2009 Is Going to Be a Struggle

My New Year's resolution this year was going to be to get in better shape, but that's such a cliche that if there were a school full of cliches, all of the other cliches would make fun of that cliche for being such a cliched cliche, to the point that that cliche would lose self confidence, gain weight, and spend every New Year's resolving to get in better shape.

So I'm definitely planning on getting in better shape next year, but I'm not calling it my New Year's resolution. Instead, I'm making a list of eleven resolutions I will be making for the next year.

So in 2009, I resolve to:

1. Get no more than 3 DUIs. (This one should be easy, because after two, I'm pretty sure they take your license away.)

2. Physically assault fewer midgets than I did in 2008.

3. Quit referring to little people as midgets.

4. Take at least seven showers, three of which will include washing my hair, and one of which will include conditioner.


5. Stop practicing voodoo on patients at nearby children's hospitals.

6. Avoid writing threatening letters to Cat Fancy magazine for not publishing my stories.

7. Write a quality apology to the Locks of Love charity for sending them three garbage bags filled with my back hair and demanding a king's ransom in return.

8. Make more reasonable demands to the police when taking hostages.

9. Sell significantly less heroin, crack, and PCP to members of the clergy.

10. Write an end-of-the-year blog that does not involve New Year's resolutions.

11. Find the meaning of life.

Super Exciting Amazing Internet Time Waster

I'm unveiling a new type of blog today, one that I'm certain will change the face of the internet as you know it. This is the first in a series I like to call "Super Exciting Amazing Internet Time Wasters."

I will be constructing little games designed to pass the time. These are for those days when you're sitting in your cubicle with nothing to distract you from the overwhelming certainty that you hate your job. Because, let's face it, you can only play so much minesweeper before you want to fall on a mine yourself.

As a writer, I have a slightly unhealthy appreciation for words and phrases, and I love coming up with a poetic turn of words that blends the rare combination of artistic flair, insight, and originality. This is generally a consideration when creating titles for these blogs.

So I developed a system to measure a phrase's AFIO rating.

Here's how it works:

For a given phrase, points are awarded on a scale of 1-10 for artistic flair (could it pass as a line from a Robert Frost poem, or does it sound like it came from an athlete's post game interview?) as well as insight (does it challenge common assertions or enforce wise principles, or does it work better as a theme for a reality tv show?). The best possible score is 20, while the worst score is 2. This part is admittedly subjective.

Now for the originality aspect. Take the phrase and enter it (in quotation marks) into a Google search. Take the number of entries found by Google and subtract that number from the score you got in the first part of the exercise and you have your AFIO rating. Entries to your own work aren't included in this number.

So Paris Hilton's "That's hot" would score a 4 for artistic flair, a 1 for insight, and brings up 798,000 results on Google, giving it a dismal AFIO rating of -797,995.

I recently titled a blog "Optimism in the Face of Reality," a phrase I was rather fond of. I believe it deserves a 7 for artistic flair and an 8 for insight, and it brings up 332 results in Google for a respectable AFIO score of -317.

Anything higher than zero is considered a quality effort.

The AFIO Rating Hall of Fame (comprised entirely of projectmeaning.com blog titles) currently includes:

Title, AFIO Rating

Chicks Dig Venn Diagrams, 16

The Megalomaniac Always Gets the Girl, 15

My Soul Eats Alone, 14

Thoughts Over Laundry, 12

Extra Rules:

1. Any phrase over seven words in length is disqualified from consideration.

2. Any phrase that scores lower than a 4 on artistic flair and insight combined is automatically docked one million points. If you can come up with a five point phrase nobody has used before, then it's legit.

3. All words in the phrase must be found in the dictionary.

4. Under no circumstances may puns be used in an AFIO rated phrase. Use of a pun will result in disqualification and my personal disdain for you as a human being. I realize this makes me a hypocrite, but it is for the good of society.

If you find yourself bored, try out the AFIO rating game and see how high you can score. Send me some of your best at Logan@projectmeaning.com.

The readers that send in the three best phrases will receive a free subscription to my exciting new magazine entitled, This Magazine Does Not Exist Digest and my favorite phrase will be used as the title of an upcoming blog.

No phrase can do that prize package justice.

So This is Christmas

Away in a manger,
No crib for His bed
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down His sweet head

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

The cattle are lowing
The poor Baby wakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

I love Thee, Lord Jesus
Look down from the sky
And stay by my side,
'Til morning is nigh.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

Because Christ is the meaning of life for so many people, I thought it would be fitting to commemorate this year's Christmas with a classic poem and pictures from a nativity scene I recently attended.

Incidentally, Mary and Joseph are my good friends Abbey and Alex and Baby Jesus is Ava, the three-month old daughter of my friends Karen and Michael.

Alex grew that beard for months just so he could look like Joseph. Well, at least like the kind of Joseph Norman Rockwell could have appreciated.

Ava, for her part, needed no extra preparation to steal the show as Jesus.

The War on Christmas is Decisively More Festive Than the War on Drugs

Sorry for the dearth of recent blogs. I know that virtually all of my millions and millions of readers rely on these blogs to keep them going through these difficult financial times. Unfortunately, I've had some extenuating circumstances that have prevented me from writing the past few days.

Fear not, for I am back. You know, until I'm not. Which might be the case for part of this week as well. It is the Holidays, after all.

Read this next sentence only if you're Christian:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular religion from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Christmas.

Read this next sentence only if you're Jewish:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular religion from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Hanukkah.

Read this next sentence only if you're African:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular group from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Kwanzaa.

Okay, that should cover me with everyone except practicing atheists, Jehovah's Witnesses, and radical opponents of commercialization. And let's face it, they're not gonna be happy anyway.

Anyway, when I'm not playing white elephant with my family or drinking too much eggnog and waking up among complete strangers, I should be writing about the following:

+ My crisis response unit ride-along in Phoenix (which will come only after I get approval from the department to post it).

+ Why I called 911 in Los Angeles.

+ The time I met baby Jesus.

+ How having children changes your perspective on life.

+ Ten reasons why Tijuana is a bad place to do drugs, even though they're really easy to score there.

+ Why betting on a bowl game in Vegas is a bad idea.

+ Two run-ins with the cops in one day.

+ And, of course, how I got a tranny for Christmas.

Admit it. You missed me.

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

The meaning of life.
What could it possibly be?
Perhaps a haiku.

How the Hell Did That Happen?

It's time to play everybody's favorite game..."How the Hell Did That Happen?"

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, here's how it works:

I show you a picture of an injury/scar/bruise and then present you with three scenarios. Your job is to guess which scenario is the truth and which two are transparent lies meant to sensationalize the situation. Guess correctly, and you could win a new car!* Guess incorrectly, and you will die exactly seven days from the time you read this blog.**

* You probably won't, and if you do, it won't come from me.

** The Ring 3 anyone? If a producer is out here reading this, here's your chance. I'm picturing Ben Affleck and Britney Spears in the lead roles.


Scenario #1: It is a dark and stormy night. I've just left the pub and, though I've had more shots than 50 Cent before he was famous, I've got a hankering for some Jack Daniels.

Jack and I go way back. We fought in 'Nam together, Jack and I. Though he wasn't much help when I had to steer the tank, if you get my drift. On this lonely night, I need an old friend like Jack to confide in.

But on my way to the drive-in liquor store, I am pulled over by a "copper." A "copper" is how I refer to a police officer, because I have absolutely no respect for authority. I've also seen a few too many movies featuring gangsters from the 1920s. Jack loves those movies.

As the "copper" heads towards the van, I slowly inch my hand toward my trusty 12 gauge Beretta, whom I affectionately refer to as "Eleanor." Jack and Eleanor once had an affair when I wasn't around. But I forgave them. I'm not here to judge.

I am here to shoot me a "copper." So when he asks for my license, I give him Eleanor instead.

"Here's a Christmas present, Copper," I say in my best John McClane voice as the bullet barrels through his temple. "Sorry I forget to wrap it."

Before I even finish the line, I know it is perfect for this movie script I'm working on. It's a real Holiday blockbuster. Think of it as The Untouchables meets The Goonies. Anyway, I'm so excited that I immediately turn back to grab my notepad and promptly hit my head on my cup holder, giving me an unfortunate black eye.

I am so clumsy!


Scenario #2: Did I ever tell you that I have super powers? No? It's weird that I haven't mentioned that yet in this blog.

So yeah. I have super powers. By day, I'm a mild-mannered blogger who travels the continent in his 1992 GMC Vandura. But by night...I am Owlman.

Yeah, I know it's not very catchy, but all the good superhero names are taken and my only powers are flying, turning my head around 360 degrees, and hunting small rodents...so I was pretty much stuck with Owlman.

So I'm not really big on this whole crime-fighting thing, but I figure if you've got super powers, you have to do something with them, right? So I spend most nights flying around, trying to find my place in the superhero world.

Once, I saw this kid with glasses who kind of looked like Harry Potter, and I thought, "Perfect! I could totally be his owl and deliver important messages between Hogwarts and this world of muggles!" But it turns out, he was just a normal kid with glasses.

Actually, he was pretty creeped out by the whole thing. You'd think, "man in an owl costume flying" would be a more interesting conversation to a kid with glasses than "why I am in his room," but you'd think wrong. It's embarrassing being a superhero with a restraining order.

So last night, I came up with a totally awesome way to utilize my powers. I would be the perfect complement to Santa Claus. Think about it. That can't be easy delivering presents to all the kids in the world in one night. Well, all the kids who aren't poor at least. And who else can fly? I mean it's pretty much just me. Plus, I can get rid of all those pesky rats if they try to eat the cookies children leave for Santa.

So I go down to the mall to offer Santa my services, but when I get there, he's got this surly, righteous, holier-than-thou attitude. I'm trying to offer this guy my services, and all he can say is "Leave me alone. I'm on my lunch break."

The next thing I know, Santa and I are fighting right there in the middle of the food court. I got some good shots in, but when I get temporarily distracted by a bunny rabbit in the pet store, he catches me with a good right cross, giving me a black eye.

Boy am I lucky Santa's got limited power in his right hand. If he'd hit me any harder, my head would've spun all the way around, right there in front of all those people.

Now that would've been embarrassing!


Scenario #3: I am playing in a pick-up game of basketball. As I go up for a rebound, an opponent accidentally hits me in the eye with his elbow. He immediately apologizes and all is forgotten.


So there you have it. One black eye, three equally outlandish scenarios. It's your job to determine "How the Hell it Happened." Good luck; you're going to need it.

In the meantime, I'll be off working on my Plan B. This could do irreparable harm to my modeling career.

More Annoying Than Your Average Mother-in-Law

In my dogged pursuit of the meaning of life, I've begun compiling a list of things that are undoubtedly not the answer to life's biggest question. It's time for another addition to that list.

This one is special, because unlike the first few additions to this list, I have genuine animosity towards the subject at hand. Sure, the others are devoid of higher meaning, but that doesn't mean I have a problem with them.

Pogs. How could someone possibly have angst towards pogs?

The movie Gigli. I look at it more like a starving puppy than anything else. It's a pathetic, sad commentary on life and you can't eat for two days after seeing it, but anger is entirely the wrong sentiment to express your distaste for it.

Limericks and cow tipping? Definitely not the meaning of life, but also not the worst recipe for a slow Saturday night after a few too many drinks.

But this next addition is different. I not only have one hundred percent certainty that it is not the meaning of life, but I also find it to be truly sinister, malicious, and unspeakably tacky; a total blight on humanity.

I am speaking, of course, about the car alarm.

Yes, the car alarm. That incessant, ubiquitous blaring sound that follows you into every city, every suburb, every bastion of so-called freedom in these here United States of America and beyond.

The car alarm. Mankind's technological counter to the howler monkey.

In theory, the car alarm is not evil. But in theory, Communism is not evil. That doesn't mean I'm inviting Mao Zedong, Joe Stalin, and Karl Marx over to dinner anytime soon.

Originally designed to protect our automobiles from theft, the car alarm has since turned into an ineffectual nuisance that helps no one, yet refuses to go away. The last time a car alarm successfully prevented theft was 1976, and the guy who was stealing the car was blind, deaf, and dumb...And not dumb as in silent; dumb as in "I'm too stupid to pull off a car theft because the car has an alarm."

Any thief who is capable of stealing a car is capable of stealing a car with an alarm. In fact, the only chance the alarm has in stopping him is by annoying him to death before he can disable it and get away with your vehicle.

Because the stone cold matter of fact is that car alarms are now universally ignored. They are set off far too easily and frequently. I set off my van's alarm multiple times a week. Maybe I accidentally sat on my keys and pressed the button. Or I brushed against the side of the van while passing by. Or I sighed a little too hard.

Car alarms have hair triggers. The British guards outside royal palaces never move or talk unless absolutely necessary for a reason. Because loudmouthed, hair trigger security never, ever works.

Car alarms are like the boy who cried wolf, only if there were millions of boys crying wolf every day, and those boys all happened to have incredibly shrill, loud, annoying voices and wouldn't shut up until a specific person, who is NEVER around at the right time, pushes a button to shut the shrieking boy up.

One in ten of you are enjoying this blog a little too much, because as you are reading it, an annoying car alarm is blaring in the distance. They're that frequent, like a plague of locusts sweeping over the land, only instead of ruining crops, they are slowly destroying your peace of mind.

Hell is not a Devil with pitch forks. Hell is one big parking lot which lost souls are forced to circle, with every car's alarm sounding and no keys to turn them off. Ever.

Car alarms are not the meaning of life. No. Car alarms are the meaning of bullshit.

Shouting into a Black Hole of Imagined Censorship

When contemplating then relating
Thoughts on the meaning of life,
One must be careful with his rare bull
Or it will bring nothing but Spite.

The existential differential
Has potential to be monumental,
But be deferential and prudential,
Or credentials may as well be confidential.

It’s essential to be quint-
Essentially it’s meant to be.
That the only people who will listen
Are ones who already see.

See what I mean, I mean what see
What mean I see, Mean what see I
Inconsequential and tangential thoughts
Decline exponential eye.

Or is that exponentially?
And am I being quite absurd?
Does that mean you will not listen
Or not read another word?

Because what it boils down to is
Some thing that’s boiled down.

Don’t put the cart before the horse
Or the horse gets turned around.

So if you ever should endeavor
To be whatsoever clever,
Do not offend, or in the end
Those thoughts will be alone forever.

And lonely thoughts,
Like lonely people,
Are lonely.

Thoughts Over Laundry

Why?

Why are we here?

What, given our infinitesimal existence among the greater order of the universe, could our purpose in life possibly be?

And what gives the universe meaning in the first place?

What is meaning?

Is it a word, assigned by the English language to convey an idea of importance, while importance itself is merely a word used to convey an idea?

Of what meaning is the English language, or communication in general, and what makes our communication special?

Does our communication have more meaning than the communication of pigs because of its intricacy?

Because of the thoughts behind it?

What are thoughts?

What is this question I am asking you right now and why should it matter?

Why should anything matter?

Are human beings meaningful because they were given the ability to reason?

To feel complex emotions?

What happens if reason is a mirage, if emotions are illusions, merely societal conventions used to distract ourselves from the absurdity of life?

Because if reason is all we have, can we definitively rationalize the reasoning behind rationale?

And what do we become when that reason betrays us?

Or is it our faith that makes us different?

But what is faith but an enemy of reason, fighting a fruitless battle that can never be won?

If we have faith in the existence of a higher power, should that extend to the faith that a higher power somehow intrinsically has meaning?

For what is God but the higher form of man?

If man has no meaning, what value then would God have?

If man’s meaning is God, then what is God’s meaning?

Does God have a God, and if so does God’s God have a God?

Why do we care about what we care about?

Do starving children in Africa matter if human life is irrelevant?

Or does that make you feel bad?

Is the goal of life to pursue the most pleasing emotions, the most fulfilling reasoning, and that ever elusive yet oh-so satisfying state of happiness?

How often is the thing that makes you feel the most pleasure or the most pain at one given moment in your life completely irrelevant the next?

That raise at work?

That shouting match with your parents?

Your so-called soul mate?

What is inherently meaningful about any of it?

And if it is all meaningless…If life is meaningless…What is the point of this tireless existence we force ourselves to push through, and why must we do it with a smile?

Why are we here?

Why?

Because this is all we have.

A Life Saved

Project Meaning does not exist solely in blog form.

Ideally, I'd like to turn my experiences with the intriguing individuals I've met along my journey into a documentary as well. I've shot many hours of footage with an eye on sharing some videos on this site, but various factors temporarily slowed that process.

I now have three videos on the Project Meaning Youtube page, though one is admittedly about a strike that has since been resolved. You can expect a new video once a month from here on out.

You know, unless you can't.

This debut video blog features Wayne Guerin, an eccentric yet affable man I met while camping on the shores of Lake Mead.

If you enjoy the video, please spread the word.



"I used to be a writer. I'm still a writer, but lately I've been writing things that don't make any sense."

- Wayne Guerin

What Do You Think This Is? A Holiday Inn?

Some of my finest childhood memories stem from summers spent at my grandparents' cabin in Pine, Arizona.

The rustic, isolated cabin in the woods was the perfect background for my first words ("boom" to describe the thunderstorms and "way high" to describe the surrounding trees) as well as my first encounters with hammocks, squirrels, and the unfortunate powers of skunks.

Lessons were learned, relationships were strengthened, and many episodes of "Ducktales" were watched.

So when my friend Steve first showed me his two acres of tree-filled property in the isolated and beautiful town of Timberon, New Mexico, I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Steve and his wife Laura have some great memories ahead of them on this land.

This trip, however, is for business more than pleasure. Steve is overseeing the creation of a driveway to access his land, and since Laura couldn't make it, he gets my advice and company instead which, by all objective standards, is a significant downgrade.

Though the building of the driveway goes off without a hitch (you know, as long as you weren't a tree), the trip is not without its eccentricities.

First of all, if you ever plan on driving to southern New Mexico, I highly recommend not doing it at night time.

What is the appropriate encore to almost hitting an oryx? How about almost hitting one of about thirty elk scattered throughout the road to Timberon?

The elk apparently all come out to play at night, and they don't seem to have the slightest fear of cars. Frankly, given the size of most of them, their apathy may not be misguided.

I'm reasonably certain that the streams in Timberon have been strategically filled with steroids, because not only are the local elk monstrously large with antlers straight out of an ad for The Hartford, but as Steve and I slowly passed through, one of them actually hit a home run.

Luckily for Steve's car, we never hit an elk, though it isn't because they have any problem with lounging in the middle of the road.

The next day, the elk are nowhere to be found. In their place, right on Steve's property, are a bunch of small, doe-eyed does. Believe it or not, the deer you see in the picture to the right are actual living, breathing creatures, no matter how much they look like lawn ornaments.

Steve's neighbor has gotten in the habit of feeding them by hand, so they come right up to strangers with the unguarded friendliness belying their lack of experience with hunters.

One male, however, seems a little jittery. He approaches us without a problem, but every once in a while seems startled, which generally causes him to skeptically glare at us while shaking his poorly developed horns.

This does not seem to bother Steve's neighbor, a middle-aged woman, but it makes Steve a little nervous. I get great enjoyment out of this.

Less enjoyable, however, are the travel arrangements. Steve has rented a small cabin apartment for the weekend, which is advertised in the brochure as "small." It turns out the apartment is basically no bigger than my van and provides about the same amount of headroom. At 6'5, I have to tilt my head in order to fit under the room's six foot ceiling, which gives me the strange sensation Gulliver must have felt upon landing in Lilliput.


The lesson, as always, is that if you happen to be a giant, giant man and you find yourself spending the night in Timberon, New Mexico, make sure to bring a neck brace.

An Oryx in the Night

Have you ever seen an oryx?

Do you even know what an oryx is?

Before you google the word oryx (and we both know that's what you were about to do), let's play a little exercise.

Close your eyes. (Figuratively, not literally. I don't write these things in braille.)

Let your mind drift. And just imagine.

It's night time. You've just eaten dinner and you've sat down to enjoy a nice peaceful evening. You're reading a particularly funny blog at projectmeaning.com (boy, do you love that site) when your friend calls with an unusual opportunity.

He's just bought some land in Timberon, a small town in southern New Mexico. He is heading down there for the weekend to oversee some development on his property and he'd appreciate some company.

It sounds like the trip might be fun, so you agree, but on the sixth hour of the long drive through the desert, you start to second guess yourself.

You're tired. Your eyelids start to get heavy. You notice that your friend is tired too, and you know that driving at night with a sleeping passenger can be difficult, so you fight the urge to close your eyes.

But the fatigue starts to win. The road is too long and the sky is too dark.

You begin to nod off, but before you drift into unconsciousness you hear...

"Holy shit!"

Your friend looks terrified as he pounds on the brakes. The speeding car screeches as the tires churn against the asphalt. Before your life can flash before your eyes, the headlights illuminate the source of your friend's fears, and this flashes before your eyes instead:


Imagine that while in the middle of the New Mexico desert, you almost hit an exotic animal you thought lived only in Africa and in zoos.

Imagine that you discover later that the oryx was introduced to New Mexico to draw big game hunters to the White Sands Missile Range and because of that your trip almost caused an oryx to be hit by a car, with it's battered, broken body soaked in blood, left to die.

Can you see her? I want you to picture that oryx.

Now imagine she's white.


Editor's note: If you haven't seen A Time to Kill, this blog probably made absolutely no sense to you. I'm at peace with that.

You should also know that no oryxes were harmed in the making of this blog, but only because Steve has exceptionally good reaction times while driving.

Tune in tomorrow for more on my trip to Timberon, including another A Time to Kill reference when Steve, upset that I turned the radio station, exclaims, "Yes you deserve to die! And I hope you burn in Hell!"

He has since apologized.

The Thing

Let me tell you a tale
Of a thing called The Thing,
Sit back, let me regale
True terror I'll bring.

For the thing with The Thing is The Thing never rests.
It just lies there in wait so your soul It may test.

I encountered The Thing
On a trip to the East,
Unaware it would bring
A greeting from The Beast.

My friend Steve had some land
He wanted me to see.
Though the trip was not planned,
I chose to agree.


But the thing with The Thing is The Thing doesn't care
How you got to The Thing, The Thing just knows you're there.

On a long stretch of highway,
We see many signs
Each one, at least I say,
Of nefarious design.

One billboard, Two billboards,
Three billboards, then four.
Ten billboards, then still more,
Then still more, then more.

For the thing with The Thing is The Thing grabs your soul,
And there's no need to struggle, The Thing never lets go.

Exit 322
Ten minutes ahead,
Then five minutes to doom,
In one mile you're dead.

Steve shakes as he turns,
And then parks in the lot.
My mind, it still burns,
Just to think of the thought.

But the Thing with The Thing is The Thing isn't free.
Unless you're a kid It's a dollar to see.


Our wallets now lighter,
We follow It's tracks,
It's footprints much brighter,
Than It's epic attacks.

Located discreetly
In the third of three sheds,
The Thing lies in wait neatly,
Behind an army of heads.

For the thing with The Thing is The Thing's not alone,
It's by misshapen creatures that chill to the bone.



Could that be The Thing?
No it's that; No, it's this.
So many horrors soon spring,
That none can be dismissed.

A demon of wood,
A taxidermed spider,
Is there a chance The Thing could
Be a washer and dryer?





Or is It a mirror,
With knowledge to impart
Showing much clearer
The truth in your heart?

But the thing with The Thing is The Thing is alive.
A true tangible fear waits for you to arrive.


In the middle of nowhere,
The Thing lies in wait.
To know truth you must go there,
But please hesitate.

Both Steve and myself,
Have not been the same since,
For there exists no help,
Once you've seen the Dark Prince.

But the thing with The Thing is The Thing never rests.
It just lies there in wait so your soul It may test.

So if you truly are brave
And you have time to kill.
Take a dollar to It's cave.
The Thing waits for you still.

High School Sharpie Wisdom, Part III

I've got a lot of high school wisdom to fit in this third and final post, so let's get straight to it.

Ladies and Gentlemen...America's future!

In all fairness, I'm reasonably certain that the girl who wrote this was using tongue-in-cheek humor.

And if not, well, she'll have developed a healthy alchohol tolerance to prepare her for college.

You really can't beat a good Soup Nazi reference.

It even comes complete with an illustration.

I enjoyed this signing significantly more than the student who thought a swastika on the belly of a pokemon was a clever idea.

As always, there's a thin line between funny and stupid.





Well said.

I also think happiness comes from understanding that the love of rock should compel them never to watch the "Rock of Love."

Or to ever listen to a Bret Michaels "song."





This was my first rooftop signing and, wouldn't you know it, the student had to cross a letter out.

It's not a big deal, but I feel like the pedestrians just won't fear me as much if they know I can't get things done right the first time.





This message is pretty profound.

Wait...

No it's not.

Or is it?

Let me check Wikipedia. It'll have the answer.




I vowed not to have any more teacher signatures, but Mrs. Moore was the one who invited me, and I am a sucker for a good Thoreau quote.

He and the Soup Nazi are my greatest influences, you know.



I visited the high school right after the Presidential elections, so there were a lot of political comments on the van.

Some were for Obama. Some were for McCain.

One student, apparently, preferred a third party candidate named Nobma.

Pen enthusiasts, DO NOT enter this into your url. Most of you will be sorely disappointed.

My high school visit brought the maturity level of my van down considerably because, for every profound quote or meaningful message of encouragement, there were three dick jokes.

This signature narrowly edged out "The pen is mightier than the sword" and "The meaning of life is vaginas and balls because you can't make life without either" for my "Sophomoric humor that I wish didn't make me laugh" award.

That's all for now, ya crazy kids.

Until next time, this has been

High School Sharpie Wisdom, Part II

After speaking to high school students, I have a newfound appreciation for teachers. It's not that the students weren't fun to talk to, just that there were so many of them and so much time to fill. By the end of the day, my throat was so dry that my speaking voice made Phyllis Diller's sound coquettish by comparison.

Surprisingly enough (despite my tendency to make Phyllis Diller references) the kids seemed to like me. One student, unable to afford a copy of my book, looked up at me and said, "Well, can I have a hug for free?"

My point is, the kid's these days think I'm cool. Though I'm not so cool that I'm above posting proof:




Meghan apparently hearts me.

With a smiley face.

And why wouldn't she?

I'm awesome.






Thanks Scott.

I agree.

This is a really cool idea.






Here's my promise to you Lauren:

Not only will I have a great day today, but I'll have a great day tomorrow, and the next day, and...oh who am I fooling?

Everyday is great when you're me.







Dallas thinks I'm the besst.

And you know what?

I couldn't agree more.








Maika, if you loved those stories, you should hear the ones that I didn't tell because they were inappropriate for a classroom setting.

One word:

Hilariouser.

Wait a second....

How did this one get in here?

At the feast of ego, everyone goes home hungry?

What a buzzkill.

Next time, I'm not letting the teachers sign.

I'll be back tomorrow with more high school wisdom that has nothing to do with me.

High School Sharpie Wisdom, Part I

One of my high school English teachers recently stumbled upon my book. One of her students, who happens to be the younger brother of a friend of mine, was reading it at school and asked her if she knew me.

So she read the book and not only did she resist the urge to grade it with a red-ink pen, she asked me to speak to her classes. With my cousin getting married in my hometown of Phoenix, I planned to stop through anyway. So I accepted.

Six classes of students at Sandra Day O'Connor High School were forced to sit in a room for hours at a time listening to me tell stories about traveling the country in my van, living homeless in Vegas, and working for the immortal Gene Simmons. I also worked in some anti-drug stories in order to stay compliant with the law requiring all high school guest speakers to speak out against drugs.

Surprisingly enough, the students seemed to enjoy themselves, even if each class period was just me talking for an hour. The last two classes even went out to sign the van, which will be the focus of a three part high school edition of "Sharpie Wisdom."

These are actual signatures from real high school students. No actors were involved and, as far as I know, no animals were hurt in the process:

How many Robert Frost quotes do you have on your vehicle? Because I've got two and counting on my van. Jealous much? It is interesting to note that when Frost originally wrote this, he used two hearts but only one smiley face.

This was my first Joni Mitchell quote, and I must say I'm impressed. I was worried that I'd get quotes like:

"Lollipop
Must mistake me, you're the sucker
To think that I
Would be a victim, not another"
-Britney Spears

Maybe our high school students have better taste than we give them credit for.




This sounds like a really wise quote, so I checked to see who said it.

It is most commonly attributed to the film The Princess Diaries.

To quote Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."



This was one student's response to a joke I made about George W. Bush as well as my claim that the Monkees were far more sophisticated musicians than the Beatles.

For the record, I was being sarcastic. The Beatles were much better than the Monkees could ever hope to be.

I stand by the Bush joke.

Who cares?

I'll be back tomorrow with more wisdom from America's future.

After You Read This Blog, Go See Slumdog

After concentrating in recent weeks on matters of the un-meaningful (see "tipping, cows" and "limericks, annoying") I thought it might be a nice change of pace to focus on some possible meanings of life.

As always, I'm not saying any of these are the meaning of life, I'm just saying I haven't been able to rule them out yet:

+ Chance encounters with amazing individuals.

+ The smell of a brand new car.

+ World AIDS day.

+ The ability to learn from past mistakes.

+ The promise of a better tomorrow.

+ Slumdog Millionaire. I can't recommend Danny Boyle's masterpiece highly enough.

+ Being there to offer support when a friend succeeds.

+ Being there to offer support when a friend fails.

+ A moment of clarity on a chaotic day.

+ 44.

+ Going out of your way to show someone you care.

+ Good conversation in a Hollywood hot tub.

+ Winning a swimming race you have no business winning.

+ Appreciation for the people who do the jobs you couldn't do yourself.

+ Taking absolutely no stock in the words of Dr. David Reuben.

+ Thanksgiving leftovers.

+ Facing the fear of the unknown and leaving the experience a stronger person.

+ Creating your own Thanksgiving traditions.

+ Long walks on the beach broken up by ferris wheel rides.


+ Purchasing a brand new copy of The Hobo Diet.

+ Shameless product placement.

+ Knowing when to shave your goofy mustache.

Monster Trucks and Fancy Cats

Say what you want about living in a van, but it does lead to some pretty spectacular bedroom views. While you're stuck with that view of the neighbor's pool, or the neighbor's trash cans, or the neighbor's illicit affair that only you and your telescope know about, the view out my window can range from the Grand Canyon, to Niagara Falls, to the world famous Tuscaloosa Walmart.

In Sedona, Arizona, I don't need my van for a spectacular bedroom view. My cousin Diane and her husband, Eric, invite me to stay at their beautiful home in Sedona. Eric is an architect, and he has designed their home in an "H" shape, maximizing the effect of the picturesque mountain in their backyard.

This is the view I wake up to in the guest bedroom:


The mountain is nicknamed "Thunder Mountain," which places Diane and Eric's house on "Thunder Mountain Road." When Eric mentions this, all I can think of is the overzealous announcers at monster truck events that exaggerate every proper noun by yelling it three times.

"It's Thunder Mountain, Thunder Mountain, THUNDER MOUNTAIN ROAD!"

When it comes down to it, however, Diane and Eric live a life that evokes no images of a monster truck rally. The house Eric designed is beautifully sophisticated and the couple are avid wine drinkers.

Diane even works part-time for a nearby vineyard, where she and Eric treat me to a wine tasting. I'd never really associated Arizona with wine before, but the local winery is quite impressive, boasting rows and rows of flourishing grapevines near a quaint and peaceful brook.

Sedona is a pretty special town, so it's not surprising that the occasional resident is a bit...let's say...particular. I'm not talking about Diane or Eric, both of whom are wonderful hosts who remain very down to earth. I'm talking about their cat, Paco, who refuses to drink from a bowl.

No, Paco can not quench his thirst unless he is drinking running water, and has managed to train both of his owners to turn on the kitchen sink upon his demand various times throughout the day. Now that's a cat that knows what he wants.

Oh, and if anybody asks, Diane and Eric are very hip and with it, and neither would ever go to bed at eight o' clock on a Saturday night.

And I would never go back on a promise not to mention that in this blog just because I thought it was funny.