Hey everybody. I'm really sorry for the giant drop-off in updates. I thought I'd do some housekeeping to let everybody who still checks this thing know what's going on.
+ I've been stuck in Phoenix with a broken/dislocated finger that needs surgery and rehab. Getting the finger fixed has been a long and ridiculous process that has somewhat derailed the traveling aspect of this project.
+ I've taken numerous crazy jobs, many of which have been scams, and have not come out of any of them with any money to speak of, also hurting the traveling aspect of this project.
+ I still plan on blogging, but not regularly until I get back out on the road, which I'm guessing will be sometime between late 2009 and early 2010.
+ Though these problems have not been helpful for this blog, they have given me quite a bit of insight into some serious flaws in the social institutions of this country, and my recent experiences will all be detailed in the book I will write at the end of this project.
+ The book will cover all of the experiences shared in this blog, as well as the troubles I've had recently, and my future adventures. I am reasonably certain it will not suck.
+ If you miss this blog (whether that be due to a mental illness or not), and want to keep up with some of my writing, you can check out HealthCareCrisisNews.com. I wrote the script for the 9/1 show and have written many more scripts for future episodes.
+ If you happen to live in Tempe, you can now purchase The Hobo Diet at Changing Hands Bookstore.
Now that you're done reading my list of shameless plugs, enjoy the rest of your day surfing the internet to avoid work.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I Didn't Die Yet, and Other Things to Celebrate
If you've followed this blog from the start, you know that I've slowed the updates down considerably over the past few months. There are a few reasons for this, the most important of which is that I've definitively decided to turn this project and experience into a book. That focus has put the blog somewhat on the back burner, but I am still committed to keeping this blog interesting as well.
The updates on the blog, though written in present tense, take place a couple months ago. I am currently in my hometown of Phoenix, AZ, taking a brief break from the van. Don't worry, I'm still collecting crazy stories for the blog and book, and I'll soon be back in the van and on my way to the East Coast, with an eye on finding a perfect ending for my voyage. In the meantime, I'll try to be a little bit better about updating this blog.
You can expect occasional updates over the next few weeks, followed by a return to regular updating form come September. Then, eventually, there will also be a book out, complete with the definitive answer to the ultimate question.
Well, that's all for now. I just wanted to reassure those whose contact with me is relegated to this blog that I did not die in a fiery van crash and that my organs have not been sold on the black market.
Although if you'd like to start that rumor, you have my permission.
The updates on the blog, though written in present tense, take place a couple months ago. I am currently in my hometown of Phoenix, AZ, taking a brief break from the van. Don't worry, I'm still collecting crazy stories for the blog and book, and I'll soon be back in the van and on my way to the East Coast, with an eye on finding a perfect ending for my voyage. In the meantime, I'll try to be a little bit better about updating this blog.
You can expect occasional updates over the next few weeks, followed by a return to regular updating form come September. Then, eventually, there will also be a book out, complete with the definitive answer to the ultimate question.
Well, that's all for now. I just wanted to reassure those whose contact with me is relegated to this blog that I did not die in a fiery van crash and that my organs have not been sold on the black market.
Although if you'd like to start that rumor, you have my permission.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Two Men Enter...
Editors Note: Though this account is constructed with truth and accuracy, names have been changed to protect the innocent. Plus, I've always wanted to write that sentence and mean it.
There are a lot of images one could reasonably associate with a man stepping out of a beat-up 1992 GMC Vandura parked outside a school playground in the middle of the day. Most of them are not pretty.
But on this particular day, that van yields a business professional, a dapper young gentleman armed with a three piece suit and a sunny demeanor. A man with a new kind of mission: A man with intents on briefly joining forces with The Man.
It is 10:20 AM, and I have parked the van across the street from a school located down the way from my job interview. With resume in hand, I glide toward the office building with a sense of purpose. Stepping through a glass door, I smile at the receptionist and give a knowing nod. She greets this with a look of dismay and directs me to the waiting room.
In the waiting room, I meet another prospective employee, a 6'5 clean shaven young man named Charles. Charles seems like a really nice guy, somebody who would be easy to work with. He also seems very professional.
I bet Charles doesn't live in his van.
This thought is interrupted by the receptionist, who continues to frown, only now does so in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," she offers. "I was supposed to tell you to get here at noon, not ten-thirty."
David, the man who had interviewed me in a nice suit earlier in the week, follows her into the room with his hand extended. Today he is considerably dressed down, sporting khakis and a blue polo shirt.
"Sorry for the mix up," he says flippantly. "If you wanna just go grab lunch or something and come back in and hour and a half, that would be great."
Charles heads to a very nice luxury automobile as I head back to the van, suit intact, and bide my time with some rousing games of minesweeper. After the allotted time, I head back to the office, where David greets Charles and me once again.
"Just so you know," David smiles, looking both of us up and down, "we only have room to hire one of you."
He pauses for dramatic effect.
"So bring your A game."
There are a lot of images one could reasonably associate with a man stepping out of a beat-up 1992 GMC Vandura parked outside a school playground in the middle of the day. Most of them are not pretty.
But on this particular day, that van yields a business professional, a dapper young gentleman armed with a three piece suit and a sunny demeanor. A man with a new kind of mission: A man with intents on briefly joining forces with The Man.
It is 10:20 AM, and I have parked the van across the street from a school located down the way from my job interview. With resume in hand, I glide toward the office building with a sense of purpose. Stepping through a glass door, I smile at the receptionist and give a knowing nod. She greets this with a look of dismay and directs me to the waiting room.
In the waiting room, I meet another prospective employee, a 6'5 clean shaven young man named Charles. Charles seems like a really nice guy, somebody who would be easy to work with. He also seems very professional.
I bet Charles doesn't live in his van.
This thought is interrupted by the receptionist, who continues to frown, only now does so in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," she offers. "I was supposed to tell you to get here at noon, not ten-thirty."
David, the man who had interviewed me in a nice suit earlier in the week, follows her into the room with his hand extended. Today he is considerably dressed down, sporting khakis and a blue polo shirt.
"Sorry for the mix up," he says flippantly. "If you wanna just go grab lunch or something and come back in and hour and a half, that would be great."
Charles heads to a very nice luxury automobile as I head back to the van, suit intact, and bide my time with some rousing games of minesweeper. After the allotted time, I head back to the office, where David greets Charles and me once again.
"Just so you know," David smiles, looking both of us up and down, "we only have room to hire one of you."
He pauses for dramatic effect.
"So bring your A game."
Saturday, June 13, 2009
A Suitable Venture
I know two things when I leave my first job interview in Houston:
1) I've got a good shot at landing the job.
2) I've got a much better shot at landing the job in a nice suit.
Now, this leaves me feeling a bit ambivalent. Let's face it, it's kind of ridiculous to quit your job and hit the road in a van to discover the meaning of life, only to sell out for a new job at the first sign of adversity. And while I don't feel like getting a job to keep the project is really selling out, placing undue importance on said job would be.
Buying a monkey suit solely for a job interview would be the first step on that magical voyage to Selloutopia, where so many choose to settle down and they always choose to settle. But if I don't buy said monkey suit, there's always the issue of possible starvation in the near future.
So I compromise.
I buy a suit...but I buy it at Walmart.
That's right. For less than three figures, you can get reasonably nice slacks, a matching sport coat, a polo shirt, and a tie at everyone's favorite exploitative emporium.
Less than one hundred dollars, and I look like a businessman. Maybe not a very successful businessman, but my prospective employer posted the job ad on Monster.com. How discerning could they possibly be?
And so I find myself the next day parking a football field away from the office, and stepping out of my autograph laden 92 Vandura decked out in a business suit, with my resume in one hand and a wish in the other.
Time to shine.
1) I've got a good shot at landing the job.
2) I've got a much better shot at landing the job in a nice suit.
Now, this leaves me feeling a bit ambivalent. Let's face it, it's kind of ridiculous to quit your job and hit the road in a van to discover the meaning of life, only to sell out for a new job at the first sign of adversity. And while I don't feel like getting a job to keep the project is really selling out, placing undue importance on said job would be.
Buying a monkey suit solely for a job interview would be the first step on that magical voyage to Selloutopia, where so many choose to settle down and they always choose to settle. But if I don't buy said monkey suit, there's always the issue of possible starvation in the near future.
So I compromise.
I buy a suit...but I buy it at Walmart.
That's right. For less than three figures, you can get reasonably nice slacks, a matching sport coat, a polo shirt, and a tie at everyone's favorite exploitative emporium.
Less than one hundred dollars, and I look like a businessman. Maybe not a very successful businessman, but my prospective employer posted the job ad on Monster.com. How discerning could they possibly be?
And so I find myself the next day parking a football field away from the office, and stepping out of my autograph laden 92 Vandura decked out in a business suit, with my resume in one hand and a wish in the other.
Time to shine.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Stay Classy, Houston.
"Make sure to bring two copies of your resume," the woman on the phone tells me. "Oh, and the dress is business professional."
Business professional. Very Classy.
I'm going to have to park the van far away from the office.
And so I do.
The project has brought me to Houston, and given my dissipating funds, I really need the marketing job I've stumbled across on Monster.com. That means the van gets parked down the street.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not willing to lie to get the job. But I'm not going to go out of the way to advertise that I'm living in a van either. When I step out of the van, I look good. I am wearing black slacks with a long-sleeved black business shirt.
Johnny Cash would be proud.
Okay, so maybe I'm not up to The Man in Black's standards, but I don't look like an inmate at Folsom Prison either, and that's good enough for me.
Unfortunately, when I step into the small office where I will be interviewing, I realize that I am the only person in the building not wearing a three piece suit.
David, the man interviewing me, is wearing a suit. He looks very professional. He also looks like he should still be in college, but who am I to judge? I just want a job.
"So I see you worked in Hollywood," he mentions, seemingly intrigued.
"Yeah, I was a production assistant on some reality shows."
"What do they pay out there?"
"I was usually making about $6oo a week," I reply, hoping to gauge the level of pay this position would offer.
"Really? That's all they pay out there?" he asks skeptically, as if I'd just told him I had been making minimum wage. That can't be a bad sign.
It also can't be a bad sign that David seems intrigued by my resume. I even explain Project Meaning, and that my travels searching for the meaning of life may mean my time in Houston will be cut short.
He nods. I brace myself for rejection. Instead, David just smiles.
"Forty two. That's the meaning of life."
"Right. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."
"You get that reference?" David asks. "Very impressive."
And so the interview ends on a positive note.
On the hike back to the van, I smile. Maybe getting a job while doing this project won't be that hard after all.
A few hours later, I get a call from the office secretary.
"David was very impressed by you. He wants to schedule you for a second interview on Thursday."
Awesome.
"Oh," she says after a pause, "and he asked me to remind you to dress business professional."
Great. Time to buy a suit.
Business professional. Very Classy.
I'm going to have to park the van far away from the office.
And so I do.
The project has brought me to Houston, and given my dissipating funds, I really need the marketing job I've stumbled across on Monster.com. That means the van gets parked down the street.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not willing to lie to get the job. But I'm not going to go out of the way to advertise that I'm living in a van either. When I step out of the van, I look good. I am wearing black slacks with a long-sleeved black business shirt.
Johnny Cash would be proud.
Okay, so maybe I'm not up to The Man in Black's standards, but I don't look like an inmate at Folsom Prison either, and that's good enough for me.
Unfortunately, when I step into the small office where I will be interviewing, I realize that I am the only person in the building not wearing a three piece suit.
David, the man interviewing me, is wearing a suit. He looks very professional. He also looks like he should still be in college, but who am I to judge? I just want a job.
"So I see you worked in Hollywood," he mentions, seemingly intrigued.
"Yeah, I was a production assistant on some reality shows."
"What do they pay out there?"
"I was usually making about $6oo a week," I reply, hoping to gauge the level of pay this position would offer.
"Really? That's all they pay out there?" he asks skeptically, as if I'd just told him I had been making minimum wage. That can't be a bad sign.
It also can't be a bad sign that David seems intrigued by my resume. I even explain Project Meaning, and that my travels searching for the meaning of life may mean my time in Houston will be cut short.
He nods. I brace myself for rejection. Instead, David just smiles.
"Forty two. That's the meaning of life."
"Right. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."
"You get that reference?" David asks. "Very impressive."
And so the interview ends on a positive note.
On the hike back to the van, I smile. Maybe getting a job while doing this project won't be that hard after all.
A few hours later, I get a call from the office secretary.
"David was very impressed by you. He wants to schedule you for a second interview on Thursday."
Awesome.
"Oh," she says after a pause, "and he asked me to remind you to dress business professional."
Great. Time to buy a suit.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Chain of Fools
Toll booths. Mayonnaise. Car alarms. Limericks. Cow tipping, Gigli, and pogs.
What do these all have in common?
They've all been systematically proven by yours truly to not be the ultimate meaning of life. Now, I present the newest inductee into the Existential Irrelevance Hall of Fame: Chain Letters.
You know chain letters. They're those annoying messages that threaten bad luck or bodily harm if you don't immediately forward the contrived, manipulative, and/or get-rich-quick message presented to everyone you know.
These damn things are everywhere these days. Originally just a random nuisance for the postal system, chain letters are now prevalent in emails, on social networking sites like Myspace and Facebook, and even on cell phone texts.
They are a waste of space, time, and brain cells.
Still, spam's retarded cousin shows up everywhere I look. And not once has a chain letter ever brought anything but a frown to my face.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A million people die every day from not knowing the meaning of life.
You can save those people!
Forward this blog to ten of your closest friends immediately or you will have the worst week of your life! :(
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
See, they're even annoying in parody form.
Seriously, what compels people to create these things? Are we that starved for attention? Do we really have nothing better to do with our time? Is there anything on the planet more ridiculous?
Things I have more respect for than chain letters include, but are not limited to:
+ Scientology stress tests.
+ Pauly Shore's career.
+ The reign of Ugandan dictator Idi Amin, a man whose human rights atrocities were overshadowed only by his legendary cannibalism.
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm overreacting. You think that chain letters, while indisputably annoying, are ultimately harmless, at least when compared to an ethnic cleanser and the star of Biodome.
To that, I do not argue about the poor hard-working schlubs who have been conned out of money from get-rich-quick pyramid schemes. Nor do I argue that the misinformation common in these messages is systematically dumbing down our society.
No, I simply bring you this message, straight from the official web site for The Make-A-Wish Foundation, in an entire section devoted to chain letters:
"Each day, the Make-A-Wish Foundation and its chapters receive hundreds of inquiries about chain letters claiming to be associated with the Foundation and featuring sick children. However, we do not participate in these kinds of wishes.... The time and expense required to respond to these inquiries distracts the Foundation from its efforts on behalf of children with life-threatening medical conditions, and more importantly, can divulge information that is potentially harmful to a child and his or her family."
That's right. Chain letters are interfering with the dying wishes of sick children.
Daily.
Take that, Idi Amin.
What do these all have in common?
They've all been systematically proven by yours truly to not be the ultimate meaning of life. Now, I present the newest inductee into the Existential Irrelevance Hall of Fame: Chain Letters.
You know chain letters. They're those annoying messages that threaten bad luck or bodily harm if you don't immediately forward the contrived, manipulative, and/or get-rich-quick message presented to everyone you know.These damn things are everywhere these days. Originally just a random nuisance for the postal system, chain letters are now prevalent in emails, on social networking sites like Myspace and Facebook, and even on cell phone texts.
They are a waste of space, time, and brain cells.
Still, spam's retarded cousin shows up everywhere I look. And not once has a chain letter ever brought anything but a frown to my face.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A million people die every day from not knowing the meaning of life.
You can save those people!
Forward this blog to ten of your closest friends immediately or you will have the worst week of your life! :(
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
See, they're even annoying in parody form.
Seriously, what compels people to create these things? Are we that starved for attention? Do we really have nothing better to do with our time? Is there anything on the planet more ridiculous?
Things I have more respect for than chain letters include, but are not limited to:
+ Scientology stress tests.
+ Pauly Shore's career.
+ The reign of Ugandan dictator Idi Amin, a man whose human rights atrocities were overshadowed only by his legendary cannibalism.
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm overreacting. You think that chain letters, while indisputably annoying, are ultimately harmless, at least when compared to an ethnic cleanser and the star of Biodome.
To that, I do not argue about the poor hard-working schlubs who have been conned out of money from get-rich-quick pyramid schemes. Nor do I argue that the misinformation common in these messages is systematically dumbing down our society.
No, I simply bring you this message, straight from the official web site for The Make-A-Wish Foundation, in an entire section devoted to chain letters:
"Each day, the Make-A-Wish Foundation and its chapters receive hundreds of inquiries about chain letters claiming to be associated with the Foundation and featuring sick children. However, we do not participate in these kinds of wishes.... The time and expense required to respond to these inquiries distracts the Foundation from its efforts on behalf of children with life-threatening medical conditions, and more importantly, can divulge information that is potentially harmful to a child and his or her family."
That's right. Chain letters are interfering with the dying wishes of sick children.
Daily.
Take that, Idi Amin.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Guess Who's Back? Yeah...It's Just Me.
If you are one of the millions and millions out there that follow this blog regularly, you've no doubt noticed that I haven't updated with a new blog for a week and a half now.
As it turns out, emergency room bills are even more exorbitant than I thought. Consequently, after getting my dislocated finger treated in an Atlanta emergency room, I spent the past week returning to Phoenix in the hopes that having a permanent address would make finding a job easier.
The plan, as it stands now, is to work in Phoenix for a couple months, promote The Hobo Diet in Las Vegas in July, then finish this project on the East Coast, where I will inevitably discover that ever elusive meaning of life.
Though I will be taking a break from living in a van, I will be continuing the project. Check back over the next couple weeks for stories of online dating, job hunting, and existential exploits in Houston, San Antonio, Atlanta, Orlando, and more.
Thank you. You may resume scanning the internet for celebrity gossip, porn, and/or twitter updates.
As it turns out, emergency room bills are even more exorbitant than I thought. Consequently, after getting my dislocated finger treated in an Atlanta emergency room, I spent the past week returning to Phoenix in the hopes that having a permanent address would make finding a job easier.
The plan, as it stands now, is to work in Phoenix for a couple months, promote The Hobo Diet in Las Vegas in July, then finish this project on the East Coast, where I will inevitably discover that ever elusive meaning of life.
Though I will be taking a break from living in a van, I will be continuing the project. Check back over the next couple weeks for stories of online dating, job hunting, and existential exploits in Houston, San Antonio, Atlanta, Orlando, and more.
Thank you. You may resume scanning the internet for celebrity gossip, porn, and/or twitter updates.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
They've Created a Monster
With hopes of becoming an oil rig worker dimming, I decide it is necessary to look for other work in Houston. My reasons for moving on include, but are not limited to:
+ I learn that becoming a grunt on an oil rig is about as feasible at this juncture as becoming a rock star, horse jockey, or nuclear physicist.
+ I decide any job could lead to good stories as long as I was paying attention to my surroundings and making stupid decisions (always a guarantee for good stories).
+ I check my bank account.
Now, I don't mean to be melodramatic, but the list of people with better financial portfolios than I have includes MC Hammer, Ed McMahon, and that guy you just gave a dollar to at the freeway on-ramp because you liked the cardboard sign he was holding up. My point is, beggars can't be choosers, so when I arrive to Houston, I decide to increase my options to any job that will take me.
That involves searching for work on the internet. Unfortunately, Monster.com provides me primarily with job listings that fit into one of three categories: 1) completely out of my league due to lack of experience, 2) an obvious scam, and 3) a really crappy sounding job that may or may not be a scam.
I decide to wade through the listings in category three. Almost immediately, I stumble across an ad looking for people to get into "event marketing." It sounds both professional and interesting, yet is considered entry-level and is open to all college graduates regardless of major. I call the number listed and am set up with an appointment the next day.
"Make sure to bring two copies of your resume," the woman on the phone tells me. "Oh, and the dress is business professional."
Business professional. Very classy.
I'm going to have to park the van far away from the office.
+ I learn that becoming a grunt on an oil rig is about as feasible at this juncture as becoming a rock star, horse jockey, or nuclear physicist.
+ I decide any job could lead to good stories as long as I was paying attention to my surroundings and making stupid decisions (always a guarantee for good stories).
+ I check my bank account.
Now, I don't mean to be melodramatic, but the list of people with better financial portfolios than I have includes MC Hammer, Ed McMahon, and that guy you just gave a dollar to at the freeway on-ramp because you liked the cardboard sign he was holding up. My point is, beggars can't be choosers, so when I arrive to Houston, I decide to increase my options to any job that will take me.
That involves searching for work on the internet. Unfortunately, Monster.com provides me primarily with job listings that fit into one of three categories: 1) completely out of my league due to lack of experience, 2) an obvious scam, and 3) a really crappy sounding job that may or may not be a scam.
I decide to wade through the listings in category three. Almost immediately, I stumble across an ad looking for people to get into "event marketing." It sounds both professional and interesting, yet is considered entry-level and is open to all college graduates regardless of major. I call the number listed and am set up with an appointment the next day.
"Make sure to bring two copies of your resume," the woman on the phone tells me. "Oh, and the dress is business professional."
Business professional. Very classy.
I'm going to have to park the van far away from the office.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Student
You will do great things.
Of this you are certain.
You will do great things not because they are expected of you
Not because they are required of you
But because they are familiar.
At the gate of opportunity
Or the precipice of disaster
You are calm.
Empowered by the knowledge
That no matter what has come before you
Or what will come in the future
You are ready.
A true test of character has never scared you.
You have seen selflessness firsthand and you are stronger for it.
You know what it is to be loved.
To love.
You are your mother's son.
And for that
You shall never want.
This poem is dedicated to a constant source of unconditional love and unwavering support in my life; a confidant and a friend. Thank you for always being there for me...even when "there" happens to be paradise.
Happy Mother's Day and Aloha!
Of this you are certain.
You will do great things not because they are expected of you
Not because they are required of you
But because they are familiar.
At the gate of opportunity
Or the precipice of disaster
You are calm.
Empowered by the knowledge
That no matter what has come before you
Or what will come in the future
You are ready.
A true test of character has never scared you.
You have seen selflessness firsthand and you are stronger for it.
You know what it is to be loved.
To love.
You are your mother's son.
And for that
You shall never want.
This poem is dedicated to a constant source of unconditional love and unwavering support in my life; a confidant and a friend. Thank you for always being there for me...even when "there" happens to be paradise.
Happy Mother's Day and Aloha!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
To Boldly Go Where Many Have Gone Before
Ultimately, the goal of this blog, project, and eventual resulting book (look for it in participating stores whenever stores start deciding to participate) is to find the meaning of life.
Obviously, my method to attack that goal is not always conventional nor is it consistent, partially because I'm a big fan of variety, partially because I think meaning is often found in unexpected places, and partially because sometimes I just like to write something fun for the Hell of it. So, in the spirit of switching this blog up every once in a while, I am introducing a new running theme..."Top Eleven Lists."
One of my favorite books growing up was a compilation of "Top Ten Lists" from David Letterman's show. It provided me hours of entertainment and proved to be far more entertaining than Jay Leno's compilation book, "1001 Mildly Humorous and Delightfully Inoffensive Topical Jokes."
Had I taken to Leno, you'd have to poise yourself for a query regarding the current temperature outside. Fortunately, I preferred Letterman, so instead you can sit back and enjoy the first installment of Project Meaning's "Top Eleven List." Incidentally, I make the lists go to eleven instead of ten in honor of a) avoiding copyright infringement, b) my overwhelming urge to go above and beyond for the millions and millions of people who read this blog and c) my favorite scene from This is Spinal Tap.
So without further ado, I bring you The Top Eleven Signs That Star Trek is Cool Again:
11. Women start showing up to the conventions.
Notice the "e" in women.
10. Burger King does commercials involving their creepy mascot, an alien race from the series, and an inexcusably bad pun. People continue to eat Whoppers anyway.
9. Scientology is outdone by a new religion citing Gene Roddenberry as their Lord and Savior. None of the founding members are given wedgies by the Catholics.
8. Somewhere in rural Indiana, a man effectively utilizes his Star Trek memorabilia collection to get laid.
7. Two words: Shatner. Fever.
6. Barack Obama starts ending his speeches with the "live long and prosper" hand sign. It soon becomes synonymous with "hope."
5. The Bloods and the Crypts are overtaken by a new street gang calling themselves "The Borg." Using an eerily interconnected approach, they recruit a staggering amount of disenfranchised albinos and lead them into a life of violent crime. Resistance to the gang's tactics is, of course, futile.
4. In high schools across America, the Klingon language is used to mock the less popular kids.
3. Teenage girls tear down their posters of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers, and the Twilight vampire and replace them with calendars of Leonard Nimoy in provocative poses.
2. In honor of Spock, cold calculated logic becomes a hip new trend, immediately rendering Snuggies, Chicago Cubs fans, and Fergie's singing career obsolete.
And the number one sign that Star Trek is cool again...
1. Trekkie groupies.
If you enjoyed this list, feel free to send me suggestions for future lists. If you didn't enjoy this list, please refrain from suggesting "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Lists Are Gay," "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Your Blog is Gay," and "The Top Eleven Reasons Why You Suck."
Obviously, my method to attack that goal is not always conventional nor is it consistent, partially because I'm a big fan of variety, partially because I think meaning is often found in unexpected places, and partially because sometimes I just like to write something fun for the Hell of it. So, in the spirit of switching this blog up every once in a while, I am introducing a new running theme..."Top Eleven Lists."
One of my favorite books growing up was a compilation of "Top Ten Lists" from David Letterman's show. It provided me hours of entertainment and proved to be far more entertaining than Jay Leno's compilation book, "1001 Mildly Humorous and Delightfully Inoffensive Topical Jokes."Had I taken to Leno, you'd have to poise yourself for a query regarding the current temperature outside. Fortunately, I preferred Letterman, so instead you can sit back and enjoy the first installment of Project Meaning's "Top Eleven List." Incidentally, I make the lists go to eleven instead of ten in honor of a) avoiding copyright infringement, b) my overwhelming urge to go above and beyond for the millions and millions of people who read this blog and c) my favorite scene from This is Spinal Tap.
So without further ado, I bring you The Top Eleven Signs That Star Trek is Cool Again:
11. Women start showing up to the conventions.
Notice the "e" in women.
10. Burger King does commercials involving their creepy mascot, an alien race from the series, and an inexcusably bad pun. People continue to eat Whoppers anyway.9. Scientology is outdone by a new religion citing Gene Roddenberry as their Lord and Savior. None of the founding members are given wedgies by the Catholics.
8. Somewhere in rural Indiana, a man effectively utilizes his Star Trek memorabilia collection to get laid.7. Two words: Shatner. Fever.
6. Barack Obama starts ending his speeches with the "live long and prosper" hand sign. It soon becomes synonymous with "hope."
5. The Bloods and the Crypts are overtaken by a new street gang calling themselves "The Borg." Using an eerily interconnected approach, they recruit a staggering amount of disenfranchised albinos and lead them into a life of violent crime. Resistance to the gang's tactics is, of course, futile.
4. In high schools across America, the Klingon language is used to mock the less popular kids.
3. Teenage girls tear down their posters of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers, and the Twilight vampire and replace them with calendars of Leonard Nimoy in provocative poses.2. In honor of Spock, cold calculated logic becomes a hip new trend, immediately rendering Snuggies, Chicago Cubs fans, and Fergie's singing career obsolete.
And the number one sign that Star Trek is cool again...
1. Trekkie groupies.
If you enjoyed this list, feel free to send me suggestions for future lists. If you didn't enjoy this list, please refrain from suggesting "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Lists Are Gay," "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Your Blog is Gay," and "The Top Eleven Reasons Why You Suck."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
My Neck Remains Soft
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
You can quote me on that. In fact, someone ought to write a book about that.
I really do want to work on an oil rig. Unfortunately, the more research I do, the less likely a possibility that seems. I buy a subscription to a web site advertising oil job listings for both experienced oil workers and entry level applicants. Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that the site will be about as effective in getting a job in the oil industry as Monster.com or Craigslist.
Even more disconcerting are the message boards I come across. Apparently, I am not the only one with the brilliant idea of becoming on oil rig grunt. Plenty of aspiring grunts post frequently on various boards asking the best way to get work. In each thread, the response is similar: There is no work to be had, and if there were, you would almost certainly need rock solid connections in the industry to gain you favor.
Actually, most threads devolve quite quickly from advice into an impromptu search for jobs. The message boards are littered with guys who have years, sometimes even decades, of experience working on oil rigs who just got laid off from one rig and are desperately looking for another to no avail.
The economy has not helped my cause. The oil site I joined claims that the number of people seeking jobs on oil rigs is not enough to keep up with the demand, but this is clearly written a while ago. All other research indicates that while demand for workers in a struggling oil market goes down, the supply is increasing.
The life of a roughneck is difficult and the work taxing. If American Idol is to be believed (and it is not the type of show to utilize hyperbole and propaganda, in the same way that I'm not the type of writer to use sarcasm and pop-culture references) then oil rig roughnecks have the fifth most dangerous job in the world.
Before an economic crisis, that's enough to keep most people away, but roughnecks also make over twenty dollars an hour. In this climate, that makes it a hard job to come by, and with my savings dwindling by the minute, it looks like I might not have the luxury of pursuing an in-demand job.
So when I get to Houston, I cancel my subscription to the oil site, and pull up Monster.com instead.
Time to make some even better laid plans.
Editor's Note: For those interested, the four jobs considered more dangerous than roughneck on an oil rig are as follows:
4. P. Diddy's Personal Assistant.
3. Customer Complaint Rep for Time Warner Cable.
2. CEO for an American Automobile Manufacturer.
1. Professional Shark Humper.
Cue NBC's "The More You Know" graphic, and I'm out.
You can quote me on that. In fact, someone ought to write a book about that.
I really do want to work on an oil rig. Unfortunately, the more research I do, the less likely a possibility that seems. I buy a subscription to a web site advertising oil job listings for both experienced oil workers and entry level applicants. Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that the site will be about as effective in getting a job in the oil industry as Monster.com or Craigslist.
Even more disconcerting are the message boards I come across. Apparently, I am not the only one with the brilliant idea of becoming on oil rig grunt. Plenty of aspiring grunts post frequently on various boards asking the best way to get work. In each thread, the response is similar: There is no work to be had, and if there were, you would almost certainly need rock solid connections in the industry to gain you favor.
Actually, most threads devolve quite quickly from advice into an impromptu search for jobs. The message boards are littered with guys who have years, sometimes even decades, of experience working on oil rigs who just got laid off from one rig and are desperately looking for another to no avail.
The economy has not helped my cause. The oil site I joined claims that the number of people seeking jobs on oil rigs is not enough to keep up with the demand, but this is clearly written a while ago. All other research indicates that while demand for workers in a struggling oil market goes down, the supply is increasing.
The life of a roughneck is difficult and the work taxing. If American Idol is to be believed (and it is not the type of show to utilize hyperbole and propaganda, in the same way that I'm not the type of writer to use sarcasm and pop-culture references) then oil rig roughnecks have the fifth most dangerous job in the world.
Before an economic crisis, that's enough to keep most people away, but roughnecks also make over twenty dollars an hour. In this climate, that makes it a hard job to come by, and with my savings dwindling by the minute, it looks like I might not have the luxury of pursuing an in-demand job.
So when I get to Houston, I cancel my subscription to the oil site, and pull up Monster.com instead.
Time to make some even better laid plans.
Editor's Note: For those interested, the four jobs considered more dangerous than roughneck on an oil rig are as follows:
4. P. Diddy's Personal Assistant.
3. Customer Complaint Rep for Time Warner Cable.
2. CEO for an American Automobile Manufacturer.
1. Professional Shark Humper.
Cue NBC's "The More You Know" graphic, and I'm out.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Will There Be Blood?
Driving through Northern Texas, I can't help but notice the fields of oil derricks dotting the landscape. Really, it's impossible not to notice them, because that's pretty much all there is in Northern Texas.
Oil derricks. Okay, oil derricks and pregnant teenagers. But I digress.
Every time I pass another derrick, I can't help but smile. I am, after all, on my way to being an oil man myself. I'm convinced that the best job to get in order to fund the rest of Project Meaning is as a grunt on an oil rig.
According to my research, oil grunts make up to $25 an hour due to the physical demands and inherent dangers of the work involved. Even better, workers on offshore oil rigs tend to work in shifts, with a demanding two weeks at sea followed by two weeks of rest and relaxation time at home. This would work perfectly for my project.
So I mentally prepare myself for the challenge. I watch a documentary about life on an oil rig. I become a member of a web site promising inside information on the oil industry and links to the best oil jobs around. I even get weirded out when an oil rig grunt makes it into the later stages of American Idol.
But there's just one problem.
In order to be a grunt on an oil rig, you have to be hired to be a grunt on an oil rig.
Oil derricks. Okay, oil derricks and pregnant teenagers. But I digress.
Every time I pass another derrick, I can't help but smile. I am, after all, on my way to being an oil man myself. I'm convinced that the best job to get in order to fund the rest of Project Meaning is as a grunt on an oil rig.
According to my research, oil grunts make up to $25 an hour due to the physical demands and inherent dangers of the work involved. Even better, workers on offshore oil rigs tend to work in shifts, with a demanding two weeks at sea followed by two weeks of rest and relaxation time at home. This would work perfectly for my project.
So I mentally prepare myself for the challenge. I watch a documentary about life on an oil rig. I become a member of a web site promising inside information on the oil industry and links to the best oil jobs around. I even get weirded out when an oil rig grunt makes it into the later stages of American Idol.
But there's just one problem.
In order to be a grunt on an oil rig, you have to be hired to be a grunt on an oil rig.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Unenlightened and Unemployed: My Search for Meaning Becomes My Search for Work
It turns out existential philosophy saturated with pop-culture references is not the get-rich-quick scheme Bernie Madoff promised me it would be.
This project is financed primarily through my savings from working on "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" and some greatly appreciated support from family, so it was never a secret that I would eventually run out of money at some point on the road.
To avoid losing the "purposeful" aspect of my homelessness, I devise a plan to get work in the middle of the project. Of course, speaking as a man with enough stupidity/naivete/we'll go with moxie to head off in search of the meaning of life, getting a regular job is not in the plans.
No, my goal is to find a job that will not only sustain the project economically, but also provide it with a great deal of interesting stories, and perhaps if I'm lucky, even an undercover expose on a potentially corrupt industry. I'm thinking a modern adaptation of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
After some careful consideration and planning in my hometown of Phoenix, I decide to take Project Meaning through Texas. In search of an interesting job to write about, I look for the following attributes:
+ Decent pay. I don't need to make a fortune, but it would be nice to make more than the kid working the grease trap at Burger King.
+ An interesting environment. The more exotic the job, the more interesting characters, and the better the chance at unearthing a real story.
+ A little danger. As a product of the MTV generation, I've always felt that dangerous somehow translates to cool and interesting, no matter how stupid that actually sounds as I type this sentence. Plus, I'm a big believer in finding a way to significantly test yourself every once in a while in order to grow as a person.
After considering my qualifications, I came across the perfect job.
"Guess what?" I find myself asking anyone and everyone who will listen, to which most of them feign interest, even going so far as to provide me with an obligatory, "What?"
"I'm going to be a grunt on an oil rig."
And so my search for work (which, as it turns out has very little to do with oil yet does involve a considerable amount of grunting) begins.
This project is financed primarily through my savings from working on "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" and some greatly appreciated support from family, so it was never a secret that I would eventually run out of money at some point on the road.
To avoid losing the "purposeful" aspect of my homelessness, I devise a plan to get work in the middle of the project. Of course, speaking as a man with enough stupidity/naivete/we'll go with moxie to head off in search of the meaning of life, getting a regular job is not in the plans.
No, my goal is to find a job that will not only sustain the project economically, but also provide it with a great deal of interesting stories, and perhaps if I'm lucky, even an undercover expose on a potentially corrupt industry. I'm thinking a modern adaptation of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
After some careful consideration and planning in my hometown of Phoenix, I decide to take Project Meaning through Texas. In search of an interesting job to write about, I look for the following attributes:
+ Decent pay. I don't need to make a fortune, but it would be nice to make more than the kid working the grease trap at Burger King.
+ An interesting environment. The more exotic the job, the more interesting characters, and the better the chance at unearthing a real story.
+ A little danger. As a product of the MTV generation, I've always felt that dangerous somehow translates to cool and interesting, no matter how stupid that actually sounds as I type this sentence. Plus, I'm a big believer in finding a way to significantly test yourself every once in a while in order to grow as a person.
After considering my qualifications, I came across the perfect job.
"Guess what?" I find myself asking anyone and everyone who will listen, to which most of them feign interest, even going so far as to provide me with an obligatory, "What?"
"I'm going to be a grunt on an oil rig."
And so my search for work (which, as it turns out has very little to do with oil yet does involve a considerable amount of grunting) begins.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
How the Hell Did That Happen Again?
I got injured again the other day, which is good news for you, because it's time to play your favorite game you almost certainly don't remember! That's right, it's "How the Hell Did That Happen?" the game where I present three equally plausible scenarios for how I got injured, and you have to guess which one is the truth.
As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **
* There is no prize. That was just a joke.
** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?
The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.
Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.
Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.
It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.
As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.
Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.
Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.
"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."
He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.
"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."
Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)
Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.
Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.
I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"
As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."
Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.
The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.
The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.
At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."
Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.
There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.
Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.
So there you have it. One dislocated finger, 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 hand-modeling career.
As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **
* There is no prize. That was just a joke.
** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?
The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.
Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.
Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.
It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.
As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.
Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.
Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.
"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."
He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.
"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."
Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)
Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.
Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"
As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."
Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.
The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.
The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.
At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."
Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.
There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.
Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.
So there you have it. One dislocated finger, 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 hand-modeling career.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Window
A quiet calm fills the space.
Peace is found in routine.
In normalcy, contentment.
And then, in the silence,
Without warning
A predator emerges.
Lurking in the shadows
Of a lifetime spent unwise
The demon shows itself at last.
With overwhelming force
It envelops all hope
And leaves only doubt.
Dread fills the heart and mind
When one expects evil
And receives only indifference.
Gasping for breath,
Searching for something to hold onto,
A glance to the Heavens.
And then calm once again.
With nothing to lose
There is nothing to fear.
And yet the demon lurks still,
Promising to return anew
and show once more the face of reason.
Fear itself.
Peace is found in routine.
In normalcy, contentment.
And then, in the silence,
Without warning
A predator emerges.
Lurking in the shadows
Of a lifetime spent unwise
The demon shows itself at last.
With overwhelming force
It envelops all hope
And leaves only doubt.
Dread fills the heart and mind
When one expects evil
And receives only indifference.
Gasping for breath,
Searching for something to hold onto,
A glance to the Heavens.
And then calm once again.
With nothing to lose
There is nothing to fear.
And yet the demon lurks still,
Promising to return anew
and show once more the face of reason.
Fear itself.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Flintstone!
So my boss just chewed me out today, and it's got me feeling pretty down.
But Logan, you may be saying to your computer, how can your boss chew you out? You ARE your boss.
Exactly. And when you live in your van and find yourself yelling at yourself, it's time to get your act together.
I haven't been very good recently about updating this blog. You'll notice that for the first few months of this project, I was cranking out a blog nearly every day. Once 2009 started, that changed to every other day, and it has been even less the past couple of months. There are several reasons behind that, but the main reason is that I have been lazy.
You see, I fancy myself a philosopher, and in all of my philosophizing I have discovered two certainties:
1. Philosophers are lazy.
2. People who fancy themselves as philosophers are even lazier.
Like philosophers, they are thinkers not doers. Unlike philosophers, they are too lazy to even put in the work to be considered a philosopher by anyone outside their social circle. People who fancy themselves as philosophers include, but are not limited to:
+ Every pothead you've ever met.
+ Your roommate's boyfriend who never leaves your apartment and considers beating Legend of Zelda on the original Nintendo Entertainment System to be his life's greatest accomplishment.
+ Every single person who has ever been to Burning Man. (This will likely include many of the more ambitious potheads you've met.)
+ Celebrities with Q ratings that are significantly higher than their IQ scores.
+ Guys who travel the country searching for the meaning of life but can't take the time to regularly share their insights.
Since this is company I would not like to keep, I'm going to make it a point to update this blog more frequently in the future. I'm aiming at an average of four entries per week, but don't be upset if it's closer to three. I am also searching for work (a source of future blogs) and, let's face it, laziness isn't an illness cured overnight.
If it's anything less than three per week, send me a letter with a self-addressed stamp envelope and I'll gladly return your Projectmeaning.com subscription fees. If you haven't been paying subscription fees, then you'll read what I post and you'll like it!
Sorry about that. I'm still a little upset about getting chewed out by my boss.
Editor's Note: Please keep in mind that the stories and occurrences described in this blog, though written for truth and accuracy, are not always time sensitive. Blogs are generally published on a bit of a delay, often detailing events that happened as long as a month ago. So when I write about my adventures job-hunting and internet dating in Houston, I'll likely be doing it from Atlanta. Thanks for everyone who has expressed interest in my well-being and thanks for everyone who has been reading the blog. I greatly appreciate your continued support.
But Logan, you may be saying to your computer, how can your boss chew you out? You ARE your boss.
Exactly. And when you live in your van and find yourself yelling at yourself, it's time to get your act together.
I haven't been very good recently about updating this blog. You'll notice that for the first few months of this project, I was cranking out a blog nearly every day. Once 2009 started, that changed to every other day, and it has been even less the past couple of months. There are several reasons behind that, but the main reason is that I have been lazy.
You see, I fancy myself a philosopher, and in all of my philosophizing I have discovered two certainties:
1. Philosophers are lazy.
2. People who fancy themselves as philosophers are even lazier.
Like philosophers, they are thinkers not doers. Unlike philosophers, they are too lazy to even put in the work to be considered a philosopher by anyone outside their social circle. People who fancy themselves as philosophers include, but are not limited to:
+ Every pothead you've ever met.
+ Your roommate's boyfriend who never leaves your apartment and considers beating Legend of Zelda on the original Nintendo Entertainment System to be his life's greatest accomplishment.
+ Every single person who has ever been to Burning Man. (This will likely include many of the more ambitious potheads you've met.)
+ Celebrities with Q ratings that are significantly higher than their IQ scores.
+ Guys who travel the country searching for the meaning of life but can't take the time to regularly share their insights.
Since this is company I would not like to keep, I'm going to make it a point to update this blog more frequently in the future. I'm aiming at an average of four entries per week, but don't be upset if it's closer to three. I am also searching for work (a source of future blogs) and, let's face it, laziness isn't an illness cured overnight.
If it's anything less than three per week, send me a letter with a self-addressed stamp envelope and I'll gladly return your Projectmeaning.com subscription fees. If you haven't been paying subscription fees, then you'll read what I post and you'll like it!
Sorry about that. I'm still a little upset about getting chewed out by my boss.
Editor's Note: Please keep in mind that the stories and occurrences described in this blog, though written for truth and accuracy, are not always time sensitive. Blogs are generally published on a bit of a delay, often detailing events that happened as long as a month ago. So when I write about my adventures job-hunting and internet dating in Houston, I'll likely be doing it from Atlanta. Thanks for everyone who has expressed interest in my well-being and thanks for everyone who has been reading the blog. I greatly appreciate your continued support.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Going Postal, Part II
"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"
"Yes Sir."
"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."
"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."
"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
These words haunt me as I step toward the post office doors the next day. It is eight in the morning, right as the office opens, but I still have a limited amount of time budgeted to get my post office box and still make it to the job interview I have scheduled for later in the day.
When I get into the customer service room (think the lobby of The Bellagio, Donald Trump's bedroom, or the prized harem of an Arabian prince to properly envision the room's ambience) I am pleased to see the woman who promised me no issues today working at the front desk.
After a small wait in line, I approach her with the proper paperwork and a smile.
"Hi. Remember me?"
"I do." She pauses. "Let me go to the back and see if I can get you a box."
Two minutes pass, and she does not return.
Three minutes.
Four.
Five.
With each passing minute, my confidence in the government postal service wanes. Six minutes later, she inevitably returns with a confused look on her face.
"I'm sorry. We can't rent a box to you if you don't have a local address."
"But you said yesterday that..."
"I'm sorry. My manager says we can't rent out a box to someone without a local address."
I ask to speak to her manager. That's right. The US Postal Service made me become that guy.
A small statured Latino man approaches the counter.
"Why can't I have the post office box I purchased on your website?"
"It is our policy not to rent one out without proof of address."
"It doesn't mention your policy on the website before charging my credit card for a box that apparently doesn't exist."
"We have nothing to do with the website."
"But I can still rent a box of that website? And why can't you rent to someone without a local address?"
"It's just our policy."
"I thought this was the United States Postal Service, not the Texas Postal Service." Okay, admittedly a bit melodramatic, but this is two days in a row. I explain my current situation to the manager calmly, then ask, "How could it possibly serve you to deny me the common courtesy of a post office box simply because I live in a van rather than an apartment?"
The man pauses, searching for a response, then looks back at me blankly and says the following phrase:
"We have to do everything in our power to avoid terrorist attacks."
"Wait, what?"
"Terrorists can use post office boxes to send anthrax and weapons through the United States."
"What does that have to do with me having a local address?"
"Sir, 9/11 changed things."
Slam!
The post office manager and I are both taken aback by the loud sound. It takes me a moment to realize that my natural reaction to his pulling the 9/11 card was to slam my fist down on the counter with such impact as to scare the living crap out of everyone around me.
"Sir, if you are going to be violent, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the manager musters in his most authoritative voice, though his fear belies him.
"I'm sorry," I reply calmly. "I shouldn't have done that, but it was just my natural reaction."
And I must say, it is surprisingly effective. After scaring the man with my fist pound, he quits spewing his irrational rhetoric and actually lets me talk.
I explain to him that I find the use of a national tragedy as an excuse to deny American citizens simple luxuries such as a post office box to be patently offensive. I also outline the opinion that proof of a local address is a completely arbitrary and half-assed way to screen for terrorists and that any terrorist capable of procuring anthrax would surely be able to manufacture proof of a local address. Furthermore, I detail that I am extremely unimpressed with the service being provided by the post office he manages and that I do not appreciate being sold a make believe post office box online and then denied service for suspected terrorism.
At some point, the man starts to change his stance. I don't know if it's because he agrees with my logic, if he sees the woman at the counter smiling in support of my impassioned plea as if this were a scene in a movie and she were an extra used for a pathos-inducing cutaway, or if he just realized that I was going to be more trouble than he wanted to deal with, but he eventually writes down his number and promises to get back to me personally.
Finally, a victory for the little guy. And all it took was the perceived threat of violence. As it turns out, the government knew what it was doing all along.
Fear is a pretty powerful tool to get people to do what you want.
"Yes Sir."
"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."
"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."
"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
These words haunt me as I step toward the post office doors the next day. It is eight in the morning, right as the office opens, but I still have a limited amount of time budgeted to get my post office box and still make it to the job interview I have scheduled for later in the day.
When I get into the customer service room (think the lobby of The Bellagio, Donald Trump's bedroom, or the prized harem of an Arabian prince to properly envision the room's ambience) I am pleased to see the woman who promised me no issues today working at the front desk.
After a small wait in line, I approach her with the proper paperwork and a smile.
"Hi. Remember me?"
"I do." She pauses. "Let me go to the back and see if I can get you a box."
Two minutes pass, and she does not return.
Three minutes.
Four.
Five.
With each passing minute, my confidence in the government postal service wanes. Six minutes later, she inevitably returns with a confused look on her face.
"I'm sorry. We can't rent a box to you if you don't have a local address."
"But you said yesterday that..."
"I'm sorry. My manager says we can't rent out a box to someone without a local address."
I ask to speak to her manager. That's right. The US Postal Service made me become that guy.
A small statured Latino man approaches the counter.
"Why can't I have the post office box I purchased on your website?"
"It is our policy not to rent one out without proof of address."
"It doesn't mention your policy on the website before charging my credit card for a box that apparently doesn't exist."
"We have nothing to do with the website."
"But I can still rent a box of that website? And why can't you rent to someone without a local address?"
"It's just our policy."
"I thought this was the United States Postal Service, not the Texas Postal Service." Okay, admittedly a bit melodramatic, but this is two days in a row. I explain my current situation to the manager calmly, then ask, "How could it possibly serve you to deny me the common courtesy of a post office box simply because I live in a van rather than an apartment?"
The man pauses, searching for a response, then looks back at me blankly and says the following phrase:
"We have to do everything in our power to avoid terrorist attacks."
"Wait, what?"
"Terrorists can use post office boxes to send anthrax and weapons through the United States."
"What does that have to do with me having a local address?"
"Sir, 9/11 changed things."
Slam!
The post office manager and I are both taken aback by the loud sound. It takes me a moment to realize that my natural reaction to his pulling the 9/11 card was to slam my fist down on the counter with such impact as to scare the living crap out of everyone around me.
"Sir, if you are going to be violent, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the manager musters in his most authoritative voice, though his fear belies him.
"I'm sorry," I reply calmly. "I shouldn't have done that, but it was just my natural reaction."
And I must say, it is surprisingly effective. After scaring the man with my fist pound, he quits spewing his irrational rhetoric and actually lets me talk.
I explain to him that I find the use of a national tragedy as an excuse to deny American citizens simple luxuries such as a post office box to be patently offensive. I also outline the opinion that proof of a local address is a completely arbitrary and half-assed way to screen for terrorists and that any terrorist capable of procuring anthrax would surely be able to manufacture proof of a local address. Furthermore, I detail that I am extremely unimpressed with the service being provided by the post office he manages and that I do not appreciate being sold a make believe post office box online and then denied service for suspected terrorism.
At some point, the man starts to change his stance. I don't know if it's because he agrees with my logic, if he sees the woman at the counter smiling in support of my impassioned plea as if this were a scene in a movie and she were an extra used for a pathos-inducing cutaway, or if he just realized that I was going to be more trouble than he wanted to deal with, but he eventually writes down his number and promises to get back to me personally.
Finally, a victory for the little guy. And all it took was the perceived threat of violence. As it turns out, the government knew what it was doing all along.
Fear is a pretty powerful tool to get people to do what you want.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Going Postal, Part I
Among the worst places to find yourself at any given time:
+ The DMV.
+ War-torn Darfur.
+ A Nickelback concert.
+ Anywhere a Nickelback song is playing.
+ Anywhere in Darfur a Nickelback song is playing.
+ The post office.
Unfortunately, I recently find myself at one of these locales. (Hint: It's a place well known for murders and it is not in Africa.)
With a plan to get work in Houston and stay there for a couple months, I think it only fitting to get a post office box. To do this, I simply go online, find a local post office, and purchase a box over the internet, allowing me both a place to receive mail and a local address to use for my job interview the next day. It is the perfect plan...or so I think.
I am instructed to go to the post office in person to claim the box I purchased, but after waiting in line for what seems like hours, I am told that they usually require a local address to get a box.
"Why?"
"It's our policy."
"Why is it your policy?"
"It's our policy."
"Did you know they don't mention your policy online when they ask for your credit card?"
"Well, I guess we can make an exception."
"Thank you."
After going to the back to get my keys, the woman helping me comes back empty-handed. Apparently, the box I was sold already belongs to someone else.
"Can I get a different box then?"
"No, I'm sorry. I need my manager to authorize that."
"Can I get a refund?"
"We don't give refunds."
"Even when you sell me something that doesn't exist?"
"I'm sorry, but our manager is not here. If you come back tomorrow, we'll be able to help you out."
"So I have to come back tomorrow?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"
"Yes Sir."
"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."
"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."
"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
+ The DMV.
+ War-torn Darfur.
+ A Nickelback concert.
+ Anywhere a Nickelback song is playing.
+ Anywhere in Darfur a Nickelback song is playing.
+ The post office.
Unfortunately, I recently find myself at one of these locales. (Hint: It's a place well known for murders and it is not in Africa.)
With a plan to get work in Houston and stay there for a couple months, I think it only fitting to get a post office box. To do this, I simply go online, find a local post office, and purchase a box over the internet, allowing me both a place to receive mail and a local address to use for my job interview the next day. It is the perfect plan...or so I think.
I am instructed to go to the post office in person to claim the box I purchased, but after waiting in line for what seems like hours, I am told that they usually require a local address to get a box.
"Why?"
"It's our policy."
"Why is it your policy?"
"It's our policy."
"Did you know they don't mention your policy online when they ask for your credit card?"
"Well, I guess we can make an exception."
"Thank you."
After going to the back to get my keys, the woman helping me comes back empty-handed. Apparently, the box I was sold already belongs to someone else.
"Can I get a different box then?"
"No, I'm sorry. I need my manager to authorize that."
"Can I get a refund?"
"We don't give refunds."
"Even when you sell me something that doesn't exist?"
"I'm sorry, but our manager is not here. If you come back tomorrow, we'll be able to help you out."
"So I have to come back tomorrow?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"
"Yes Sir."
"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."
"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."
"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
My Faith in Humanity Gets a Much Needed Jump Start
It's easy to become a bitter, cynical curmudgeon these days.
Advancements in technology have made in-person interpersonal communication a dying art form. Twenty four hour news networks and sensationalistic local news telecasts highlight a seemingly endless parade of misdeeds and atrocities committed against and by seemingly normal individuals. The economy is in the toilet thanks in large part to a system perpetuated and destroyed by greed.
Sometimes it is hard to see the good in people.
I fall victim myself to the need to vilify society, in part because it is an easy way to pass the blame when I screw up; in part because it is easier to notice when I've been wronged than when I've righted; in part because encounters with assholes and unfortunate circumstances tend to make better blogs.
Ultimately, however, I still believe that the vast majority of people are good-natured, kind, and more than willing to help someone in need. I still believe that, and I will continue to believe that as long as my van keeps running.
You see, I run my vandominium like an office of sorts. I've got my laptop set up to a wireless card so I can be hooked up to the internet at all times, and it is generally set up on my office desk (which happens to be a blue bucket, but still) and plugged into an outlet from a power inverter. In fact, I'm writing this blog from my van right now.
The only problem with my setup (you know, besides the whole bucket thing) is that the power inverter draws power from the van. When power runs low, the inverter lets out a screeching noise to indicate the van is almost out of battery power. Once in a while, I will fall asleep or have my headphones on, or do something equally as stupid and careless, and my van's power will be too drained to start the engine.
More recently, as I switched from my broken laptop to a new one, the screech tends to happen after the battery power is drained rather than right before. As a result, I find myself needing a jump to start my car rather fequently.
Now, because of the frequency of this issue, I carry charger cables in my van. I know how to jump start the van very easily, and all I require from a person willing to help is that they have a car and one minute of spare time. Asking for a jump is not asking for much.
Still, it requires someone to take a moment from their day, as well as the trust that a stranger has no ulterior motives for approaching them. It is a request that could very easily be turned down for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that nobody owes me anything.
The beautiful fact of the matter, however, is that I have never had trouble finding someone to help me jump start the van. I have lost battery power at least twenty times on this trip, and it has never taken me more than a couple minutes to find someone willing to help me.
I have needed help in the morning and at night, in busy parking lots and relatively empty lots. I have asked middle aged women and young men. I have approached individuals with extremely nice cars and individuals living out of not-so-nice cars. I have run out of power near the border of Mexico and near the border of Canada, in Oregon and in Texas, in Idaho and in Georgia, and it has never been a problem finding someone to help out.
In fact, in over twenty attempts (and I'm being conservative with the numbers) I've only been turned down three times. Once, by a security guard who was not allowed to use the company vehicle in that way, once by someone who had been having car issues and feared his car would react poorly, and once by someone who just plain looked scared of me. In all three cases, the next person I approached was happy to oblige.
When I had the chance to return the favor recently and provide a jump for a man in Houston, he was so grateful that he immediately started giving me business tips. He was living out of his car, but had a background with computers, and did his best to relay all of the business tricks he had learned purchasing laptops, fixing them and adding new software, then turning them for a profit.
The man did not have much, but these secrets were his to give, something he could provide of value.
He was happy to give them because he was so pleasantly surprised by my willingness to give his car a jump when he needed it.
I was happy to tell him with confidence and sincerity that almost anyone would do the same.
Advancements in technology have made in-person interpersonal communication a dying art form. Twenty four hour news networks and sensationalistic local news telecasts highlight a seemingly endless parade of misdeeds and atrocities committed against and by seemingly normal individuals. The economy is in the toilet thanks in large part to a system perpetuated and destroyed by greed.
Sometimes it is hard to see the good in people.
I fall victim myself to the need to vilify society, in part because it is an easy way to pass the blame when I screw up; in part because it is easier to notice when I've been wronged than when I've righted; in part because encounters with assholes and unfortunate circumstances tend to make better blogs.
Ultimately, however, I still believe that the vast majority of people are good-natured, kind, and more than willing to help someone in need. I still believe that, and I will continue to believe that as long as my van keeps running.
You see, I run my vandominium like an office of sorts. I've got my laptop set up to a wireless card so I can be hooked up to the internet at all times, and it is generally set up on my office desk (which happens to be a blue bucket, but still) and plugged into an outlet from a power inverter. In fact, I'm writing this blog from my van right now.
The only problem with my setup (you know, besides the whole bucket thing) is that the power inverter draws power from the van. When power runs low, the inverter lets out a screeching noise to indicate the van is almost out of battery power. Once in a while, I will fall asleep or have my headphones on, or do something equally as stupid and careless, and my van's power will be too drained to start the engine.
More recently, as I switched from my broken laptop to a new one, the screech tends to happen after the battery power is drained rather than right before. As a result, I find myself needing a jump to start my car rather fequently.
Now, because of the frequency of this issue, I carry charger cables in my van. I know how to jump start the van very easily, and all I require from a person willing to help is that they have a car and one minute of spare time. Asking for a jump is not asking for much.
Still, it requires someone to take a moment from their day, as well as the trust that a stranger has no ulterior motives for approaching them. It is a request that could very easily be turned down for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that nobody owes me anything.
The beautiful fact of the matter, however, is that I have never had trouble finding someone to help me jump start the van. I have lost battery power at least twenty times on this trip, and it has never taken me more than a couple minutes to find someone willing to help me.
I have needed help in the morning and at night, in busy parking lots and relatively empty lots. I have asked middle aged women and young men. I have approached individuals with extremely nice cars and individuals living out of not-so-nice cars. I have run out of power near the border of Mexico and near the border of Canada, in Oregon and in Texas, in Idaho and in Georgia, and it has never been a problem finding someone to help out.
In fact, in over twenty attempts (and I'm being conservative with the numbers) I've only been turned down three times. Once, by a security guard who was not allowed to use the company vehicle in that way, once by someone who had been having car issues and feared his car would react poorly, and once by someone who just plain looked scared of me. In all three cases, the next person I approached was happy to oblige.
When I had the chance to return the favor recently and provide a jump for a man in Houston, he was so grateful that he immediately started giving me business tips. He was living out of his car, but had a background with computers, and did his best to relay all of the business tricks he had learned purchasing laptops, fixing them and adding new software, then turning them for a profit.
The man did not have much, but these secrets were his to give, something he could provide of value.
He was happy to give them because he was so pleasantly surprised by my willingness to give his car a jump when he needed it.
I was happy to tell him with confidence and sincerity that almost anyone would do the same.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Frisbee Dan
"I'm never happy. I'm a perfectionist. I always want to do better."
~ Frisbee Dan
Select few individuals in history have ascended to the role of cultural icon, transcending time and space to create a lasting legacy in the hearts and minds of generations to come.
Plato. George Washington. Shakespeare. Mozart. Einstein.
Frisbee Dan is not one of these icons. But to the students and alumni of Texas State University and the citizens of San Marcos, Texas, he might as well be.
When I first approach Dan for an interview, he holds up his finger, sprints toward the nearby river, pulls off his shirt, and jumps in. Five minutes later, he returns as if no time has elapsed since my question.
"I've met a lot of (students)," Frisbee Dan tells me. "Once in a while they'll get a Frisbee from me and they'll come back five, eight years later and they will walk up to me and say, 'You're still here.' "
"Here" is the middle of Sewell Park, a popular hangout on the Texas State campus. It is in part popular, I surmise, because of its well known Bikini Beach, a grassy knoll where coeds gather to sunbathe. Rumor has it that the intersection directly adjacent to Bikini Beach is one of the premier locations for traffic accidents in the nation.
On this day, however, my focus is not on the bikini-clad babes, but rather the middle-aged man wearing aviator goggles and dolphin shorts that would make Richard Simmons blush. After all, you can find hot women in bikinis lots of places, but there's only one Frisbee Dan.
“Most everybody in town knows me right as I walk through the door,”
"One of the cards says, 'Buy Frisbee Dan longer shorts,' " he says, laughing.
So how does a mild mannered man with nothing but a pair of short shorts and a love for Frisbee become a local legend? His story starts way back in 1985, when Dan had an accident that would change his life forever.
“I fell out of a truck and went into what they call an active coma. The lights were flickering, but I didn’t know what was going on. I lost complete peripheral vision on the right side of my head."
He pauses.
"But if you watch me play Frisbee, it has no bearing on my control and catching.”
Dan's head injury prompted a move to Tangram Rehabilitation Center in Texas, where he was a patient for four years. He took to the center so well, however, that he immediately transitioned from patient to staff member. For eight years, Dan worked where he had once been treated, and when he found Sewell Park, he knew he had a place that combined his two greatest loves: talking to people, and doing kickass Frisbee tricks.
Up until 1998, Dan balanced his work life with his life at Sewell Park, heading down to toss the Frisbee every chance he got. Then, after transitioning to work as a professional landscaper, he stepped up his Frisbee game. For the past ten years, Frisbee Dan has gone to Sewell Park seven days a week, "about six or seven hours a day," to share his love of Frisbee with others.
Not everyone, however, shares this love of Frisbees. Some just love a good inside joke. It is a common occurrence throughout my interview with Frisbee Dan for students to catcall or yell jokes in Dan's direction. The vast majority of these barbs come from various male students walking by, all of whom can invariably be described as the "frat type."
"Alright! Frisbee Dan TV!" one guy yells.
"Whooo!!! Go Frisbee Dan!" another adds later.
"Troublemakers!" Dan yells back, eliciting a cacophony of sarcastic "whats" and "huhs" from the group.
This causes Dan to laugh uproariousy before turning back me. "They always give me a hard time."
There is a certain lack of self awareness in Dan that some might find off-putting, or perhaps deserving of sympathy. Ultimately, however, it's hard not to like Frisbee Dan because, behind the goofy goggles and the dolphin shorts, behind the Frisbee tricks and the odd behavior, there is a man at peace with who he is and what he stands for, no matter how out of touch from reality he may be.
But, really, who am I to judge what reality is? Truth be told, a large part of me is jealous of this man whom the frat guys transparently mock.
If only I loved something, anything, with the passion that Dan has for Frisbee. Watching him toss the disc across the courtyard to a standoffish man with long gray hair, it's easy to forget you're watching two grown men. After all these years, Frisbee still holds a magic for Frisbee Dan that brings out a childish joy I can't help but envy.
As he tosses the Frisbee behind his back, or contorts his body while rotating clockwise for effect, or throws a particularly impressive spiral, he inevitably yells out in joy, looking around the park to acknowledge his (real or perceived) admirers.
One toss sails over the fence sixty yards away, but is caught by a man walking by, prompting Dan to squeal in joy and reenact the moment to anyone and everyone who will listen with a smile stretching the length of Bikini Beach.
It's a refreshing sense of innocence that has brought nothing but charm to the city of San Marcos. Which is great. But seriously...
"What's the deal with the short shorts?"
“Basically, with the long shorts, there’s no way I could jump up and do those 360s or you’d hear a loud rip. Because you saw the jumping technique. I need complete leg movement.”
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Plato. George Washington. Shakespeare. Mozart. Einstein.
Frisbee Dan is not one of these icons. But to the students and alumni of Texas State University and the citizens of San Marcos, Texas, he might as well be.When I first approach Dan for an interview, he holds up his finger, sprints toward the nearby river, pulls off his shirt, and jumps in. Five minutes later, he returns as if no time has elapsed since my question.
"I've met a lot of (students)," Frisbee Dan tells me. "Once in a while they'll get a Frisbee from me and they'll come back five, eight years later and they will walk up to me and say, 'You're still here.' "
"Here" is the middle of Sewell Park, a popular hangout on the Texas State campus. It is in part popular, I surmise, because of its well known Bikini Beach, a grassy knoll where coeds gather to sunbathe. Rumor has it that the intersection directly adjacent to Bikini Beach is one of the premier locations for traffic accidents in the nation.
On this day, however, my focus is not on the bikini-clad babes, but rather the middle-aged man wearing aviator goggles and dolphin shorts that would make Richard Simmons blush. After all, you can find hot women in bikinis lots of places, but there's only one Frisbee Dan.
“Most everybody in town knows me right as I walk through the door,”
"One of the cards says, 'Buy Frisbee Dan longer shorts,' " he says, laughing.So how does a mild mannered man with nothing but a pair of short shorts and a love for Frisbee become a local legend? His story starts way back in 1985, when Dan had an accident that would change his life forever.
“I fell out of a truck and went into what they call an active coma. The lights were flickering, but I didn’t know what was going on. I lost complete peripheral vision on the right side of my head."
He pauses.
"But if you watch me play Frisbee, it has no bearing on my control and catching.”
Dan's head injury prompted a move to Tangram Rehabilitation Center in Texas, where he was a patient for four years. He took to the center so well, however, that he immediately transitioned from patient to staff member. For eight years, Dan worked where he had once been treated, and when he found Sewell Park, he knew he had a place that combined his two greatest loves: talking to people, and doing kickass Frisbee tricks.
Up until 1998, Dan balanced his work life with his life at Sewell Park, heading down to toss the Frisbee every chance he got. Then, after transitioning to work as a professional landscaper, he stepped up his Frisbee game. For the past ten years, Frisbee Dan has gone to Sewell Park seven days a week, "about six or seven hours a day," to share his love of Frisbee with others.
Not everyone, however, shares this love of Frisbees. Some just love a good inside joke. It is a common occurrence throughout my interview with Frisbee Dan for students to catcall or yell jokes in Dan's direction. The vast majority of these barbs come from various male students walking by, all of whom can invariably be described as the "frat type.""Alright! Frisbee Dan TV!" one guy yells.
"Whooo!!! Go Frisbee Dan!" another adds later.
"Troublemakers!" Dan yells back, eliciting a cacophony of sarcastic "whats" and "huhs" from the group.
This causes Dan to laugh uproariousy before turning back me. "They always give me a hard time."
There is a certain lack of self awareness in Dan that some might find off-putting, or perhaps deserving of sympathy. Ultimately, however, it's hard not to like Frisbee Dan because, behind the goofy goggles and the dolphin shorts, behind the Frisbee tricks and the odd behavior, there is a man at peace with who he is and what he stands for, no matter how out of touch from reality he may be.
But, really, who am I to judge what reality is? Truth be told, a large part of me is jealous of this man whom the frat guys transparently mock.
If only I loved something, anything, with the passion that Dan has for Frisbee. Watching him toss the disc across the courtyard to a standoffish man with long gray hair, it's easy to forget you're watching two grown men. After all these years, Frisbee still holds a magic for Frisbee Dan that brings out a childish joy I can't help but envy.
As he tosses the Frisbee behind his back, or contorts his body while rotating clockwise for effect, or throws a particularly impressive spiral, he inevitably yells out in joy, looking around the park to acknowledge his (real or perceived) admirers.One toss sails over the fence sixty yards away, but is caught by a man walking by, prompting Dan to squeal in joy and reenact the moment to anyone and everyone who will listen with a smile stretching the length of Bikini Beach.
It's a refreshing sense of innocence that has brought nothing but charm to the city of San Marcos. Which is great. But seriously...
"What's the deal with the short shorts?"
“Basically, with the long shorts, there’s no way I could jump up and do those 360s or you’d hear a loud rip. Because you saw the jumping technique. I need complete leg movement.”
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
More Wisdom Than You Can Shake a Sharpie At
We're long overdue for a Sharpie Wisdom, and some of the older autographs are starting to fade. I'm pretty sure my van is relegated to a fate reserved for so many of today's teens and Generation Y-ers. It looks really cool now with its arm sleeves and tramp stamps, but as it gets older and its skin starts to sag, that arm sleeve is going to look gross and that tramp stamp will be nothing but a misshapen reminder of grandma's disturbingly promiscuous past.
But for right now, the Vandura is still in the sexy stage, so let's get to some signatures.
Wilbert continues the list of fascinating people I've met on this journey who happen to live in their cars. Wilbert needed a jump one morning in a Walmart parking lot, and I happened to be there equipped with jumper cables. In exchange, Wilbert gave me business tips, some of which you'll be privy to when I write more about this experience in my highly anticipated jumper-cable-themed blog.
This sounds like fantastic advice at first, but if you read it enough times, it starts to sound like an excuse developed by the paparazzi to justify their being in the room for Britney Spears' next colonoscopy.
This is the autograph of one of my hide-and-seek rivals. I think its pretty creative for a five-year-old. I could have done better though.
I was happy to let my other hide-and-seek nemesis, Lauren, sign as well, until I realized she hadn't learned to write yet. This is just part of what she drew over other people's signatures. Still, it manages to look both dignified and mature next to the pen island.com joke.
File this under "people who signed the van without my knowing." Not sure what this means, but my primary theories are as follows:
1. Obese is a rapper who lives in Dallas and is using my van for promotion. I like to imagine he's an anorexic rapper with a solid grasp on irony.
2. Someone felt the need to provide commentary on the rising child obesity epidemic in Dallas but was not particularly articulate and valued brevity.
3. Your momma's so fat she signed my van with the only nickname she's ever known.
Iris and I had a good long chat outside a Houston, Texas McDonald's before I handed her my business card. Twenty minutes later, she called my cell phone to offer me a shower at her place. I like to think this has more to do with the kindness of strangers than it has to do with my hygiene.
A friend from college who lives in Houston invited me to bad movie night at a local cafe, where we watched Nightbreed with his friend and girlfriend. This was written in homage to just one of dozens of corny action lines that made me nostalgic for Humphrey Bogart. How Nightbreed got shut out of the 1990 Oscars, I'll never know.
This describes yet another blog that has yet to be written. SPOILER ALERT: "Defacating cows on kids' heads" is not a metaphor.
As always,
But for right now, the Vandura is still in the sexy stage, so let's get to some signatures.
Wilbert continues the list of fascinating people I've met on this journey who happen to live in their cars. Wilbert needed a jump one morning in a Walmart parking lot, and I happened to be there equipped with jumper cables. In exchange, Wilbert gave me business tips, some of which you'll be privy to when I write more about this experience in my highly anticipated jumper-cable-themed blog.
This sounds like fantastic advice at first, but if you read it enough times, it starts to sound like an excuse developed by the paparazzi to justify their being in the room for Britney Spears' next colonoscopy.
This is the autograph of one of my hide-and-seek rivals. I think its pretty creative for a five-year-old. I could have done better though.
I was happy to let my other hide-and-seek nemesis, Lauren, sign as well, until I realized she hadn't learned to write yet. This is just part of what she drew over other people's signatures. Still, it manages to look both dignified and mature next to the pen island.com joke.
File this under "people who signed the van without my knowing." Not sure what this means, but my primary theories are as follows:1. Obese is a rapper who lives in Dallas and is using my van for promotion. I like to imagine he's an anorexic rapper with a solid grasp on irony.
2. Someone felt the need to provide commentary on the rising child obesity epidemic in Dallas but was not particularly articulate and valued brevity.
3. Your momma's so fat she signed my van with the only nickname she's ever known.
Iris and I had a good long chat outside a Houston, Texas McDonald's before I handed her my business card. Twenty minutes later, she called my cell phone to offer me a shower at her place. I like to think this has more to do with the kindness of strangers than it has to do with my hygiene.
A friend from college who lives in Houston invited me to bad movie night at a local cafe, where we watched Nightbreed with his friend and girlfriend. This was written in homage to just one of dozens of corny action lines that made me nostalgic for Humphrey Bogart. How Nightbreed got shut out of the 1990 Oscars, I'll never know.
This describes yet another blog that has yet to be written. SPOILER ALERT: "Defacating cows on kids' heads" is not a metaphor.
And so that ends another edition of Sharpie Wisdom. Hopefully, you're a little more enlightened than you were when you woke up this morning. If not, quit watching that "Rock of Love Bus" marathon and pick up a good book, damnit.
As always,
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I Thought I Read a Tweet. I Did. I Did Read a Tweet.
I'm being told by an increasing amount of people that I should consider using twitter.com. I'm strongly considering it.
1:30 PM Apr 2nd from web
I'm skeptically pondering the ramifications of an already egocentric society concentrating on providing constant updates on even the most mundane activities.
1:33 PM Apr 2nd from web
April Fool's was fun. I sure got some people good! You know who you are!!! :) LOL
1:34 PM Apr 2nd from web
It sure is fun typing. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm typing.
1:36 PM Apr 2nd from web
Reading up on Twitter on Wikipedia. Apparently, I am "tweeting" right now. Other notable "tweeters" include Barack Obama, Sir Richard Branson, and that girl you liked in high school.
1:38 PM Apr 2nd from web
Logan is updating his facebook status.
1:42 PM Apr 2nd from web
Sorry for the delay between tweets. I had an itch, so I scratched it for a while. Then, I had to use the restroom and it's taking a while. Stupid Baja Fresh!
2:11 PM Apr 2nd from text
The bathroom at Baja is out of toilet paper. I have the worst luck!!! ;) LOL!
2:23 PM Apr 2nd from text
Words can be hurtful. I didn't care about the intimate details of how you feed your cat, but did I send you a mean spirited message? No. No I did not.
2:32 PM Apr 2nd in reply to aziangurl69
I found a new roll in the stall next to me. Everything's going to be fine. Thanks for your support katlady73, syberstocker12, and stonephillipsisnotmyfriend!
2:41 PM Apr 2nd from text
You know, on second thought, I think I'm going to just stick to blogging.
10:49 PM Apr 2nd from web
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I Could Always Fall Back On My Jockey Career...
Every generation, an athlete defies conventional wisdom in a given sport and rises above his peers to greatness, transcending the game in such a way that they gain relevance in the global consciousness.
In basketball, there was Michael Jordan.
In golf, Tiger Woods.
In baseball baseball Babe Ruth, football Jim Brown, hockey Wayne Gretzky, and so on and so on.
Now, in a sport as to yet unappreciated, an athlete has risen to such heights that he has quite possibly changed the fabric of America as we know it.
That athlete is me.
That sport is hide-and-go-seek.
The Scene: Martindale, Texas. My cousin, Doyle, and I have been lured to his neighbor's house under the pretense of a dinner party. Doyle is asked to bring his five-year-old granddaughter, Storie, with him.
The Setup: Under the guise of a traditional dinner party, I have let my guard down. At a table with four adults, I begin proper conversation as I enjoy a delightful meal. Little do I know that Storie and the neighbor's four-year-old, Lauren, have plotted a surprise version of their favorite game.
You guessed it. Hide-and-go-seek.
As the "adults" continue dinner conversation, I find myself in the middle of a high-stakes battle for survival. Lauren and Storie play to win, and they'll win at any cost; no rule is too sacred.
"Count to fifty" quickly turns into "count to five," "close your eyes" is taken as "follow me around so you know exactly where I'll be hiding," and "I'm too tired and old to lift both of you up to touch the ceiling for the six hundredth time in a row" becomes "sure I will, and don't forget to kick me in the face again on the way up."
Standing at six feet, five inches tall, I am at a clear disadvantage. This is a game where being compact is intimidating, where children and little people reign supreme, where Shaquille O'Neal cowers at the sight of Verne Troyer. This is a game I was not born to play, and with ten seconds to go in the fourth quarter, I need a hail mary, and Doug Flutie is nowhere in sight.
So I point Lauren and Storie in the other direction to count to "fifty" and make a mad dash...past the living room, through the kitchen, around the dining table, and out the screen door to hide behind the porch. Ten minutes later, the girls still hadn't found me, making me the default winner of the contest.
I had done it. I had overcome adversity to reign victorious. Against all odds, I had conquered my demons, and two little girls, to do the impossible. Sure, outside the house was "out of bounds" based on the unspoken rules, but unspoken rules were meant to be broken. Especially when the only people you have to convince of your innocence have yet to finish kindergarten.
The point is I had won, and in doing so, I had inspired a nation. Frankly, it's a shame Al Michaels wasn't there to do commentary, because this could have been his second "miracle on ice."
I may never be able to replicate the magic. I may not be the smallest, or the most flexible, or the quietest breather. I may never even play hide-and-go-seek again. But on that day, I was a champion.
And to those who are inspired by my tale of courage and resolve, athletic endurance and wisdom, to my adoring fans and countless hide-and-go-seek groupies, I have four simple, yet breath-taking words of wisdom for you.
Olly. Olly. Oxen. Free.
In basketball, there was Michael Jordan.
In golf, Tiger Woods.
In baseball baseball Babe Ruth, football Jim Brown, hockey Wayne Gretzky, and so on and so on.
Now, in a sport as to yet unappreciated, an athlete has risen to such heights that he has quite possibly changed the fabric of America as we know it.
That athlete is me.
That sport is hide-and-go-seek.
The Scene: Martindale, Texas. My cousin, Doyle, and I have been lured to his neighbor's house under the pretense of a dinner party. Doyle is asked to bring his five-year-old granddaughter, Storie, with him.
The Setup: Under the guise of a traditional dinner party, I have let my guard down. At a table with four adults, I begin proper conversation as I enjoy a delightful meal. Little do I know that Storie and the neighbor's four-year-old, Lauren, have plotted a surprise version of their favorite game.
You guessed it. Hide-and-go-seek.
As the "adults" continue dinner conversation, I find myself in the middle of a high-stakes battle for survival. Lauren and Storie play to win, and they'll win at any cost; no rule is too sacred.
"Count to fifty" quickly turns into "count to five," "close your eyes" is taken as "follow me around so you know exactly where I'll be hiding," and "I'm too tired and old to lift both of you up to touch the ceiling for the six hundredth time in a row" becomes "sure I will, and don't forget to kick me in the face again on the way up."
Standing at six feet, five inches tall, I am at a clear disadvantage. This is a game where being compact is intimidating, where children and little people reign supreme, where Shaquille O'Neal cowers at the sight of Verne Troyer. This is a game I was not born to play, and with ten seconds to go in the fourth quarter, I need a hail mary, and Doug Flutie is nowhere in sight.
So I point Lauren and Storie in the other direction to count to "fifty" and make a mad dash...past the living room, through the kitchen, around the dining table, and out the screen door to hide behind the porch. Ten minutes later, the girls still hadn't found me, making me the default winner of the contest.
I had done it. I had overcome adversity to reign victorious. Against all odds, I had conquered my demons, and two little girls, to do the impossible. Sure, outside the house was "out of bounds" based on the unspoken rules, but unspoken rules were meant to be broken. Especially when the only people you have to convince of your innocence have yet to finish kindergarten.
The point is I had won, and in doing so, I had inspired a nation. Frankly, it's a shame Al Michaels wasn't there to do commentary, because this could have been his second "miracle on ice."
I may never be able to replicate the magic. I may not be the smallest, or the most flexible, or the quietest breather. I may never even play hide-and-go-seek again. But on that day, I was a champion.
And to those who are inspired by my tale of courage and resolve, athletic endurance and wisdom, to my adoring fans and countless hide-and-go-seek groupies, I have four simple, yet breath-taking words of wisdom for you.
Olly. Olly. Oxen. Free.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Providence
In a time spent long ago
A foreign world you may not know
Was home to many booming states,
Kingdoms of imposing weight.
The greatest realm among them all
Stood on a mountain great and tall.
A dynasty like none before,
Bellicia was built on war.
Their thirst for land was never met,
They swept across the Earth and yet
The more they conquered with their swords,
The more thanks given to their Lord.
And in the valley down below
A smaller kingdom soon did grow
With its own God up above,
Paxamo was built on love.
The Paxamons lived peaceful lives
Bore peaceful kids from peaceful wives
And loved their enemies as their friends
Their charity it knew no ends.
And in return they were beloved,
By all their neighbors up above
Except for the Bellicians;
The chosen people had no friends.
Inevitably the day soon came
For Bellicia to expand its reign.
They bore down on the peaceful folks
With endless force, all unprovoked.
The Paxamons had no swords
They merely prayed to their own Lord
And their God did answer their call
And Paxamon it did not fall.
The many kingdoms long since slain
Joined together in the name
Of peace and friendship, hope and love
Defending Paxamon from above.
By evening blood had filled the streets,
The Bellicians had been beat.
Their love for war had lost to love,
And so they turned to up above.
How could their God have let them down?
They were the people of the crown.
But were replaced by Paxamon
Which now believed their God was strong.
Empowered by his mighty Lord,
The Paxamon King drew a sword
And claiming God was on his side,
He swore he'd take the countryside.
A foreign world you may not know
Was home to many booming states,
Kingdoms of imposing weight.
The greatest realm among them all
Stood on a mountain great and tall.
A dynasty like none before,
Bellicia was built on war.
Their thirst for land was never met,
They swept across the Earth and yet
The more they conquered with their swords,
The more thanks given to their Lord.
And in the valley down below
A smaller kingdom soon did grow
With its own God up above,
Paxamo was built on love.
The Paxamons lived peaceful lives
Bore peaceful kids from peaceful wives
And loved their enemies as their friends
Their charity it knew no ends.
And in return they were beloved,
By all their neighbors up above
Except for the Bellicians;
The chosen people had no friends.
Inevitably the day soon came
For Bellicia to expand its reign.
They bore down on the peaceful folks
With endless force, all unprovoked.
The Paxamons had no swords
They merely prayed to their own Lord
And their God did answer their call
And Paxamon it did not fall.
The many kingdoms long since slain
Joined together in the name
Of peace and friendship, hope and love
Defending Paxamon from above.
By evening blood had filled the streets,
The Bellicians had been beat.
Their love for war had lost to love,
And so they turned to up above.
How could their God have let them down?
They were the people of the crown.
But were replaced by Paxamon
Which now believed their God was strong.
Empowered by his mighty Lord,
The Paxamon King drew a sword
And claiming God was on his side,
He swore he'd take the countryside.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Ed Gein.
Certain film genres have a tendency to produce formulaic movies. Because of this, we've all been conditioned to associate life scenarios with scenes we've seen in the movies time and time again. It's gotten to the point where movie cliches can even dictate our actions.
Do you find yourself in a bookstore arguing with an attractive stranger of the opposite sex? Do you have an unexplained feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you to expect a race to the airport to stop her from leaving town sometime in the following months? Congratulations; you're in a romantic comedy.
Elevator's not working? The other people in the elevator happen to be an attractive woman, a rogue police officer who's recently divorced his wife, and a sharply dressed man with a vague European accent? Brace yourself; you're in an action flick.
Paying the bills by delivering pizza or cleaning pools? Did your customer come to the door in a towel that barely covers her Silicon Valley? Is she speaking in really awkward pointed sentences that only a child or a NASCAR fan would consider acceptable prose? Hope you brought a condom; you're about to be in a porno.
We all know how these movies start. So when I find myself in Martindale, Texas, visiting my cousin Doyle, and he mentions that he just happens to live right next to "the old mill" where they filmed the Hollywood remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I'm a little unnerved. When he takes me on a tour of the town at night, I start to shake my head.
When he pulls into a small alley behind the mill to show me the nearby river, my mind races.
Then, when his car gets stuck in the rocks, and he tells me we are going to have to walk home to get his tow truck, I resolve myself to an untimely death by way of chainsaw.
To review, here are the facts:
+ I'm a traveler, wandering through a small town in Texas.
+ It's pitch black outside.
+ The car has broken down in a remote area, forcing us to walk home.
+ We're right next to "THE OLD MILL" where they filmed THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE.
This is pretty much the start to every slasher film in history.
As Doyle and I make our way across the dark field, I am consoled only by the fact that I am 1) not the black guy, 2) not the guy who recently mocked the local legend at an impromptu campfire, and 3) not currently having sex with an attractive coed, which incidentally is the first time in recorded history this has ever been viewed as a positive.
Somehow, Leatherface missed the memo, and not only were Doyle and I able to survive, we were even able to come back (you NEVER go back) and tow his car out of the riverbank.
Thankfully, on this particular dark and dreary night, life did not imitate art. But local legend says that if you pass "the old mill" these days and have the courage to peek through the boarded up windows, you'll see a disfigured man with a chainsaw, drinking himself stupid and crying into his pillow as he moans about "the one that got away."
Do you find yourself in a bookstore arguing with an attractive stranger of the opposite sex? Do you have an unexplained feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you to expect a race to the airport to stop her from leaving town sometime in the following months? Congratulations; you're in a romantic comedy.
Elevator's not working? The other people in the elevator happen to be an attractive woman, a rogue police officer who's recently divorced his wife, and a sharply dressed man with a vague European accent? Brace yourself; you're in an action flick.
Paying the bills by delivering pizza or cleaning pools? Did your customer come to the door in a towel that barely covers her Silicon Valley? Is she speaking in really awkward pointed sentences that only a child or a NASCAR fan would consider acceptable prose? Hope you brought a condom; you're about to be in a porno.
We all know how these movies start. So when I find myself in Martindale, Texas, visiting my cousin Doyle, and he mentions that he just happens to live right next to "the old mill" where they filmed the Hollywood remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I'm a little unnerved. When he takes me on a tour of the town at night, I start to shake my head.
When he pulls into a small alley behind the mill to show me the nearby river, my mind races.Then, when his car gets stuck in the rocks, and he tells me we are going to have to walk home to get his tow truck, I resolve myself to an untimely death by way of chainsaw.
To review, here are the facts:
+ I'm a traveler, wandering through a small town in Texas.
+ It's pitch black outside.
+ The car has broken down in a remote area, forcing us to walk home.
+ We're right next to "THE OLD MILL" where they filmed THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE.
This is pretty much the start to every slasher film in history.
As Doyle and I make our way across the dark field, I am consoled only by the fact that I am 1) not the black guy, 2) not the guy who recently mocked the local legend at an impromptu campfire, and 3) not currently having sex with an attractive coed, which incidentally is the first time in recorded history this has ever been viewed as a positive.
Somehow, Leatherface missed the memo, and not only were Doyle and I able to survive, we were even able to come back (you NEVER go back) and tow his car out of the riverbank.
Thankfully, on this particular dark and dreary night, life did not imitate art. But local legend says that if you pass "the old mill" these days and have the courage to peek through the boarded up windows, you'll see a disfigured man with a chainsaw, drinking himself stupid and crying into his pillow as he moans about "the one that got away."
Monday, March 23, 2009
What's the Unemployment Rate For Guys Living in Their Vans?
So you know that job I got recently? (If not, scroll down the page.) I quit that already.
Rest assured, I had very good reasons. The good news for you is that said job was ripe with stories and observations to write about. Also, if I don't get a new job soon, I'll run out of money and have to do the whole homeless thing again.
So all of you Hobo Diet fans out there, get ready for a possible sequel.
In the meantime, you can expect to read plenty of unusual and quirky happenings on this blog in the coming weeks, including but not limited to:
+ Thoughts that go through your head when you're about to be sliced in half.
+ The U.S. Post Office's epic fight against incompetent terrorism.
+ Public transit through the eyes of Ayn Rand.
+ How to completely freak out a religious fundamentalist at Fry's Electronics.
and, of course
+ Awkwardly timed bovine defecation.
You can't read about this stuff in The New York Times, people.
Although, after careful thought, I do consider The New York Post direct competition.
Rest assured, I had very good reasons. The good news for you is that said job was ripe with stories and observations to write about. Also, if I don't get a new job soon, I'll run out of money and have to do the whole homeless thing again.
So all of you Hobo Diet fans out there, get ready for a possible sequel.
In the meantime, you can expect to read plenty of unusual and quirky happenings on this blog in the coming weeks, including but not limited to:
+ Thoughts that go through your head when you're about to be sliced in half.
+ The U.S. Post Office's epic fight against incompetent terrorism.
+ Public transit through the eyes of Ayn Rand.
+ How to completely freak out a religious fundamentalist at Fry's Electronics.
and, of course
+ Awkwardly timed bovine defecation.
You can't read about this stuff in The New York Times, people.
Although, after careful thought, I do consider The New York Post direct competition.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls
You know, they just don't make waterfalls like they used to.
I don't know who the "they" in that sentence refers to, but "they" need to get it together nonetheless. Just ask the citizens of Great Falls, Montana. Or anyone who's ever paid to get into McKinney Falls State Park.
I recently fell into the latter category. And I didn't really mind it; there are no LA Fitnesses (my default source for showers) in Austin, and the park offers a much needed shower and a place to park for the night. So I'm happy with my stay there. I'm just saying "they" might want to consider renaming the park.
This is the biggest "waterfall" I come across in the entire park. And it's not for a lack of trying. I take all of the recommended hikes, but I come across nothing resembling Niagara Falls, or even a picture of Niagara Falls. I did my best to make the waterfall look impressive, but I unwittingly captured my shadow in the picture, bringing to light a rather disturbing scale and ruining any chance of portraying the fall as "towering."
To McKinney Falls credit, "they" do have a pretty impressive man cave. If things don't work out with the van, I would totally consider setting up camp here. I mean why not? You have plenty of shelter. Very few tourists come by to bother you. And, of course, you don't have to worry about the loud sounds of booming waterfalls in the background.
Is this another famed waterfall, or did I pour out a bottle of Dasani and take a picture? The world may never know.
But I'm not mad at "them." Let's face it, when you've got land like this, you've gotta lock it down and charge people to see it.
I don't know who the "they" in that sentence refers to, but "they" need to get it together nonetheless. Just ask the citizens of Great Falls, Montana. Or anyone who's ever paid to get into McKinney Falls State Park.
I recently fell into the latter category. And I didn't really mind it; there are no LA Fitnesses (my default source for showers) in Austin, and the park offers a much needed shower and a place to park for the night. So I'm happy with my stay there. I'm just saying "they" might want to consider renaming the park.
This is the biggest "waterfall" I come across in the entire park. And it's not for a lack of trying. I take all of the recommended hikes, but I come across nothing resembling Niagara Falls, or even a picture of Niagara Falls. I did my best to make the waterfall look impressive, but I unwittingly captured my shadow in the picture, bringing to light a rather disturbing scale and ruining any chance of portraying the fall as "towering."
To McKinney Falls credit, "they" do have a pretty impressive man cave. If things don't work out with the van, I would totally consider setting up camp here. I mean why not? You have plenty of shelter. Very few tourists come by to bother you. And, of course, you don't have to worry about the loud sounds of booming waterfalls in the background.
Is this another famed waterfall, or did I pour out a bottle of Dasani and take a picture? The world may never know.
But I'm not mad at "them." Let's face it, when you've got land like this, you've gotta lock it down and charge people to see it.
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