Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The Full Sexy Dance

Despite the title, this is SFW. It's horrifying, but it's SFW.

Favorite comment: "This video made me want to do whatever the opposite of masturbating is."

Something I'll never get to do

I'll never get in a fist fight. That's really a shame. I just don't think I qualify anymore:

- I'm not a teenager
- I don't go to football games
- I don't live on anyone's "turf"
- I'm not a Wild West gambler
- I don't have a goatee
- No one I know plays Double Dragon
- It's been so long since I've seen The Matrix that I've lost the desire to learn a martial art
- I prefer assaulting people with snide remarks and limited eye contact

There were a couple of times in high school where friends of mine got in a scuffle. One of my best friends actually carried a roll of quarters in his pocket JUST IN CASE. I never wanted to fight at the time, but now I just want to know what it feels like to clock someone in the noggin. I don't want to hurt them, just punch them as hard as I can. This must be what Presidents feel like. "I don't want to kill anyone, I just want to see what a 100-megaton thermonuclear blast does to a hemisphere."

Yet, a fight club scares the shit out of me. I am very attached to my teeth.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Signature Series is complete

Over the summer I was a writer on The Signature Series for Crackle.com. Thanks to you guys, we've already had 1.2 million hits. All twenty episodes are now up. Catch 'em all!


Here are a couple of my favorites:

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

My children will be deviants

I was thinking about Alan Thicke, wondering if I'll be as good a father. But not a fictional one. A real-life daddy. No, we're not pregnant, but it's never to early to get distressed about your future. I'm just considering if I'll have the patience, the authority, and the camaraderie for my children the way Alan Thicke had for his kids Ben Seaver, Carol Seaver, and Kirk Cameron. Yeah, I know I'm being silly with my comparison. The point is that I was wondering if my kids will think I'm cool. And my immediate answer is "fuck ya."

Here's why: I'm empathetic. I'll preface this by saying that when I was a kid I didn't drink, do drugs, smoke, have sex, pillage, etc... I embraced my title as A/V Technician so whole-heartedly that I wore RCA cables like Rambo wears a sweatband. That pretty much excluded me from the high school, cigarettes-and-booze parties. The worst thing I ever did was race my '89 Beretta around Tacoma's tide flats. Or is that the best thing I ever did? Anyway, I wasn't a kid who got into the dangerous stuff, but if my kids do I'LL UNDERSTAND. I might even be happy about it.

I'm not so concerned with the smarts or looks of my kids. K will tell you that I actually HOPE my kids are ugly. (It'll build character.) All I want is for them to make good choices and to be confident. I think the worst thing to accumulate in life is a barrel of regrets, so what looks like a bad choice on the surface could be GREAT choices in the long run. For example, some parents would discourage their children from drinking or smoking, but if it's going to make my kid fit in--especially if he or she is ugly--I say go for it. Sex on homecoming night? If they're safe about it and have considered the consequences, sure!

I realize that asking teenagers to consider the future impact of all their choices is like asking Shamu to make me turkey pot pie. If I'm letting my kids smoke pot, they've gotta give me something in return.

(DISCLAIMER: The majorly-felonious/self-destruction/heroin/huffing caveat is in effect. I can't see how any of these would ever turn into great choices.)

What if my future kids find this post somewhere in the annals of Google's fusion-powered data banks, then use it against me? This will be their excuse to get reckless on some futuristic drug. I can only assume it's some hybrid of angel dust and Red Bull.

Uh oh. Now I'm considering retracting everything. Yes, yes, I've already considered what all you actual parents are saying. "You won't know how cool you'll be until you actually meet your daughter's boyfriend." But what kind of trouble is really, legitimately out there? Like, I know that blow jobs are popular (were they ever not in style?), and that kids are smoking pot, lookin' at Internet porn, being gay, stealing software, etc... I'm totally prepared for all of that. Because how much more extreme can kids go? BJ's and pot? Seriously. Even with my daughter and her burly, high-school boyfriend...

...oh my God, what if he looks like me?!

I'm considering the retraction because what IF things get more extreme? They certainly did for my parents. What's more extreme for a teenager than oral? Orgies? Oh God...incest?! Gay incest?! Don't say that can't happen because I'm sure there was a time in Roman and Greek societies when that was so couture and don't tell me that America isn't the next Roman Empire. And I can't even consider the future of the internet and the bounty of illicit activities that'll bring. Virtual murders? CYBER orgies? Holodecks? I'm not prepared for that. Don't tell me I'm blowing this out of proportion. I've seen Virtuosity.

Now I'm totally unsure. Pre-parenting is so hard. Now I see. It wasn't Kirk Cameron. It wasn't the kid who played Ben. It was Alan Thicke. Alan Thicke had the "Growing Pains." It was him all along. It was Alan.

This post was difficult to write because as I was composing it, a small man with a big hat was chanting to some birds in a nearby tree. It was at least a ten-minute session. Is he the bird whisperer? I smell buddy picture (again)!

Thursday, September 18, 2008


A guy knocked on my door this afternoon:

Zach: Hi!
Guy: (out of breath) Ima...membera...organiz...(nonsense, nonsense) LA Times...
Zach: Slow down, dude.
Guy: Ima...neighbor...selling...subscrip...(totally incoherent)...subscrip...shuns...
Zach: Do you want to come inside? You look hot...
Guy: (paying no attention to me) Remehehehe...muhmuhmuh...
Zach: Like, would a glass of water help?
Guy: Forty dollars.
Zach: Ok, forty dollars...
Guy: Twenty Sundays.... muhmuhmuh...
Zach: Are you asking me if I'd like twenty issues of the Sunday LA Times for $40?
Guy: uh huh.
Zach: Well, I used to get the paper and I didn't read it as much as I should...
Guy: Okay, thank you!

And the guy BOUNDS off my porch and SPRINTS to my neighbor's house, like an out-of-shape Batman.

I love that I have a front door.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

I yin your yang

Before I moved in with K, I used to cook for myself. Sure, they were the same four meals (meat loaf, chicken pot pie, meatball somethin', and some kind of rice thing with peas), but I cooked. I took time out of my day to make a meal. I made my bed. I dusted. I wrote thank-you letters. Now, I have a live-in wife. And I didn't intend on being a misogynist, but sometimes life just opens a door. Y'know?

I enjoyed cooking. I had some kind of knack for it. But now, it's completely lost. I have gone from cooking for myself to being on an unintentional raw-food diet. Unless melting cheese on toast is cooking, I only eat peanuts, fruit, spinach, Cliff Bars, and tuna. And crackers. And beer. And Subway Sandwiches. I don't mix anything, because mixing is like cooking. I don't even know what goes with what anymore. Another lunch of peanuts and spinach. I am not exaggerating.

This brings me back to a point I've often made: that I'm always trying to fill the gaps. What I mean is, if I'm in a group of perfectly normal people, I'll play the weirdo. And vice-versa. If everyone knows how to gather, I'll naturally be drawn to hunting. What's unfortunate for K is that she does everything. Which means I'm naturally drawn to the couch. And all those domestic skills I had before we moved in are gone because she was better at making the bed.

Simply put, I am a no-good husband, and this is all her fault.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

More things I know

Subway's menu
How to type
The rules of college basketball
The rules of baseball
How to iron
Pi to 28 places
Recognition and recital of all the quotable moments from the following movies (some are standard):
  • Star Wars IV, V, VI
  • Reservoir Dogs
  • Pulp Fiction
  • PCU
  • UHF
  • The 'Burbs
  • Lebowski
  • Caddyshack
  • Spinal Tap
  • Clue
  • Braveheart
  • Dr. Strangelove
  • Bueller
  • When Harry Met Sally
  • Ghostbusters
  • Godfather I & II
  • Half Baked
  • Hunt for Red October
  • The Jerk
  • Lawrence of Arabia
  • Holy Grail and Life of Brian
  • Winnie the Pooh and Disney's Robin Hood
  • Rushmore and Tenenbaums
  • Swingers
  • Predator
  • Tombstone
I can also sweep real good.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Because no one else will...

Leo is asking me to save the whales. I smell buddy picture!

Thursday, September 11, 2008

No hugs by the squat rack

I go to a predominately gay gym. Like 99% gay. Like I walk in there, and everyone looks at me like I should know better. I mention my membership to local friends and they give me that arched-eyebrow, bent-lip look. And it's starting to get to me. Today, a guy pointed at my shirt and said, "Minnesota Wild?" I said "Uh huh." "Nailed it!" he replied. (Minnesota Wild is a hockey team with a very bad logo. It was probably on sale, and that's why my mother bought it for me last year. I have a dozen of these shirts: University of Puget Sound, some semi-pro baseball team, a shirt for Dead-Guy Ale, etc...) This guy mistook me for a fan. And I don't know if he is gay, but I certainly felt like I was being hit on. He carried on and on about the origins of the NHL, the New York Rangers, the Red Wings, his season tickets. For the life of me, I could not reciprocate at all in this conversation. Not even to be polite. Couldn't even smile. There were pauses in the conversation for me to interject something. I had nothing. Like I didn't even speak the language. Like I was in a coma. So that long three minutes between preacher curl sets, I just rubbed my biceps and kept myself from withdrawing eye contact. I probably shouldn't have been rubbing my biceps. That may have encouraged him.

Because this is a gay gym, most of the members (99% of them) look pretty slick in their gym clothes. Some go over the top, like the 60-year-old, 6'5" guy who wears a black spandex onesy. But for me to say that I'm the ugliest guy in the room is probably an understatement. I don't primp. I roll out of bed and get to the gym. Sometimes my shirt and shorts are inside out. I have bed head. I have pillow lines on my face. My shoes have grass stains. And I wear headphones. For the first hour I'm awake, I try not to say a word. I don't even say hello to Reuben, the sincere gym manager.

Now I fear that I've become some walking storm cloud. The word is out that not only am I ugly, but I'm MEAN, and maybe even a mute. K stopped going to this gym a year ago, and people still remember her. Oh, she's so nice. What a wonderful smile. Her gym clothes ALWAYS fit. Frankly, they probably remember her because she's the only lady that ever came in. Maybe I want to be a walking storm cloud. I don't want to have to give obligatory hugs to the guy who's spotting me on the squat rack. Is that asking to much from a gay gym? I should start wearing a ski mask.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Guest blogging

I've written an entry for friend-of-the-blog, Millty. It can be found here.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Something against Toyota

This morning I discovered that my car was tagged. But (I'm not so sure how to make this clear) it wasn't done in spray paint, or keyed into my paint. Much less permanent. Not permanent at all, actually. In fact, writing it in soap would have been more competent. The dude tagged my car with his FINGER in the morning dew stuck to my WINDSHIELD.

And not even where it'd bother me--up in the right corner, away from my eyeline. A very tasteful "TFL(squiggly)" deftly signed by the...artist? I'm hip enough to know that the first part is "Thug for Life" (thank you, public school education). The rest just looks like a bunch of arrows and sevens.

I didn't even wipe it away. Maybe he/she(?) signed my car because he thinks I'm cool, like when someone TP's your house? The guy was like "Hey, this cat here drives a Rav4. That's very sensible of him. Oh, look! He's also overinflated his tires to save on gas. Man, I sure love the environment, too. Mad props, yo." And he signed it. Maybe the arrows and sevens translate to "This guy's great," or "Two thumbs up!" or "Carry on my wayward son."

Then I remembered that I don't trust the youth of today. I started thinking like KIDS think. Now I'm almost certain that this is some kind of mark that "gangs" put on things they're going to fuck up in the FUTURE. Like when snipers hit targets with a laser to show the gunships where to unload carnage. Or maybe there's some REAL destruction somewhere else on my car and that this tag is just there to distract me from leaking brake fluid. Have they mistaken me for someone else? Someone else who's in a rival gang? I've been told I look like Seth MacFarlane. Oh God! Seth MacFarlane's in trouble! This is how The Big Lebowski started. My windshield really ties my car together.

I should have purchased their door-to-door candy bars and supported their "sports uniform" drive. I must be on a list.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

So many people in the neighborhood

I don't know if they're very good people.

A couple nights ago, I went for an evening walk around the block only to be halted by police tape and the news that someone was shot in the face outside our local convenience store. All the hipsters came down from their lofts to gawk. What happened? Can anyone see anything? Are you still guest DJing at the bike shop tonight? Last I heard, it was gang related. I don't know if I should find comfort in that. I imagine gangbangers (white-kid language for people who have those long shorts/short pants) don't shoot so well, holding their gats like they do. I often find myself uncomfortably close to stray bullets.

Like the first time I hung out in Echo Park. I was FEET away from a drive-by. Again, another gang shooting. The guy got shot in the ass, and the victim did a good job of moaning, and writhing, and taking off his pants to gain a moderate following. What happened? Did anyone see who did it? Is that bullet in his ass? Who's the guest DJ tonight?

So only two bullet stories and they both take place less than a mile from each other and very close to our new home. Fortunately, we live on the top of a hill--just steep enough for only the most determined can collectors to find aluminum/plastic gold in our bins. Surely, bullets can't make it THIS far. It's hard to shoot UP, right? That's why tall people are never murdered. Never.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Spider's last stand

I feel like recently, the spider in my mailbox has taken over every part of my life--from this blog to my Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons. Rest assured, this will be the last spider entry. Why? Because that spider is DEAD. But not without a fight.

There's not much of a story here. Everything played out like I feared it would. K fetched the mail, brought it back to the patio, and held it while she talked to my parents who were visiting for the weekend. I hear my dad shout "Stop!" Dad swiped the mail and crushed the spider that had finally calculated her attack by attaching herself to a catalog for a community college.


With any luck, that millipede I saw crawl into the house this morning wasn't best friends with that spider. Just in case, I'd better plug up my ears when I sleep...