cheap balloon filled with two gallons of diarrhea and the only thing keeping it all in was an unreliable punk kid (my butthole) that his parents pay ten cents an hour to hold shut. I was ready to blow shit all down my legs. But 100% of my attention was kept on keeping my butthole and the rest of my organs flexed as tightly as possible… and I’d been doing the same the whole way home. If I’d have let go for a MILLISECOND, I’d have dropped a bathtub worth of hot shit all over the sidewalk in front of dozens of people, cars, and businesses. Make no mistake people, the stakes were high. I wasn’t about to let my pride go. All I could keep saying to myself was “I’m not 65, I’m not 65…”

And of course when I finally made it to the sidewalk in front of my house, I was nearly in tears. I felt like a man on the most important mission of his days... There was no time for fucking around. I needed to get to that god-damned toilet. Just then, my girlfriend came bouncing out of my house to greet me, assuming that everything was fine, and tried to give me a hug. Once she got a look at my permanent grimace, she realized there was trouble and backed away. I looked her directly in the eye and simply said “I’ll catch up with you in a minute” and power walked straight through the bathroom door, slammed it behind me, and threw myself on the mercy of the porcelain man.

I won’t even mention the ensuing relief. And I also won’t mention the amount, color, or consistency of my excrement. Let’s just say it was inconsequential.

I spent the whole rest of the night reeling in horror from my harrowing experience. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain and misery on my worst enemy. “Not even Hitler” as I told my girlfriend later that night.

So America… this Blog post is for you. I wish 99% of the bathrooms in America weren't privatized. But you know what? That’s okay… I probably wouldn’t use them anyway. I’m a germ-o-phobe. I love my home toilet… it's my comfort zone and it shows! I walked 2.5 miles through a burning gastrointestinal hell to be there.

Bizarre Mall Dream

Every so often, if I can remember them, I write down my dreams directly after they happen, so as to avoid any lapses in memory or distorted recollections. This is definitely one of the greatest hits. It involved me and my friend and bandmate Jeff Smith on a strange saga through a shopping mall in dreamville.


The dream involved a lighthearted (and ravenous) jaunt through a mall in some sort of bizarre alternate reality. For some reason, there were buffets sporadically set up all around the pedestrian walkway at the mall. Not little tables but huge, elaborate, silver platter feasts.

I kept on trying to get Jeff to come into stores with me but he was heavily distracted and insisted upon dishing up food items at the buffet. He gathered up a heaping plate of various food items and kept adding to it as he went. Eventually, I grew distracted with him and I began to check out some stores.

Once Jeff had finished his gregarious meal he caught up with me only to announce that he was “hungry again.” He immediately went off to the buffet and returned with a massive crepe that looked to weigh somewhere around 15-20 pounds. Jeff sat at a bench for a substantial amount of time trying to fold the tortilla around massive 2lb hunks of chicken and about a gallon of mysterious white sauce. He wrestled with it, trying to position it for a bite. After a few failed attempts Jeff had ruined the tortilla shell. It sat dead and ragged on his plate like the tattered sail on a ghost ship. He had to return to the kiosk to ask the “burrito guy” for another shell. Looking frustrated, the burrito guy begrudgingly took the plate from Jeff and quickly wrapped the burrito himself, shaking his head, rolling his eyes, and exhaling in dismay. Jeff then managed to eat this leviathan.

Afterwords, he and I began to check out a few stores. Towards the end of the dream Jeff tugged my shirt and pointed at a massive video store at the end of the mall. I remember the store signs boasting the “largest selection of rare DVDs.” I should assume that that the sign meant the largest section of DVDs in dreamville. Jeff and I walked in the store and went our own separate directions. I went straight to the horror movie section, which was elaborately decorated like a cemetery, complete with dirt floor and pre-dug graves, all of which, I assume, were intended to heighten the consumer experience, not to increase the feeling of dread. For some reason, I hopped in a grave to investigate a product that was down there. It was a special edition of some rare horror movie (some bizarre dream reproduction of THE BEYOND or some other FULCI film). I opened the DVD case and pulled out what I considered to be a “limited edition” poster of great worth. For some reason, I desired this poster very, very badly. Instead of deciding the buy this poster/movie combo, I went straight to the bathroom in an attempt to steal JUST THE POSTER.

Once inside the bathroom I quickly undressed and began to tape the poster to my bare chest (I have no idea where the tape came from) to avoid security and nosy employees. I thought this was a very clever plan, of course. The bathroom had a toilet, a bathtub, and a mirror. I stood on a bathtub to get a better look in the mirror while I taped when I suddenly slipped and fell face first onto the toilet, violently breaking my nose and instantly bruising the whole right side of my face.

The last vision of this dream was me looking at my bruised, swollen, shattered reflection in the toilet water... with blood leaking from the gash in my broken nose.

Then I woke up.

Friends in High Places

It seems like there are more and more misconceptions, stereotypes, and broad generalizations about English Majors (and their consequent futures) than any other discipline, and that's really upsetting. They make my dick burn. Are we all penny-less dweebs? Pretentious losers who can't afford haircuts so they try to pull off the unkempt "french sophisticate" look? Dwellers of their moms basement? Librarians (who are fucking cool)? Borders employees?

Just ask these guys you see pictured up top if their upset with their English majors. And suck my penis.

I loved getting my education, and I loved my major. Sure there was a bad class here and there, but what field of study doesn't have a few turds floating in the pond? And why is being a smart, well-read, edgy, quiet, introverted motherfucker such a bad thing? Just because you're loud and annoying doesn't make the rest of us any less cool. Maybe we don't have to overcompensate for our clear and present intellect. And not everyone else sounds like an air raid siren when their trying to be articulate. Chew on it for a while.

English majors deserve more credit. We have the literary skills to make better fun of people with other majors. We can make broad generalizations. We can also perpetuate foolish and bewildering stereotypes and pass misconceptions onto others--just like you!

Here's an example: Business majors are all fratboys. Black studies majors are racists. Civil engineers are only in it for the paycheck. Medical field majors are all jews... are you seeing my point?

Pennyless dweeb? Not in this lifetime. I got a full-time, salary paid writing job before I EVEN GRADUATED with my English degree. So next time your floundering English major friends bring you down with their talk of "not being able to find a job" or "how bad working at Best Buy sucks," tell them that they should lay off the Hamms and Hashpipe and focus their attention on their craft and their resume. These bums are in no way representative of the literary community.

Being readerly is not a crime. I know we may seem like we think we're better than you because we grimace during your conversations about Twilight and Harry Potter. Sure, they're coherently written but are they worth reading? Maybe if you're 10. But 23? Shameful.

We were too busy reading Exile and the Kingdom to care about the new armchair phenomenon. Yeah, we may die with some full-ass brains, but that's not a crime either. So find another corner of intellectual America to scrutinize next time you feel insecure enough to pick on the sideburned bookpage outlaws of the academic community.

To all you non-English majors out there: you can thank an English major for any word printed post-2010. And to all you English majors out there: put on some Pinkerton, Simon and Garfunk, Lou, or some Ted. And remember... those guys are all English majors.

Improve My Aim

I eat a pound of whole carrots a day, more or less. Sometimes more. Always organic. Always whole. I can't get enough of them. As a matter of fact, my love affair with these delightful roots has bloomed into an obsession. I talk about carrots to people I don't know at work, I eat carrots in my car when I drive, I walk with a little extra swagger when I have a carrot in hand, I fantasize about Shoot 'Em Up (the only pro-carrot action film) and I offer carrots to my friends and roommates (who always decline). But most of all, I muse about what Beta Ceratine does for my eyesight...

Any chance I get, I'm at Trader Joe's or Winco buying up the organic carrots. It's a god damn shame they don't sell them in bigger bags. One or two pounder is the biggest they come in.

So here's my question... Do people not realize that buying non-organic ground vegetables is BEYOND foolish? Honestly, buying non-organic ANYTHING is asinine—but ground vegetables (and fruits) are the quintessential example here. Whatever grows in the ground soaks up the groundwater. If the groundwater contains skeezy-ass pesticides, your vegetables become skeezy-ass by association since they soak up all the water in order to grow and form into edible mass. Follow? Think about a watermelon. My sweet lord. They're like 99% water. In the mood to bite into a massive chemical ball? No. Okay, then buy organic produce. Especially ground produce.

Back to my point. Carrots. To be honest, all of this really does tie back to the movie "Shoot 'Em Up" starring Clive Owen, Monica Belluci, and Paul Giamatti. It's a big, loud, bloody, corny, nose-over-tail action romp. But it's tongue in cheek. It's action-baroque. It's John Woo on crystal meth. Shoot 'Em Up is a masterpiece. Here's my reason for brining it up: Clive Owen's character is a homeless man who is an ex-Special Forces gunman. He's a killing machine... who also has an affinity for whole carrots. He eats carrots during gunfights. He shoots a gun with a carrot (since some of his fingers get broken). He even stabs a guy in the eyeball with a carrot, killing him in his tracks. But I think the main reason I was so charmed by this film is when Clive Owen's character explains that he eats carrots to "improve his aim" because of the "vitamin A." There's even a point in the film where there's a first-person shot of Clive Owen's character taking a bite of a carrot and having his vision sharpened automatically, in real time.

The first time I saw this back in 2007 (Late September, at Disneyland no less...) I was bewitched. Ever since then I've subconsciously influenced by the film. The whole... carrot... habit... thing...


Sound strange? Yeah, it's a weird reason to start eating a lot of carrots. But here's the kicker: I'm getting a tattoo in honor of this little love affair of mine. It's definitely more aimed toward personal health and well being than it is toward an endorsement of Hollywood or ground vegetables for the sake of ground vegetables. It's more a general statement that I'm a dude who cares about my vitamin intake. The value of the tattoo will last longer with an ethos like that.

The tattoo will look something like this: A pistol and a carrot crossed in an "X" formation with the text "Improve My Aim." It'll be done in old school style.

Like I was telling someone today "when I hate something, boy I really hate something and when I love something, I really love something." Proof in point.

Good Assholes

After our BBQ last night my sister Lauren, her boyfriend Matt, my girlfriend Brennan and I went to get some late-night frozen yogurt at YoCream, the one in Cascade Station. On the way there Lauren warned me that it was "going to be full of high schoolers." I was like "really?" Lauren reminded me that it was 10pm on a Saturday night... so it made sense.

As it turned out, she was absolutely right. It was totally crawling with a bunch of little buggers in from the suburbs. There were popped collars on polo shirts, backwards nike hats, cargo shorts, and a whole grip of people back from high school prom, a hundred people or more total.

Here's what I was thinking about while I got an eyeful of these dipshits:

When I was in high school I thought I was pretty cool, but my ego had it's limits. But there was always some facet of life that taught me some humility, something that kept me from thinking I was the hottest potato in town. For example: I had family who would bust my chops for the clothes I wore and my wild haircuts, there were dueche-y types at my school who tried to smear my good name by calling me a "faggot" when I wasn't around, and teachers who hated my guts and made me pay for all my good times. You get the idea? You know the people I mean? These are the guys you hate at the time but forget about as time wears on. It's kind of like a lamprey on a shark. The shark doesn't look nearly as badass with a bunch of wimpy fish sucking on it's belly. Get the metaphor? I'm talking about "ego balancers," folks. I had people that kept my ego in check so my sense of self worth didn't swell to an unrealistic size. These people are very necessary for a balanced perspective.

As an example: Israel currently has no "ego balancers." That's probably why they raid aid ships, bomb neighborhoods, and run over women with bulldozers.

Now listen here: no one's a bigger supporter of being "young and free" than I am. What I'm trying to say is that if every member of a populous thinks they are the hottest shit that ever lived, there would be a fight every 30 seconds on every city block. It'd be a fucking nightmare. Pompous, shit-for-brains jock mentalities would reign supreme.

I see a significant lack of "ego balancers" these days, especially with young, privileged white people.

Most of these suburban brats at YoCream seemed to have absolutely zero "ego balancers." These kids looked like a bunch of trust fund brats driving their parents SUVs, running free. Watching them run amuck while I enjoyed my Alpine Vanilla FroYo with gummy bears and cookie dough pieces was decent entertainment but I couldn't help feeling that it was my, or somebody's duty to remind these turds that they're not at the top of the social food chain.

So on our way back to the car I told Matt that he had a "mission." I told him he needed to hold his big, fur covered ass out my passenger window to remind these clowns that the universe doesn't revolve around them. So, sure enough, he did. On the way out of the parking lot I drove at about 4 MPH by about 75 kids. Some grimaced and reeled in horror, some smirked, and some just stared with awe as they got a full front view of Matt's winking brown eye (and enough ass hair for 3 regular dudes). I kept the pace awkwardly slow to savor the moment, laying on my VERY, VERY loud horn all the while. I was swimming in pure ecstasy.

It was a stark reminder that life doesn't revolve around Cadillac Escalades, allowance from mom and dad, and Kesha. Life is full of ugliness, sweat, and hair.

Now, this is just my opinion. This mooning could have simply been a high-schooler/twentysomething role reversal. Maybe we're just pricks, disillusioned with our adult lives. Or maybe we're right. Either way, it was a little slice of heaven.

Old Crutch or New Leg?

Being straight edge is kinda like being black. People look at you funny when you’re at a bar. People look at you funny when you’re at a party. People look at you and talk to you differently when they find out you’re straight edge. They’ll usually patronize you or try to convince you that they “hardly ever drink” as they're sitting on a couch with a twelve pack of Pabst on their lap. Denial.

Bukowski didn’t apologize for being a piece of shit. Why should you?

I’m straight edge. Know what that means? That means I can see right through the insecurities you project: your guilt complex and your fake nihilist attitude. Boloney. It doesn’t work on me. Sporting an attitude like that is like wrapping plastic wrap around a turd. It's still a turd no matter what you doll it up with. If you’ve been a hobo for three decades and you wear banana peels for sport socks, I can see why you’d be a drunk. If you’re a trust fund hipster brat who’s insecure because you dropped out of the accountant program your parents put you in, your booze/cocaine habit doesn’t impress me.

I think of myself as a “progressive” straight edger. I don’t really listen to that much hardcore. Sure, I’m a Minor Threat fan. And yes, I listen to H2O, but I’d rather listen to Miles Davis. I don’t have “X” tattoos on my hands. I don’t beat people up for no reason (usually) and I don’t wear a baseball cap and cargo shorts. Dressing like a junior high-age meathead isn’t cool to me. I just know a good policy when I see one. Plus saying “I’m straight edge” is cooler than saying “I’m 12 years sober and counting.” Just for the record, not everyone who’s sober is a recovered addict. Remember that. Some people are just smart enough to listen to their bodies. Doesn’t mean they go to AA meetings. Not everyone needs 20 other people to tell them that they're a bonehead. Straight edge is a movement worth hijacking. I’m certainly not alone in this thinking…

Here’s why I’m not insecure about being “black” (straight edge): I wake up every morning feeling like a million dollar bill that Uncle Sam pulled hot off the ink press. I don’t play the fool anymore unless I want to (I get to watch everyone else play the fool instead). I don’t have a beer belly. I don’t vomit in the morning or late-night in alleys behind rat-infested clubs. I don’t fall out of touch with my friends for five years unless I decide I want to. I’m properly hydrated (so I can think logically) every day of the week. I can count all my fingers. I don’t get hangovers. I have a college degree instead a pile of regrets and an inferiority complex. I don’t wake up at 2pm wondering why I have some sort of bizarre STD. I can run for 14 miles without stopping. I have more money than you because I don’t get fifty bucks poorer every night from senselessly binge drinking with hopes of getting laid.

Good enough?

I see the sun when it comes up in the morning and I watch the sun go down at night with a pair of sober peepers and that, my friends, is fucking righteous. Whenever I see a bunch of bros forearm high-fiving and drinking Jager Bombs I can honestly say that I’m not anything like them. If you’re out clubbing and barhopping, you’re part bro. Sorry.

Back when I used to drink I missed being sober. I forgot what it was like being a kid. I forgot what a beautiful day smelt like because my senses were jammed full of poison. I got sick of my friends and family dying while I was living like a zombie. That’s why I quit drinking. Now that I’m sober I don’t miss drinking. Not one fucking bit. Does that make sense to you? Is it rocket science? Nah. It’s just good logic. And logic is apparently WAY out out of style.

Sobriety isn't a feeling you can buy. You can’t find a commercial on TV advertising a pill that gives you this feeling. It’s an understanding I have with my body that goes a little something like this: I don’t pour poison inside of you and you don’t make me feel like an existential joke/waste of space. It’s a good agreement.

Make no mistake: I may look like I’m committing social suicide by not drinking. And hell, I may be.

And it gets worse…

I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, and I don’t take pills either. I can read some Camus if I want to gaze into the void. I don’t need to be swirling into the abyss with a wet headache and 50 pounds of belly fat.

Next time you see someone who’s straight edge, instead of being a passive aggressive shit or making a dipshit remark, you can thank them for being the DD and for keeping the world turning while you sit on the toilet all afternoon with PBR diarrhea and rotgut.

This isn’t a sermon. I’m not a preacher. And I don’t care what you do with you’re life. I just think us blacks are a little bit underrepresented. I’m just a guy who wants to set the record straight.

Thanks for understanding, folks.

Tattoos don't last forever. They only last until the "California Raisin" stage of decomposition

For those of you that don't know, I am a part time English tutor for Somali Bantu refugees (and other assorted ethnicities) as part of my Senior Capstone at PSU. A lot of these kids are pretty sheltered because of their family life and culture, which is preserved surprisingly well amidst the pressure and madness of America. Since many of the Somali Bantu live in the same apartment complex, they are able to keep their social mores and traditions at least partially intact. This makes my experience with them all the more authentic and mutually educational. My interactions with these youth are often the subject for much of my deep thinking.

These kids are continually shocked by the absurdity of American culture. Everything from my pompadour haircut and my wafer shades to my emerald green iPod nano pique their curiosity and drive them wild with wonder. Whenever I show up for my tutoring session I'm met with flurry of questions about things I take for granted. There are usually so many questions from so many shrill voices, I can only answer a few per day. A lot of their questions are critical and paradoxical. I can't blame them for being shocked and sometimes appalled by the banality and apparent silliness of American culture. They've got the right idea.

I've always thought of myself as a social critic, but when I'm with these kids, I start to feel like another cog in the machine of American kitsch. I know very well that it's impossible to avoid feeling this way. I'm just like any other sap who was born here and existentially debates with him/herself about their conventions and socialization. The point I'm trying to make is, most of these kids I tutor are just dazzled and fascinated with me, the same way any young mind is when it's exposed to something new. Their fascination fascinates me in return. I revel in the freshness of their opinions and I relish in their criticisms. These kids are heightening my ability as a critical thinker.

I'm going to get around to the point of my story now. I got a couple of fresh tattoos on my arms on Friday night. One big rose and one "Sailor's Grave" bottle. To some of these young kids, fresh tattoos must look like temporaries out of a cracker jack box. I don't know. Either way, some 10 year old girl came up behind me while I was having a conversation and tried to scratch one of them off. She didn't mean any harm, she was just curious. She probably thought it would just smudge or flake away. Much to her surprise, they were very real. When I reeled in pain, an expression of guilt and fear crossed her face. Instead of being grumpy or cantankerous, I gently explained to her that it's a real tattoo and that no amount of scratching would make it come off.

To these kids, getting tattoos is an unfathomable act of stupidity, a vain and ridiculous expression of the grotesque. It was hard for me to get my point across to this young lady that that tattoo ink is permanent, that they would never go away. She asked me if I'd have it until I died. I replied that I'd have it until I'm dead and buried. She asked if I'd have it after my body rotted away and decomposed. I explained that after the "California Raisin" stage of decomposition, the tattoos pretty much go away. After I got done talking to her, I thought long and hard about our conversation. Kids have interesting perspectives. If nothing else, they point out some of the bizarre, absurd, and foolish elements of adult life that we often overlook or consider commonplace. For the record, I have nothing but admiration for the young minds of the world, even if I bitch and moan about overpopulation.

As adults, I believe that it's our responsibility to look to other cultures as mirrors for our own cultural absurdities. I don't expect us to act dramatically, nor feel shame, I just think we owe it to ourselves to be self-reflexive as a society. We should realize that what the west is evolving into is impossibly absurd, yet strangely awe-inspiring. Every day the west is developing a myriad of fatal faults, yet there is a poetic beauty in the antithesis. I say "embrace the whole." Take the good with the bad. We can't have a Wilco without a Nickelback. For every war that's started between different cultures or societies, there is a coinciding moment of bewilderment and strange discovery happening somewhere else in the world between two different groups of people. This example stands as one of the latter. It's not up to us to fully understand one another, but to simply try. I say "scratch the tattoo." We need to peel away the mystery in order to discover and embrace the absurd, the grotesque, and the bewildering evidence that reminds us that the human race is a holy wonder.

Shumaker, heartbreaker, life taker, don't you mess around with me

After the Has-Been Corner basement show on Friday night, I cruised around the party and made conversation with a smorgasbord of old friends. I avoided reciprocating the sultry glances of young brown eyed girls in favor of an exchange of lude anecdotes with the old gang. I made an admirable effort to be a reserved individual to the young female partygoers who glanced at me from over the bonfire.

As the night grew old, I found myself in the living room making conversation with a couple of young hispanic kids that found their way to the party. Despite all rationality, I engaged in a very limited conversation with one of these kids who spoke almost no English. In that same token, my Spanish is very limited. It was nearly impossible for either of us to make any sense to one another that night but it didn't stop us from having a puzzling exchange of words. Against all odds, I tried to ask him how to pick up girls in Spanish. I asked him how to say "what's your phone number, you're beautiful, and how old are you." Those seemed like the best pick up lines to learn. Unfortunately, he was unable to accommodate my request since he didn't know that I was asking him a question. Not long after our conversation fizzled out, I said my goodbyes and left. As I was walking out to my car I heard someone running up behind me. It was none other than the hispanic boy. He walked up to me, stared me in the eyes, smiled wryly and said "we go now, I come wif you." I was a bit caught off guard so I just cocked my head and said "huh?" He just continued to smile made a gesture with his hands urging me to get in the car and said "I come with you." It took me until then to realize that our entire bizarre conversation and my politeness to him was interpreted as some sort of flirtation. The kid was trying to pick me up! I told him straight that I wasn't interested and that I was "sorry." He was shocked that his advance failed. After I shot the poor kid down, he gave me a last sad, hesitant smile, turned and walked back up the street and up to the front porch of the house. As I drove off I saw that his head was hung low and that his friends were patting him on the back, consoling him. I had no idea that simply being affable to a stranger could get me mixed up in a situation like this. Despite all of my valiant efforts to avoid excess flirtation and lustful pursuits at the party, I ended up inadvertently breaking some poor boys heart.

The more I thought about it the more I realized that this type of situation isn't uncommon. On a daily basis each and every one of us sends someone else's hopes packing simply by avoiding eye contact with a stranger or by denying someone a reciprocal smile. Sometimes it's on purpose, sometimes it's inadvertent. People smash each others lustful advances, fantastic dreams, and romantic hopes every single day by not participating in someone else's holy moment. That's alright with me, though. We all loose in the end so why not prepare ourselves slowly?

Eat a hoof, pay the price

Every once in a while I get the hair-brained idea that it's okay to eat hot dogs. If there are any two rules people should follow it's these two: don't rape and don't eat hot dogs. Today I broke one of those rules by eating a hot dog. I haven't masticated hot dog meat in well over a year so I think I just forgot how god damn hard it is on my stomach. I would equate it to eating staples and bubble gum.

"If a year goes by since you've eaten one, the tendency is to forget about the agonizing pains that are sure to come."
-Adam Shumaker

A few years ago an old roommate of mine used to buy the "BAR-S" 16-packs on a regular basis. These puppies were the bottom of the barrel in the world of hot dogs. I used to eat a lot of them. I'm talking daily. Sometimes for lunch AND dinner. I remember times when I would peel myself out of bed at 3am, get a couple of them out of the fridge, microwave them, and savage them shamelessly in my room like a wolf in a dark cave. Though I have fond memories of those wild iron-stomached days, things have changed for me. I can no longer handle that kind of physical abuse to my stomach. I could hardly handle it then. Today I was reminded of those strange times by eating two of those very same "BAR-S" brand hot dogs. After eating them along with a few handfuls of chips, I became heavily bloated. So bloated, in fact, that my posture changed to the one that fat Elvis had in the seventies before he died taking a shit. I felt like I needed to walk belly first into a fire poker for relief. I walked around with a slight hunch for the rest of the night and I could tell in my shadow that my ass and belly were protruding like someone in bad need of a bowel release. This bloating also came with a terrible case of stomach pains. The ones where you feel like your stomach is juggling a dozen freshly unwrapped razorblades.

Amidst my food consumption tonight, the host of the BBQ I was at explained that it was A-OK to "eat some hooves and assholes" every now and again. I took that advice tonight, but next time I'll think at least twice before I get on my stomach's shit list. I've got a lot of life to live and a lot of potential to spray all over the free world. What I don't have is the humility to walk around like fat Elvis for a night, despite the momentary comfort that warm hoof and asshole provided.

I am a Motherfucker

I decided to do the "park and ride" commute to PSU this morning. I took the max to my Senior Capstone: African Children. It's a study on the poor treatment of African refugees. The teacher, Sam Giola, inspires great topic discussion and allows the class to get involved in the community. So far, it's been a great experience. The class discussion got me thinking about the racism inherent in our schools and in our society. As a class, we discussed Jonathan Kozol, inner-city schools, no child left behind, community service and a range of other pertinent topics. On my walk back to the max, I continued to ponder the subject of racism and how badly it has crippled America's education system, among other things.

As I walked up to the max top I saw some commotion and heard some bad noise coming from a crowd of people. I could hear someone yelling. As I got closer, my suspicions were confirmed: another asshole trying to start trouble. A grown man of 45-50 years with a muscular build and a pontytail was the troublemaker. He was a racist with an attitude problem and a tough guy complex. This guy was ranting and raving about how America was going down the tubes "because of the foreigners." He pointed at a bunch of Middle Eastern international students who were waiting to catch a bus and started calling them "towelheads" and "sand niggers." It was absolutely surreal. There were at least 50 onlookers in close proximity and a hundred more around the courtyard. Most of them looked on in horror to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Most of the onlookers were white, so they felt no immediate need to offer help since the anger wasn't directed at them. Nobody said anything to this guy. At first people either pretended not to notice or were too scared to challenge his racist views. The Middle Eastern kids said nothing in return to the slurs being thrown at them. They just smirked and tried to preserve their dignity by stonewalling him. I respected their attitude. It wasn't long before this asshole took things to the next level. He got right up close to the Middle Eastern kids and screamed, among other things "ALLAH ACKBAR!," "ARE YOU GONNA CUT MY HEAD OFF?," "CAN YOU EVEN HEAR ME?" "DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?" This verbal abuse lasted about 15 seconds before some students started voicing their opinions, mostly quietly to their friends. This murmuring got the asshole's attention. He began to walk around and eyeball people from the crowd, looking for anyone who would challenge him. A young, small-figured female student standing nearby made a quiet comment to her friend and the guy heard it. He started moving towards her aggressively, forcing the girl to back up in fear for her safety. By the time the guy got close to the girl I was already on the move. I dashed between him and the girl and grabbed the guy by his jacket and threw him headfirst into the street. He tripped over the lip of the curb and hit the ground face-first like a sack of Russet potatoes. His head collided with the steel max track. He laid there for about 2 seconds before he started to move again. He slowly peeled his face off of the gravel and started to get back up, trying to preserve his crooked image. The wounds on his face began to appear. The blood welled out of the fresh wounds on his face: from white to pink to red. Blood poured down his forehead and cheeks out of various deep gashes. As he began to pick himself up I told him to "stay on the ground." He didn't listen. I told him again but this time he was already aggressively rising to his feet, still looking for a fight. I had no choice but to give him a return ticket to the concrete. I swiftly drop kicked him directly in the face. The guy reeled in pain. In one final act of anger I kicked his full cup of coffee all over him. The scene was over so I left before the police showed up.

I believe in free speech. That guy had the right to say whatever he wanted to. Until he began to act threateningly towards innocents, I had no intentions to act violently. But when things got ugly, I took control of the situation: for better or worse. I take no pride in the unfortunate turn of circumstances. I regret having to resort to violence. In that same token I would have regretted what would have happened to the middle eastern kids and the small-figured girl if I hadn't stepped in. Ponytail Pete was on the lookout for blood and (thanks to me) the only blood he ended up finding came from his own face. Just for the record, I won't stand for anyone making people at PSU feel uncomfortable because of their race nor will I stand for unprovoked violence toward women. Not on my motherfucking watch. No matter now controversial this seems, I stand by my decision like I stand by my love for oxygen.

Trader Joe's Vs. Winco

I've got to admit: somewhere along the line I got suckered into shopping at Trader Joe's. I think I did some junkyard math and thought for some reason that I was getting a better deal there. I could have just been deluding myself into thinking I was getting the good end of the deal but it's not true. Trader Joe's is hip and not much else. Anyway, on average I've been spending $100.00 to $150.00 on Trader Joe's food per month. Last month I spend $150.00 on groceries and they were pretty much gone by the 15th. It was absolute bullshit. Trader Joe's is expensive: there's no two ways about it. To add insult to injury, there are always a few things I get from Trader Joe's that I found out are already expired by the time I get home. Do you know why? That's because Trader Joe's sucker other people into shopping there as well and those people are usually broke hipsters who can only afford to buy a small handful of groceries at a time. For this reason, whatever these hipsters don't buy sits and expires on the shelf. That's where I come in: buying a shit ton of groceries at top dollar and also ending up with all the shit that the hipster kids can't afford (which is expired).

The point of all of this rambling is to tell you all that I was brought back down to earth the other day. My brother Garrett was like "let's go to Winco." And I said "Okay." It's a little bit of a drive out to 112th but not too bad at night. I ended up with a massive amount of groceries for about 70 dollars. I got every bit as much as I get at Trader Joe's when I spend $150.00 and it was, quite frankly, a more colorful and interesting experience. There aren't just white people there, which is cool. The produce wasn't all wrapped in plastic, the aisles were big enough to walk through, and the food is all fresh because they sell so god damned much that the stock actually ROTATES. On top of that, the prices are fucking amazing and the company is employee-owned. I also want to express my love and admiration for the bulk candy bins and the seasonal candy. They are a thing of beauty. How did I forget about Winco? I love you!

Marketable Mental Illness

I think I've had just about enough of junkyard pop psychology in film and literature. I'm talking about split personalities and personality disorders. Brad Pitt in Fight Club? C'mon. Christian Bale in American Psycho? Please. People with multiple personality disorders aren't driving cherry red sports cars and holding down high-ranking corporate jobs. People with multiple personality disorders are the ones wearing oily rags who have no teeth and babble nonsense incessantly from under a pile of crumpled newspaper and coffee grounds in a dank alley. They're the ones who curse to themselves and scream "fuck your mother" at the top of their lungs in dimly lit street corners. These are the ones who take dumps behind the trash cans on Burnside and don't care if your conservative family looks on from ten feet away in awe and horror. There is nothing convenient, interesting, or likable about having a multiple personality disorder. Fight Club, American Psycho, Identity... these type of movies are goofy trash.

They could make a movie about a person with bi-polar disorder who turns into a werewolf on sad days and roams the west hills in search of yuppy blood (with a soundtrack by My Chemical Romance). In that same token they could make a movie about a person with ADHD who is so out of touch with their attention span that they slip into another dimension and conquer an alien race. As long as mental disorders are portrayed as being cool plot devices, they could have a summer blockbuster about a superhero with an addictive personality. ...I think there may actually be a movie called "Hancock" that fits that plot description.

The only character whose mental disorder is "cool" and "interesting" is Mad Dog Murdoch from the A-Team. The only reason I label this the exception is because I love the A-Team and I love Mad Dog Murdoch.