Illinois Airship

I don’t want to start any shit here but- If your god tells...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 18:03:12 -0600

I don’t want to start any shit here but-

If your god tells you that certain people are going to hell (or anywhere- especially Iowa- sorry Iowa) if you do something it doesn’t approve of, then I say you should get a new god. Because what kind of lame omniscient being are you worshipping that would be such a jerk? Is your god a five year old? Do you really want to go to his birthday party that bad that you’re worried about making him cry? I mean, if you turn out to be right and that kind of god actually exists then your god’s kind of a punk. Know what I’m saying? Maybe you should tell your god to MAN UP and not be such a wuss. It’s a big world out there and freaking out every time two dudes say they love each other is really gonna knock the energy out of you. Let’s save the hellfire for murderers and rapists, okay? Listen, dude, just because you started the band doesn’t mean you always get to decide what we’re going to play.

That might seem non-sequitous, but it makes PERFECT sense to me.

When I was five I wanted to be a brontosaurus when I grew up. I...

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:57:01 -0600

When I was five I wanted to be a brontosaurus when I grew up. I haven’t moved that much further beyond this point since then.

Recently I was asked what my Christmas wish would be. No restrictions, just the opportunity to receive whatever I wanted. Now, I know these types of things are usually a set-up. Sure, you want to say “Money! Rent! A car that runs on dreams and emits only the sound of babies laughing!’ but you know as soon as you do that your jerk friend when asked next is going to sandbag you by saying something like “World Peace and the assurance that all children will be warm and happy.” What a cock, right?

So, while recently enjoying an especially heartwarming car ride with some very close friends up to the north side this question was passed around. The answers were pretty much what you’d expect, but what stood out to me was a friend’s answer in saying “I wish that I felt the way I did when I was five.” This has stayed with me for the past week. I wish to change my answer to this one.

Not everyone had a good childhood experience. In fact, I’m realizing more and more every day that many of us didn’t. Without going into too much detail I can say that I had a good one. Truly idyllic. But it isn’t the feeling of playing tag or worrying about the monsters I was SURE were awaiting a careless foot or hand under my bed that I wish to experience again. It’s the feeling of possibility. The assurance that a long and happy life stretched out before me and that I could be anything I wanted to. That this experience of living was just beginning and any of my wildest dreams would be possible. The world is a child’s oyster because you have the time and unrestricted imagination to attempt anything. To aspire to anything.

I am not a pirate. I am not an astronaut. I am not a firefighter. I am not a cowboy. And I don’t think I’m unhappy because I am not any of those things. Most of them (with the exception of a cowboy) I no longer want to be. But I really miss the feeling that I could. Y’know? How do I get that back?

Now I work with children and in the music business. The music business is a soul-crushing monstrosity that can make me not enjoy anything. Especially music. I also work with children because I see in them that hope and I want to make sure someone is fostering it. Because only cynical douchebags shrug their shoulders and say “That’s life.” Plus, kids are totally cool.

And that’s why I’m trying to find a different job then the well-paying one I have now. I don’t buy that “everyone hates their job” shit. I don’t cotton much to that kind of defeatism. Fuck it, I’m still a five year old. Now somebody get me a job listening to music and eating delicious sandwiches. FIND IT.

Sometimes I feel like this blog is a Seinfield-ian “What’s the deal with…?” only with feelings. Maybe my Christmas wish should be to grow the fuck up.

It has begun snowing here in Chicago again. If you’ve...

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 17:44:50 -0600

It has begun snowing here in Chicago again.

If you’ve never been to Chicago then you might not know that the only thing more intense than our weather is our ability to talk about it. It’s an inevitability. With minus zero winds and freezing rain we talk about weather (a conversation topic usually reserved for awkward moments on dates and at bus stops) with an excitement and fervor usually reserved for politics and sports. Everyone has their own theories on what will happen day-to-day with the weather, each person agreeing that trusting the “Weatherman” is a cardinal mistake and the equivalent of listening to eastern mystics or trying to divine the wind pattern from the entrails of birds and chicken bones flung against the ground. What can be agreed upon is that weather becomes a monster in Chicago. Cold freezing impasses at intersections and shin deep slush anticipating ankles and dry socks. One walks down the street swearing into the wind and when finally climbing aboard a bus or train is greeted by a host of red noses and empathetic eyes as the caked snow sloughs off shoulders to become puddles on the floor. But somehow this intensity of pure cold hell becomes a badge of honor. We literally weather the weather. Perhaps our complaining is really bragging. We snuff at others who come from warmer clients and enjoy enlightening new residents as to the severity of the winter they face. “You think this is bad? You just wait.” is the preferred answer to autumn cold complaints. It is our shared burden and our collective pride. I dread it, hate it and thrive on it.

But sometimes it’s majestic. Sheets of ice that stretch across the lake heave and crack while icicles descend crystalline off the gargoyles on the gothic downtown buildings. On late nights, with beer jackets wrapped tightly around us, the pristine uninterrupted expanse of freshly fallen snow glows orange under streetlights as if bathed in a candles warmth and we catch snowflakes on our tongues as we struggle laughing through cold drifts, our ankles dry and cheeks flushed. We strip to long-johns and cuddle under covers reliving childlike games of eskimos and arctic tundras.

Today the flakes fall lightly and the air is crisp. I’m going to take a walk and listen to Arcade Fire’s Funeral on my ipod. I’m through worrying about the fucking weather.

In my opinion, Thanksgiving is for eating food with friends,...

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:44:13 -0600

In my opinion, Thanksgiving is for eating food with friends, reflecting on that it’s the family you pick that you’re truly thankful for. Plus, there’s beer.

But sometimes Thanksgiving is traveling to the houses of current girlfriends to meet their families, making my life seem like the Woody Allen movie I never wished it would be.

One was in Green Door, Wisconsin. The girl I was dating at the time was the daughter of a nurse (lovely woman) and a circuit court judge (total asshole). Now, I’ve always gone over well with parents. Sure, there’s the whole “I’m getting with your daughter” awkwardness, but I can be a pretty self-effacing guy when the chips are down, so I wasn’t too worried. But this father. Yikes. To preface, this was a law family. Everyone was associated with criminal justice in some sort of way. They all had that authoritarian attitude that makes you feel distinctly uncomfortable for being the art college student who believes in the decriminalization of drugs for economic, social and selfish purposes.

At any rate, the first instance of “I cannot believe this fucktitude” was when we were sitting down for dinner and her father made a point to spell out my name for her uncle, a local County Sheriff. He did this so the uncle could, I shit you not, run a check on me in between dinner and pie. “He checks out.” he winked at the dad as he sat back down and buried a lump of pumpkin pie in his fat piggish face. I silently brooded in anger over this invasion of my privacy and also thanked god that the pot-dealing charge I had been hit with when I was seventeen had been expunged from my record.

Seriously, this shit was like my own personal Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, but with the racial tension replaced by people talking about Nascar. Awkwardness the whole night and only later would I realize that the fact that the girl I was dating thought all this was normal and acceptable behavior probably signaled the first cough in the death of our relationship.

That Thanksgiving sucked.

I get tested pretty regularly, but just to make sure, I monitor...

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 15:46:26 -0600

I get tested pretty regularly, but just to make sure, I monitor my behavior for kayaking, rock climbing and horseback riding on the beach. If television is any indication, people with sexually transmitted diseases LOVE that shit.

Did you ever have a mini-society at school? That’s where...

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 17:31:24 -0600

Did you ever have a mini-society at school? That’s where the teacher prints out a bunch of fake money and the kids in class are assigned to groups to “produce” something to sell to each other in an educational exercise that demonstrates commerce and the importance of free trade! Super duper!

anyway

In third grade on the eve of the start of this exercise Dan, my best friend of 7 years and the boy with whom I someday hoped to live out my days with in our giant treehouse chucking rocks at girls and living out the idyllic prepubescent existence, had no clue what to do for our assignment. Neither did I. We couldn’t make anything. We were too lazy to try to and we were convinced that wrapping colored pipe cleaners around pencils to sell was completely lame. What to do? With two hours left we were fast approaching the very real possibility that we would flunk a completely unimportant and silly assignment. But then-

While shuffling through a deck of cards, Dan had an amazing idea. We would open up the first and only casino in the class’ mini-society. He’d deal blackjack. I’d deal poker. We wouldn’t have to produce anything. If we lost our money so be it.

So what happened? What happened? WE TOOK THAT FUCKING SOCIETY FOR EVERYTHING IT WAS FUCKING WORTH. Buying stuff to buy stuff was only fun for some of the more shallow kids. The rest wanted action. And that’s what Dan and Gus brought to the table. High stakes poker and blackjack. Walk in a third grade schlub and walk out a fictional millionaire. The kids were hooked. Some bet their entire allowance of cash and lost it all. They couldn’t stop. Dan and I were like Biff Tannin in Back to the Future 2. The class was our oyster. Sometimes we would buy candy for everyone in the class from somebody who brought it in to sell. We were like the twin monopoly guys. Then, when there were only a few minutes left at the end of the exercise we took all our cash and bought everyone out. Dan and Gus owned the entire society.

I remember Mrs. Stamford being very upset by this whole exercise. She never conducted it with any of her subsequent classes after that.

Dunno why I just thought of that.

You’re probably familiar with the story about Icarus whose...

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 14:32:52 -0500

You’re probably familiar with the story about Icarus whose father Daedulus fashioned wings made from wood and wax so that they could escape from Crete after being exiled, right? Then Icarus flew too close to the sun which melted his wings. He dropped like a stone into the ocean and drowned.

Lately, with girls, I’ve been no stranger to falling great distances and the smell of singed feathers, but that’s probably my fault for throwin around the greek-myth metaphors. I should probably watch more television to re-up my pop culture quotient. So, who’s this Zooey Deschanel character everyone’s talking about? Is she in them new talkin’ pictures?

Shucks, I couldn’t make a Twilight joke right now to save my ass.

So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no...

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 12:12:00 -0500

So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no SCIENTIST, but when it comes to the mysteries of the universe I tend to think it has more to do with gravity and atoms than Jesus or a giant turtle that carries the earth on its back, although that would be fuckin’ sweet. I get into arguments about the afterlife (nothing, dead in the ground) and in my opinion anyone who doesn’t believe in evolution has more in common with a monkey’s intelligence than any normal human.

I feel this way for two reasons. The first is simply because I enjoy being given a little evidence to back up theories and ideas that are thrown my way. The second is because I feel that through science the world and universe are revealed to be impossible and incredible, even more so given the boundaries of science i.e. gravity, entropy etc.

But lately? Man, lately I’ve been craving some real magic. Remember that Bigfoot hoax awhile back where those two hikers reported to have frozen the body of one and found three more living in a cave outside in Georgia? Dude, it was on CNN. I knew it had to be false, of course, but the hope and excitement burned in me like a child trying to stay up to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I, at that moment, wanted all the storybooks I read as a kid to be validated. If there are Bigfoot then there could be Nessie, giant eagles and chupacabras, right? I desperately wanted my world revealed to me to be exactly as fantastical and incredible as the kids I teach still think it is.

It was a hoax. I was left to content myself with the coelacanth. Shit.

I really love the analogy of something being so rare that to find or see it is like “spotting a unicorn” because it implies that unicorns exist. I also like it because I’m super childish.

Romanticism comes in many different forms. Sure, you could lock...

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 16:47:20 -0500

Romanticism comes in many different forms.

Sure, you could lock eyes with her across a crowded ballroom and grow infatuated with the way she holds her glass and the delicate laugh that sighs from her lips as she makes idle discourse with foreign dignitaries.

But you could also get the same feeling from that conversation you had with her where you asked her how her experience in Paris was wherein she described having sex with this random guy on Jim Morrison’s gravestone, but the guy started to get burning hot and then he turned into a werewolf that chased her through the streets and you didn’t realize until she started singing that shitty song by Bush that that she literally just fed you the opening sequence of American Werewolf in Paris. Then, my friends, you are a smitten kitten.

Yeah, sometimes that “moonlight, June light and you” crap can take a long fuck off a short shit.

I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I...

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:05:59 -0500

I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I right, guys? All right! Let’s go get beer! High-fives all around! Let’s go! Wait, I gotta grab my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys. All right! (another round of high-fives)

Okay, they’re gone.

So, sure. I cry when truly big shit happens like the death of loved ones, when Obama was elected, Wednesdays, etc. But there some very certain wuss circumstances in which I cry: Movies. Movies that necessitate that man-crying “woof” where we clear our throats and think about how awesome that time was when we were accidentally delivered two pizzas and only charged for one. You know. Gooood times.

But which movies? It’s probably pretty cliche, but Braveheart gets me every time. Maybe it’s a dude thing, but man. FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOM! No amount of anti-Semitic alcoholic Australian antics are gonna ruin that for me. No way. But that’s an easy one. That’s a gimme.

It’s no big deal to cry during ET. It’s a sad movie. It was built to fuck with your emotions. The difference is that it really gets me bad. Like those crying Twilight fans bad. Hell, one time I was out on a date with this girl- one of those dates where you sort of realize in the first few minutes that it isn’t gonna work and that you’re going to be forced to spend the next three mind numbing hours listening to them talk about their friends. Yeah. At any rate, I don’t even remember what movie we were going to, but ET was being re-released in theatres. As soon as that ET music started I realized that I might be about to openly weep during a PREVIEW. But I was keeping it cool. Angling my face away from the side where she was sitting and thinking about kites. Then, of course, right at the end of the preview ET points his finger at Elliot’s chest and says “RIIIIIIGHT HEEEEERE” and I make one of those intake-of-breath sounds like a truck just backed up over my nuts. I blubbered. So busted.

Then there’s that part of Robin Hood where the rooster sings Not In Nottingham. A friend of mine was watching this recently when I awoke hung-over and fragile after my birthday. I had to leave the room when the bunny gave that crumb to the mouse. Holy shit. I was not ready for that. Waterworks.

The last is TV commercials. I know I need a vacation when I get teared up during insurance ads and shit like this. But that’s probably Tom Waits’ fault.

My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long...

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 14:02:43 -0500

My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul. In it, a woman in London calls pizza places for delivery in full knowledge that places in England don’t deliver. She does this to give herself an excuse to yell and rant and generally blow off steam. I do the same thing.

But see with me it’s my bank. Motherfuckin’ Bank of America. I hate BofA with every fiber of my being. For the times they placed a hold on my money for reasons they weren’t even able to describe to the many many overdraft fees I’ve incurred because of their slowness to post my checks. They’re dicks. Dicks, I say!

But what can you do? They’re too big. And they DO NOT give a shit about you, me or any person who still takes out money orders to pay the rent. You’ve got a better chance of Jake or Gary Busey biting off your pinky finger at some point in your lifetime than Bank of America conceding a fuckin’ dime even if was admittedly their fault your checking account now has a minus sign next to it. Weird example, but correct.

So, you know what I do? Every time I really want to rage about something I go into my local branch and scope out the personnel. I avoid the tellers, they’re just schlubs like me and don’t actually have any personal stake in their fucked-up company. I find a manager, preferably a disagreeable one and start discussing my personal finances. If the manager is nice then I don’t make a fuss. I don’t want to be mean. There’s no sense in ruining a persons day just for doing their job. But if they try and say that these inconsistencies in their systems are somehow my fault then it’s on. Oh, it’s fuckin’ on. If I play my cards right I can have both of us screaming obscenities at each other within ten minutes. I usually leave the branch yelling something like “You’re bloodsuckers! BLOODSUCKERS!”.

I come away from the situation feeling cleansed- miles high and completely Zen. I walk home with a smile on my face and a whole holy host of angels singing Cloud Nine by The Temptations. It’s my therapy. It’s my stress ball. It’s my heroin.

Does this make me a dick? Probably.

But FUCK Bank of America.

Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is...

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 14:49:57 -0500

Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is someone missing a soul?

Sure, they can be annoying, loud and obnoxious. So can you, dude. We still call you to hang out, right?

Shit, man. Kids are the best. Our whole generation is so committed to our irony and sarcasm that it can be incredibly refreshing to hang out with someone who thinks sunshine is all it takes to have a good day. Y’know what? I DO want to play ninja turtles. And the fact that you want to be Raphael too just proves that you know what you’re talking about. We’re going to get along just fine.

Kids are intuitive, logical and sometimes wise completely unintentionally. The other day, I was taking care of Katie, who is a little strawberry haired goofball who looks like a mini-princess version of Prince Harry. She’s four and a half, but sweet on this kid she goes to kindergarten with. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. “Nope.” I said deciding it would be impossible to put “I recently had my heart broken and so I’m a little wary of girls and since from a biological standpoint being gay isn’t an option I’m gonna go ahead and be alone for awhile.” in terms she would understand. Later during our walk through Logan Square she said, “There will always be pretty girls who want to be with you.” Holy shit. Have you ever gotten a there-are-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea talk from a four and a half year old? It’s the only time I ever believed it.

And hey, it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but I can’t wait to have children. Boy or girl, I won’t care. Oh, you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t have what it takes to be a parent? I’m a preschool teacher and nanny, dude. I’ve got the paternal instinct on lock. I look totally adorable holding a baby and I can change a diaper in ten seconds. The poop doesn’t even bother me anymore. Shit.

I plan on teaching the little one to run up to people, ask them to bend down to their level and then whisper “Psychic powers.” in their ear before running away. How awesome will that be?

Plus, I’m totally looking forward to raising kids with you.

I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.More and more,...

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:08:23 -0500

I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.

More and more, recently, I’ve been running into a specific type of person I call “new”. They come in all shapes and sizes, but more often than not it’s a specific type of flighty girl that seems to pop up more and more frequently around me as of late. You can usually tell them by their dress and complete obliviousness to everything that’s happened in the world as of one week ago. It’s as if they’ve just stepped off their spaceship moments prior to meeting you. Their presence would be stranger if it didn’t make life so goddamned interesting.

They step out of their apartments wearing rain galoshes, tutus and scarves- dressed like wizards trying to pass themselves off as muggles. They’re convinced that rain means heartbreak somewhere and have no concept of how weird a five second pause in the middle of a sentence seems to the rest of us. Sometimes I can swear I catch them looking at a faucet like it’s some sort of new invention. Not in the awed oh-my-god-what-is-that observation, but in the running-water-how-quaint-I-shall-make-a-note-of-this kind of way.

They have no cell phone. They don’t use the Internet. They have no TV. They have no interest in who Judd Apatow is and they talk to homeless men on the subway. They give their heart willingly. They’re convinced people are inherently good. They get taken advantage of often.

I have depressing thoughts of a sentient race of aliens who landed here and disguised themselves to look like us. While here, they are robbed, lied to and laughed at. Their hearts are broken and we reveal to them who we really are as a species. But they just stand there and stare at us with quiet observation and amazement, much in the same way we look at gorillas and marvel at “how much they are like us.”

I really fuckin’ hope this is all in my head.

A friend of mine recently made a joke about how an old boyfriend...

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 18:12:56 -0500

A friend of mine recently made a joke about how an old boyfriend of hers really liked to lick her butt. This information, in turn, made another one of my friends almost throw up in the sink. I realized at that moment that, because of the internet, it takes some seriously depraved shit to disgust me. Tentacle stuff? Girls with cups? Horses? Run the list. I’ve seen it. The paltry day-to-day nasty stuff is just something I wrinkle my face at and say “Gross.” before finishing my sandwich.

I can’t imagine what could possibly make me puke at this point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s out there. I don’t go looking for this stuff, but it finds me. It’s your buddy going “Dude, check this out.” Followed by you saying “Holy shit, Mike! Why the fuck would you show me that?”

I remember a first date with a girl wherein my good friend and roommate, Ned, showed us that video of those Japanese girls eating baby eels out each other’s butts. I can’t remember why we stayed to watch or why he did it in the first place, but we ended up dating for over a year. The girl and I. Not Ned.

But I digress, the point is that I’m completely desensitized, German accents and shit are irrevocably linked in my mind and I would never lick a butthole.

Hell, you want to see some truly awful stuff? It’s called Two Girls- One Cab. In it, two girls shit all over a taxi and then eat the ENTIRE CAB. Including the steering wheel. Sick stuff.

I could never be your Gregory Peck, Cary Grant or Robert...

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 13:05:47 -0500

I could never be your Gregory Peck, Cary Grant or Robert Mitchum, but I would shoot the the moon from the sky to be your Arthur Miller.

So, just let me become a better writer and steal a nuclear warhead and I’ll get back to you.

I will never ever move to the suburbs. I plan on having kids...

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:30:00 -0500

I will never ever move to the suburbs. I plan on having kids someday and there is no way I’d ever let my kids be brought up there. Some people say they’ve moved to the suburbs because it’s a better place to raise kids. Bullshit. I think parents move to the suburbs because it’s an EASIER place to raise kids. The schools are better and there’s less crime due to their gated-ness and remote location. I’d rather raise my kids around crackheads and speeding traffic than make them attend a school with a two-thousand strong student body. When you get a large enough group of suburban kids together it can turn into some Lord of the Flies shit real quick.

Why?

Boredom. These kids are fuckin’ bored. The craziest dudes I knew who did the most insane amounts of whatever they could get their hands on and had the most depraved sex at the youngest age were always from the suburbs because their entire growing-up period was some weird larval stage in which their world was some culturally unstimulating morass of a city constructed to be idyllic (gasping for breath). Like some Pleasantville type shit.

Parents might get nostalgic about the times when the only place for them to hang out in their town was the local burger joint, but it’s a different time now and kids have an alternative to being bored without having to drive three counties over to where someone discovered a rock outcropping that looked like a pair of breasts.

And then there’s the cruelty. Sure, kids are cruel no matter where you go, but when your school is your entire world with no actual big-city-real-life situations around you, I think it can make you myopic to point that you actually believe school is all there is. Like it will go on forever. I think that’s why kids sometimes think they need that “dominant male monkey motherfucker” attitude to survive what doesn’t even amount to five years of their lives. There should be signs posted everywhere reminding people that nobodys social standing will carry over into college although everyone will be getting laid there. I think that would do some good.

I could raise my kids in the city, country or any country around the world, but I feel that they’d get a better understanding of the real world going to school on the fuckin’ moon than in the suburbs.

I’m not saying if you were raised in a suburb that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict who hates on kids weaker than you. I’m just saying I wouldn’t raise my kids there. And that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict. No, seriously, I’m sure you’re very cool.

Dogs over cats. End of story. Whoops. Now, it might be a mistake...

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:50:00 -0500

Dogs over cats. End of story.

Whoops. Now, it might be a mistake to go with such a polarizing issue. I get the impression that many of you tumblr folk are (ahem) pretty serious about your cats, but IllinoisAirship is firmly in the dog camp on this one. Not those little yippy dogs, but the big friendly family dogs that embody everything that is good about friendship. Who’s happier to see you? Who’s gonna want to hang out? Who’s going to make attractive men and women stop to pet them and talk to you? Who’s a good boy? I’m just sayin’.

Now, I’m not anti-cat. I’ve owned cats. I like cats. But every time someone wants to argue with me about this they bring up their cat as “one of the good ones” and start describing all its positive qualities like it’s an exception to the species. And most of these positive qualities seem uniquely dog-like. It’s like you’re naming all the cool shit you paid extra for on your sandwich when mine came with all that for free. So, I guess it might save me some grief to say I’m not talking about your cat. Your cat is great. And I like cats. I used to date this girl who hated cats so much she called them “baby killers” because of the urban legend that cats will suffocate infants. See? That shit is harsh. Plus, it’s bullshit. That’s not me. I like cats.

But if you fall down a well will Mittens go for help? I doubt it.

“But cats are so much smarter than dogs” you might say. Who cares? Who said I wanted another roommate? Do you think I’d rather hang out with a friendly janitor or a dick professor? I think it’s been firmly established that smarter people don’t necessarily make for nicer people. Dogs are just big folks who drool, shed and think you’re pretty cool for just being you. They don’t mind chillin’ on the couch for a few hours as long as they get plenty of exercise. It’s like living with a Lacrosse player.

The sheer huggability should be enough to carry me over on this one. Airship out.

(drops mic, but quickly runs back to make sure he didn’t break it)

I doubt I’ll ever be a vegetarian. I have to allow for the...

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 14:56:54 -0500

I doubt I’ll ever be a vegetarian. I have to allow for the possibility, but I don’t foresee a time when I could turn down a steak taco. I love meat. I love it. I love it the way your dad loves Steely Dan. Sure, pan fried bacon with lettuce, tomato and mayo between two crisply toasted slices of sourdough bread negates any vegetarian argument I can think of, but what about the unsung heroes of meat? The drunken three a.m. biscuits and gravy? Grilled salmon? Motherfuckin’ eggs benedict?

Now, I know there are a lot of you vegetarians out there that feel differently. You don’t eat meat so you can be healthy. I understand that. You don’t eat meat because the industry is unsanitary and cruel to animals. I’ve read The Jungle. I’ve looked through a PETA brochure. I understand that too. If there were a proposition put forth demanding more humane treatment of animals before they were killed, I’d vote for it. But if I choose to not eat this steak it isn’t going to affect the company that brought it to me. Some other guy’s going to eat it instead. And FUCK THAT GUY. You want to tell me I shouldn’t be allowed to eat meat? Watch your ass. I’ve eaten cow, pig, fish, owl, kangaroo, armadillo, elk, reindeer and rattlesnake. Eventually I’ll get to human and I can’t imagine anyone who could taste better than a vegan.

Seriously, I’m gonna fuckin’ eat you.

It’s not uncommon for me to fall in love several times a...

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 19:54:00 -0500

It’s not uncommon for me to fall in love several times a day. The world is filled with beautiful people and it would be a lie to say I didn’t constantly fall victim to this fact. I’ve talked about the random girl on the train or the pretty barista glanced fleetingly through a storefront window, but there is another type of beauty. One that transcends my juvenile fantasies, plows deeper and leaves me haunted.

I lived in Amsterdam for about five months with my good friend, Alejandro. What had started out as a two-week visit quickly extended itself onward as we explored and fell in love with the city. Sure, there was the weed (goddamn was there weed), but the city itself was incredible. Cobblestone streets and iron wrought bridges where beautiful Moroccans and Dutch residents would glide in ghostly elegance on their bicycles. Young rich kids would putter through the canals in small white boats and at dusk their laughter would drift across the waters and catch you breathless as the sun dipped lower behind the crooked houses bordering the calm waterways.

Amsterdam has some seedy parts. You’ve probably seen or heard of the Red Light District where women sit and wait behind glass doors, faced towards the street, hoping to sell men a fantasy, a warm bed or a something else entirely. I was told the industry itself was managed and women were not abused, but it didn’t really matter. Paying for sex is sad and gross and the whole thing made my stomach crawl. Nevertheless, the area fascinated me. Most nights we’d take a walk through it on our way to our favorite shoarma. In this just quick jaunt I felt like you could see the entire gamut of desperate humanity. Need and want. The wide empty eyes of hopelessness.

The night when this feeling changed was a warm one. We strolled down the avenue slowly as young Moroccan men whispered “Cocaine? Cocaine?” at us as we passed. About midway down the block Alejandro tugged my sleeve and pointed upward at one of the more classier brothel houses. Normally the women didn’t hold much interest for me. I too often could only see someone’s daughter standing alone behind that glass. This time was different.

I don’t know how to describe her. All the flowery bullshit language I could throw at you wouldn’t compare suffice to say there was a pride there, a strength that catapulted her statuesque delicacy into something indefinable. We were struck. We quickly moved on, not being the types to ogle a prostitute, but did so silently. Both of us wordless to describe this magnificence. How could someone pay money to share even a moment with her? How could anyone think that they deserved to touch, talk, and even look upon someone of such majesty? I felt terrible and, this is important, I pitied her.

Three blocks, two falafel sandwiches and one spliff later we relaxed in our favorite coffee shop. Alejandro went pale. He gestured. She had walked in and taken a seat. With her came a man dressed all in white that, by my best recollection, looked like Billy Zane. With them were two of the most adorable children I had ever seen. They laughed. They talked. Truly, I haven’t seen a family so happy since then.

So, what did we learn? I was the idiot. The dunce who had thought he could look down on her and feel pity for her when perhaps the happiness she experienced put his own discontent and loneliness into sharp perspective. I wasn’t the knight in shining armor. I was the sexist puritanical American thinking he could make better decisions then a woman he never even met. Whatta dick. I still would never pay anyone for sex, but I won’t judge someone by their chosen profession again.

My mind still wanders back to her and my time there. Amsterdam was a strange place.

And that Richard Gere Julia Roberts Pretty Woman bullshit is BULLSHIT.

Well, I’m back. You probably thought I was touring with...

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 11:55:26 -0500

Well, I’m back.

You probably thought I was touring with the Cheetah Girls or perfecting my design for a car that runs on baby laughter and just didn’t have time for you folks anymore, right? Nah. I’ve just been depressed. Not in a crazy bad way, but in that “bleah” kinda way that seems to saturate everything and make colors bleak. It manifests itself in extreme laziness and holy god jesus, have I been lazy recently. I seriously (seriously) considered eating a taco in bed the other day and I might not even spellcheck this before I post it. You know it’s gotten bad when it’s breathtakingly beautiful outside, but all you want to do is stay inside and watch Sergio Leone movies.

But I’m back now. Fuck being melancholy at twenty-five. I’m writing again. I’ve missed you smartasses.