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.